Trifecta Week Ninety-Eight: The Collection

Spider WebIt is my once a year kill night. My one night to unshackle the surplus of depravity that dwells inside my skin. My one night to add to my collection of catches. I hide my craving under the guise of a push-up bra and plunging neckline that effectively captivates the ogling eyes of every man in the hotel bar. I sit on a corner barstool, the perfect vantage point for man watching.

The men are drawn to me like bees to nectar. Pathetic. Desperate. Arrogant. None of them will satiate my hunger.

“What can I get you,” the bartender asks.

I swivel around to look at him. Desire prickles my skin. My heart palpitates. He is the prey I hunt for, the catch of the year.

“A zombie, please,” I say, a little breathless.

His smile is charming, full lips and flawless teeth. His skin is a lovely, creamy brown. And his eyes, those eyes are dark with a sparkle of mischief. I am in love.

“Tommy,” I say, reading his nametag, “I believe in being direct.” I lean forward to give him a healthy dose of cleavage, and he is instantly a captive in my web.

“What do you have in mind?” he asks, placing my zombie cocktail on the bar.

I take a long, slow drink and reply, “When does your shift end?”

“Right now,” he says and motions toward the other bartender. They covertly whisper and give me that knowing look. I smile innocently and slide off the barstool.

As we exit out the back door, he says, “I hate to use a cliché, but, your place or mine?”

I slip my arm through his and pull him close. “My place,” I reply, and gently plunge the needle into his arm. He collapses against the car, awake but paralyzed. I push him into the backseat and whisper, “I have a spectacular taxidermy collection I want to show you. I’m an enthusiastic hunter, and I love to keep trophies.”

This October creepiness was written for Trifecta Week Ninety-Eight . The challenge this week was to concoct a tale using the third definition of the word:

ZOMBIE – 3:  a mixed drink made of several kinds of rum, liqueur, and fruit juice

Sorry, living dead lovers, no zombies here other than the fruity, tropical kind you drink. If you would like to join the challenge or read the other stories and poems, click on the badge:



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