Real Walmarts of Hillbilly County

Crime Fiction by Mick Rose

December 27^th spawned three more fucking Walmart murders. No surprise to anyone who sheepishly lives or works in rust-riddled Hillbilly County. As portrayed on Google Maps? The sprawling county boasts it hosts a dozen Walmart stores. But as you might’ve guessed? Hillbilly County ain’t got nothin’ else for folks to boast about.

“Yo, Five-O,” screeched a nerd known as Stat-Man. “’Bout time you carted yer sorry ass out here. We already got yer Psycho Bitch contained.”

Riggs flipped the nerd a bird. At least this Walmart featured a stand-alone McDonald’s. The homicide dick killed the flashing blues on his undercover Charger—rolled to a stop in the drive-thru lane: snagged his keys and fobbed the locks. Just as the county’s town hall clock struck noon? Dispatch reported a fatal assault at the Walmart’s main entrance—but his perp had since strolled here to Mickey D’s—and ordered a Happy Meal.

Three dozen Lookie-Loos plastered the restaurant’s plate glass windows. Half the guys pawed women, perched on their shoulders to catch a better view, cell phone cameras rolling. Riggs wormed a coveted spot and peered inside. “Happy almost-New Year y’all. Anyone got a name for the suspected killer?”

Kneeling at the cop’s elbow, Stat-Man shrugged. “What you mean suspected? This killer’s gotta slew a names—includin’ Batshit Becka. No clue about her last name. Why you care anyway? Ain’t like you gonna ask her on a date. Everybody knows Hillbilly County’s Walmart’s ain’t safe. But besides a third-class jumbo-jet ass? This batshit bitch got herself a big-ass knife—and some kinda crazy dominatrix chain—that she uses to choke people out. Protect and serve us Riggs. Insteada talkin’ ta me? March yerself inside and arrest her murderin’ ass.”

Riggs wanted to roll his eyes but steadily scanned the restaurant. Shit. Five seated females munching Happy Meals in the dining room. Based on their sitting positions? Riggs couldn’t say with certainty how many of the women owned jumbo jet asses. But as a trained investigator? Riggs suspected none sported a first-class ass. Also on the subject of super sizes? Riggs didn’t see any little kids in sight. Thank god for such favors.

“You bang your head Stat-Man? My dead Mama was a dominatrix. I ain’t goin’ nowhere without backup to cover my leery ass. Which one’s Becka?”

“You a god damn liar Riggs. My Momma and yer Momma goes to the same church four fuckin’ times a week.” The jittery nerd stabbed the window with a bony finger. “You see that pink five-gallon plastic bucket with the dead dude’s head inside sittin’ on that table? Psycho bitch with the bucket is Batshit Becka.”

Fuck, Riggs muttered. Dispatch never said a word about a severed head.

“I don’t see no head Stat-Man.”

“Don’t believe me Riggs? Dozens of fucking clips be lightin’ up social media. Now stop bein’ a pussy. Go confiscate that bucket—and have yerself a look-see. Then for the love of god, slap your kinky handcuffs on that murderin’ dominatrix—before that batshit bitch kills herself another unsuspecting soul.”

Riggs keyed his radio. “Where you at Sgt. King?”

“At your left shoulder Riggs. Lamenting the fact I gotta cover your prissy ass. Stat-Man’s right about the head. Gruesome shit. I downloaded a coupla clips. So keep yer eyes on our prize—don’t get distracted by that pink bucket, brother.”

“Copy that,” Riggs said. “Keep one hand on your Glock—and make sure that you don’t get distracted by my first-class ass.”

Happy Meal consumed, Batshit Becka sparked a blunt and kicked back—faux-fur-trimmed cowboy boots, decked with silver spurs, parked on the tabletop. Spotting Riggs and King? She blew smoke at the pair; flashed a shit-eating grin.

Riggs wasn’t a psychologist. But in his humble opinion? His suspected psycho grinned like a demented fucking psychopath. Which again, in his opinion? Made her look like half of Walmart’s customary customers.

King activated his body cam. Riggs flashed his badge: “Detectives Riggs and King, HCSD. We’d love nothing more than to take you for a ride.”

“Well ain’t you two sweet. I’d love nothing more than ta ride the two of you.”

“Although we’re highly flattered? We’re also perfect gentleman—who instead insist on a long, intimate chat, so we can get to know you better. Please kindly stand and place your hands on your head.”

“Ooooo-la-la.” She winked. “My lucky day. You naughty gentleman wanna handcuff me? A ride with you two is suddenly soundin’ better.” She mashed the blunt on the plastic tabletop, smearing a black scar in its wake. Swung her boots to the floor—and complied with the request. Sidling behind her, King adeptly cuffed both wrists.

