The Rapist Read Online Free Page B

that fits that playbill!
    Along about one in the afternoon, I had tossed my plug out into the current for only the second or third time (I have my own unique method of fishing with plugs—it doesn’t involve retrieving them as is popularly done—this excites fish and makes them angry enough to strike, which means—you guessed it—work) when I made a mistake and a large carp struck. I should have known then that unpleasant things were about to happen; they had already begun with that imbecile carp. In disgust, I reeled the loathsome creature to shore, jerking my rod tip as I did so, but even that ploy failed to dislodge my catch, and I was forced to take hold of his smelly, vile carcass and unhook him, tossing the wriggling, ugly mutant up onto the bank. If he was so stupid as to impale himself on my hook, I wasn’t going to be equally absurd and throw him back and give him the opportunity to ruin a future day of fishing. Directly after, my solitude and good humor destroyed, another alien entered my environment as evidenced by the sound of twigs breaking by some clumsy creature approaching from the same path I had traveled earlier, crashing through the milkweeds and jodhpur like some blind mastodon, shattering the pristine solitude that had been mine up until this instant. The resentment that welled up in me was tempered in a trice by the sight of the creature herself as she bounded into view, and the stern reprimand that was on the edge of my lips transmuted to a harmless, “Hello there,” as, I’m sure you’ve guessed it, one Greta Carlisle (curious blend of Teutonic and Celt in a name) emerged, the girl of the amatory adventures of the previous evening, seemingly fully recovered from the dalliance, no muscle aches in the way she moved or visible bruise marks, and smiling like a starving pig in a vat of sour cream.
    Piano keys flashed as she opened her mouth, snapping out a chipper, “Hey, pal,” between chomps on her chewing gum, and she proceeded to flop down inches from me without so much as a by your leave or may I, please, working her gum as if she were talking to some pimply youth at a roller-skating rink instead of to a gentleman of substance and property, as she should have, properly.
    Everything that makes me who I am, if nothing else, makes me a democrat, with a small d, and I therefore refrained from delivering the lecture she deserved on manners, presenting my own by way of instruction.
    “Good day, again,” I said. “My name is Truman. I’m very pleased to meet you, miss.”
    On her body were articles of clothing disallowed at most religious gatherings. Covering her breasts (barely) was a tank-top, and it was arranged in such a fashion as to expose fully half of her considerable cleavage; the only way to differentiate it from her own skin was that it was a slightly deeper pink. A breeze ruffled up just then to stiffen her nipples to the size, shape, and color of tater tots, those tasteless morsels they sell in shiny plastic bags and, of course, I noticed, which I assume is the point of donning such apparel in the first place. Seeing that I had witnessed this bodily metamorphosis, she coyly arched her back and smiled.
    “They call you ‘Old Fuckface’, is that it?”
    That was cruel. Once or twice, I had overheard the appellation and suspected myself to be the object, but not before now had I proof positive. Many in our village didn’t like me; they were all jealous of my wealth and superior intellect. One thing was odd about this exchange. Even as she was insulting me, I was becoming sexually aroused. I answered the slut.
    “No, that isn’t my name. I have already given you my name. Let me ask you a question. Are you always this rude or am I being given special treatment?”
    I continued.
    “Furthermore, I did not invite you here and quite frankly much prefer the company of that fish to such as you. You are obviously a nitwit with the morals and brains of a common alley cat.”
    “Yeah.