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Like Son, Like Father
Part Eight
Like a deer in the headlights, Alvin Horsewick didn't know which way to turn.
In
one surreal instant, Stacy Rodgers stood in her bedroom doorway. She wore
black
leather pants, riding boots, a white silk blouse open nearly to her waist, and
wrist-length, gleaming black kidskin gloves with the wrists folded slightly back
so
that the plush, grey suede interiors of her gloves were visible. She stood
with one
gloved hand clapped over her mouth in speechless amazement.
In desperation, the Reverend told a whopper.
"Hello, Miss Rodgers," he said in a shaky voice. "I thought I saw someone
peering
into the windows at the back of your house. I came over and went through
your house
to make sure that on one had broken and entered. You remember that your
Aunt always
asked me to look after the house whenever you and she were away.
Everything looks
okay, but I want to discuss some matters with you, young lady."
"Reverend Horsewick," said Stacy, "what are you doing with my gloves?"
Suddenly, the parson became aware that he was still holding the black leather
gloves
that he had picked up off Stacy's bed.
"Young lady," he said in his stern Sunday preaching voice, "these are precisely
the
matters I want to discuss with you. You are going to tell me exactly what
you are
doing with such obscene garments in your house! And you are going to
explain to me
exactly what the stains are between the fingers of these satanic garments!
I want
to know precisely what you do when wearing such wicked leather garments of
sinful
depravity!"
Stacy replied, "My gloves are obscene and satanic only in your mind! Is it
my fault
that leather gloves give you a hard-on? I have every right to wear
whatever gives
me pleasure! And if what gives me pleasure also gives you a boner, that's
something
you and your son will just have to deal with. Now put those gloves back
where you
found them!"
"Young lady," said Horsewick hoarsely, "Before your Aunt Emily passed away, she
charged me to act as your godfather and watch out for your moral well-being.
And
that is exactly what I intend to do! I'm taking these trappings of ungodly
pleasure
and wanton sin with me. And I'm also taking this other pair along with
these
stiletto-heeled boots!"
Horsewick picked up Stacy's boots and shoulder-length black kids. He
walked past
Stacy out of the room and down the staircase.
"Come back here with those!" called Stacy. "That one pair of gloves
belonged to my
Mom! They're a family heirloom! You are not going to leave the house
with those!"
Stacy picked up her bullwhip off her dresser top and ran downstairs after the
Reverend. As he walked through the living room, she confronted him.
"Set those down - NOW!" said Stacy.
"Step out of my way!" ordered the parson.
Stacy lashed out at the parson with the whip in her tightly gloved hand.
The tip
cracked against his forehead. The Reverend screamed, "EEEYIIII!" To
protect
himself, he instinctively twisted to one side with his hands out in front of
him.
Stacy lashed at him again. This time, her whip coiled around his wrists so
that his
hands were lashed together. The parson was forced to drop Stacy's boots
and gloves
in order to defend himself. But Stacy did not wait for the parson to free
his hands
from the coils of her whip. Standing directly in front of him, she smashed
the
knuckles of her leather-gloved fist into his nose. Staggering around the
living
room, the Reverend howled in pain. Lunging at Stacy, he tore her white
silk blouse
off, leaving her wearing only her black leather pants, riding boots and short,
skintight black leather gloves.
At that moment, Timothy, returning from the library, was coming up the walk to
the
door of the rectory. As soon as he saw his father's footprints in the
snow, he
raced next door and peered through a window into Stacy's living room. He
saw his
father reeling around the room with blood gushing from his pulverized nose.
With
his hands still lashed together by Stacy's whip, Reverend Horsewick staggered
like a
drunk while holding Stacy's torn blouse and screaming in a gush of tears, "You
broke
my nose, you godless woman!"
Stacy replied, "So what? You tore my blouse and got your filthy blood all
over my
beautiful gloves!"
Horsewick howled, "I'll get you, spawn of Satan!"
With the black leather of her merciless glove stretched like a second skin
across
her knuckles, Stacy smashed her fist repeatedly into Reverend Horsewick's nose
and
mouth. Timothy saw his father spit out teeth along with a spray of saliva
and
blood.
At the closed window, Timothy cried out, "Don't let her beat you, Dad!
She's just a
girl! Don't let her beat you!"
Alvin Horsewick finally loosened his hands from the coils of Stacy's whip.
He ran
into the dining room and reached onto the table to grab a knife from a place
setting. His only intent was to threaten Stacy with the knife, not
actually use it
on her. But he never got the chance. Stacy had picked up one of her
mother's old
hats and pulled a hatpin from it. As the Reverend reached for the knife,
Stacy
plunged the hatpin into the back of the Reverend's hand. It stabbed all
the way
through. The Reverend Horsewick screamed in agony with his hand pinned to
the
table. In a state of shock, the parson pulled the hatpin from his hand and
staggered back into the living room.
With blood streaming from his hand and gushing from his nose and mouth, Alvin
Horsewick picked up the gloves that had belonged to Stacy's Mom and began to
tear
them along the seams. Stacy cried out, "You're ruining Mom's gloves, you
bloody
bastard!" She instantly delivered a roundhouse kick straight to the
parson's groin.
Screaming in pain, Alvin Horsewick dropped the shoulder-length black
kidskin gloves
and fell to the floor on his back. Stacy immediately knelt on one of his
arms. She
then took the Reverend's clumsy hand in her graceful, feminine, leather-gloved
hands
and began to bend one of his fingers back. When the bone in his finger
snapped, the
Reverend let out a blood-curdling cry. Stacy then took another of the
parson's
fingers in her black leather-gloved hands, and bent that finger back until the
bone
snapped.
After snapping the bones in two more of the Reverend's fingers, Stacy laughed,
"Why
don't you try to ruin my gloves now?" Then, gripping the Reverend's limp,
broken
fingers with her gleaming black leather-gloved fingers, Stacy repeatedly twisted
them while the parson screamed like a banshee from hell.
"What's wrong, Reverend Horsewick?" asked Stacy in a taunting tone of mock
concern.
"I always thought that everyone loved being handled with kid gloves!"
Reverend Horsewick tried to get up, but Stacy placed her leather-gloved hand
over
his face and punched him again until he stopped struggling.
Stacy stood up and surveyed the room. Lamps and furniture had been smashed
everywhere. The gloves on her hands were soaked with blood. She
tried to pull them
off, but when it became obvious that it would take at least several minutes to
remove them, she went over to the phone and dialed the police with her
blood-soaked
gloves still on. Outside the window, Timothy realized whom Stacy was
calling. He
ran back to the rectory in a state of total shock.
Click here for Part Nine
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