“I need to pat you down,” Riggs said. “Are you carrying any weapons? Or any sharp objects that might cut me?”

“Funny you should ask, sweetie. I gotta 8-inch dagger in my fanny pack—beneath a two-foot long gold chain cuz I gotta thing for bling.”

King removed the fanny pack. Riggs slipped on latex gloves, proceeded with his pat down: tugged a red Bic lighter and two Walmart receipts from her Levis skirt front pocket. Both receipts were dated today, and the purchases included a heavy duty garden shovel and a five-gallon bucket with a snap-on lid. No sign of the shovel. Perhaps left behind at the primary crime scene? Or somewhere between there and Mickey D’s?

One hand cinched like a vice round their detainee’s cuffs, King snapped a trio of cell phone photos. In clear view of the Sgt.’s body cam, Riggs stashed the Bic and Walmart receipts in a plastic bag. Made notations with a sharpie. Tucked the bag away in his black sport coat pocket. Nabbed the remnants of her blunt and repeated the same process.

“It’s my understanding your first name’s Becka. Is that true?” Riggs said.

“You can safely bet your first-class ass on that.”

“I’ll interpret your response as a hypothetical ‘yes,’” Riggs said. “We can substantiate or disprove that fact later. You’re presently under arrest for suspicion of smoking a cannabis-containing product in a public restaurant, where smoking of any kind is strictly prohibited—and the destruction of private property in the form of this here table. So sincere thanks for that. Sgt. King will do the honors of explaining your rights.”

Four burly young patrolmen finally joined King and Riggs. Riggs addressed the reinforcements: “Any of you ladies got gloves and evidence bags?”

All four muttered sorry, no. Riggs tossed his keys to the closest officer. “My Charger’s sitting in the drive-thru lane. You’ll see a duffle in the trunk. Please retrieve that for me. Meanwhile? You three clear the dining room and prevent any unauthorized entry. Secure this scene with tape, including both restrooms—and get at least one CSI out here. Restaurant staff can keep the drive-thru running.”

Riggs returned attention to his surprisingly silent perp. Mid- to late-twenties. Freaky lime green hair. Despite her blood-stained clothes? Her face, bare arms, and Pillsbury Flour legs looked freshly scrubbed. She’d likely washed in the Ladies restroom. Or if she found the Ladies occupied? Maybe used the Men’s. Riggs made a mental note to alert the CSIs. “What’s inside your lidded pink bucket, Becka?”

“Aren’t you a curious cat?” The green-eyed psycho actually purred. “Who says that bucket’s mine?”

“No one,” Riggs said. “But as a detective? I get paid to make inferences. A Walmart receipt I removed from your skirt pocket includes the sale of a five-gallon pail at 11:36 this morning—and lo-n-behold—we see a pink five-gallon bucket sitting on this table where you chowed a Happy Meal.”

Riggs produced his iPhone. Photographed the bucket and the damaged tabletop. Becka faked befuddlement. “Who’s to say that bucket isn’t my Happy Meal prize? And I’ve yet to take the lid off?”

Riggs flashed a smile. “That’s a fair supposition.” He corralled the closest baby-faced patrolman. “Please bring me the manager.”

During his seven-year stint as a homicide dick? Riggs had worked with half-a-dozen forensic psychologists at the FBI. Not every psychopath was cut from the same cloth. But all psychopaths were narcissists and compulsive liars. If their first lie failed? They simply spewed more lies. Because of fault-riddled critical thinking skills? Many fail to understand just how absurd some of their yarns sound to so-called normal people … among which Riggs didn’t include himself.

Psychopaths also crave control—especially if they’re sadists. Such controls include how much information law enforcement agents, the shark-infested media, and the victim’s families learn about their violent crimes: a major reason why so many psycho killers refuse to confess. Or in many cases? Won’t reveal where they’ve stashed their victim’s remains. Even if rotting in prison? Some psychopaths savor the pain and frustration these unanswered questions cause a victim’s shattered survivors.

So Batshit Becka’s time-consuming cat-n-mouse games didn’t surprise Riggs one iota. She’d reveal little, while striving to learn about any evidence they might use against her. In Becka’s twisted mind? Any info that she gleaned would help her construct more convincing lies.

The manager reminded Riggs of a praying mantis. “Did you or your employees give this woman that pink bucket as a Happy Meal prize—or for any other reason?”

“Fuck no,” said the manager.

“Thank you,” Riggs said. “We need to download your security footage.”

