Tales of the Blood Moon

On The Matter of Legitimacy

I don't know howmuch longer I can sit on my couch and stare at the TV without reallywatching it. I'm excited, but also a little worried. I don't wantmy neighbors to see what I'm getting, but I want it to get here soon.

When the doorbellfinally rings, I practically jump out of my skin. I rush to the doorand, flinging it open, find a man standing next to a large crate. The crate is considerably larger than I thought it would be and, inthe midst of my confusion and excitement, I pay the delivery manright there on my front step. He accepts the cash without a hint ofsurprise, and it's only when I realize that my neighbors have only topeek out their windows to see me accepting a suspiciously large cratethat I invite the man in.

"Where do youwant it?" he asks me.

"Uh...right hereis fine, I guess," I manage to get out, completely embarrassed bythe idea he might know what's inside the crate.

He arches aneyebrow and looks left and right. "Are you sure?" he asks. "It's kinda blocking traffic if you leave this thing right here."

"It is reallybig -" I start to say before the double entendre hits me. "Thecrate, I mean. The crate is really big." I'm sure my face isbright red.

"Hey," he saysreassuringly, "it's your money and your business; nobody else's. Inside these four walls," he says as he points around my house,"you call the shots. Everybody else can go fuck off."

I'm not sure hisbrazen language is necessary, but I have to agree with the sentiment. I instruct him to take it up the stairs to my bedroom. He does sowithout complaint, despite there being a sharp turn at the top of thestaircase and not much room after that to maneuver an object as largeas the crate.

"Do you have acrowbar?" he asks as he finishes positioning the crate.

"No, I don't." I wonder why I hadn't thought of that. I guess I was under theimpression the container would have latches or something and not be agiant wooden crate.

"Want me to popit open?" he asks, pointing to the crowbar he has fastened to hishand truck.

I don't respondimmediately. Even though he managed to boost my confidencedownstairs, I'm not sure I want anyone to be around when the lidcomes off.

"I can just popit loose and leave the lid on," he tells me, correctly interpretingmy trepidation.

"That would begreat," I say, smiling with relief.

He nods and priesthe lid of the loose but leaves it resting on the top of the crate. He fastens his crowbar back onto his hand truck and prepares toleave, but I still have a question.

"Why is thecrate so big?"

"Sometimes theypack two in there," he replies casually.

The answer makessense and I'm too embarrassed to ask any follow-up questions, so Ithank him for his work and escort him to the front door. No soonerthan the door closes then I spring up the stairs. I stand in thedoorway for a minute, trembling with a mixture of anticipation anduncertainty. I finally decide to go for it. I stride to the crateand flip the lid off the top. All I can see are packing peanuts, butI know he's down there. I learned about Marc, or more accurately,M.A.R.C.: Male Artificial Romantic Companion while browsing eroticimages designed for women. Okay, I was looking at woman porn. It'sbeen a long time since I've had sex. It's not that I can't get aman, I just have a hard time keeping one. I have intimacy issues,but I suppose that's what happens after you've been raped.

Eight years ago(eight years, two months and three days ago, to be precise) I wasraped by a man named Buford Birch. He grabbed me from behind while Iwas loading groceries into my car, dragged me into his van andviolated me while his brother, Eustace, sat in the driver's seat. Eustace would look back every now and again, clearly disgusted bywhat was taking place, but did nothing to intervene. My descriptionto the police, along with the description provided by five otherwomen he'd assaulted, led to the arrest of the Birch brothers. Oncecaught, Eustace turned on his brother. Eustace revealed that Bufordhad raped a total of seventeen women and, even more shocking, killedeleven of them. Apparently, when Buford used his brother as hisdriver, Eustace wouldn't allow Buford to kill the women. Buford wassentenced to death row while Eustace, because he was willing tocooperate with police and hadn't actually killed anyone, got tenyears. Eustace was paroled a few months back and basicallydisappeared, while Buford was killed in a prison riot about a yearago. It's not exactly the Christian thing to say, but I'm not theleast bit sorry Buford Birch is dead.

