Grunts and growls emanated from the white Nissan Cube parked all by its lonesome in New Roads, Louisiana. In the low light of the moon, the van’s chubby, hairy occupant could be seen—albeit barely so—struggling to get through the door. Mumbling a variety of colorful words not fit to be heard by the sort of person he intended to meet, the man managed to extricate himself without damaging the assortment of candies, condoms and personal lubricants he carried in a small box. He squinted at the sticky note posted on top, making sure he had the right address. Huzzah, huzzah! Finally, he was going to score—have a nice little threesome with adolescent twins, and no one would ever know!
The would-be child molester walked up to the porch, looked around for any potential witnesses, then finding none, rapped on the door to the tune of “Shave and a Haircut”—the agreed-upon code. The answering knock of “two bits” made his gleeful grin spread, and he opened the door, crossed the threshold—and came face-to-face with a grown man in a black suit and red tie. There was a moment of stunned silence, quickly broken by the man in the suit, who gestured behind him and said by way of greeting, “Wanna explain what you're doing here?”
Confounded, the kid-lover stammered, “U-uh, I…I must have the wrong address—”
“No, no,” said the other fellow in an eerily friendly tone, “you came to the right place. Sit down. Have a seat.”
A burst of childish masculine laughter sounded out of the blue. The fat man’s eyes darted from side to side. “What was that? Did you hear that?” he said in a hushed voice.
“Hear what?” asked the suit-clad man, a strange look in his eyes. There came more giggling, this time that of a preteen girl.
“That!” squawked the child-molester hopeful as he fidgeted. “Don’t tell me you didn’t hear that!” He took a closer look at his confronter. “You, uh…” he muttered, “…you look sort of familiar.”
Mr. Suit-and-Spiffy-Hairdo continued to stare, as if into his soul. There was something very, very off about him. “Well, I used to be on TV. Maybe you saw me in a few commercials,” said the man with a nonchalant chuckle. “But that’s not important. What’s important is that you’re here to have sexual relations with a minor. What's in the box?”
The pervert’s jaw—and the box he held—dropped and he broke into a nervous sweat. I’ve been discovered! Okay, keep cool. You can still get out. “I’m sorry,” he said with a scratch of his stubbly beard, “I think there’s been a terrible mistake.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Here.” Out of thin air, the suit presented a stack of papers to his alarmed guest. The creep took it and inspected the text. His blood ran cold.
ShotaMustGoOn216: u like anal?
GunLoliG: yes im rly in2 it, my brother does it 2 me all the time
ShotaMustGoOn216: does he like getting fucked 2?
GunLoliG: yes he lets me peg him sometimes
He began to shake in dread as he read through transcript after transcript. It was all there—every last come-on and innuendo! He had to get out!
A creepy smile grew on the brown-haired dude’s face as he walked nearer. “You ask her if she has rape fantasies. You ask her if she likes felching.” They were nearly nose-to-nose now. “C’mon. Why don’t you have a seat over there?” He grabbed the deviant by the wrist.
“Hey!” The pedo shrugged him off and made for the door. “You’re fucking weird, man!”
Suddenly, as he took hold of the doorknob, the man in the black suit seized him by the neck, grip incredibly, inhumanly strong. “I SAID—” The pervert was lifted clear off the floor. “—WHY DON’T YOU—” The dude’s expression turned sadistic. “—HAVE A SEAT—” His arm drew back, back, back… “—OVER THERE?”
The pedophile hurtled across the room, screaming, and the air rushed from his lungs until he crashed through the wall onto the top of the basement stairs. He rolled down the steps, in agony, wondering, How did he know?! Then his head met the cold tile floor, and he wasn’t thinking anything at all. The last thing he heard was giggling…psychotic adolescent giggling.
“Time to play…”