The praying mantis twitched. “Whatever floats your rubber ducky, dude.”

Resisting the urge to kick his surly, skinny ass? Riggs dismissed the manager. “Now that we’ve addressed your Happy Meal theory Becka? I’m truly hoping that the three of us can forge an honest relationship.”

“Really?” Becka said. “I’m merely hoping that we three can engage in kinky gratuitous sex. And since Sgt. King has already handcuffed me? I don’t think that’s much to ask.”

Duffle bag in hand, the patrolman returned. King accepted the bag and swapped places with the rookie, who eagerly snatched her wrists.

 “We can talk about your fantasies down at the station, Becka,” Sgt. King said.

“That might take all night,” pouting Becka said. “Can we swing by my place so I can grab some sex toys and flavored lubes first?”

“What’s your address?” King said.

“666 Hell’s Holler Highway—Unit 69, Apartment 13. Wait till you see my basement. I gotta 4-Star dungeon—ranked No. 1 in Hillbilly County by Wicked Women’s Weekly.”

“Wow,” Riggs said. “But sadly your place sits seven miles from our station—too far for a detour. And although our kinky colleagues ate Sgt. King’s last two tubes of flavored lube? We got some awesome fingerprinting ink for your playful fingers. Along with a cool table that we can cuff you to.”

“Hell, yeah,” Becka said. “You’ve got me wet down under as the Aussie bitches say. What are we waiting for? The North Pole to finish melting and every Polar bear ta die?”

“Don’t worry, Becka. We won’t take that long,” Riggs said. “But me and Sgt. King? We wanna be famous movie makers. So we film all kinda things. Right now we’re gonna film what’s inside this bucket—as well as the contents of your fanny pack.”

Riggs steeled his will … pried the pink lid. Bile filled his throat and mouth—forcing Riggs to snort.

“Whose head is that Becka?” Sgt. King said.

Holy shit,” Becka said. “That head belongs to my ex-boyfriend Billy Bob Norton. He was wearing it this morning when we went to Walmart. But Billy Bob’s got a weird sense of humor. He must’ve stuck it in this bucket when I wasn’t lookin’. I’m not totally surprised. He’s also a stalker—and refuses to accept that I broke up with him. Still … I had no idea his head followed me here to McDonald’s. But I’m sure glad you’ve filmed him stalking me. Otherwise who’d believe Billy Bob Norton pulled a stunt like this? Everybody knows he’s more than a few fries short of a Happy Meal.”

Riggs didn’t waste a Nano second snapping the pink lid back on Becka’s bucket—and sealing the pink pail in an evidence bag. King smattered the bag with Bio Hazzard stickers, and called the coroner’s office. They agreed to send a driver to Mickey D’s and transport the bucket to the county morgue, for a happy proper reunion with the remainder of Billy Bob’s remains.

Popping three Rolaids to combat his bile attack, Riggs fingered the zipper on his psycho’s fanny pack: “Did you and Billy Bob argue this morning while shopping at Walmart?”

“Not at all,” Becka said. “When Uber dropped us off? I looped a chain around his neck and walked him like a dog up-n-down the aisles. He behaved fairly well—only made me yank my chain four or five times tops.”

Riggs dipped his Sharpie in the fanny pack, fished an odd gold chain … flat perfect circles, four inches in diameter, and each one a quarter-inch thick. Highly ornamental but exceptionally sturdy. And as Becka stated? Roughly two feet long. “This the chain you used to dog-walk Billy Bob?”

Becka flashed that demented grin again. “Indeed,” she said. “Ain’t it pretty?”

“Sure is somethin’,” King said, snapping several photos before Riggs draped the chain in another plastic bag.

“If you didn’t argue?” Riggs said. “Perhaps you two Lovebirds had a minor disagreement—which somehow led to an altercation?”

“Lovebirds my ass. We always disagree,” Becka snapped. “Why do ya think I dumped his whiny ass? Before we left the store? Billy Bob begged to use the Men’s room. I told him fuck no—pee inside your diaper—that’s why I buy ’em douche bag. Of course he obeyed—he ain’t a total moron. So nothing whatsoever led to any altercations. When we finished shopping? We simply went our separate ways. Or so I thought,” she added. “I had no idea he sent his head ta stalk me.”

Riggs produced an 8-inch knife, which reeked chlorine bleach. Fuck him royally. He brushed aside frustration as King snapped pics. The only other items in the leather pack? A box of Marlboro Light 100s—known to teenage girls as Slut Butts—and a sleek red flip phone. Riggs separately bagged the blade, fanny pack, the Slut Butts, and the flip phone. He swung to face Becka: “Did you use this dagger to hurt Billy Bob?”

