Brush Creek Charlie by D. B. Reynolds (best free e book reader .TXT) 📕

asshole, and you needed time away from him.”
“Yes, but he’s still my boyfriend. I’m sure he’s getting worried about me.”
Charlie inched his way closer to Amy. His advances weren’t welcome. Amy sensed danger on the rise. She arose from the sofa and stepped closer to the door. Charlie snatched her close to him and tried to kiss her. Acting on spontaneity, she sunk her fingernails into his neck. She grabbed his flat mid-section with the other hand. Not a bulge was down there. Staple-like stitches going from the crease of his buttocks and up to his belly button were felt. Not wanting to do so, Amy broke out into a bolting laughter.
Laughter? How dare she giggle at a lost soul like him. Charlie knew what the laughter was about. The snickering of the two Vietnamese hookers crept into his mind. Being treated like a freak from the circus never ended. An infusion of anger sent Charlie into a rage. His hands turned cold and clammy. Heavy sweat popped from the pores of his face. Amy had to get out there as quick as possible. Charlie sprinted over by the front door. He used his body to barricade the entrance. Hypervigilance formed a noticeable blanket around his frame.
“Let me out of here!” Amy hollered as loud as she could.
“You’re not going anywhere, you whore!” Charlie sizzled, breathing in monstrous spurts.
“My God, what happened to you! What happened to your private parts?”
“Don’t worry about it, you bitch! You laughed at me and you’re going to pay for it.”
“Please, don’t hurt me, Charlie! Just let me go and I’ll forget that this ever happened.”
“Nobody laughs at me for not having any private parts.”
Amy remembered an episode of his face being shown on television news stations. “You’re the same man that the police are looking for.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“You jumped those two officers down in Brush Creek and killed their German Shepard dog.”
“No, bitch, you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“You’re the Brush Creek killer,” Amy exposed, wishing help was closeby. “You’re the psycho who killed those two women and dismembered their bodies.”
“And you’ll be joining the both of them.”
Fear struck Amy to the point where heavy water gushed from her eyes. She trembled after knowing she might’ve been Charlie’s third victim. Keeping neighbors at The Rosenburg Apartments from hearing a potential ruckus was the mainstay of his strategy. Amy studied the tactical moves he executed so well from his years in Vietnam. He studied the survival moves she’d learned from her years of keeping company with street people.
Amy had no time for trying to plead for her life. She thrusted her small frame forward. Charlie grabbed her by the neck and choked her as hard as he could with both powerful hands. She tried fighting back. Her resistance was useless against a psychotic war veteran who fought experienced enemy personnel for recreation. With her body fully subdued, he intensified his grip around her neck. She had only ounces of strength left, trying desperately to claw him at the mid-section. It was wasted energy since he had no penis or testicles for her to inflict pain upon.
Her semi-long fingernails conjured up enough power to create flesh wounds along both arms. As with his first two victims, a sheet of terror were frozen in her eyes. Charlie’s unexpressed rage against women had caused the attractive features on her face to become distorted. She turned a bluish-black color from severe hemorrhaging. A glob of thick saliva drooled from her mouth. Seconds later, Amy Alex, a one-time native of Chicago, who’d come to Kansas City for a fresh start, became Charlie’s third murder victim.
Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli added another victim to his resume. Speaking of machete, Charlie whipped open the closet door and roamed through complete darkness for his Full Tang Monster Machete. The feel of a cold sharp blade indicated he’d found his sadistic murder weapon. He brought the machete into the light and a smirk was sealed across his face. The lifeless body of Amy Alex was sprawled across the floor. The discoloration of death was spread over her face. Charlie peeled every article of clothing off her body. A nude body was always easier to dismember.
Charlie, being the expert at knowing where to start chopping, swung the fiercely-sharp machete down at Amy’s major muscles. Next, he split through her biceps with a taste of the angry blade. Moving more towards her lower body, he chopped into other muscles and her abdominal cavity. To finish the job, the heartless beast whacked up and down her legs.
“War has no fucking beginning, and it has no fucking ending!” Charlie grizzled, clenching both fists while biting through his lower lip.
The torturous laughter of the two Vietnamese hookers rung stronger through his ears. The pain in his heart, the hurt in his mind, they were grotesquely abnormal. Dismembered body parts formed a puddle of blood six foot wide. A foul odor dominated the air. Charlie created one big human mess. Victim number three had to be disposed of before any trail of suspicion would spread around The Rosenburg Apartments. Charlie quickly had to go to work.


