Douglas Allen Rhodes

“Please,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “please don’t do this.”

He smiled then, for the first time, and brushed a few stray strands of her raven hair from her forehead. The touch of his hand pulled a small gasp from her, and she shivered.

“Dear, sweet girl,” the sonorous roll of his voice began, “I have traveled halfway across the country to ‘do this,’ I can’t very well not.”

Behind him, in the flames of her stove’s burner, his irons had begun to glow white. Her eyes, little islands of green floating in seas of black mascara, stared up at him, seeming to plead, to beg for her life. He reached back with one of his massive, gloved hands and grabbed for an iron.

“Oh God,” she started to sob, “you don’t have to, please, you don’t have to.”

He brought the iron around to rest next to her cheek. Without even touching her it began to seer her flesh. She screamed then, a horrible, desperate wailing, as smoke rose from her face.

“It’ll be all right.” Her tormentor began to cry.

Big wet drops fell from his face as he brought the iron to rest on her eye. Her body bucked and fought against him, but he had tied her fast and there would be no escape. He reached back for the second iron.

*****

Two days later he was back in his home. Pouring himself a glass of Bonny Doon Syrah, he seated himself at his computer. He checked his e-mail and one or two forums he frequented as he savored the full and dry body of the wine. Eventually, he found his way over to MySpace.

Logging in to his Dr. Creepy account, he found everything much as he had left it. Tom smiled at him goofily from his friends list, full of tips and tidbits that would make his social networking experience that much more enjoyable. Next to his first, and usually only, friend, Dr. Creepy saw BlAck W1D0w’s profile picture.

It was a very cool picture, with her posing in leather and fishnets in front of some truly punk-looking bars. Her profile was even better, a masterwork of teen angst and internet identity.

He moved the cursor to click on his “Friends” link, then on to the “edit friends” selection. As he’d done with so many before her, he checked the box under her picture and clicked the delete selected friends button.

The page reloaded and once again Tom, his only friend and unwitting accomplice, stood alone.