“No-sir-ee,” Becka said. “But he mighta used it to commit hara-kiri when I wasn’t lookin’. If there’s blood on the blade or handle? And the blood is Billy Bob’s? That would certainly explain how his blood wound up on my dagger. All I know for sure? Is the twisted freak sent his head ta stalk me—just like you filmed.”

Becka’s batshit logic smacked Riggs like a Slurpee brain freeze fired from a Taser. Thankfully the Chief of Dicks joined him and King. “Ready to rock?” said the boss. “You three will roll with me. I’ve got a cruiser and already moved the Charger outta the drive-thru lane. I also snagged the camera footage from god damn Wally’s World, and the security streams here at Mickey D’s.

“Fuck, yeah,” Becka said. “We got ourselves a foursome. I ain’t had one of those in about two weeks. Think I can have my chain and dagger back? I’ve been a good girl, right?”

***

At the HCSD station? Riggs and King escorted Becka to the booking sergeant’s counter.

 “What’s your full name, dear?” said the female officer.

“Becka Beth Ann Bailey.”

“Okay, Becka Bailey. Please empty your pockets for me.”

“Sure,” Becka said. “All I got is these eight keys for my home and dungeon, with its six torture chambers—and my state ID cuz legally I don’t drive. Please make sure Detective Riggs gets ta see my ID, so he can confirm my first name’s Becka. That man’s got major trust issues.”

“Thank you, Becka. Sounds like you’ve got some interesting hobbies. And poor Detective Riggs has got all kinds of issues. So let’s keep him in our prayers. But right now? I need to photograph your hands—first palms up, then palms down. So please remove your fingerless Velcro gloves. Great. Looks like you’re cut-free and have no abrasions,” the booking sergeant said. “Before we take your mug shots and fingerprints? Perhaps you’ll kindly sign this little ol’ release?”

Becka’s cold green eyes narrowed. “What release?” she demanded.

Riggs fought not to grind his teeth. “In a novel attempt to boost our crime-fighting capabilities while defraying costs to our valued taxpayers? The Hillbilly County Sherriff’s Department has partnered with Walmart on a number of initiatives that we’re calling the Prison Pals Rewards Program. At the moment? Only women placed in our county’s jails or prisons can participate. In exchange for letting Walmart use your name, image, and likeness? Walmart will grant you Prison Pals rewards—which can only be used to purchase approved Walmart goods and services during your incarceration. You can only buy such goods in our commissaries. Digital apps and online shopping are strictly prohibited. But beginning January first? Walmart will unveil its maiden line of prison hair salons and mani-pedi parlors. As well as its new prison video streaming services—which are saturated with Walmart ads that play every ninety seconds for their literally captive audience—”

“And that’s just the tip of this incredible iceberg,” interjected Sgt. King. “To enhance prison safety and prevent inmates from hanging themselves with their shoelaces? Sketchers and Walmart recently partnered to produce Prison Pals Slip-ins in a wild array of colors. Meanwhile on Black Friday? Walmart launched its own advertising channel on the Dark Web. This allows inmates like you Becka to endorse a host of products. These products range from simple tapes and zip ties to an army of hand tools like hammers, knives and saws—as well as a full line of handy power tools. And a cornucopia of traditional household items, which include gloves, trash bags, and cleaning products. While there’s some dispute about the exact numbers? Twelve to twenty-four percent of convicted murderers in civilized countries are caught on camera buying cleaning supplies.”

Riggs found himself combatting another Slurpee-Taser brain freeze. Thoughts of grabbing Becka’s dagger and committing hara-kiri suddenly struck him as appealing. “I’m stunned that Sgt. King somehow forgot to mention heavy-duty garden shovels and pink five-gallon buckets with snap-on lids,” he said. “And I couldn’t help but notice that you bought Clorox wipes.”

“Oh my fucking God you’re right—those will be my standard trademarks. I love you Riggs,” squealed Becka, snapping up the pen and signing the release. “I’ll need ta file an application with the Patent Trademark Office. Maybe something like Becka’s Badass Buckets—an essential feature item in The Grinning Cowgirl’s Garden Home Collection.”

Excitement jolted Riggs. His brain freeze melted. “So you admit to killing Billy Bob Norton, Becka—and lopping the poor guy’s head off?”

“No,” Becka countered. “I don’t admit to any such thing. You arrested me on completely different charges. Long as I’m in custody? You can bet your first-class ass I’m gonna collect and spend my duly earned Prison Pals rewards. And I can’t wait ta wear my new Sketchers Slip-ins.”

