She has a few nicknames in the press; more so since her latest threat.
She has dozens of police officers looking for her and millions of men living in fear across the city. They call her crazy, but she isn’t crazy at all: she’s works methodically.
And although her idea is crazy and her actions unfathomable, she acts with cold, hard, logical precision. And she’s smart too. She hasn’t been caught despite the dozen victims, each one rebuilding their lives after her antics.
Initially, we suspected she had a link to her victims: now we know she doesn’t. The information we have on her is sketchy. She disappears from crime scenes like a fart in a Jacuzzi and leaves barely a trace of forensics. She knows what she is doing.
The last victim told us an identical tale to the other eleven. It was a foreign city, he was lonely and had travelled with his secretary to a conference. They dined expensively, drunk on excitement and champagne. He kissed her, she returned his affection, pawing at the married man in the lift as they returned to his room.
The clothes were shed before they hit the mattress, hands exploring as tongues kissed. His smooth touch glided over her naked, youthful body. The semen on the sheets and the complaints from neighbouring rooms confirmed their story; they had had sex: a wild, passionate fucking that had her body convulsing with trembling orgasms.
And that’s when she made an appearance. The “monster.” The terrifying woman who struck fear into every cheating man in the city.
Naked, with a black eye mask and a red shoulder-length wig. He screamed: they both did, but the neighbouring rooms had heard screams and yells all night. We know she shocked them with a taser, using the period of their immobility to tie them up and gag them.
And then she explained the error of his ways: his infidelity in his marriage. How would he like it if his wife was cheating on him? He mumbled incoherently into the gag, staring wide-eyed as she placed a solitary pink flower on his cock, set a camera on a timer on the dressing table to capture the three of them and then left.
The picture of them was on the Internet within the hour, his wife filed for divorce before he returned home. Our masked campaigner called it justice, and maybe she was right. But we had to catch her. Her blog had spent eight weeks taunting us for failing to find her, failing to recognise her and failing to stop her. She had a personal problem with the Police, we knew this, and had trawled our arrest records for the last ten years and found nothing.
Her last blog post had a warning: the next guy – number thirteen – would be her last, and she had a knife waiting for him, and his heart.
It made my blood run cold: I was already suffering the wrath of my superiors, and the press, because we hadn’t caught her and a murder would lead to intolerable criticism. I had spent almost all of my waking life on the case for weeks, and I had barely the time to see my mistress.
“I’ll be home in ten minutes,” I texted my wife after I shut down my computer; I was out of ideas for the day.
“I’ll wait up for you,” my childhood sweetheart lovingly replied back. I smiled, pulling my coat over my shoulders; it was late, I needed to get home.
Hopefully I’ll find the identity of our mystery woman soon, and before it’s too late.
Inspired by this picture from Flickr; used under a CC-license.