Killing Lotta Lolita
His pulse quickened as he saw the large form of the dress shop owner. Almost every Saturday afternoon I would visit the woodland and pasture trails to take photos and pick flowers. He was glad today was one of those days. He stalked this outsized ‘Lolita’ moving on the slight ridge line paralleling the trail. He checked me out carefully. My thick blond and pink hair, most likely a wig he surmised correctly, over my natural mousy brown hair. A pink bow ribbon on top added to the impression of my height. My dress today was a pink and white affair with a ruffled full hem just above the knees. I was wearing a white knee sock and a pair of pink triple strap flats with round blocky toes. He looked thru the scope of the rifle he had brought and looked over my wide full fat face. A thick baby pink gloss coated my full lips. He admired my detailed dress and co-ordination seeing that I had foregone my normal Goth like dark rimmed glasses and had replaced them with a 3” round frame of pink. He could see the thickness of the lenses that magnified what he called my full cow like eyes. He watched as I stopped and looked about and for a moment he thought I might have seen him. Had I tried I wouldn’t have seen his as my eyesight was so very poor at any distance. But no, not at all as I opened my large vinyl ‘60s box purse and carefully took out a pink cigarette case. He had glimpsed me once in the alley behind my store stealing a cigarette break but now watched mesmerized as she put the long white filter tipped cigarette to her full lips and delicately flicked a matching lighter inhaling once swallow then a very deep drag that hollowed in her fleshy cheeks. He all but heard the deep sucking sound as I pulled the flame to the tip and drew in deeply inflating my full bosom, filling my lungs with smoke.
The afternoon sun felt so good. I had come to take these walks some months ago when the spring first came as a way of getting a break from my business. It was one of the few breaks I allowed myself from my work. My mother would be very upset to know of these solitary walks, always concerned about my safety. I think she would be more horrified to know that I had taken up smoking something that I saw as more of a fashion item to go with my collection of accessories for my ‘Lolita’ line of plus sized clothing. I felt I could quit at anytime but for now it was one of those ‘bad’ girl habits that I found I enjoyed. I moved a few more steps to the bench and sat back smoking.
He watched me carefully not missing a detail. He had not expected that I would stop and sit instead of continuing my walk into the wooded path that narrowed for some 200 feet to no more than the width needed for a couple walking side by side. He had played the scene over in his mind. An ambush planned to the last detail. He kept his gaze on me as I smoked leisurely. He thought over his plan as he moved the crosshairs about my head and chest. How many shots would it take? He wondered. His rifle was a low powered hunting rifle he used for hunting rabbits. He had debated the problem over and over as he had planned my murder. A shot to my heart was one he found most exciting. He imagined the small bullet hitting true tearing into my heart and then watching as I fell. Would I drop quickly, an instant death? Might I survive a bit, perhaps stagger then fall very un-lady like into a heap. Those visions of my death were followed by a shot to my head through one of my eyes. This would take all of his skill and he knew he was up to it but his rifle was not that accurate. His final choice was a shot or as many as necessary to my throat.

Head back I took a deep drag. Had I been down the trail he knew that my motion gave him the open throat shot he wanted. In his mind’s eye he saw the shot, imagined it hitting me low toward my breast bone. He thought most likely the bullet would not break apart but tear a hole in my throat and possibly crack a vertebrae as it moved thru the heavy flesh and found bone. He saw it so clearly: I would stagger then drop slowly my arm down bracing myself to a sitting position my hand tight to my wound, blood pulsing from the entrance wound. What sound would I make he wondered. Would I expire quickly? He pondered. Could the heavy fat dress designer-seamstress survive such a horrific wound for very long?
In his mind’s eye he saw himself patient and in control. Watching me through the telescope on his rifle he moved the cross hairs aiming point to my forehead jst below my thick pink blonde bangs. Could the small slug penetrate my skull? Most likely not but the force of the impact would do quite a bit of damage tearing my soft skin maybe cracking my skull if not penetrating it. He reasoned that would be enough to immobilize me and then he could move closer for a kill shot. He liked this option as it would be fairly bloody and he wondered how I would react. Would the impact knock me unconscious? That was certainly a possibility. ‘But she’s a huge lady” he thought, strong. “she might actually get up and try to run or as close to running as a 300 pound woman could. That was an exciting thought to the teen. Wounded, scared for sure, hurting, she would get too far bleeding from a head wound. (to be continued if there is any interest)