By: Prachi Sharma
How the hell do I take out that bitch Marilyn, Nick pondered, as he slumped on the giant bed in his opulent suite in Waldorf-Astoria, New York City. The AC was on full blast, yet his expensive Armani shirt was drenched in sweat, as was the area around his temples.
No matter if you were one of the most influential and richest tycoons in NYC, one of them big boys; someone would always manage to get you by the balls, and twist them till you hollered in pain and passed out, Nick thought bitterly, as he cradled his glass of scotch. This ‘someone’ would be, in most cases, a woman.
Nick’s lower jaw muscles twitched in anger as he thought about the woman who had managed to get him by the balls and really screwed him up. Marilyn Marcus, one of New York’s finest feminists, lawyer, writer and bitch extraordinaire. She was under the illusion that her intellect, tenacity, and her excruciatingly irritating sense of justice could force him to pay for some imaginary vices he had committed. That stupid, stuck-up woman thought she could make Nicholas Buchanan, Forbes Businessman of the Year, Times Tycoon of the Year, pay up.
Okay, maybe he had forced himself on that girl, Kerry, . Maybe he had been unable to control his urges when he’d seen her, in that strapless plum dress, at the party at Kings of the Night, one of the city’s hippiest nightclubs. Maybe he had bribed the club staff to spike her drink, after she’d resisted his advances. Maybe he’d taken her, unconscious, to a hotel nearby. Maybe he had booked a room and called all his friends to have some ‘fun’ with Kerry.
He hadn’t expected her to wake up before they’d started with her. Maybe he’d been even more determined to have her when she’d protested and begged to be spared. Maybe, in the heat of his sexual desire, he’d gotten a little rough, as had his friends. Maybe they’d hurt her a little in the process. She was badly bruised and copiously bleeding when they were done with her.
Maybe he himself had broken a glass on her head when she had said, “I will make all of you bastards pay.”
She had not spoken since. They’d somehow carried her corpse- they’d assumed she was dead after the glass had spliced open her head and she’d bled a lot more- to a secluded place on the outskirts of the city and buried her. There was a moment of panic, when they were digging a rough grave for her and she’d woken up suddenly. She could do nothing but moan feebly. They had thrown her in the grave anyway, and buried her alive.
That was the biggest mistake Nick had made in his life.
Turned out Kerry was Kerry Marcus, Marilyn’s sister. Marilyn had, with her tenacity, found out what had happened to her sister. She had launched such an extensive campaign for finding Kerry, using public support that the police had been forced to investigate and had found Kerry’s corpse. And that’s when all hell broke loose.
First both cops and newspapers reported that Kerry had been gang-raped and killed, going by autopsy reports. There was considerable outrage, both because Kerry was a criminal lawyer herself, and New York’s high crime rate was always a contentious topic. At first, he’d been relieved that Kerry’s death was being blamed on some random scumbags who infested the streets at night.
Then the revelations of the goings-on at the nightclub had come. Marilyn seemed to have a formidable network of supporters, both men and women, in all professions. She’d managed to unearth details which Nick and his friends thought they’d suppressed by pay-offs. All that money had gone to waste.
His and his friends’ role in Kerry’s murder had finally come forward. Following this, Marilyn Marcus had launched another comprehensive, widely backed campaign to get justice for her sister. She had taken the case to court, written articles and blog posts, given interviews and spoken at press conferences about Kerry’s murder, and how the culprits must be punished. Nick’s lower jaw muscles twitched again, as he thought about the statements Marilyn had made, and which had gathered a lot of attention.
My sister was mercilessly raped and murdered by Nick Buchanan and his cronies. I will get justice for her.
Buchanan and his rich friends must go to jail for what they did to my sister.
We must not let Buchanan get away with heinous crimes like rape and murder just because he’s swimming in wealth.
If Kerry’s death goes unpunished, it will be a heavy travesty of justice for every woman in America and the world.
Join me and America’s women in getting Justice for Kerry.
Nick Buchanan threatened me that I shall suffer the same fate as my sister if I press for justice.
Gang-rape, Nick laughed sardonically. How the hell was it rape if the woman was wearing a short dress which showed her ample curves? Kerry Marcus was asking for it. They had to kill her because she would have, if allowed to live, burnt Nick and his friends alive. She would have cried Rape and all their reputations, which they had worked hard to build, would be turned to dust within minutes.
The real problem started when Nick had, in a moment of anger at the journalists who’d been mercilessly baiting him, spoken his mind.
When a slut cries rape, it ain’t rape. Kerry got what she deserved.
Nick’s friends-cum-accomplices had gone underground. The married ones had been publicly humiliated and walked out on by their wives and kids. He himself had to leave his mansion in Manhattan and check into the Waldorf-Astoria; leaving the country had been impossible. He had cops from the NYPD on his payroll so he hadn’t been arrested… yet. His lawyers were taking care of the court case. He even had managed to have the vital evidence in the case destroyed by paying the dirty cops extra money.
His foolish attempt to have Kerry’s body stolen and burnt had badly backfired.
Public outrage intensified at this dastardly action, and Marilyn’s campaign received national attention and support. Feminist and human rights groups across the country organized protest marches and candle-light vigils. The heat being turned up on Kerry’s rapists wasn’t less than Hellfire.
But it was nothing compared to the hell going on in Nick’s brain. Alone in his suite, every night he had nightmares where Kerry came back as a zombie to kill and devour him; on waking up, he had this feeling Kerry was present in his suite, staring at him from the dark corners of his room. His friends had severed all contacts with him; he was sure they blamed him for their misfortunes. Nick knew that even if he weren’t arrested, his name was tarnished forever. And it all had transpired because of Marilyn Marcus- she had ensured he couldn’t, ever, move about freely in society again. Would he be forced to stay in this hotel room forever?
There was only one solution to all his problems. Marilyn Marcus had to die, and he would kill her himself instead of hiring an assassin. He had to make sure Marilyn suffered the same fate as her sister, just like he had threatened her. Nick couldn’t bear to stay in the hotel room with Kerry’s ghost any longer.
Nick got up from the bed, went over to his luggage and opened a large suitcase, taking out a .45 from it. He checked if the barrel was full and the safety, then tucked the gun into his pocket.
He went over to the window and drew the blinds. First he saw that above the tall buildings, the skies were a beautiful light blue with tinges of orange- dawn had broken.
Looking down at the street, he saw his face plastered everywhere, with a caption beneath it.
NICK BUCHANAN IS A RAPIST PIG-CUM-KILLER.
NICK BUCHANAN DESERVES TO BURN IN HELL.
NICK BUCHANAN IS A DEPRAVED PARASITE.
How do they know I’m here? , was the first question that popped up in his mind.
“Marilyn, you bitch, I will kill you!” he said, grinding his teeth.
Nick suddenly felt the hair on his neck stand up, and he instinctively turned around.
Kerry Marcus stood there, covered in earth, blood and bits of clothing, a smile on her face.
“You’re not real!” Nick shouted, pressing his body against the window.
Kerry came closer to him.
“You’re dead! You can’t be real!” Nick screamed, his hand cradling the gun in his trouser pocket.
Kerry came close enough for Nick to smell the putrefying flesh and earth. Her hands reached for him.
Nick took out the gun, held it to his temple.
Four minutes later, the hotel staff barged in the room after hearing a loud gunshot.
They found Nick on the ground, and bits of his brain on the walls, window and ceiling.