Sheriff Hank Anderson knelt in the dusty grass of the cow field in Texas with a grunt and a grimace. At his age and weight the knees were the first to go and he could feel his joints pop as he squatted on his fattened haunches and examined the crime scene-a “tableau of horrors” as the news reported-with a far more critical eye than most would give him credit for. A small town sheriff with pretty blue eyes that had turned sunken and piggy the older and fatter he’d gotten did not look like a guy who’d earned a master’s in Criminology at the University of Houston, but there it was.
Flies buzzed and angrily furred the five perfectly severed limbs that lay in a small dip in the earth. Blood pooled around each limb, though hard to see with the seething mass of blowflies that feasted upon it. Hank didn’t bother to shoo them away. He already knew what he’d find-nothing. No evidence and while four of the limbs would belong to a girl gone missing not ten hours ago, the other limb would belong to no one. A phantom limb.
Each limb had been carefully cut at the attachment points on the torso. Hank could see the slice of bone-perfectly sliced, of course-and also the severed blood vessels and yellow fat and lymph. All cut perfectly like in one of those kung-fu movies where the protagonist has an impossibly sharp sword. The kind that slices your head off but you don’t even notice until you turn your head five seconds later and the wound unzips and your head falls off mid sentence. It reminded him uncomfortably of an anatomical cross section or the slices of ham one might find at the deli. Ham didn’t have this much blood.
Of course, with this level of precision, it was possible to speculate that the girl could be found somewhere, still alive, though he personally doubted that. At first he’d considered that the perp had killed his victims, froze them somehow, and then cut them up. Easier to get this precision with a frozen corpse than a messy fleshy one. However, autopsies on the other 12 victims had all concluded that the bodies had never been frozen. That had sent him for a loop. And then there was the fifth limb.
That one was the real mystery and the one that had gotten into his mind lately, though he’d never told a soul. Hank had suspicions, you see. Like, say, that there would never be a body found connecting this limb to any person alive on this earth. That, somehow, the perp had created it, whole-cloth, or perhaps through cloning.
Hank attempted to stand and his back popped and his knees almost gave out. This damn belly of his, which almost strained the buttons of his XXL shirt, almost tipped him over. He ran a hand over his smooth dome to wipe the sweat off before he picked up his white cowboy hat and wondered to himself. Thirty years ago he’d had wavy brown hair, eyes that drove girls wild and a smile that could star in Colgate commercials. Quarterback, high school and college. Figured he’d become a movie star, Time magazine’s sexiest men alive. And now he was a bloated bald sheriff. Was life like that? Did he become fat and bald because ALL Sheriffs MUST be fat and bald-or at least, the average of sheriffs? Was a person a slave to their station, or had he just eaten too many burgers and genetics just hadn’t been kind to him? His daddy kept all his hair until the day they buried-
“Sheriff,” Deputy Samuels interrupted
“Yes?”
“Reporters are here.”
Hank sighed and hitched his belt, put his cowboy hat on, and sauntered to the police line. “Anything else? I asked you to check the drone footage. Anything in a 50 mile radius?”
He’d come up with the idea a few days ago. Boogle Maps had a satellite feature and most thing sin the landscape around here didn’t change. He was looking for the base of operations. Hank wasn’t sure how the perp had managed to transport limbs to a remote location and have them bleed out after he dropped them off without freezing them, but he was sure about one thing. It took time. Time with the victim, time to saw off limbs-all of which were things he suspected the perp did not do in his home workshop.
“Just an old shipping container.” Deputy Samuels replied. “Want me to go check it out?”
Hank saw movement in the distance behind Deputy Samuels. A trio of Black SUVs riding down the dirt road this way, kicking up a cloud of dust. FBI. A big part of Hank wanted nothing more than to drop this shit sandwich in their laps, let them puzzle over the phantom fucking limb, but another part, the part that had made it into varsity football and that had been hurt when his career never landed him in the NFL or on the pages of TIME magazine seethed. A cargo container could be the guy and if he caught this serial killer, maybe he would finally get the fame he wanted after all.
