{"sf1_id":1559794,"sf2_id":"5nzqk3jm","title":"Need to Stop","author":"riverchinfen","words":1343,"posted_at":"2020-03-21T04:50:00.000Z","tags":["Crime Drama","Death","Deer","Desperation","Female","Hotel","M/F","Male","Mutilation","Prostitution","Rabbit","Straight","Suspense","Transgender"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1559794-need-to-stop","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/5nzqk3jm","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/07/bc/07bcab10-5998-41e6-a8b8-daed6fcce44b","description":"#2 of Writers Crossing Prompt Submissions\n\nA submission to the writing prompts on Writers' Crossing. A sharp left turn from my last story.","content":"\"I used to be somebody once, goddammit.\"  \n  \nThe reflection in the mirror stares back, a prettied-up rabbit who I barely recognize as myself.\u0026nbsp; It looks unconvinced.\u0026nbsp; And who the fuck am I kidding?\u0026nbsp; An adjunct creative writing professor at a community college is hardly 'somebody.'\u0026nbsp; Between old fucks who can barely string two sentences together and think they're fucking Bob Dylan, young barely-out-of-high-school and probably should have given up on any future teenagers, not to mention the shit pay, I had nothing going for me.\u0026nbsp; For all I'm worth in my 'normal' life, I might as well be a fucking prostitute.  \n  \nMy burner flip phone buzzes on the dresser.\u0026nbsp; I pick it up and look at the address.\u0026nbsp; I heave a sigh and pocket the device, then grab my bag of toys and leave my apartment.\u0026nbsp; There's work to be done.  \n  \nIt's hard to believe that I've been at this game for a year.\u0026nbsp; When I went on Craigslist looking for a change of pace, I didn't expect this.\u0026nbsp; Hell, at first I thought it was a joke!\u0026nbsp; But no, he was dead serious.\u0026nbsp; I never got a name, just a burner phone, an address, and a short set of instructions. \u0026nbsp;  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;Thinking back to that first time still gives me shivers.\u0026nbsp; One doesn't just come to this kind of work naturally, or at least that's what I tell myself to convince myself that I'm not a fucking psychopath.\u0026nbsp; The first time was the hardest.\u0026nbsp; From there, it got easier.\u0026nbsp; Now, it's just a job.\u0026nbsp; It's what I do.\u0026nbsp; It pays the bills, at least.  \n  \nThat first month after was the most stressful of my life.\u0026nbsp; Did I do enough to cover my tracks?\u0026nbsp; Was I going to get the police banging down my door?\u0026nbsp; But nothing of the sort happened.\u0026nbsp; The money cleared my account - fifty grand, more than I made in two years of teaching - and life went on.\u0026nbsp; Well, for me, anyway.  \n  \nIt's surreal at times, living this double life.\u0026nbsp; I catch myself looking into furs' eyes as I walk down the street, and I ask myself, 'do they know?\u0026nbsp; Do they know who I am?\u0026nbsp; Do they know what I do?'\u0026nbsp; I look just like them, and yet I'm so far removed I might as well be an alien species.\u0026nbsp; And meanwhile I kept up my adjunct job, a decent cover for my second career.\u0026nbsp; Can you call it a career?\u0026nbsp; I don't fucking know anymore.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;The sun is just setting as I pull up to the address, warehouse in some half-abandoned industrial district.\u0026nbsp; I take a moment to look at myself in the rearview mirror.  \n  \n\"You need to stop.\"  \n  \nThe phone buzzes in my pocket.\u0026nbsp; I pull it out and checked for my next instructions.\u0026nbsp; I nod, return it to my pocket, and get out of my car.\u0026nbsp; I grab my bag and take a moment to admire the orange and purple haze of the sky.\u0026nbsp; I can't linger long, though.\u0026nbsp; Moving on autopilot, I climb into the beat-up sedan the text message told me to take.\u0026nbsp; Keys are in the ignition.\u0026nbsp; A stickynote on the wheel gives me the next address.\u0026nbsp; The engine sputters, then roars to life, and I'm off again.  \n  \nIf anyone else knew what I did, they'd think I was crazy.\u0026nbsp; What the fuck kind of person does this?\u0026nbsp; Before I started, I would have been just as baffled.\u0026nbsp; But it opened doors for me.\u0026nbsp; Seeing the seedy underbelly of the city had been revelatory.\u0026nbsp; I published my first collection of short stories just a couple months ago. Genre fiction, horror, almost a mix of Poe and Stephen King.\u0026nbsp; It was cathartic in a way.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;A couple weeks ago a crime journalist got in touch.\u0026nbsp; My stories had interested him in what I thought about the latest crime wave plaguing the city.