TBK: The Butterfly Killer Read online

  “Now that is a true American blubbernaught.”

  “Houston we have an Unsustainable Fugly Object.”

  “God I bet she’s got to gaffer tape her Tampax in place, like a sink hole down there.”

  “Ubel, must you be so offensive?”

  “You think she uses a duvet as a tampon?”

  “Ubel!”

  “You reckon her kids fell out or parachuted?”

  “Ubel you disgust me!”

  “Christ that was easy, good job I don’t just blurt out every thought then.”

  Ubel’s never-ending monsoon of verbal diarrhoea continues to flow indiscriminately. Lilly must be in a good mood, all I can hear, apart from Ubel, is Lilly giggling to herself in the background. She likes to pretend Ubel’s comments insult her, but the reality is she’s far more intolerant and nasty than he. Hiding behind her liberal veil of tolerance, ready to name call at a moments notice, dropping in as many ‘ism’s’ and ‘ist’s’ as possible. Not realising all she does is show her intolerance and lack of educated objection.

  The Eurostar lounge my new destination, located above concession and stall, to a smooth halt the lift comes, before glass door of lift opens the reality of my present dawns, I’ve to survive French customs without reacting to Ubel’s commentary of prejudice or Lilly’s hidden hate. Ubel’s an unfathomable dislike, hatred even for customs officers and some reason delivery men, doggish in his obsessions. If nature allowed I’m sure he’d jump free my head, chasing after barking insults and obscenities, scurrying about foot like a deranged pygmy with a continental sized attitude.

  In my mind's eye, I see Ubel as a tiny little man shaped creature with wee tufts of piss stained white hair either side of head, a face weathered by slap and punch, and for some unknown reason, always bloody naked! He’s like my personal little ball of concentrated obnoxiousness, Lilly no more an antidote than death.

  “Lilly, could you and Ubel keep yourselves amused for a while please?”

  “Well, I’ll try Elizabeth, but you know what he’s like.”

  “Lilly I know what you’re both like.”

  “Jesus suffering Sodomy, she’s no Slenderella.”

  “Elspeth, Elspeth, you think that one went on a famine for a holiday?”

  “Ubel that is the most insensitive, disgusting thing you have ever said!”

  “Really Lilly! That did it for you? Of all the things I’ve said that upset you the most?”

  “She obviously has mental health issues, Ubel.”

  “Carries on and she’ll have no issue’s at all, except which colour drinking straw to be buried in.”

  “It’s not her fault Ubel there is so much pressure on women nowadays to look a certain way or be the correct size.”

  “Pressure from your own vanity, anyway most of the writers and editors of these fucking dog shit publications Lilly, are female!”

  “And your point Ubel?”

  “So Lilly it’s OK to burn people with diet books, but not to comment on it, your leftism’s a fucking cancer.”

  “Fascist!”

  “National socialist!”

  Oh, how I long for the darkness of confined eyes, married to midnight years gift of selective hearing to assist my passage, anything to quieten their relentless assassinations. Neither of them understands, both as prejudice and obnoxious as the other. Like all political ideologies, if you stray too far left or right your destinations the same, it’s not linear, it’s spherical. Pleading sanities request one last time for them both to take a vow of verbal celibacy as we go through customs, but alas, like politicians and children one of them needs to offer a fatal blow.

  “You Ubel have anorexia of the mind!”

  My coat, bag and other personal items, now all removed, rolling inside two small grey plastic trays upon the conveyor belt of penetrating eye. Beckoned forward through the arch of metallic discovery the first officer waves me, pointlessly flapping a handheld detector as if Parkinson’s had taken control. The second officer just behind stands with the hateful, intolerant gaze any religious extremist would be proud of. Trigger happy finger pointing down barrels length, firm hand cupping top of his still-holstered pistol, ready to snap into action should his deity insist. Then the darkness stirs within, Ubel recovered from Lilly’s assault awakens to the reality of his surroundings, his voice races through my ear, echoing around my mind.

  “CUNT! - You should be forced to donate all your blood, in one fucking go!”

