How did these guys always manage to find her? It was one of the great mysteries of the universe. But find her they did, invariably.
She pulled a burning twig from the fire and lit her cigarette, drawing deep on it, filling her lungs with the breath of the beast. She closed her eyes and let the searing heat from the flames dance upon her face.
Some would say it was the fickle finger of fate which pointed the way to her door. Oh, it was fate, alright, but a fate of their own making. The fickle finger didn't have anything to do with it. Others thought she did the choosing, that she had some kind of inner magnetism which drew the hapless victims to her. They couldn't have been more wrong.
She took another drag off the cigarette. Smoke billowed from the campfire now, blowing in her face, running its silent fingers through her hair. That was as it should be. Magick was at hand.
A small blue bag lay at her feet. It was denim, made of bluejean material, with a drawstring at the top and a small leather patch on one side which said, "Johanna". She reached in the bag and rummaged around until she found the incense. Extracting a stick, she poked it in the flames and held it there until it caught fire. The incense burned for a moment and then she waved the slender rod in the air, extinguishing its flaming tip.
Again she closed her eyes. She passed the stick around her face and under her nostrils. The pungent smoke burned like hell when it hit her sinus cavities. She smiled and inhaled deeper. Ah, how it transported her. To other incarnations, other destinies. Above her in the moonlight, where the fire disappeared into the darkness, a night bird called its lonely tune.
She knew it had something to do with her mission in life. That's what she was here for, to be the come-uppance of guys like that. Women had been oppressed for far too long. Women had been enslaved, abused, sold as chattels. They had been, and still were, every day, tormented physically and emotionally by the very men who claimed to love them. They were lied to, manipulated, and degraded. It was time for that shit to stop. Who was it that said, "If you're not a part of the solution, you're a part of the problem?"
She had one of those gentlemen on her hands at the moment. He was a real slick character, this one was. Just to meet him you'd think he was the nicest man in the world. Sad part was, even HE thought he was a nice guy. Sure, he met all the "nice guy" criteria by ordinary standards. But a good look beneath the surface revealed the evil that lurked in his heart.
The cigarette moved to her lips and hung there while she reached into the Johanna bag once more. This time she extracted a small doll. It was a homemade doll, fashioned with love and care, made from an old sock he'd left at her place. She smiled wryly. The son of a bitch probably had socks all over the fucking country. Socks, and underwear, and god only knows what else. That was pretty stupid, leaving stuff behind with his vibes in it.
After a bit of cutting and sewing, she had stuffed the sock with letters he'd written her. Beautiful, romantic letters he had penned to her on the spur of the moment in the middle of the night. Usually from some hotel room. He certainly couldn't write letters like that from home. His wife would take a very dim view of it.
She wondered who he'd been fucking on the nights he wrote those letters. If he was out of town, he was fucking somebody. He kept paramours in city after city. Kissing one goodnight as he shoved her out the door so he could sit down to write words of love to another.
With most women that kind of subterfuge would work. Most women want to believe that their man is true. He had met his match, though, when his needs brought him to her. The stupid megalomaniac didn't realize she did not have to rely on his "truth". She had a network that spanned the globe. She had eyes all over the country. Ears, too. Everywhere he went, everything he did, was piped back to her instantaneously in minute detail. Nothing was secure, not his email or his voicemail or his brand of toilet paper.
She turned the doll over and admired the handiwork. Not bad. He had arms and legs and everything. Well, almost everything. He didn't have genitals. The poor doll wouldn't even come close to symbolizing this guy if it had any balls.
That was the thing that torqued her about him most. He was such a gutless wonder. He was so intent on maintaining his nice guy image that he just couldn't bring himself to tell anyone the truth. He was always lying to everybody. To his wife, to his lovers, and saddest of all, to himself. He told himself it was kinder to lie. He was also suffering under the illusion, alas, that he was a nice guy.
It was inevitable that he should wind up in this predicament. He had drawn her to him, had invoked her presence in his life by his wicked, evil ways. His spirit had called out to her on the ether, begging her for punishment, for clearly defined limits, for some reason to stop. She would be happy to oblige in that regard. She'd be glad to dispense justice. For herself, for his wife, and for all the others who gave their hearts to him when all he was looking for was a good fuck.
As many good fucks as possible, as a matter of fact.
His ruse had worked for a long time. He had managed to give a little dab of himself to this one, and another little dab to that one, save a couple of dabs for his wife, and get by with it. That was before he found her, of course. The buck would stop here.
She stood and faced the fire, holding the doll straight out in front of her, clasped tightly in both hands. Aloud, she spoke his name to the fire. Then she lifted him skyward, high above her head, as high as her arms would reach, and mouthed a silent prayer. The night bird answered. She cast the doll into the flames.
youngblood, Sun 3 deg Aquarius 97 / Moon in Sagittarius
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