The First

By

Basil R. Lee

I like to watch people die.

Funny thing to hear someone say, isn’t it?

Well, if only it was a joke.  But, it's not.

Oh, don't run away.  I'm not going to kill you.  I can’t kill just anybody. Besides, they have to be enjoying their death.

Now you're really worried, aren't you?  Well, just stay a while, and listen to what I have to say.  It’ll mean so very much to me…

	* * * * *

	Damn, I'm late coming back from my lunch!  *grunt grunt*  But I can't stop now!  I'm so clooo“OOOOOOAAAAwwwwyeah!”  Oh, shit shit SHIT!  I hope no one heard that.  Patrick stood up, calmly flushed the toilet into which he had just shot, and walked out of the stall.  Looking around, he realized that he was alone in the washroom, and he sighed in relief.  He washed his hands, and headed back to his cubicle, hoping that no one would notice that he came in late.
	“Patrick.  You're four minutes late coming back from lunch.”
	Damn!  “Yes, sir.  I know sir.  I apologize.  I was...detained in the washroom.  My lunch didn't agree with me.  I'm sure you understand?”  Judging from the look of revulsion on the face of his boss, he understood all too well.
	“Well, try not to let it happen again.  Now, get back to work.  We need that report!”
	“Yes sir!  On my way.”
	Returning to his cubicle, Patrick had to pass by her.  The lust of his life.  The reason for grunting in an extremely loud and manly way in the staff washroom: Diane.  One foot in front of the other, man.  She's sexy, but don't make a fool of yourself.  Then you'll NEVER sleep with her.  Step.  Step.  Bump.  Oh, shit.  Patrick calmly walked straight into the back of her chair, jostling her into her desk, and slumping over her shoulders.
	“Oh my God, I am sooo sorry.  I wasn't paying attention, I guess.”
	She turned around, and smiled at him, which he found odd, considering what he'd just done to her.  “Usually, when people say that they weren't paying attention, it means that they were paying far too much attention to something.”  Licking the lips.  “Now, what was it that you were paying attention to, hmm?”
	Oh my God! Is she flirting with me?  That blatantly?  This seems more like directly hitting on me.  OhGodohGodohGod, what do I answer?
	“Um...I was, uh...thinking about the report I have due.”
	“Oh, is that all, Patrick?”  She pouted slightly, and chewed on her lip.  A sigh.  “And to think, if you'd just tell the truth, we could have so much fun together!”  Emphasis on the word 'fun'.  Damn.
	“Well, um...alright.  Seriously, I was looking at you.  Well, your neck and hair anyway, since your back was to me, and you're sitting on your...um...yeah.”  This would be a good time to give you a description of Diane.  She was about 5'4” tall, with red hair down to about her shoulders.  Today, however, she was wearing it up, in a sort of bob ponytail, the likes of which young highschool girls wear.  She was also wearing small, wire-framed glasses, the likes of which just scream “girl-next-door”.  As for clothing, she was in a conservative grey skirt, about knee-length (and showing off some terrific calf), with comfortable (yet, no less sexy) shoes, and a large man's dress shirt, white, of course, and tied up at the bottom.  All in all, stunningly cute.
	She beamed.  “Oh, really?  That is so good to hear, Patrick.  Listen...I know this is a little forward, and, well, you're probably married, but --”
	“I'll pick you up at seven!” he blurted out, and then paused, realizing exactly what he'd just said.  Blushing from head to toe, he looked at his feet, and stammered mightily.
	Smiling, she stood up, and caressed his cheek.  “You're just so darling!  Seven it is.  Here's my address, and my number in case you get lost.”  She folded up the piece of paper upon which that information was already written (it seemed as though she had planned this), and slipped it into his shirt pocket, bringing her face quite close to his when so doing.  “I'm really looking forward to tonight,” she breathed in his ear, the touch of her breath on his neck giving him goosebumps.  “Please don't let me get my hopes 'up'.”  She giggled, and pushed him in the chest with her index finger, gently prodding him with a finely manicured nail.  “Now get back to work!  We wouldn't want Gerald giving you anymore trouble.”  Smiling, she twirled back around, sat down, and returned to her computer, Patrick seemingly all but forgotten.  Damn, but how can a woman like that twirl and be so graceful, and never seem out of place?  Sighing happily, still as red as his shirt, he headed back to his cubicle, with only a small detour at the coffee machine.
	“I need coffee.  Black coffee.  She'll be my cream and sugar tonight!”  Then he realized both what he said, and how loudly he said it, and quickly shuffled away to put the muffled giggling at his back.