The booking sergeant scowled. “Don’t disrupt my duties with our newest client Riggs. You may hate this program—but I get paid sales commissions. These Neanderthals haven’t fully outlined all your entitled PPRP benefits Becka. But don’t you fret none, dear. I’ll take excellent care of you—

 “For starters?” she said. “Your best mug shots will be featured in the inaugural edition of our She-Devils of Hillbilly County pin-up calendar. So we don’t wanna rush these shots. And in the likely event you later get charged with murder? Walmart will include you in their Killer Queens Collection—which is for sale to the General Public. Killer Queens are entitled to higher Prison Pals rewards than other inmates, provided they autograph specified items—such as copies of their crime scene photos and, of course, mug shots—and your used Walmart panties. But you’d also be required to work ten hours weekly directly for Walmart in the jail or prison’s shipping and call centers.”

“No need to go puttin’ carts before horses,” Becka said. “But let’s get started on my glam calendar shots. The male wankers in my clan will gladly give their left nuts to get their clammy hands on some a them calendars.”

“Deal,” said the booking sergeant. “We’ll start with shots in your street clothes. But then we need to swap them for our standard orange jumpsuit. Believe it or not? There’s a hoard of horny guys who go ga-ga over them. Please leave us be Riggs and King—we got work to do.”

Riggs and King joined the Chief of Dicks, who parked his 6’6’ frame in a black leather recliner—strategically placed to face a brand new Walmart 98-inch TV screen. He tapped the remote, and offered Riggs a barf bag. “Viewing these clips?” he said. “Is like watching a horror flick. You can’t help feeling freaky while Becka Bailey dog-walks Billy Bob up and down the Walmart aisles—and the tension builds every time she yanks that crazy dominatrix chain. But once they leave the store? All hell break loose—”

Riggs stared in disbelief. After the Lovebirds cleared the crosswalk? Becka released their shopping cart, pounced on Billy Bob’s back—and gouged him with her spurs. For the next five minutes? Hootin’-n-hollerin’ Becka rode Billy Bob in circles, blood spilling from his sides—while she maniacally worked her spurs.

When they neared her shopping cart on their thirteenth pass? Becka seemed to yell, “Whoa!” Anchoring her weight on his flank, she yanked the chain with both hands. Then shifted her weight forward, planted her feet against the asphalt, and yanked the chain again.

Billy Bob collapsed: elbows buckling, face smacking the pavement, his cheeks changing colors. Two minutes ticked away … before he lay there lifeless, deprived of oxygen, his larynx likely crushed. Becka removed her murderous gold chain reigns. Wielded her dagger—and nearly sliced his head of—slitting his throat from behind. Giddily gaining her feet, she rolled Billy Bob on his back. Planted the dagger in his chest. And snagged the garden shovel from their nearby cart. Hovering over his head, both hands on the handle, elbows horizontal … making her look like a human cross, Becka slammed the shovel through his gaping neck until the blade thwacked the pavement.

Riggs read her lips: “Yee-haw!” Becka bellowed. Snatching a fistful of her ex’s mangy hair, the adrenalized psycho taunted the terrified crowd—waiving both the shovel and Billy Bob’s dead head … strutting like The Undertaker during WrestleMania. Retrieving the pink bucket, Becka gently kissed Billy Bob’s purple lips. Dropped his head inside—expertly tamped the lid—and tossed the bloody, goo-stained shovel in the shopping cart.

Pink pail in hand, gold chain slung across one shoulder, Becka abandoned the cart. Swiped the dagger twice on Billy Bob’s jeans, and strolled to Mickey D’s.

A gaggle followed in her wake—but carefully kept their distance. Cellphone cameras rolling or ringing 911.

Sgt. King grabbed a laptop and a thick manilla folder stuffed with documents and photos. The Chief of Ds tossed Riggs a USB stick. “Relevant clips from Wally’s World, Facebook, and Mickey D’s in chronological order. The only time Becka Bailey is outta sight from a camera’s glaring eye is when she used the Men’s room. Yup, good work Riggs. Our CSI found blood on the Men’s room sink—and blood-stained paper towels piled high in the trash bin. Half the towels were soaking wet and smelled like bleach, most likely from the Clorox wipes that she bought this morning. But the CSI secured some nice dry samples. Lab tests will probably show it’s Billy Bob Norton’s blood—

“And if we’re lucky? They’ll also find Becka’s prints and DNA. All this evidence is damning. But ideally? We want a confession from Batshit Becka Bailey. Unless we missed something? Her record is almost squeaky clean. She got stopped for driving without a license five years back. Still, after watching what we just seen? I recommend keeping her cuffed to the table.”