CHAPTER—40

The body parts of Amy Alex were gathered and thrown into the usual industrial strength trashbags. Charlie went through five buckets of Pine-Sol and Parson’s Ammonia to clean up the bloody catastrophe he’d created. Though he didn’t notice, a thin film of blood had soaked into the grain of the hardwood floor. The clock over by the window said exactly 2:37 a.m. The day after Thanksgiving wasn’t a pleasant one. Coincidentally, another full moon dominated the partly cloudy Kansas City skies.
Charlie had to wear another one of his masks of anonymity. Residents at The Rosenburg were well asleep. Quietness engulfed the inside and outside of the building. He cracked his front door and peeked out into the hallway. The only noise coming from out there were the sounds of electrical power from the hallway lights. He stepped halfway out into the hallway to make sure the other residents were in for the rest of the early morning. The moment for him to make his move seemed clearer than ever.
Two very large trashbags were thrown over his shoulders. He locked his door and began his journey down the stairs. Unexpectedly, the front door to the building opened. Charlie had only made it halfway down the stairs. No turning back for him. Derrick and Mitchell were coming through with a few of their friends from one of the premiere gay men’s club in the city. Celebrating the Thanksgiving holiday was far from over for them. The entire group of gay men were drunker than ever. They drowned their joys in every alcoholic drink imaginable. Derrick wiggled his eyes up and down until Charlie’s face came more into focus.
“Charlie?” Derrick drunkedly snoozed. “Is that you, Charlie?”
Charlie froze with the blankest look on his face. “Yes, Derrick, it’s nobody but poor old me, Charlie.”
“I hope you don’t mind me asking. But where are you going at this time of morning?”
“Just taking out the trash.”
“Lord, you’re the only man that I know of who takes his trash out real early in the morning. Why can’t you take your trash out in the afternoon or in the evening?”
“I’m usually busy during that time.”
“So, what do you do to take out so much trash?”
Charlie took a deep swallow. “Well, I cook, I clean, I get rid of old junk, I throw out old food.”
Derrick and Mitchell and the others had their drunken suspicions. They kept their eyes on both trashbags. As always, Charlie only wished the faggots would’ve left him the hell alone. He’d never stop hating homosexuals. He hated them growing up, he hated them even more in the present. A constitution he lived by was: If a faggot was ever going to pump me from behind, they’d do it over my dead body.
Derrick scoped a dark red spot on one of the trashbags. “Charlie, what’s that red mark on that bag in your left hand?”
Charlie swung the bag behind his back. “Oh, that’s…..uh…...that’s from one of the beef packages I had thrown into the trash earlier.”
“Did you know that I ran into a woman who said she might’ve known you?”
“What woman?”
“Some woman named Sandy. Don’t remember her last name.”
“I don’t know no woman named Sandy.”
“Mitchell and I met her at Missy D’s not too long ago.”
“Missy D’s?”
“Yes, the place where me and the girls go when we wanna get loose.”
“Never heard of it.”
Charlie grew more nervous by the second.
“Anyway, she said she might’ve been familiar with you.”
“Like I said, I don’t know no woman by that name.”
Derrick wanted to release harsher sentiments and just tell Charlie how Sandy described a man with a nightmare-of-a-face like his. He’d had enough of grilling Charlie. Too bad Derrick and Mitchell and the others didn’t know he’d just murdered and mutilated his third victim. The stable of gay men left him alone to go inside their apartment for an early morning of homosexual escapades.
The moon suspended in the pitch black nighttime skies spearheaded what appeared to be a huge glowing ball. There hadn’t been any recent bodies to turn up in Brush Creek. This gave the KCPD reason to back off.
The department couldn’t give the fearful and grieving public any predictions as to when the killer might strike again. All the energy from the Thanksgiving holiday died off within a matter of hours. Full bellies and intoxicated minds transformed into countless souls dropping into a deep sleep.
Charlie cruised with caution down Brush Creek Boulevard. He swung his head to both sides of the legendary boulevard in search of possible law enforcement or civilians. Traffic from both sides of the street was minimal. Every other street light was retired until the following night. Darker streets worked to his advantage. No lights were casted from nearby houses or apartment buildings. The bright glow from the full moon spilled a brightness down on Brush Creek in which Charlie became so very familiar with.
He parked his car nearly twenty yards into the grass.