I reach into thecrate, pushing my right arm through packing peanuts, toward thebottom. My arm is completely extended, but I still haven't reachedthe bottom of the crate. I stretch out my fingers, hoping they'll atleast brush against something. I'm about to give up when myfully-extended fingers brush against something firm and smooth. Imanage to secure a grip on the object at the bottom and hoist it up. Marc's arm is the first part to rise from the packing peanuts, but Ikeep pulling until I can get his whole body out of the crate. Thewhole process takes a lot of effort and when I do finally manage toplace him on my bed, I'm not sure I still have enough energyremaining to do anything.

I'm eventuallyable to get myself together enough to take some initially tentativeactions which gradually grow bolder as I become more comfortable andlose my inhibitions. It's been a long time since I've really feltable to let myself go and I've missed it. With a real man, thechance he will inadvertently do or say something that makes me feeluncomfortable is pretty high and that ultimately leads to two veryunsatisfied people. With Marc, I'm in full control and I can move atmy own pace and do things my own way, with no need to make excuses orgive explanations.

Once I'm finished(and more satisfied than I've been in a very long time), I sit up inbed with my back resting against the headboard. Lifting my TV remotefrom my nightstand, I flip channels for awhile before settling on anold black-and-white romance movie. Stiffness is growing in my limbs,causing me to smile slightly. Guess I'll have to take it a littleeasier next time.

The sound of myringing doorbell startles me. I'm not sure how long I've beensitting here, but the movie is over. I don't recall falling asleepand I'm still in the same sitting position. I haven't moved an inch,in fact. I attempt to get out of bed, but my arms and legs won'twork. I struggle to get my limbs to respond, but nothing ishappening. I'm panicked and trying to scream, but I can't make asound.

Over the sound ofthe TV, I can hear the lock on my front door open. The sound of myfront door opening and closing is followed by slow, heavy footstepsmaking their way up the stairs to my bedroom. The bedroom doorswings open and, from my peripheral vision, I can see the deliveryman. He lifts Marc from my bed and places him back into the crate,then does the same to me. I try to fight him, but I'm completelylimp in his arms. Once in the crate, I can't close my eyes, so I'mforced to lie on top of Marc and endure the aggravating sensation ofpacking peanuts scratching against my open eyes. Even though I can'tmove, I can still feel everything. The light fades as he replacesthe lid and hammers it down.

I can feel thecrate being maneuvered onto a hand truck, bounce down the stairs andget loaded into a truck that quickly rumbles away from my house. Idon't know how long it takes until the truck stops and the crate isunloaded, but I wouldn't be surprised if we're at the other side ofthe county.

The crate is priedopen and the driver pulls me out of the crate and props me up on acouch. He's talking to someone who's voice sounds vaguely familiar. As the driver walks away, I can see his reflection in a wall mirror. The driver's reflection doesn't move with the driver, but watches himas he walks past. If I weren't in my current predicament, I'd findthat downright terrifying.

A figure walks infront of me and stoops down to stare me in the face. I recognizethat face: It's the face of Eustace Birch. He picks me up andcarries me into a room with nothing but a bed and seven chairs. Onevery chair except two is a female, life-sized doll. The faces ofall the dolls look familiar to me. Eustace places me on the bed andthen straddles me.

"Almost got methe whole set now," he says, sliding his fingers into my mouth andwiggling them a bit, "except for a nurse. I love them nurses. Toobad Buford went and done killed that little brown-haired one. Imanaged to order one, though. Pretty little blonde. Still, I gotall six of the living ones and I aim to show y'all a real good time. Way better'n what Buford ever did. I never could stand all thatfightin' and screamin'. I don't want nothin' to do with rape," hesays as he wrinkles his brow. "Of course, if a woman don't say'no' or fight back then it's not rape - not legitimately, anyway."