Riggs nodded agreement. Rifled through the evidence bags. A small detail chafed his thoughts: why did Becka have two separate Walmart receipts? “Did we secure a warrant on Becka’s cell phone yet?” he said.

“Still in the works,” said the chief. “Soon I expect.”

“Fingers crossed,” Riggs said. But he took the flip phone with him.

Back out in the hall? The booking sergeant grinned at Riggs. In his professional opinion? She looked like a fucking psycho—and half the county’s loyal Walmart customers. He secretly suspected that roughly half the nation’s Walmart patrons were related … either through marriage or inbreeding. And in many cases both.

“Great timing,” she said. “We just finished Ms. Bailey’s glamour photos—and I’ve got popcorn in the microwave. You gentleman can escort her to Room 3. But Sgt. King, please grab the popcorn first.”

King balanced the popcorn on his manilla folder. Riggs led Becka to an office chair, underneath a Walmart logo, and cuffed her to a table. Another 98-inch screen filled most of the opposite wall. The desk sergeant strolled to a Nikon camera, mounted on a tripod—and fired off six photos. Inspected them on the big screen, nodded her approval: Walmart’s executives would be pleased. She set a bottle of Aquafina and the bowl of buttered popcorn before Becka Bailey, and dutifully left the room. King settled in a chair at the far end of the table, leaving Riggs the middle seat.

“Alone at last,” Becka said, scooping a palmful of popcorn. “I look smokin’ hot in these pink-n-green Prison Pals Step-ins. But I wish we had my sex toys. We gonna watch some porn?”

Riggs waved dismissively. “We’ve got plenty of time for movies. Let’s start with some foreplay. Walk us through your day—from the time you woke this morning.”

“Weeell,” Becka drawled. “I woke up naked and horny like I do every day … maybe around 9 o’clock. So I got myself off twice with a twelve-inch dildo.”

King rummaged his folder. “We obtained a warrant and we’re searching your place Becka. So far we’ve discovered 60 dildos at your premises. Would you kindly take a look at these photos—and initial the dildo that you used this morning?”

 “Don’t need to look,” said Becka. “Just grab the purple one.”

King slid the photo cross the table top. And Riggs handed Becka a blunt felt-tipped marker. “What next after your second Happy Ending, Becka?”

“I ordered breakfast from Porky’s Pigs using my DoorDash app.”

Riggs removed her flip phone from the evidence bag. “Can you show us that order Becka?”

She shrugged, tapped, and swiped. Riggs offered her a cable. “Attach this,” he said, “and we can see it on the big screen.”

“Cool,” Becka said.

“I love Porky’s Pigs,” Sgt. King said. “Their Cajun pork rinds rock. And their biscuits-n-gravy? Better than morning sex.”

Becka rolled her eyes. “You only think that cuz you ain’t had sex with me. But I’ll eat food from Porky’s morning, noon, and night. I gotta thing for hogs.”

“Okay,” Riggs said, trying to sound patient. “You ordered three Porn Corn Dogs with Happy Ending sauce and a large side of habanero hash rounds at 9:35 a.m.—and received delivery at 10 o’clock.”

“If you say so,” Becka said. “The DoorDash dude was my favorite delivery hunk. Instead of a tip? I normally give him a helluva sloppy blowjob. But since I was fuckin’ starving? I gave him a handjob while scarfing down some hash rounds. Though of course I swallowed his load before sending him away and gorging on my Porn Dogs.”

“Of course,” King said. “But thanks for clarifying. We’ll be sure to talk with the DoorDash dude to corroborate your statement.”

“Don’t be jealous, Sgt. King. Scoot your chair down here? I’m more than happy to swallow your load, too.”

Seven years in homicide. But Riggs still couldn’t fathom the shit he waded through in his taxing attempts to secure confessions. At least he wasn’t a priest—trapped in a stale, dark, confining box. “What happened after you finished breakfast Becka?”

“Billy Bob spent the night in Suite No. 3—so I unlocked the door—and sodomized his sorry ass with a Swiffer WetJet handle. Since I was feeling chipper? I used strawberry lube. Before you get all huffy? Our sex was consensual. And so was Billy Bob’s overnight confinement.”

“So you say,” Riggs said. “Billy Bob is dead. We certainly can’t ask him.”

