Welcome to the Stalker, Part II. Last week we met mild-mannered pizza boy, Dan, who delivered a pie to Alex, who then took a job at Dan’s place of work to be nearer to him. Sure, that’s a bold move but not necessarily a terrifying one; the 200 page novella she wrote about Dan was. When we last left them, Alex was handing that novella to Dan and Dan was quitting the fuck out of his job to get away. He took one at the local J. Crew.
After a few weeks without Alex haunting his every step, Dan figured maybe he was safe. This is probably breaking the first rule of getting stalked: never trust your stalker has decided they’ve had enough with the whole stalking gig. That, or learn to sleep with your eyes open, I guess. Naturally, one night Dan’s phone rang around 2:30 AM.
“Dan,” a female voice intoned in forced sexy whisper.
“I miss you.”
“Who is this?”
“But now I know where to find you.”
“No, really, who the fuck is this?”
“I’m going to have to start shopping at J.Crew.”
“Is this Alex? You’re a fucking psychopath, you know that?”
“No, I’m just drunk. Be nice to me.”
“How did you get my fucking number?”
“I told [a former co-worker] I hadn’t seen you in too long. He gave it to me.”
“Listen, stay the fuck away from my friends, and stay the fuck away from me.”
Dan finally had enough, so he sacked up and went to the cops all rational-like. The 5-0 explained he couldn’t file for a restraining order until he delivered a verbal warning stating that the police had been alerted of her actions and that if they don’t cease she will blah blah blah we only care about the crazy shit anyway. So, later that day, Dan went into the pizza place where he used to work and delivered the warning. Alex acted like it wasn’t a big deal, so I guess stalkers sometimes like to change it up a bit and play cool, to fuck with your head or something.
All went smoothly for a little while until one afternoon, 20 minutes outside of town on a twisty untraveled road that nobody used, Don spotted her car about a hundred yards away from his apartment. Driving past, he saw her sitting inside wearing sunglasses and trying to look like some kind of Russian spy. He slammed on the brakes, threw the car in reverse, backed up, got out.
“That’s it! I’m going back to the police!”
The window jerked down and she said in a sultry voice: “Now why would you do that?”
“Why the fuck do you think? Because you’re parked here in front of my apartment!”
“Honey, these are public roads–”
Coyly: “Anyone can drive on them–”
“How did you find out where I live?”
“That’s no big thing,” she purred.
“It is a big thing, now fucking tell me!”
“Well we used to work at the same place, and you had to fill out a job application just like I did–”
Dan responded with the sound of his car’s wheels peeling off toward the police station. Alex was promptly slapped with a restraining order. Finally, Dan was free: he could operate on his normal schedule of reckless drinking and mundane retail.
Three months pass.
One night, false sense of security firmly in place, Dan went out with some friends and about thirty minutes before closing time, he saw Alex down at the end of the bar. She was visibly hammered, so Dan asked the bartender if she was there alone or with friends (alone) and what she’d been drinking (about a dozen chocolate martinis). With the bar closing down and the sight of Alex in an incapacitated heap by herself, Dan somehow purged his thoughts of the prior events and his great stupid heart swelled with pity.
Suddenly Dan felt in some way responsible for everything that had transpired, as if he’d caused her breakdown and that the restraining order was some kind of heartless chemical burn. Dan told his friends to go on without him… that he kind of knew the girl, that he should help her. Against our better judgment, he approached.
“Hey, you look wasted. How are you getting home?”
“I’m… y’know… driving,” she slurred between Godiva burps.
“That’s probably a bad idea.”
“But I’m fine.”
She fell out of her barstool and onto the floor.
“How far away do you live?”
“Three miles maybe? I think?”
“Well you can’t walk home, and I’m sure as hell not going to let someone this wasted get behind a wheel, so what do you say I drive you home in your car and then I’ll walk back to town. Deal?”
So Dan drove her home. Along the way, a thunderstorm rolled in like so many shitty horror films.
Dan said a few swears under his breath as he looked out the window: “Now I have to walk home in the rain.”
“…You can just come inside.”
“No. No way. No fucking way. You go inside, I’ll wait here for the rain to let up.”
“Just come inside, it’s fine. You can watch TV or something.”
Dan glanced out at the rain. “Do you absolutely swear there won’t be any funny stuff?”
Dan walked her to the door and reluctantly followed her inside. At this point I’m going to telescope out of the narrative and add that when Real Life Dan told me the story, I just figured he had a death wish or was into some kinky knife shit that was gonna make our friendship weird afterward. Anyway, it was raining the kind of rain that had him soaked through just by walking from the car to her doorstep. Once inside, Alex lead Dan to the couch and then tinkered at the VCR for a few minutes. Eventually, she produced an episode of Sex & the City. At this point her speech was so slurred she couldn’t articulate why she had put on SatC, but she then retreated to her bedroom and passed out. Dan was left alone with the muted images of ladies in bras fucking some bros.
About twenty minutes later, he heard something coming from the bedroom.
The door opened.
There was a long pause.
The shadows rustled and Alex walked out–stark naked–wearing nothing but the hot pink patent leather Blahniks.
Dan froze in terror.
Alex steadied herself in the doorway. She began caressing her bountiful chest.
Dan remained frozen in terror.
Alex slid one hand southward.
Dan’s terror was augmented by the possibility that her hand was headed toward the theoretical vagina hidden beneath.
Alex used her free hand to lift her stomach and present herself.
All the crazy shit Alex had done came flooding back and Dan braced himself for a surprise meat cleaver hidden there.
With her right hand suddenly crimped cruelly in half, she reached three fingers into her cavity.
Dan’s survival instincts kicked in—after all, the woman who wrote a novella about him in which he violently dies was naked and servicing herself with all the louche-wristed eagerness of a teenage scoop jockey at an ice cream parlor—and sprinted for the door. He escaped into the pouring rain and ran at full speed the three miles back to town. He never saw Alex again.