Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 01 Read Online Free PDF

introductions.
    “I’m Amanda. Amanda Feral,” I said. “Not Amanda Amanda Feral, just Amanda Feral. I use the doubling up sometimes, for memory reasons. In advertising, which I am, we find that the more times a product name is used, the more it connects in consumer consciousness.” Mid-speech, I was surprised to find that I was nervous and blathering on and on, needlessly. I had to turn it over to my partner. “This is Wendy.” I gestured to Wendy, who was playing the slut for an Academy Award. “She’s a pole dancer.”
    The boy’s eyes popped. He was mortified and shaking. So was I, with hunger and something else. It must have been the nasty traffic. Or…
    Help . I could almost see the text, floating in the air. It was Liesl. She was ruining my meal.
    “She’s a lying whore.” Wendy brushed the backs of her fingers across his cheek. I worried that those nails would slice him right there in the parking lot. “What’s your name, pretty?”
    He paused, eyes moving too rapidly; here it comes…
    “Joel,” he said. A lie, of course. The predictable is unacceptable.
    “Joel, do you have any friends that might want to party?” I asked. My mind was hunting for stomach memories. I was going to need a lot of food.
    “Uh.” His thin lips hung wide open. I could have slid three fingers in, and toyed with the idea of doing just that.
    “The only reason I ask is that Wendy here…” I pointed to Wendy, who was brandishing a crystal and silver Hello Kitty flask, took a mouthful and winked. “Wendy would just love to pull a train tonight.” Wendy blasted a spray of Grey Goose vodka onto the concrete.
    Joel grabbed his cell phone and thumbed in a number with the feverishness of adolescent masturbation. Two calls and very little effort on his part assured a cornucopia of food.
    That’s all it took—really—in less than fifteen minutes the three of us were holed up in the Pine Lodge Motor-on-Inn—swear to God; how could I make that up? The motel sign touted its numerous luxury amenities. They were slightly exaggerated. A pair of double beds with threadbare coverlets offered “Exotic” massage action, a Magnavox TV with rabbit ear antennas that magically accessed a “wide array of adult movies,” a carpet stickier than peep show booths, yet not as tastefully patterned, low, low hourly rates, and best of all, two totally sexy undead glamour killers.
    We were on Joel before the door even closed. Wendy ripped into his throat, and I tore off his cheek, exposing a quivering jawbone. He would have screamed if my girl hadn’t clamped down on his vocal cords with her first bite. He was tasty enough, but starving as we were, we made quick work of him and waited for his friends, “Steve” and “Lou,” to show up for the “gang bang” we promised.
    “Gang bang? I can’t believe you said that.” Wendy wiped tears from her eyes, still giggling.
    I tossed a wicked smile and blew a kiss to my friend, who was sitting on the now-activated bed, jiggling and licking the blood from a tibia, or was it a femur—no—it was a tibia 19 . From the corner of the room I retrieved a Nordstrom shopping bag, removed its contents, and lined them up across the cheap dresser top: a box of wet naps, cans of Formula 409, Pledge wipes, and a bottle of Mountain Spring Clorox. I gathered the few remaining bones and fabric scraps and put them in the bottom of the bag—for midnight snacks—as I wiped the corners of my mouth with the dainty delicacy of a true deadutante.
    Laugh as she may, I had hardly exaggerated Wendy’s sexual appetite. Her taste for male victims is well known in our circle and she often incorporates elaborate sexual fantasies into her kills. Sometimes we call her black widow, but, only to her face, because we’re good people.
    “You know what would go perfect with this meal?” she asked.
    “Hmm?”
    “Salsa.”
    “Oh yeah, chunky.”
    “Or that kind with mangos in it.”
    “Nah, too sweet.”
    “I guess