“Nah, probably nothing. And don’t tell the FBI.”
“What if it is him and he gets the jump on you?” Deputy Samuels stammered, “I mean, come on, that’s literally what all the dumb sheriffs do in the horror movies and THEY die-”
“Samuels, shut the fuck up.” Hank snorted and glowered at the reporters in the makeshift press pool. He ignored their questions and drove off to the coordinates Deputy Samuels had given him. Twenty minutes away. He checked his revolver and made sure it was loaded and contemplated the shotgun. Overkill? He shook his head and sped off, not bothering to meet the FBI.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
An old TV was propped in the corner of the plastic wrapped and sealed shipping container. Next to it lay a surgical tray full of silicone funnels and ribbed latex pleasure items and one very large, pointy hypodermic needle full of a sinister milky substance.
The news was on. A reporter, well-groomed and with veneered teeth, stood at the scene of a crime-horrific, though he only knew a little of the true horror behind the tableau that lay in the dirt behind him, shrouded by police tape and crowded with CSI agents, the local Sheriff's office, and a few black suited FBI officers.
“The FBI has discovered and identified the arms and legs of a 13th woman today, Kelly Greenwell, 20, a college student at West Texas University. She was reported missing yesterday when she never returned from her morning jog. Her remains were found in the same area as the rest-a field in a lonely pasture in Central Texas. Where the torso and head may be-no one knows.” The reporter finished.
The scene switched to a well-coiffed young woman feigning concern. “You were able to get a closer look. What do the remains say to you?”
“The remains were the arms and legs-perfectly severed. Getting a post-mortem time of death is inconsistent due to the state of the victim’s blood. Rigor mortis has only recently set in, yet the blood isn’t spurting, it’s acting like…well, as though it simply drained out.”
“So frozen and then moved or-?”
“No, no signs of refrigeration. It’s the same mystery that the coroner has found in other victims. The blood contains a lethal overdose of muscle relaxants-and yet the cause of death is yet to be determined.”
“Oh-here’s the Sheriff. Sheriff Hank Anderson!” The man shoved the microphone in the face of a fat, angry man who simply glowered at him and stalked past. “Guess he isn’t in the mood.”
“I see.” The coiffed woman turned back to the camera. “Very disturbing news. As this is the 13th victim in just one week, the FBI is unsure as to label it a serial killing or a spree killing. Perhaps it’s both.”
A hand lifts and switches the new off. Next to the hand, on an autopsy table covered in plastic wrap, lay a young woman. Megan Shane, 23, according to her ID. That was the only belonging the man who rose from the chair beside her had taken with him.
“Please,” the pretty brunette gritted, “Let me go. I swear I-”
“Shh…” The man brought a finger to her lips, “Don’t worry, they know nothing of what I’ve done. You’re going to be loved. Forever.”
Megan whimpered and the man quickly gagged her. The pleading was hot, but the blubbering-it disgusted him. Instead he watched her silently turn red, tears and snot running down her face. Better this way, anyways. He reached up one hand and flicked on the surgical lamp.
The woman lay completely limbless on the gurney. After he’s transmuted her into a mannequin, he’d removed her limbs for transportation. They hung on hooks next to the table-plastic, still. The less mess the better. He’d leave them in another field later, when he was done and dipped them in the agitator with cleaning solution to get rid of any pesky fingerprints. Then he’d revert the spell and let the FBI ponder the impossibility he’d left them.
Other limbs and torsos jiggled on meat hooks. He’d gotten rid of witnesses as well with his lovely book. None of them were fit for sale, of course-he’d left some damage on a few of them in vengeance for their interference and that affected resale heavily. Megan would make a great new item for his online auction. On the laptop across from him, the time ticked down on poor Kelly. She’d net him $800 from a very discerning gentlemen in Japan, though it was likely to end up at three thousand after the bidding war ended.
Megan had stopped blubbering. The man rose and carefully wiped her off. He took the syringe loaded with muscle relaxants and injected her thigh. She grimaced and whined. He started a timer on his watch. Five minutes before her heart stopped. He’d need to be finished before then-the spell didn’t work on a corpse.