  “Sorry Elizabeth, I tried, but it’s as if he’s possessed. You know he’s not right in the head.”

  “Necrosis would be a good look for you; you snot munching surrender monkey.”

  Warmly I smile to the third officer sitting behind x-ray eyes, her face awash of condescension and animosity towards me, her xenophobia all too apparent. Offering but a simple sarcastic smile, I collected my belongings, wincing at the torrent of misogynistic and sadistic suggestions flowing freely from Ubel. Growing a face of snarling hate, she turns back towards the little monitor, showing nothing but disgust and disrespect at my mere presence. With regal calmness of Swan, I head off towards the final customs hurdle of passport control. As information meets the eye I know the Tourette twins are going to implode, the officer sitting in the tiny glazed booth before me seems more interested in his finger nails than anyone leaving for Great Britain. Poking out tongue as I pass by, attempting to elicit a response of any kind to my cheeky girlishness, but his corpse like eye moves not. His nonchalance towards job and country, makes me smile with shaking head of condemnation. Unfortunately, it has quite the opposite effect on Ubel and Lilly.

  “At least a fucking cabbage can sustain life, lazy French fuck!”

  “Manage the border; he couldn’t manage to fall over Elizabeth.”

  “Couldn’t direct traffic on a deserted island. He should stick that finger right up his…”

  “Ubel!”

  For once I had to agree with them both. The man’s sole purpose is to serve as part of the French border protection force. Attempting to thwart evil, apprehend drug smugglers and collect taxes, even if they do insist on calling them duties. But unfortunately, this formidable responsibility for protecting democracy and liberty seems to pale into insignificance when the dilemma of one's fingernails presents itself. Finally, we clear customs, the knowledge of leaving Paris calms me; I start to feel relaxed once more, even the twins calm a little. My love for Paris still strong, in fact, the whole continental way of life has me smitten, but I also love the diversity and culture of London. No more than five days has elapsed, and I feel as if I’m walking away from an old dysfunctional life, onwards into a happy new one.

  -1-

  Within a single revolution of father times great long hand I locate my seat, removing my raincoat, stowing it along with case above, my seat by window below most welcoming. Inquisitive gaze of wandering eye sweeps carriage as I start to analyse the other passengers, scanning for any potential playthings. Almost immediately I start to enjoy the delights of the young woman sitting opposite when it happens, my train of thought rudely and abruptly disrupted by a particularly repulsive example of western living, obesity.

  “What the fuck is that? Are cattle allowed on here Elsbeth?”

  “Oh Lord, I do hope he doesn’t sit next to us Elizabeth.”

  “Next to us, size of the fat fuck it’ll be on us!”

  My eyes no longer required I could sense his enormity as he stood in the aisle next to me. The one flaw my trinity share is our utter dislike of the obese, their gluttony the new ‘ism’ in town. Praying to the Almighty I know is a figment for this example before me just be shy of breath, that he’ll continue his waddle, absolving my punishment. My pleas to a fictitious friend fall upon impossible ears along with the prayers of a billion others. The enormity beside me turns while disrobing its damp marquee sized jacket, throwing it across case above. Does this disgusting example of gluttony think that I or others want to see, worse still, smell his perspiring ob
scenity?

  A bitter-sweet vomit inducing pungent smell which I’m now forced to embrace in its entirety. The grotesque bovine creature crashes heavily down onto the unexpecting seat next to me, only to be caught by its poor stress-ridden arms and front edge of table. In a comical, yet equally disgusting wiggling dance of blubber, sweat, grunts and puffing, he manages to force his bovine sized posterior into the poor defenceless seat beneath. Arms no longer perpendicular to back, my adjoining realm no longer a comfortable or inviting place to be. Averting my gaze from meeting his, I fix upon window so as to not encourage conversation.

  “They really should have a size gauge for public transport, like they do on roller-coasters. Don’t you agree Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, Lilly, I don’t see why we should pay the same for half the space. Maybe they should charge by weight and not by seat.”

  “Well, he’s got a tonne of excess baggage Elspeth, fucking house heifer.”

  “How truly disgusting, how can he demand respect when he obviously has none for himself, Elizabeth can we not find another seat?”