\u0026nbsp; I gave him my best answers, speaking broadly about the philosophical justifications, that no one is innocent.\u0026nbsp; Did I think the criminals was wrong?\u0026nbsp; Yes, of course, but who in this world today is without sin?\u0026nbsp; I joked about an unpaid parking ticket, which cut through the tension.  \n  \nI pulled up to my destination, a skeevy motel on the edge of the city.\u0026nbsp; My phone buzzes.\u0026nbsp; I pull it out and look at the message.\u0026nbsp; A room number.\u0026nbsp; I know the drill.\u0026nbsp; I check my hair and makeup in the rearview mirror.\u0026nbsp; I looked like a right fucking whore.\u0026nbsp; Perfect.\u0026nbsp; I get out of the car and grab my bag.\u0026nbsp; This is it.  \n  \nThe chill of the evening bites my nearly-bare legs as I walk down to the prescribed room.\u0026nbsp; I knock three times on the door.\u0026nbsp; It opens, and I walk inside.  \n  \n\"Goddamn,\" comes a husky voice.\u0026nbsp; \"You look just like a real woman.\"  \n  \nHis words bite into my flesh, tearing at something deep inside me.\u0026nbsp; I want to scream, 'I AM a woman, you fucking PRICK!' but that would blow my cover.\u0026nbsp; No, I need to put on the act, lure him in.\u0026nbsp; I've lost count of how many times I've done it before.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;I put on my best sultry face as the suited deer closes the door behind me.\u0026nbsp; I wrap wiggle my tail and drop my bag.\u0026nbsp; \"I heard someone's been a bad boy...\"  \n  \n\"Oh yes... v-very bad,\" he pants.\u0026nbsp; He's practically drooling.\u0026nbsp; Before taking on this job, I never thought men actually DID that in real life.\u0026nbsp; But I guess they fucking do, the animals.\u0026nbsp; They might think they're superior because they can walk and talk, but they're no better than a fucking bird, a fucking turkey.  \n  \nI grab his tie and lead him over to the bed.\u0026nbsp; \"Well, then, why don't we let this tranny 'punish' you, hm?\"  \n  \nHe follows along like an obedient puppy.  \n  \nIt's so easy now.\u0026nbsp; I turn off my emotions, play the role of the prostitute for this sick fuck.\u0026nbsp; Like all the others, he lets me tie him to the bed.\u0026nbsp; He isn't concerned.\u0026nbsp; I get the blindfold on, his wrists securely cuffed to the headboard.\u0026nbsp; Off come his pants.\u0026nbsp; A throbbing erection greets me.\u0026nbsp; Little, like his respect for me.  \n  \n\"Mommy has a special toy,\" I whisper.  \n  \n\"Oh gods yes,\" he pants.  \n  \nI go into my pack and pull out my tool.\u0026nbsp; At first I thought that using a stop sign was ridiculous.\u0026nbsp; Then cliche.\u0026nbsp; Now it's a comfort, feeling the cold metal, the hard wooden handle.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;I climb back up on the bed and straddle my target.\u0026nbsp; \"Are you ready?\" I whisper.  \n  \n\"Yes.\"\u0026nbsp; He's drooling, from both his muzzle and his dick.  \n  \nI raise the sign high.\u0026nbsp; Off goes any feeling or remorse.\u0026nbsp; Four words slip unbidden from my lips: \"You need to stop.\"\u0026nbsp; I feel the weighted sign come down.\u0026nbsp; The first blow knocks him senseless.\u0026nbsp; Then comes the second, the third, the fourth.\u0026nbsp; By strike fifty, his face is no longer recognizable as such, just a bloody mass of flesh and bone and sinew.\u0026nbsp; My work done, I throw the sign down on top of him.  \n  \nA year ago I never would have thought that work like this would come so easy.\u0026nbsp; I look around the room, clean up any traces of my fur.\u0026nbsp; My tools return to my pack.\u0026nbsp; I hop in the shower to wash off the splatter - there's always so much - and change, stowing my bloody outfit in my bag.  \n  \nThe rest is automatic.\u0026nbsp; I drive back to the warehouse.\u0026nbsp; Drop off the car.\u0026nbsp; My client will take care of it.\u0026nbsp; He always does.\u0026nbsp; I get back into my car and drive home.\u0026nbsp; I don't think about what I just did.\u0026nbsp; It was only a job.\u0026nbsp; In a day or two, I'll have my next paycheck in my account.\u0026nbsp; So long, student loans.\u0026nbsp; In a year or two, I might even be able to buy a house and retire, put this life behind me and write the stories I want to write, in ink rather than in blood.  \n  \n\n\u0026nbsp;I know I need to stop.\u0026nbsp; But until they do, I won't.  \n  \n\n","series":{"name":"Writers Crossing Prompt Submissions","previous":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1543557-pheonix.json","next":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/1591062-one-morning.json"}}