Son of a Preacher Man

Oksana Vishniac stood on the corner of the street, smoking a cigarette while waiting for a ride to come on by and “ask” for her services. Frowning, she adjusted her weight onto a long leg, her short miniskirt riding up her creamy thigh in the dim light of the flickering street lamp high above. The poor side of town showed its nature, with newspapers swooping by on the wind, carried past bums gathered around a trashcan fire in an open lot next to a drug den owned by the local gang. Oksana’s tattoo on her inner thigh marked her as a member, granting her immunity from their harassment, at least in theory.

Her thoughts were broken up when a sleek black Cadillac rolled up next to Oksana, the back window lowering an inch or so to reveal a pair of wrinkled eyes peering out from the darkness, pale red in color. The strange coloration aside, this was like any kind of transaction that Oksana had taken part of; she listed off her prices, looking around to make sure there were no police.

Not that they ever came down this way anymore.

After she finished speaking, the pale red eyes smiled up at her, the window rolling down to reveal a man in an expensive outfit, adorned with a heavy gold chain and numerous rings on slender knotty fingers, each ending in a long, cherry-red nail. The man casually lifted up a roll of hundreds, before waving his hand out the window to drop them into Oksana’s trembling hands. She tucked the roll of money into her small clutch and reached for the door handle, only for the man to shush her, shaking his head.

“Go around to the other side,” he said softly, though beneath his soft tones was a hint of steel that Oksana could barely detect, her years working for the gangs and mafia’s allowing her to pick it up. She nodded and walked around to the other side of the vehicle, opening the door and sliding inside the leather interior with ease, the car taking off once more once the door closed, locking on its own.

Oksana looked around the dim cabin; a plate glass covering between the front and back seats, guaranteeing privacy, along with a built in ice chest with various wine coolers. She selected one, pulling it from the ice, until she heard a hitch in the man’s voice. She paused, looking over at him in question.

He was dressed in red silk pajamas, a rolled up leather case sitting between them. He was old, perhaps fifty or sixty. His temples were greying out while the rest of his hair was salt and pepper. He had glasses hanging around his neck from a chain, nestled in his white chest hair that appeared from between the lapels of his pajama top. His hands readjusted their grip over his knees before he turned ever so slightly.

“If you would do me the favor, drink the grape flavored beverage,” he said softly, his voice as smooth as silk.

Oksana shrugged and grabbed a purple bottle, twisting off the top and downing the icy drink until the back of her throat was numb. Pulling back, she saw that the man was staring outside the window as the car drove through the numerous side streets.

“Hey! I need to stay in the area,” Oksana said, leaning forward to bang on the divider between the back and front. “You hear me?”

“Oh I can assure you he can’t. Wouldn’t even be able to if the glass was lowered,” the old man said. He turned his head, one hand pressing a button on the side of his door, an old song coming to life around them. “Tell me Type A, do you live a happy life?”

“Type A? My name is Oksana weirdo, and yeah, my life is great!” Oksana said as she listened to the dulcet tune of a woman singing of a preacher’s son. She could remember hearing this when she was younger, a song her parents often played.

At least when they weren’t fighting.

“Oksana… that’s Russian, isn’t it?” The old man said, his flat tone suddenly coming to life. “You wouldn’t happen to speak any, would you?”

“No, sorry,” she said, taking a pull from her bottle once more. Man this drink was sweet…

“A shame, truly a shame. If you did I might have let you live past tonight,” the man said before springing faster than the eye could see. Slamming into her, he pushed her back into the plush seating and slid a long fingernail into her throat. Oksana screamed, her shrill cry going mute after a few moments as she passed out from the mixture of the poisoned claw paralyzing her.

The old man leaned forward and tapped three times on the glass before leaning back and humming along to the woman singing of her time with a preacher’s son. “Oh Dusty, times were so much simpler then.”

After noting that the Cadillac had merged onto the highway, the old man slid the woman down onto her side, baring her back to him. He cut away at her revealing top with his fingernails before running an open palm over her side. Rubbing the pale skin, he shuddered in untold rapture.

“Type A, no diseases… a perfect match!” The old man said, clapping his hands together. Pulling the back of his rear passenger seat down to reveal a host of tools, he slowly began cutting into the woman, using a hose to drain the blood away from injury into a bag so that she wouldn’t stain his leather save for a few drops. The operation took three minutes, with an additional minute spent patching her up with sutures. Looking her over, he folded the seat up and unrolled and sat up straight when the Cadillac pulled to a stop in one of the more posh neighborhoods in the city.