As her eyes fluttered, he started plugging all her holes with the silicon tubes-one for the vagina, the anus-he stopped on the last and undid the gag. He could do this manually but alas, the relaxant had put him on a time scale.
“Please,” Megan’s voice was barely a whisper. The muscle relaxants worked fast. “What do I have to do?”
Bargaining. They always did that. He leaned in, parted her lovely brown hair, and whispered in her ear.
“Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m-,” She swallowed thickly, “I’m yours.”
“No you aren’t. You’re just another stupid whore. Inanimate!” He shoved the silicone mouth tunnel in.
She stiffened, and only the man’s discerning eye could catch the color change that spread from her torso up to her head as her flesh became his special mix of flesh-toned latex and silicone.
Her eyes widened, and he entered her then. Her gurgles grew softer and softer as the silicone spread up her chest and engulfed her lungs. Tears trickled down her face as he pound harder and harder into the new latex pussy.
He gripped her hair and felt the texture as it changed from luscious and lively into a fake plastic wig. Her gurgles stopped and the silicone flowed up over her face. He stared into her eyes as they rolled from side to side, the only movement available to her before they slowed and stopped, the glistening orbs becoming simple acrylic eyes. He loved to see the life leave them.
“And now my love, you belong to the world,” He whispered, “With all the other whores.”
A sharp rap of a gun against the side of his cargo container froze him in place. He turned, slowly, one hand in the air and the other on his book, and met the mirrored shades of a fat, bald sheriff, the one he’d seen on the newscast. More importantly, at the huge revolver he held in his hand, the one currently aimed at his chest.
“Freeze dirt bag!” The Sheriff yelled.
“Inanimate.” The man smirked.
The Sheriff froze, finger mid-squeeze on a toy revolver, the tip of the barrel painted bright orange. A wave of dull white plastic flowed past his hands, which had turned yellow and simplified into mits, struck his flabby torso, flattened it and rose up to his face, which turned yellow and absurdly curved. The plastic flowed down his legs, simplifying them as well and then the plastic former Sheriff shrunk to an inch tall.
The man calmly picked up his book, glanced outside to check if anyone else was waiting to suprise him, and then knelt and picked up the Tego figure of the sheriff complete with hat and revolver. He chuckled. That guy had made a beeline straight here. Time to find out what he knew.
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Hank returned to awareness and found himself hanging from his arms, hands tied with a rope that had been strung up on a hook at the far end of the shipping container. More importantly, he was completely naked. The man had turned his back to him and was staring at a computer, tapping in information. He tried to speak, but found he was gagged by his own underwear. The man turned and stared at him, amused.
“How’s it hanging Sheriff?” The man chuckled. “Really should have brought backup. You won’t regret this, though. I’ve decided to award you with an eternity of pleasure.”
Hank’s eyes fell on the book. “Mmrph?”
“I suppose it’s time to answer your questions. I’m obviously the serial killer who’s been plaguing West Texas for the last month. And uh,” The man gestured to the other limbs and manikins hanging from the shipping container’s walls and from other hooks. “I’m way more prolific than you think. I’ve killed-or, whatever you call turning people into inanimate objects-”
“Mrrph.” Hank grunted.
“Fine, murder. Corpse, mannikin, same thing, right? Not really. I’m not a Necromancer. Different book. Can’t wait to meet that asshole. So, have you guessed what the other limb is?”
Hank nodded. “Nrppmrrp.”
“That’s right! Holy shit, an open minded Sheriff!” The man grinned and tossed a hand at Hank.
He twisted away, but it slapped his gut anyways. Hank’s face flushed. The hand was fake. Flesh colored, but he’d seen this before. Ballistic dummies and crash test dummies. This one seemed more realistic, however.
“It’s for surgeons when they don’t have cadavers to operate on. Speaking of, we also have something to keep your people off my trail.”