Becka smirked. “No. So you say. I have no proof or knowledge that Billy Bob is dead. What I do know? Is he sent his head to stalk me. But I can prove the nature of our relationship. Look at your big screen. As you can see? Billy Bob and I signed a Master & Slave contract—which describes the rights that he granted me as his sole Master. Meanwhile, here at the bottom? You can also see that our contract was witnessed and legally notarized by a licensed Notary at the County Courthouse.”

The document rocked Riggs. But he feigned nonchalance. He’d read about such contracts. Though till now he’d never seen one. God damn psychopaths: forever squeezing to exert control. Belligerent Becka ordering them to look at their big screen. Trying to belittle them: As you can see. What I can see thought Riggs, is that your third-class ass is grass—and I’m a fucking lawn mower—that wasn’t bought at fucking Walmart.

Smug Becka yawned. Set her phone on the table. Riggs palmed the instrument and stood. Hummed softly to himself. A bit of 70s classic rock: Now you’re messin’ with a son of a bitch. Without skipping a beat? King smoothly fanned six photos of Becka’s so-called Suites. More like jail cells used as torture chambers.

“Would you please initial Suite No. 3 where Billy Bob spent last night?” Sgt. King asked Becka. Riggs envied his partner: nothing rattled him.

“Of course I will,” she said. “Anything for you, sweetie. I’m a good girl, even when I’m bad. That’s what Daddy always told me. Now that my Daddy’s dead? Maybe you and Riggs can be my new Daddies.”

Riggs examined the photo. Spotted and circled the Swiffer Wet Jet. “Is this the WetJet that you used to ream Billy Bob?”

“Sure as fuck,” Becka said, initialing the photo. “I cleaned him up with a fire hose that knocked him on his hairy ass. Then I ordered him to wear a fresh diaper—and throw some clothes on while I showered. Before getting dressed myself? I opened my Uber app and arranged a ride to Walmart. Our chariot arrived just as I finished dressing.”

“Thank you Becka,” Riggs said. “We’ve confirmed that Uber collected you and Billy Bob at 10:33. And dropped you outside Walmart’s northwest entrance at 10:48 this morning. But please excuse me. I’m parched and need some water. How about you Sgt. King?”

“Sure,” King said. “And grab me a bag of pork rinds.”

Riggs took the flip phone and the Suite 3 photo with him to the boss’s office, where Becka and King bantered on the big screen.

“We just secured the warrant for Batshit Becka’s phone,” the chief advised Riggs, “And I instructed Lt. Baker to bag-n-tag her WetJet—while warning him not to grab the dammed thing by the handle.”

Riggs handed him the flip phone, and inspected Becka’s Walmart receipts. “Did Becka buy anything in Electronics before checking out at the front registers?” Riggs said.

“Nope,” the chief said. “And I tracked all their movements from the moment that their Uber dropped them off at Wally’s.”

“Well, something’s odd,” Riggs said. “She’s got a $460 receipt for a single item, listed as an Insta 360—and it’s time stamped at 11:03—about five minutes after they arrived.”

“Thank god for time stamps. Let’s check the footage. Now I remember,” said the chief. “Once inside the store? They stopped at the Customer Service Desk—and picked up something. But I can’t make out the details. The item’s too damn small. She discards the packaging in that nearby trash can, and then tucks the item in her left shirt pocket.”

Eyeballing the receipt, Riggs typed on his iPhone: Insta 360 GO 3S. “Bingo,” he said. “Good news and bad news. This particular Insta is a thumb-sized action camera that shoots video in virtual reality format.”

“Jesus,” muttered the chief. “Sounds like that batshit bitch filmed Billy Bob Norton’s murder—which strongly suggests premeditation. What’s the bad news Riggs?”

“Far as I know?” Riggs said. “We haven’t found the camera—and I don’t have a clue where that little fucker is.”

“Shit, shit, shit,” said the chief. “There’s no mention of the camera in our case evidence logs. She could’ve dumped that fucker anywhere.”

“I don’t think so,” Riggs said. “Her movie’s a prize trophy and that camera wasn’t cheap. I also think the odds are good that dear Becka placed a copy on her flip phone using the camera’s WIFI. Our techs should look ASAP. I’m sending photos of this Insta camera over to the printer. The lens on this fucker’s only about the size of a trench coat button. But she needed to keep the lens stable and in plain view while she was filming. I didn’t see or feel the camera during my dining room pat down—

“If she stashed or ditched the Insta somewhere besides her clothes, fanny pack, or cowboy boots? Let’s hope she chose the Mickey D’s Men’s Room, not the dining room—or even worse the god damn parking lots. Seems like the easiest time for us to spot the lens is when Becka’s taunting the outdoor crowd like she’s The Undertaker. Next CCTV stop? The Mickey D’s entrance during her arrival—followed by the footage where she leaves the Men’s room.”