  “Sorry guy’s, I’m not sure there are any available.”

  “We could try a great escape under the table Elizabeth?”

  “Save the planet, burn the fatties!”

  “This is your fault Ubel! Shouting out obscenities all the time,” again Lilly quick to establish blame.

  “Bollocks Lilly, I didn’t ask the fucking sugar monster to sit next to us.”

  Grunting to himself the man flips open an expensive silver laptop, immediately punching at key with lard-laden finger. His objections continue under spiteful breath, no doubt continuing to convince himself his weight’s not his fault. Another rare genetic disorder, the type that seemingly only affects the gluttonous folk of developed countries. Never manifesting itself in countries not abound by lazy food outlets and sedentary lifestyles. Like all convinced no diet could work, less a gastric band be on offer. Diabetes and death the free prizes found at the bottom of every processed food package and sugary drink, a new plague for the slothful to willfully embrace.

  Train doors quietly close as slowly we pull from stations edge, my migration only short until I’m back home in the wonderful, vibrant city of London. With elated eyes I watch the graffiti-laden suburbs of Paris fly past as we progress. Rain rolling east as train rolls west, sideways across the glassy pane as the train races to a blistering pace. The weather outside as depressingly grey as the bovine besides, after the announcers' dreariness informed all food stocks are limited to buffet car behind.

  Chunkosaurus twix mutters words of disdain as he continues to poke at defenceless key, the sight of which amuses me further still. His huge fingers taking the space of two keys, making his typing slow and awkward. Each time his fingers confuse the keys, he mutters to himself insults to the world for not being the size he now requires. Despite this obnoxious bovine stealing half my seat, enveloping me in his repugnant aroma and his existence offering Ubel and Lilly reason to practice their intolerance, I’m starting to feel quite happy, a wave of excitement dances through me, as we race across the outer suburban limits of Paris, towards London.

  The odious planetoid wedged in next to me, sweat now growing from brow and pit, wobbles uncontrollably to a halt as the train pulls into yet another nameless French suburban station. To the delight of all, especially my trinity of three, the obese blob slams shut his laptop. Immediately the arduous task of freeing his posterior commences, another blubber wriggling performance of hilarity and revulsion ensues. Taking shelter in the corner of seat I hide, as rolls of fat from his flanks fly side to side, eventually pardoning himself from his seated penitentiary. His gift to all, a rancid sweaty seat as a memento.

  Towering high into the furthest reaches of the carriage he stretches out, releasing a shockwave of body odour, punching out, raping all in a six-foot radius. Turning quickly he waddles off, leaving our carriage to its delight, which lifts slightly as he transfers his gigantic carcass into the next. At great canter, he wobbles off towards his reward, a carriage full of processed delights for him to graze upon for the tenth time this morning. With obnoxious distraction gone, I can once again continue with my ongoing quest for sensory salvation.

  “She can troop my colours, Elspeth.”

  “No, I don’t like her, she’s not good enough for us Elizabeth.”

  “What about a bit of fist fun then?”

  “Ubel!”

  Laura My Concubine

  The hypnotic rhythmic sway of train and track rocks a gentle lullaby to me as we race across the vastness of the French countryside. With eyes wide shut I dream of a new excitement to offer itself into my life, a delightful beauty so captivating I’d be lost within my passions. As the heavenly image of such a deity seduces my mind Ubel’s voice sneezes into my conscious once more.

  “Mary deep-throating Jesus! She’s beautiful Elspeth, look.”

  “Oh wow Elizabeth, Ubel’s right, she’s amazing.”

  To my left I turn, seeing only her sitting there in all her magnificent glory. She’s in full view, her head resting against the back of the seat, directly opposite me, across the aisle. As if a bolt of lightning had been triggered in my mind causing all neurological thought processes to re-align and focus on one single point of time I’m captivated by her. A yes from the moment the data raced through the optic nerve and formed her perfection in my mind. That very moment my cognitive responses all digested the feast of visual and chemical information being fed to it. Yes, I liked her, playful, exciting, alluring, sexual and with mesmerising beauty. To have her I must, even if she’s not into women, she was going to be my next, my lucky millennia.