The man rose and strode over to the wall, where a mannikin hung from a similar hook. The man tossed it on one of the three tables in the shipping container. He murmured a word under his breath and the mannikin…changed. The gut exploded forward and the features twisted and soon Hank stared at an exact copy of himself-fleshier looking than the plastic mannikin it had once been.
“Transforming an inanimate object into another inanimate object is much less tiring, you see. Every spell causes exhaustion. This is minor. The part that takes a lot out of me is coming up. But see, I’ve trained so much with these spells it’s easy. My first...man, it knocked me out for damn near 6 hours! But not anymore. It's like my reservoir gets bigger each time I pass out." The man grinned and pointed at the inanimate copy of Hank. "Back to business. As you can see, this is now a faux surgical cadaver that looks exactly like you. This is mostly latex and ballistic gelatin and some fake blood running through fake veins and organs and a plastic compound to simulate real bones. It isn’t alive-Yet! But I made a last minute addition to your anatomy, as we will see."
The man murmured something and the Hank copy on the table twitched to life, color returning to his face.
“Wha-” The Hank clone said, taking in the container and Hank and the man, “What the fuck is going on-Ack!”
Hank’s clone clutched his chest, his face turning from bright red to dark purple, his tongue popped out of his mouth and turned blue. Veins popped in his face and his eyes bulged obscenely. His feet tapped a dance on the edge of the table as his body convulsed before finally going still.
“Now that's what I call a major coronary!” The man giggled. “Shoulda laid off those burgers and fries. 'Course I added the fat plug to its heart. Completely blocked the aortic artery. Surprised he managed to get a sentence in.”
The man pulled the dead Hank clone from the table and began the arduous task of dressing him before dragging him off to his car-leaving the book behind. Hank-the real Hank-used that time to work on the knots of rope. If he could slip one hand through, he could get to that book. With it, he could turn the tables. Maybe just…get a toe on it? That might be more doable. Loosening the knot was too much-his own weight insured he couldn’t completely untie it. He wasn’t fit enough to hoist his own weight. He squirmed his foot, desperate to reach the book, but he couldn't. He was simply too fat and out of shape. The man returned ten minutes later and Hank went still.
“I guess it’s time for us to talk about philosophy. I rarely get to talk to my victims. And no one cares what dumb whores think. But you? I kinda like you, Hank. Figured me out, followed your gut, “ He chuckled, “Maybe a bit too much. Form follows function. That’s my theory anyways.”
Hank froze. “Mmrph?”
“Why do you think Sheriffs are all fat? Or Quarterbacks in High School are all handsome? That’s gotta be it. Truckers are fat..because it’s easy to get fat doing nothing and eating fast food. But they don’t HAVE to be, right? There could be a weightlifting trucker club. But there aren't. Same principle that led you here with no backup at all, just like they do in horror movies, huh?”
The man walked up to him and slapped his belly. It stung and made his gut jiggle. Hank hissed into his gag. The man chuckled again.
“Did you know we have souls? Didn’t care myself, but I saw that one of the books out there-the bitch in white claimed there were six-could alter the soul directly. My book can’t do that. You get it right? None of my victims are actually dead. But form follows function.” The man patted the sex toy on the table. “Inanimate objects lack awareness because they lack souls. But they have purpose. Ergo, her soul, right now, wants to fulfill that purpose. The drugs that I injected in her addled her mind right the fuck up, so I’m sure that was a mercy. She’s probably hoping someone, anyone, will fuck her. You won’t be getting that mercy. You’re going to experience being an object with a clear head.”
The man turned to a computer next to the table and checked it. “I run a sex shop online. The next request I get, I plan to fulfill. With you. I wonder, what will you be? A dildo? Cock cage? Vibrator?”
Hank screamed, shouting expletives into the gag.
“Hey, no complaining bud, I'm doing you a favor, you get to live for a really long time. You’re what? 50? 60? You have maybe twenty years left tops? Plastic takes a thousand years to degrade. Unless they use the wrong lube, you’re going to be sex toy forever.”