Riggs poked and prodded every inch and stitch of Becka’s fanny pack. But found nada. Swearing like he’d entered a million dollar Curse-a-thon, Riggs retrieved her clothes and boots from the booking sergeant’s desk.

“Hell yeah, baby,” yelped the Chief of Dicks. “I found the camera lens above her left shirt pocket in The Undertaker footage and once again at the Mickey D’s entrance. But the fucker ain’t in sight when she leaves the Men’s room. I’m printing out the screen grabs.”

Riggs fished ’em from the printer, “My gut’s screaming Becka didn’t ditch the camera.”

The chief attacked her boots. He rifled the inside linings—and twisted the heels in hopes of finding a hollowed-out compartment. Riggs manhandled his psycho’s shirt and skirt. No surprise to learn that Becka left her house braless and without socks or panties.

“Nothing,” muttered the chief. “Fuck us both sideways.”

“Hold that thought,” Riggs said, unsealing an evidence bag.

“What’ve you got?” said the chief.

“The Holy Grail,” Riggs said, waving Becka’s Slut Butts. “Our psycho wedged her camera in between some cigarettes.”

“Hallelujah, Riggs. Get back in the box,” said the chief, “and fuck Becka Bailey sideways.”

“That’s my fantasy,” Riggs said, fisting Becka’s action camera.

When Riggs reentered the box? He presented King with a bottle of water and his treasured pork rinds. And set the Insta camera on the tabletop—well out of Becka’s reach. But her green eyes brightened and she licked her lips.

“Sorry for my absence, Becka—but I’ve been busy watching movies,” Riggs said.

“Without me and Sgt. King? How cruel,” Becka said.

“Me cruel?” Riggs said. “I simply want to heighten your anticipation. Why didn’t you tell us that you enjoy making movies like me and Sgt. King?”

Becka shrugged, but almost drooled at the camera. “I don’t like to boast,” she said.

Lying god damn psychopath. Becka jonesed to boast so bad she was nearly gagging. “If you’ll honestly answer a few questions, Becka, we can watch your movie.”

“Honestly?” Becka said. “Maybe, maybe not. But feel free to ask.”

“When did you decide to kill Billy Bob Norton?”

Becka smirked. “I decided to kill him when I woke this morning. Initially I planned to kill him in my basement. But I realized great art deserves an audience—so why not take center stage at Walmart’s parking lot.”

“Billy Bob agreed to be your slave Becka. So why kill him?” Riggs said.

“I was fucking tired of the sorry jack ass. So I rode him like a donkey. He’s now fulfilled his purpose—and I can replace him.”

“I’m confused,” Riggs said. “What did you think Billy Bob’s purpose was Becka?”

“Sounds like you’re not the sharpest tool, Riggs. Billy Bob’s purpose was to give me the ultimate pleasure: his life on a silver platter. The only thing I loved about Billy Bob? Was seeing the pain and fear I put in his eyes. That’s why I kept his head. Your questions are boring Riggs. Let’s watch my movie now.”

“That’s not going to happen, Becka. I lied,” Riggs said.

Becka pounded the table. Killing Billy Bob was her twisted crowning achievement—she wanted to relive and share the moment. “You kidding me Riggs? What happened to forging an honest relationship? How about you Sgt. King? You wanna watch my movie with me?”

“Nah,” said Sgt. King. “I’ve already seen the Walmart version. And thanks to you? I’ve got a mountain of paperwork to do.”

Riggs tucked Becka’s camera in his sports coat pocket. “Before we formally arrest you for Billy Bob Norton’s murder? How likely are you to recommend Walmart to all you future cell mates? Abso-fucking-lutely? Maybe some? Or hell no, never?”

Both Becka’s thumbs shot up. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

“One last question,” Riggs said. “Do you feel any remorse—are you sorry about anything?”

“Of course,” Becka said. “I’m sorry that I’ll never get to ride you like a donkey across a Walmart parking lot.”

---

Bio: Crime writer Mick Rose pens haiku and prose while wandering the United States in a Quest for the Perfect Pizza. While his crime fiction can loom dark, and not for the faint-of-heart, he typically tells tall tales involving sexual humor (which sometimes prove explicit). His stories have kindly found homes in print and online mags, including Close To The Bone, and the story collections Born Under a Bad Sign, Vampirology, and Rumble Magazine from Screaming Eye Press. Care to say “Hello?” You can visit Mick at Facebook and his author‘s page.

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