Serial Killers: Single and Looking (Part 1) by Joseph P. Hutchinson

(Part 1)

Samantha sits inside her booth at her favorite greasy spoon diner; Ma Fischer’s on the East Side of Milwaukee, Wisconsin a pair of grey Bose headphones on her neck. The brown plastic tea pot of water, the steam from its contained heat leaking out the spout, rests between her plate of lemon slices and a saucer with a ceramic mug; a bag of orange tea with its tagged string resting inside. Her eyes dart around the bustling restaurant, tables filled with families and too much food over running plates. Samantha sits at her booth, three children around her, while she fills her mug and continues to swipe through the dating app on her phone. 

“Nope, Nope, Nope…maybe…hard no…hmmmm…maybe after a fat blunt,” Samantha mutters to herself with a swift flicker of thumb. 

The hypnosis of the digital again enveloping her, beautiful green eyes locked onto the device gripped in the chocolate flesh of her battle scarred fingers. She finds herself so deeply locked into the modern matrix of social media that she is actually startled by the waitress arriving with her rather large order. 

“I am so sorry about that, hun,” Diane the waitress states rhythmically as she swings the tray of food with a skillful twist of her shapely hips.

Samantha finds her eyes running up the body of this biologically young service industry worker. Beneath the uniform, Samantha finds that she can detect not only the thick, meaty flesh, with its pierced mounds and tattoos of various qualities, but that the waitress reeks of experience beyond her years. The perfectly balanced tray on her delicate digits is a contrast of the rocky and chaotic life of questionable decisions, unwanted advances and unknown bodily pains in the morning. She doesn’t even mind Samantha eye fucking her as she begins to unload her meal.

“Alright, my dear…hot cakes, breakfast platter and biscuits and gravy with extra gravy…oh! And,” says Diane as she deft fully tips her tray forward to slide some small plates into her grasp, “…you extra plates for your … guests.”

Diane grabs the plates off the tray with her right hand sliding each one into place along the empty seats of the booth. Samantha’s surveying of the table sends a pleased smile across her lush lips, her professionally whitened teeth seen slightly underneath. She looks up at Diane, slowly working her eyes up her body one last lingering on her size 34 C cup breasts before finding those brown eyes filled with longing to be accepted by any means necessary. Samantha doesn’t even notice Diane’s eyes darting across the empty bench spots. Nor does she glean the uncomfortable smile trying its best to be genuine for the sake of the potential tips lining Samantha’s rather flush bank account. Her eyes lock back on Samantha, staring awkwardly.

“You want an autograph or something, boo boo,” Samantha asks snapping the waitress out from her trance.

“..oh um…Anything else I can get for you? More water? Looks like you’re good on lemons for now,” Diane inquires, her head shifting to allow her to observe her other stations’ needs.

“Yes, my lovely flower. Everything is wonderful,” Samantha responds while reaching out to grab Diane’s right hand.

The gesture is accepted along with the passing over of a folded up napkin. Diane squeezes the napkin with an alluring twitch of her green lips and a quick wink to seal her intentions. The 20 something waitress turns with a new found vigor in her movements while Samantha watches. 

“You know you can fuck her right,” Marilyn states coldly while she loads up food on to her plate.

“No shit Sherlock. Sammy here can pull whatever cock or pussy she wants,” replies Gabrielle as she does the same, “World famous artist that she is.”

Samantha looks back to gaze across to the other side of the booth. Seated across from her are two 3 dimensional cartoon little girls. Marilyn, seated inside the booth, is of paint white skin, fiery red hair and green eyes that match Samantha’s childhood pictures perfectly. On her face is a Cheshire smile, the results from a rather brutal execution that ended her short life. Next to her on the outside of the bench is Gabrielle, a girl appearing of similar age with her chestnut hair in a beehive type up do, large blue “doe like” eyes and her head twisted to a rather unnatural angle, the result of her breaking it. The pair greedily portions from the plates; Samantha watching with a smile on her face as each morsel’s rendered into a similar 3 dimensional cartoon like state.

Seated next to Samantha is a little boy, also a 3 dimensional cartoon. He is of Caucasian and Caribbean bloodlines, this reflected in his caramel skin, and dressed in a simple black silk suit from the height of post Civil War fashion. The rage behind his pale blue eyes shines like spotlights as he watches the patrons of the restaurant and plays with his bright yellow Yo-Yo. The revulsion of his face is mimicked from Samantha’s face prior to her food’s arrival.

“That’s what was on the note wasn’t, Sam? You gave her your number didn’t you,” Gabrielle asks as she slovenly eats her food.

“Email. The locals don’t get my number. They always seem to get attached to the home grown hero way too quickly,” Samantha replies while she eats her breakfast.

“Told ya,” chides Marilyn as she elbows Gabrielle in the ruffles of her canary yellow dress.” Nobody gives out a phone number anymore. Jeez, it’s like we don’t all share the same consciousness anymore.”

“Hey! I pay attention to as much as I possibly can! Everyday it’s some new app or-“ rants Gabrielle before she stops suddenly.

Gabrielle and Marilyn stop eating, swallow and kneel on their bench, looking behind them. They join Samantha and the boy, locking eyes upon a nondescript male in his early 40s, balding with salt and pepper hair all over his head and face. Diane greets him with a menu and a smile.

“Oh he’s so gonna die tonight,” muses Gabrielle as all four of their faces reflect the look of a lioness stalking her prey.