The laptop dinged. Hank’s heart leapt into his throat. He wondered what he’d become.
The man checked the screen and a slow smile spread across his face. “Rustytrombone69 requests a custom-made horse dildo. Even has a scan. Oh, veiny. Oddly realistic." The man leaned forward and whispered. "My clients are huge pervs, you know. Ah, you lucky dog-and the upper torso of a horseman! Oddly realistic scan of that too. What a well muscled boy he is! I’m not sure how this Rusty got these scans but boy oh boy are they detailed. You’re going to be my best work yet. No request for a fuckable anus, but we’ll throw that in free of charge.”
Hank’s hands desperately worked on the knot of the rope. They were almost free. Blood began to drip down his arms. The man noticed.
“Oh, you’re not getting away. You know what I can do. Why not enjoy it?” He moved before him and ran a hand over Hank’s belly. “Inanimate.”
The hand pressed into his belly as it deflated, the hair that trailed into his pants flaking off. Hank moaned. Hundreds of pounds disappeared and it was…oddly relaxing. And then his abs flexed hard, in a way that forced the air out of Hanks lungs, as the muscles firmed into a set of cobblestone abs.
“I’m going slower than usual because I’m running off of someone else’s specs.” The man said, “But you’re about to see why my work is so requested.”
Hank felt his skin prickle as brown hairs grew from his midsection. They spread across his torso in a wave of itchiness. The man scratched his abs and Hank’s cock began to harden. The man noticed and smiled.
“There we go big guy. It’s not gay. You can’t help yourself. A sex toy is meant to be sexy. It doesn’t have a sexuality beyond…yes.”
The short horse fur spread up to his drooping hairy moobs. Hank grit his teeth to stop another moan from escaping his lips as the fat receded away and his pecs flexed once-twice-three times before they jutted hugely from his chest, big muscled, vascular-perfect, better than the pecs he’d had back in high school. His cock rose to full mast. The man rubbed and scratched and groped and Hank stopped holding back his moan. It all felt so good.
The fur had reached below him as well, the the decent-sized cock he could finally see after fifteen years of being hidden away in his gunt. The fat around it receded and more quarter inch brown hairs swarmed around the base of his cock before reaching his legs. Then things got weird. His legs….atrophied. Thinner and thinner, like all the muscle-Gah! His back flexed as the fur reached it and his shoulders widened-all the muscle was sucked away to be used to fuel the rest of his transformation.
As his legs disappeared, he felt something itch in his shoulders. The man swooped in and held him up. Hank couldn’t help but blush at the contact. He wanted something. It was-
“Oh, you poor needy boy.” The man hefted him as Hank’s arm receded into his shoulders and placed him on another table. “I’m surprised you're able to feel so much. Look.”
He flicked Hanks torso and it…jiggled. Firm but oddly jiggly. Hank stared.
“It’s a silicone derivative. Not doing much flexing of those pecs, are you?” The man traced Hanks huge pecs, pinched the rubbery nipple. Hank gasped. He tried to squirm, to move, but his torso was unresponsive. “Objects can’t move. That’s your mind imagining it’s alive. Don’t worry, after a good use, I’m sure you’ll accept your inanimate status. Mind follows the body after all.”
The itching wave of faux fur spread up his neck to his cheeks. He felt his head distort and deform, nose and mouth widening and pulling forward, eyes enlarging before the lids froze in a sultry position, ears pulling up into twitching horsey ears that froze in place mid-twitch and hair falling out just to be replaced with a flowing wig that looked and felt like a real mane. His mouth opened to moan but a hollow whinny came out instead. Then his mouth froze in an “O” shape.
“Gotta get those ridges right.” The man peered into his mouth, stretching it in an oddly erotic way that made Hank’s dick spew precum. Hank’s head and body felt numb but good. Like his entire body was a dick, hardened and swaying in the air, waiting to be touched. He tried to concentrate on staying..sane, himself, but his body…felt perfect. He’d hurt so much in his human form, back aching, gut swaying, and now he felt…svelte. Sexy. Relaxed.