	* * * * *

	7:17 pm, on a bus somewhere, Patrick cursed his idiocy.  “I really should have told her that I didn't have a car!  Now, I'm late, AND I can't drive us anywhere.  I can't expect her to.  It's the man's job.  Although, she's so sweet, she probably would...” Realizing the attention that his incessant self-muttering (some people would call it loathing) was attracting on a not-so uncrowded bus, he waxed introspective, and tried to think of excuses to get out of this one.  'My car is in the shop.'  No, overused.  'I was in an accident on the way over.'  No, that's tempting fate.  Ah, hell, she seems to appreciate honesty, so I'll just tell her the truth.  Settled on that course of action (upon which he had to settle no fewer than four more times during the course of the bus trip before he decided that it was the right one), he was content to sit back and think about Diane for the rest of the ride, which made it a rather pleasant ride indeed (judging by the giggles that his inadvertent 'tent' was causing - in retrospect, he realized that dress pants were a bad idea around, or while thinking about, Diane).  Upon arriving at his destination (a good 15 minutes away from his real destination - *sigh* the joy of busses), he also realized that dress shoes are not always the best footwear, as blisters do not a good dinner companion make - particularly not on a muggy August night.  After finally reaching the much-anticipated abode of the breathtaking Diane (he's forty-five minutes late, tired, sore, and sweaty, so make her sound truly worth it), and cursing himself for his tardiness for a sound five minutes (after which he realized that this course of action was making him even later, and he cursed himself for another round), he rang the doorbell.  After hearing some shuffling and clunking, Diane answered the door, looking as disheveled (albeit less sweaty) as Patrick himself.
	“Patrick!  You're early!  Come in, I'm just finishing up.”
	Early? he thought.  “Early?  Diane, I'm nearly an hour late!”
	“Oh, did you say seven?  I'm sorry, did I mention that I'm dyslexic?”
	“Dyslexic?  Wouldn't that mean that I was coming at 00:7?  Who are you, James Bond?”
	She giggled, and turned away, heading towards the powder room, and beckoning him to follow.  “Just wait out here.  And to answer your question, no, YOU are Mr. Bond.  Call me Miss MoneyPenny.”
	Blank-faced blinking.  “But, wasn't she --”
	“No, don't worry.  Mr. Bond slept with ALL of the Bond girls, even her.  Now...” She twirled around to face him (damn twirling women), “…Oh my God, Patrick!  Are you alright?”  The aforementioned Patrick was slumped in a lounge chair (quite unconscious) that was fortunately placed appropriately near the door to the powder room, elsewise you could have probably added 'bruised' to his list of current afflictions.

	A sweet voice, and a sweet feeling...
	That's my name, right?  Wake up?  Am I sleeping?  Guess I should wake up.
	Upon completing that thought, he opened his eyes, saw Diane's worried face, and realized exactly what happened.  “Um...hi.”
	“Hi?  Hi!  Patrick, you frightened me!  Well, I suppose all I can expect you to say, though, is 'hi', considering that you were just semi-comatose.”
	A small smile.  An attempt at reassurance, really.  “I'm fine.  How are you, though?  I hope I didn't scare you too much.  You know I didn't mean to.  Now, what time is it?  And shall we dine?”
	A slight smile.  The inevitable snub.  “Actually, after what you just put me through, I'm not terribly hungry anymore.”  Damn DAMN!  “But, I have nothing if not a sweet tooth, so how about we just move right on to dessert, shall we?”  With this, she slid onto his lap, and began kissing his ear.
	After convincing his brain that it didn't need all of the blood that was currently rushing away from it, he responded in kind - well, alright, he kind of pushed his tongue against his bottom lip, and stroked his own leg, but then she kissed him and unbuttoned his shirt, and life was good again.  As can probably be gathered from this sensual segue, the rest of the night passed quickly, yet fantastically slowly, in the gentle embrace of her satin duvet.

	* * * * *

	Twitching.  Flashbacks.  Memories of red.  Disturbing dreams.  Waking...waking...waking...
	Shooting into a sitting position, Patrick looked around at his surrounding in a near panic.  Realizing where the hell he was, he calmed down some, and looked over at Diane, who was just waking up.  Opening her eyes, she looked up at him, yawning cutely.
	“Bad dreams, sweetie?” she asked sweetly.
	Shaking his head, he rubbed his eyes.  “Tell me about it.”  He leaned over and kissed her cheek.  “It’s not a big deal though, so just go back to sleep.”
	Smiling wickedly, she pushed him down on the bed, and nibbled at his lips.  “Actually, this gives me the perfect chance to actually do what I’ve been dreaming about all night.”  And with that, she slipped under the covers.  After a few minutes of wondering what was on television, thinking about work tomorrow, and trying to figure out who won the game that night, he realized what exactly was going on, and began to enjoy it.  After several minutes of this, just when he was really starting to get into it (his own fault, really), Diane came up from under the covers, and straddled him, sliding onto him.  She rode him like this for several minutes, the two of them speaking in typical sex-speak (groan, grunt, moan etc.).
	“Diane…I’m gonna…I’m gonna…oh YEA--!”
	Suddenly gasping for air, eyes wide with pain, and the taste of blood in his mouth, Patrick reached behind to feel the knife plunged eight inches into his left lung.  Staring dumbly at Diane, he wondered what he did wrong in life, as she stabbed him yet again, this time in the heart.  He crumbled, and she continued to ride his bones to climax.  Leaning forward, she kissed him on the lips, and tasted his blood.  “Sweet dreams, sweetheart,” she whispered. With that, she got up, showered, and left for work, leaving the stiffening corpse to its peaceful rigor.