  Standing to adjust my figure hugging white cropped blouse, I allow my diamond pendant to fall between pertness of breast, creating a seductive, provocative composition for any prying eye. Sitting facing her as much I can, withholding none of my intentions, nor my arousal, I’m now ready for the fun to begin. Running my penetrating gaze over her heavenly presence, I try to surmise as much about her as I can before I introduce myself. Perfectly kept long straight dark brunette hair, modern style, no split ends and immaculately dyed. No roots suggest she’s very conscious of her appearance, no doubt she mesmerises all the lucky young men she most certainly devours on a weekly base, in her dirty secret life. Her hair dyed of that I know, her brows a lighter shade of mousy blond, her choice of colour well thought as it compliments her eyes, increasing her angelic status.

  No more than five foot and five inches tall, small but most certainly real diamond earrings and a most popular smartphone. Not a work phone, she doesn’t need to work, not in the traditional sense anyway. She’s on one of the many dating apps, but which one? Eyes racing for clues I check the screen's reflection in the window to her right, its Tinder, my introduction now easy. She’s certainly a naughty little thing, engagement ring on finger but keeping her possibilities open. Giggling and swiping to the right every time she’s presented with another potential suitor. It would appear today’s going to be a beautiful day after all.

  She’s a very sweet innocent looking face, a huge dollop of naughtiness bubbling just below the surface. A placid simplicity, mixed with enormous potential, with cat-like inquisitiveness for extreme carnal experiences I hope. Perfectly kept brows hover above mesmerising blue-green eyes, with just the right amount of eyeliner, to accentuate the Egyptian look, escorted with a gorgeous modernistic twist. Her eyes even more pronounced as they stand out against the natural light milkiness of her perfect complexion. A delicate and sculptural nose with the tiniest of uplift at tip, gracing perfectly the most encapsulating beauty of her face.

  Pert, full and succulent lips, full and enticing, finished off with a simple but immensely effective clear lip gloss. Small but tantalising dimples adorn her pretty face. Arousal grows as my breathing starts to gallop, I can feel my heart pounding harder within my chest. The transition from neck to shoulder as perfect as if sculpted by Michelangelo himself.

 
My eyes and imagination now at a wander, attempting to find those hidden gems of information we all have. The fitted dark blue pinstriped suit, apparently worn with great pride but maybe a little too often, now showing signs of fatigue. Sentimental or financial the only two reasons for such a choice. Silky creaminess of blouse attempting to hide the provocative and expensive lacy black brassiere which boldly cups her full bosom beneath. All these little tells of her narrative suggesting she wasn’t in Paris for just a business appointment, small weekend bag in rack above with matching handbag, all the signs of an adulterous, extended weekend in amorous gay Paree.

  The deeper I enquire, the more confusing her biography becomes, there’s something not quite right, almost as if she were trying to convince the world she’s not as affluent as she actually is. Obtaining wealth is a problem she suffers not, so why's she trying to hide her status, her affluence? Maybe she’s trying to protect it from a particular person, the man she’s been in Paris with? Could be playing the poor little-underprivileged girl routine, allowing her male suitors sense of chivalry and protection to become his own lure, his own downfall.

  “She’s angelic Elizabeth.”

  “Yes, Lilly she is. Where’s Ubel?”

  “Elizabeth I neither know nor care, he ran off doing things to himself shortly after we saw her, the dirty little man-pig.”

  Recently re-hemming of skirt’s her fatal floor, the first chink in her armour of amour, looking too out of place as if attempted at home by an ageing relative, a jittery old baby boomer perhaps? A relative with one of the many neurological disorders which seem to plague the old. Parkinson’s may be, the stitching’s irregular as if the seamstress could no longer control the needle the way they once had. Could she be wearing it because of some old decrepit relative, maybe a relative of her Parisian lover? Wanting to appear as if lost within real emotions for him, and nothing shouts love better than the perceived illusion of sentiment, a most powerful convincer. Looking to jump ship or is she playing a wicked little game, purely trying to satisfy her need for attention and wealth.