“There,” Hank felt something in his throat alter but it didn’t bother him.. “Wasn’t requested, but I’ve placed a motor in your head. You auto-suck when the cock goes past the motion detector. I’m a stickler for maximized pleasure, so you’ve got a container that can be refilled with water washable lube running along your spine. You self lube. Now for the asshole. This Rusty guy is clearly gay, so I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.”
The man ran a finger around Hank’s ass, the touch sending mental shivers up his spine and Hank felt something wet and oddly warm ooze from his asshole. The fat digit wiggled in and Hank felt something clench and squeeze automatically around the intruder. Hank wanted to moan out load but toys didn’t make sounds, so his still-fleshy dick did the talking, burping up another glob of precum. He knew he shouldn’t, but he wanted the man to take him for a test drive, fuck one of holes, use him.
“Perfect, already functioning. You made that change yourself, by the way, I hadn’t even connected that duct. You must really be getting into this! Rusty is going to be so happy with such an eager toy. Now to work on that big horse cock, lemme doublecheck those dimensions...”
Hank felt hands on his cock and wished desperately that he could thrust into it, but he could only twitch it. The hands worked up and down his shaft and as they did his cock stretched sensuously, the head flaring and widening, and at the base he felt and heard a click and whir. Precum-no, lube, oozed out of the tip in a slow stream. Hank could feel his balls clench and squeeze in a rhythm, pumping out more lube.
Hank struggled to hold on to himself, but his time as Sheriff seemed so distant…irrelevant. His cock had grown so big and long, the faux flesh mottled black and pink. It ached to be placed into a needy hole. He wanted to be used, though he was sure it would destroy his mind. To be needed and used-the hands hadn’t stopped stroking and Hank felt himself build towards an orgasm.
“Pistons, I think." The man did something, pressed a button near Hank's groin, and suddenly his enormous horsecock juddered and flexed on its own, the vibration sending waves of pleasure that battered Hank's already bewildered mind.
"And bigger balls. Edible cum.” The man said and slapped Hank’s swelling balls. They wobbled and grew even larger, something churning inside them. “Almost done. Let’s install the secret and etch the base.”
If Hank could curl his toes, he would have. So close, his cock juttering and dancing, orgasm coming screaming through him, cum shooting-The man flicked the button and the movement of his cock stopped.
Hank wanted to scream. His cock froze mid orgasm and merely oozed, though the waves of ecstasy continued to flow through him in waves. The sensation felt odd-relaxing and frustrating. He wanted the release-he was literally built for it, a flavored lube was stored in his balls after all-but the waves continued to assault his mind. He couldn’t-ah! C-couldn’t focus on much other than the tingling.
Although he could not see it, Hank was fully aware of the metal placard that inset itself in his taint. Big Hoss Hank the Horse-A Good Ole’ Cowboy who’s ready to fuck. Big Hoss-no, just Hank-felt odd as soon as the plate finished etching. He’d been something else before, right? A different-Oh! Another wave crashed through him. It was so hard to concentrate with the edged orgasm washing through him, clearing him out of any thoughts but pleasure.
The man lifted Hoss’s Sheriff hat and his heart leapt-of course, he’d been a Sher-and then the man murmured and the hat shifted into a black Stetson with his name-Big Hoss Hank-discretely etched into the underside of the brim. He brushed out his mane and pressed Big Hoss's button, sending his cock back into the juddering of a test vibration cycle. Hank felt the orgasm denied him rise again and as the man placed the hat on his head Big Hoss felt an overwhelming sense of completion hit him and the orgasm he’d waited for struck him simultaneously, his huge horse cock spasming and shooting edible sarsaparilla flavored faux cum.
God, Sarsaparilla. He’d always loved that flavor back when he was….
