Scott Wittenburg - The May Day Murders

Stanley had stood hidden behind a tree and watched as the mayor, who had to be sixty if he were a day, lowered his fat naked body into the hot tub and waited for Cindy to join him. She was still inside and Stanley watched her as she stripped off her clothes, retrieved a drink the mayor had apparently prepared for her beforehand, then slinked out onto the patio wearing nothing but a smile. When she reached the hot tub, she leaned over in front of the mayor and let her gorgeous tits dangle before his admiring eyes. Then she had sat down on the edge of the tub with her legs spread wide open and allowed the mayor to stick his fat face in between them and start nibbling…

Stanley’s teeth were clenched as he recalled that night. Why in the fuck would a beautiful bitch like Cindy Fuller screw around with an obese, ugly slob like that? And to think that she had once thought of himself as no more than a turd floating in a toilet bowl…

Why in the fuck hadn’t he ever been able to score with this chick for chrissakes! he wondered feebly as he had watched the mayor work on her with relish.

A smug grin came to Stanley Jenkin’s face and he shot a glance over toward Cindy’s body slouched down in the passenger’s seat. He had finally scored with her after all. It may have taken twenty years and a lot of bullshit but at least he’d finally done her. He’d nailed Cindy Fuller and nailed her but good. He had in fact fucked her to death!

She had loved it, too. He swore he could almost see it in her eyes as he was putting it to her earlier that night. He could imagine her thinking to herself, “Jesus, I never knew Stanley was so damned cool! And what a great fuck he is!”

Too late now, Cin, he thought. You should’ve thought about that twenty years ago.

He was approaching the last turn before the hairpin and he slowed down his speed. As expected, he hadn’t seen a single car out on the road yet. There were only a handful of people who lived around this area and those few were all most likely watching the pre-season football game between the Broncos and Chiefs on TV.

The incline of the road descended sharply after he made the turn, making it necessary for him to brake hard to keep the car under control against the fast idle speed. Ahead of him, about a hundred yards or so, he could see the hairpin curve. He drove another fifty yards and slowed down to a complete stop. Time was critical now, he knew, so he was going to have to work fast.

There was no berm to speak of where he had stopped the car-just two lanes of asphalt heading straight for the curve with a drainage ditch on either side. He shifted into neutral and checked the tachometer-the car was idling just under 3,000 rpm, as he had estimated it would. He sat for another moment as he considered the engine’s idling speed and the distance to the guardrail and beyond. Then, figuring in the steepness of the road, he felt confident that the car would indeed have enough gusto to break through the guardrail and continue on to the cliff. This debate was all academic at this stage anyway-he certainly couldn’t risk the extra time it would take to make another idle adjustment anyway.

Stanley threw the gearshift lever back into drive and set the parking brake, praying the engine wouldn’t die. It didn’t, but the car was lunging forward in a fury and felt like it would die any moment. He got out and quickly ran over to the passenger side, opened the door, and gathered up Cindy’s body into his arms. Her skin was already cool to the touch and he nearly vomited as he carried her around to the driver’s side. He stuffed her into the seat and arranged her feet in an approximate driving position. Suddenly the engine missed, sputtered and bogged down to an anemic, sort of choked, purring sound. Holy fuck, it was going to die on him! he thought. Then all of a sudden the engine regained momentum and was back up to three grand again. Stanley felt a bead of sweat run into his eye that stung like a bee.

With a cautious gasp of relief, Stanley quickly hopped out and ran to the front of the car, checking to see that the wheels were heading straight forward. Satisfied, he ran back to the driver’s side long enough to place Cindy’s upper body against the steering wheel to help keep the wheels on course.

Sweat was now literally pouring down Stanley’s face as he glanced up and down the road to be sure there weren’t any oncoming motorists. It was black as pitch in either direction. He again considered with some regret that there would be no skid marks left behind on either the pavement or the berm to indicate that Cindy had hit the brakes before plummeting over the cliff and he was certain that the police would question that. He also knew that they would be speculating a hell of a lot of other things while investigating Cindy Fuller’s fatal car accident, seeing as she was such an important personage in the community. But none of this really bothered him and the reason was quite simple: they would never in a million years be able to pin her death on Stanley Jenkins no matter how extensive their investigation may be.

Because Stanley Jenkins no longer existed.

The smug grin returned to his face as he grasped the top edge of the door with his left hand, leaned inside and took hold of the parking brake lever in his right hand. Taking a deep breath and a final glimpse of Cindy Fuller’s pale but still beautiful face, he released the parking brake and jumped back from the car like a cat.

The Mercedes shot forward like a sprinter from the starting line, the engine roaring and whining in the dark quiet of the mountains. Stanley barely had enough time to run after it and slam the door shut in a sudden panic-stricken afterthought as the car hurtled along toward its destination. By the time the car was half way to the hairpin curve it was doing a good 35 mph. Stanley stood and stared in utter fascination as the phantom runaway car grew smaller in the distance with increasing velocity. Then suddenly the car began veering hard to the right and Stanley held his breath. It was going to plow into the drainage ditch! he thought. With a sickening feeling in the pit of his gut, he realized that he had fucked up royally by not starting this whole death car plot into motion closer to the curve than he had.

Christ!

Then miraculously, the car began straightening itself out as it tore onto the grassy area. Stanley crossed his fingers and looked on, praying that the car stayed on course. Only thirty feet to go until impact.

Twenty feet. The car had to be doing forty-five.

Only ten feet to go. It was really booking now!

Smash! The Mercedes crashed through the guardrail like it was made of matchsticks and kept right on going. (Just like the Energizer bunny, Stanley thought with a smile.)

A few seconds later, the car dipped out of sight. He heard the engine race to a throaty whine as the wheels left the ground and became airborne. A few moments later, an eerie deathlike silence fell over the mountain as the car continued to sail through the air and out of hearing range.

Then he suddenly heard a tree-crunching thud, followed by a rustling sound like a wild bear on a rampage. Finally, the entire Rocky Mountain sky was lit up like the Fourth of July as the Mercedes exploded and caught fire somewhere down near the base of the mountain.

What a Rocky Mountain High! he thought.

“Time to book,” Stanley breathed to himself.

The temptation to run over and look down at the scene was nearly overwhelming but he knew he couldn’t afford himself that luxury. It wouldn’t be long before the whole county would be up here investigating.

He reached inside his coat pocket and took out a flashlight, switched it on then began searching for the path. He spotted it about twenty yards back up the road to the left and hastened toward it. The path was narrow and overgrown but he knew that it was accessible and where it led. He entered the path and began scaling the hillside at a brisk gait. He had only gone forty yards or so when he heard the sirens.