Getting out of the car, he drug the unconscious girl out with the help of a deaf manservant, tucking her behind some bushes. Checking his watch, he saw that it was only ten in the evening. He had time, he decided.

Reaching into the backseat, he unrolled his surgical equipment and carefully began cutting away her clothes before slicing into her body. Blood pooled beneath her as she slowly was divested of her female organs, the uterus and ovaries going into a matching Ziploc bag for later use. Pulling off his rubber gloves, the old man wiped down his tools and set them back in his leather case before getting back into the Cadillac, his manservant rushing to get back to the driver’s side.

The Cadillac picked up speed and made its way to the urban sprawl of downtown, where the old man seemed to feel most at home. He got out of the Cadillac with instructions (via hand signs) to bottle the blood and put the organs on ice for him later. Walking out beneath the light of a full moon, the old man inhaled the crisp night air and stopped at a newsstand to purchase a paper.

The headline screeched across the front of the paper in great bold letters: Jack The Ripper Still At Large. He skimmed through the story, noting how the police had connected that the man who was doing the kills he’d just performed had medical knowledge.

“A kidney or liver is always stolen, along with the young woman’s genitals,” Police Chief Wiggun was quoted as saying. “I have all of homicide on this case, and I can tell you this: We will bring this freak to justice.”

“I certainly hope so,” the old man said, folding the paper and tucking it under his arm. Looking up, he saw an officer standing next to him, waiting to cross the street as well. “Busy night?”

The officer seemed surprised to be addressed by the short man, but smiled down at him anyway. “Oh, well, yeah. We’re always in need in this city, you know?”

“Any luck on this new Jack the Ripper?” The old man asked, smiling.

“Ah, not that I’m able to share,” the officer said, rubbing the back of his head.

“Ah well, forgive an old man’s curiosity,” the old man took the newspaper and handed it off to the officer. “Here, read and see if there’s anything you can think of that nobody else has. Who knows? Maybe you’ll be the one to break the case!”

The officer took the paper and thanked the old man, who merely shrugged, before walking across the street with the correct indicator. Whereas the officer took an immediate left, the old man continued walking towards a small bistro, where he was met by another old man with a hearty shake of hands. This man was obviously a Rabbi from his garb, and had a cup of non-fat caffeine free coffee sitting in front of him.

“Sal! You’re late!” The Rabbi said, motioning for the old man to take a seat. “I ordered you a latte with the soy milk, I know how dairy upsets you.”

“Thank you,” Sal said, wrinkling his nose at the offensive smell of the cream wafting up from the Rabbi’s drink.

“David, I cannot believe you indulge yourself in something as frivolous as these flavored drinks.” Sal said, folding his hands in his lap.

David shrugged, leaning forward to stir his drink. “I don’t have many years left, why should I waste them worrying over such things as blood sugar?”

“Speaking of blood sugar…” Sal said, changing the topic as he didn’t want to get caught up in the old survivor’s wheel of stories. He knew all too well that he would only spur him on with his own stories.

“So you have one?” David asked, dropping his voice to a whisper.

“On ice, sitting behind your synagogue once my man delivers it,” Sal said, thinking of his deaf caretaker and servant taking the ice packed lunchbox up to the back of the synagogue to drop off a kidney. It was somewhat humorous.

“Then once we receive the filter you’ll have twenty transferred into your account,” David said with a smile. Sal merely chuckled as a waitress came by and dropped off his latte, a syrupy smelling sweet that made for a delectable treat on this wet evening. Sal offered her a tip, slipping a twenty into her back pocket as she protested.

“Alright young lady, no need to make an old man beg to give you money,” Sal laughed, knowing the woman would be surprised when she found the bill later on. If she were honest, she’d split the tip with the rest of her shift.

Sal hoped that she wasn’t such a thing, knowing how horrible the economy had become.

Sal and David spoke over their drinks, trading war stories as their drinks slowly emptied, until Sal received a text message from his manservant, Checking it, he smiled.

“Movies dropped off. Want me to pick you up?” Sal read aloud, earning a chuckle from the Rabbi.

“The lengths we go to, just to make sure nobody says the wrong thing,” David shook his head before checking his watch. “I need to be going anyway, as it’s far too late for someone of my age to be up. You should think about turning in as well.”

“I’ve always been a bit of a night owl,” Sal said, waving off his friend as he texted back where he was to be picked up.

Not ten minutes later he was in his Cadillac being driven to his loft by his faithful man servant. Tonight he’d gotten an organ for a needy Jew, killed a working girl that was part of a gang and added another layer of suspense to the ever growing legend of the new Jack the Ripper. As he fumbled with his house keys, he mused he’d done a lot for a single nights work.


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