If he could blink, he would have. Something had been bothering before, but Big Hoss Hank the Horse couldn’t remember what it was. His orgasm had died down and he was back to the edging waves he’d had before. Big Hoss performed a routine systems check. He could feel the lube his holes had generated, though except for his ass he hadn’t really been used. His cock continued to piston and judder as the vibrator function ran its test course. His body-swollen with faux muscle and veins, covered in brown fur with a white diamond in between his chest and on his forehead-jiggled slightly, pecs bouncing from the vibrations. Handsome, sexy, sensual, smelling like a barn and musk and some expensive cologne-the last a final touch the man added to remove the latex smell. Ready to fuck some cowpokes, fuck yeah and yee fucking haw!
Nothing wrong, yet something nagged at him. Like a loose tooth, he couldn’t stop pressing it.
“Well, usually this is the part where I take you for a test drive, but I’m afraid I don’t swing that way, Big Hoss.” The man grinned. “But ya did enjoy it. Time to pack you up. Think I’ll hand deliver you to this Rusty guy. He’s got good tastes. Maybe I’ll kill him or maybe we’ll have a lot in common and be friends. Serial killers sometimes work in pairs. Saw that in Criminal Minds. Now, I’ve got to get back to giving Megan here her due.”
Big Hoss Horse didn't mind that at all. Didn't mind much of anything really. He hoped this Rusty guy had a nice ass-even if it wasn't loose enough, Hoss was sure his training function would open up Rusty like a flower. He'd take his girth in no time flat. Hoss was made to break little broncos into fillies-making tops into bottoms was his entire purpose, just like it said on his new box!
________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
The man relaxed and pulled out of the sex doll formerly known as Megan and began the time consuming task of washing her, removing all traces of the indignities he’d afflicted on the doll. He took a few pictures of the perfect sex doll he’d created before he blow dried it and sealed it. He uploaded the pictures on his site and titled it Megan. He liked it. Even if someone somehow connected the posts to the missing girls-well, he’d simply make a few more dolls then, wouldn’t he? Not like he was going to wait around in Texas for long.
Cleaning up the rest of the mess, removing his fingerprints, that took him roughly an hour. He tossed the limbs and the vacuum sealed sex toys-Megan and Hank-into the back of his truck and lit a cigarette. The printout he'd removed from the Sheriff's car told him about the drone. When the Sheriff didn't return, they'd go looking for this container. Thankfully, he was wearing a hat, so they couldn't ID him, but they could ID his truck. He'd need to ditch it-his way. He checked the Pattel Matchbox Cars he had in the glove box. He had some sweet rides in there, but a truck would do for now. There was also the funny money he'd got at the dollar store he considered paying gas with, but something in his gut told him that might be a mistake-unmarked bills might somehow give away his trail. He'd stick to his funds from his toy shop for now, until such a time as he needed to take risks.
Right now, though, it was time for a little theater.
He climbed out of his truck, careful to put out his cigarette in the ashtray and not throw it on the ground as he was want to do. He positioned the corpse of the clone in front of the doors and then removed the spell on the bodies in the shipping containers. A grin stretched his face as blood spilled from the newly animate limbs and torsos and heads. Sixty-two. That's how many people just died. What a hell of a mess he'd made, too-he'd shrunken a few of them to fit, let the FBI figure those out. What they would see is that Sheriff Anderson had indeed been correct but had stumbled onto a scene of such bloody carnage-something no one could have expected-and his poor ole heart just done let out.
The man snickered.
His hand patted the leather-bound book and the fake gun (the Sheriff's, now a nerf gun) next to it. His laptop was up on a mount above the passenger seat for ease of access and on it was a travel route he’d made to take him to California. It mostly stuck to back-roads and small towns. It was no accident that the route would take him through the small city that Troy lived in around noon in four days’ time. Rustytrombone69 was Rusty, and the sex doll had been modeled after their neighbor, Clint. Rusty had taken some guesses here and there, but Big Hoss Hank would prove to be surprisingly accurate to the real thing.
There was a big difference between the man and Troy, aside from the serial killing. When he met the 'bitch in white' as he called her, he hadn’t simply accepted the scenario as a dream. He’d asked questions-good questions. She’d disclosed the meeting place with an odd eagerness. He could be very convincing sometimes. And he was very eager to meet her too.