Perfect Day
It was a perfect June day. The sky was blue and not one cloud to be seen. It was warm and the breeze was just right. The sun was shining and the birds were singing. It was all perfect as far as I was concerned. I was riding my bike down the dirt road, headed for a nearby national park and my favorite place on earth; a tiny, naturally formed pool with a tiny waterfall, a little over a mile inside the park. It was no more than 8 feet across – too small for a swimming hole, but wide enough to float on my back – but about twelve feet deep (which was great for jumping in). It was my own special place, where I could be alone with my thoughts and no one bothered me.
On days like this, it was my favorite place in the world. I pedaled along, enjoying the breeze in my hair. Soon, I thought to myself, I’d be in my pool, hair floating around me, my toes being tickled by the little waterfall. I was so caught up in my daydream, I didn’t, at first, hear the car behind me. I Looked over my shoulder and saw what can only be described as the classic creeper van. It was off white, but so covered with dirt and grime that only the upper part showed it’s real color. It had no windows on the sides, minus the driver and passenger seats, with a sliding door on the right. Total cliché. The two guys inside were also clichés. The driver was fat and looked to be in his thirties, with curly, greasy brown hair, pale, doughy skin, thick, moist looking lips and flat, grey eyes. The passenger looked like the poster boy for Meth. He was scarecrow thin, with nail marks on his acne scarred cheeks. His hair was thin, lank and looked like it hadn’t been washed in years. His mouth wasn’t more than thin lips slashed across his face. He had nasty, rotten teeth, which I clearly saw (and imagined I smelled), when he smiled. In fact, they were both smiling. At me. I decided to move over to the side to let them pass me. But instead of passing, they came along side. My heartbeat sped up as the van paced me. Suddenly the side door slid open and a man I hadn’t seen leaned out. He was big, with a shaved head. He had a thick neck and big, muscled arms, broad chest, tiny waist, and legs like tree trunks. He stared at me with small, beady brown eyes the color of dog shit and had a huge grin plastered across a pimply face. The sun shined off the oil on his acne covered skin as we locked eyes. We stared at each other for what felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds, when, in a strangely high voice, Zitface said, “OOOOO! We never got no redhead before! She’ll be real tasty!” Zitface reached for me, one hand gripping the top of the opening as he tried to grab me. “Come on, pretty girl,” he said, beady eyes shining with lust, his grin becoming a leer as he swiped at me. “C’mere! You know we gotcha! Just get in here!” My heart was beating like a jackhammer. My palms were sweating and tingles ran thru my whole body as I pedaled.
I looked around quickly, checking if there were any other cars. Anyone walking near the road. But there was no one.
I was alone. I locked eyes with Zitface, and said, “Okay,” then jumped off my bike and launched myself into the van. I heard my bike bounce and clatter to the ground as I slammed into Zitface. His eyes grew wide as I sank my claws into his neck. The scream he tried to release turned into a wet gurgle as I ripped out his throat. Greaseball and Methboy – who moments ago were smiling maliciously – were now screaming in terror as I turned my attention to them. The van swerved as I latched onto Greaseball, my claws digging deep into his man-boobs. He screamed like one of his victims as I bit down on his head. Blood sprayed the interior and my fur as I ripped Greaseball’s scalp off like a cheap toupee. Methboy, meanwhile, was screaming – high and loud – like someone was crushing his nuts. The smell of hot piss mixed with that of blood and meat as he wet himself. He then began frantically searching around as the van careened left, then right. His frantic search paid off as he came back up, a .44 Magnum in his hands. His high pitched screams never stopped as he pulled the trigger. The big gun jumped and roared in his hands. The first shot took out the driver’s side window. Second shot went through the roof, while the third shot went into Greaseball’s gut, giving him a new, much larger asshole as the bullet exited the left side. He screamed in renewed agony as his guts were rearranged. Guess there were hollow points in there. The next two shots actually hit me in my side and though I felt some pain, it didn’t feel much worse than being hit with a softball during gym class. I’m sure he would’ve tried to shoot me again – maybe in the head – when the vans luck finally ran out and it hit a tree. The air was shoved out of me as the back of the driver’s seat compressed my chest. I dug my claws deeper into Greaseball’s chest to keep from being thrown back, and inadvertently ripped his chest open. Oops. His body twitched as I pulled my claws out. His head slumped forward and bloody drool dribbled onto exposed organs. One last breath escaped his body in a long, rattling sigh, then he went still. Methboy had gone half thru the windshield, his upper body hanging out of the broken windscreen. I willed my claws, fangs and fur back into my body, shook out my arms, and looked at myself. I was a mess. My clothes were torn and bloody and there were holes in my shirt from the bullets. Damn, I thought. I liked this shirt. The holes in my body had mostly closed. One bullet had gone straight through, but I could feel the other being pushed out. In less than a minute the bullet came out and fell onto the dirty floor of the van. I picked it up, put it in my pocket, then searched for the other one. I didn’t find it, but I did find a fresh hole in the side of the van where I’d been standing. No problem, the others would find it. Zitface lay in a crumpled heap in the very back of the van. Bloody smears marked the walls where his body hit during the ride. He looked like a broken action figure, arms and legs in unnatural angles, lying amidst a jumble of ropes, duct tape, a bag of knives and tools, wire, a blow torch, trash bags, road flares, two big metal gas cans, cigarette butts, beer cans and what looked like hundreds of pictures scattered everywhere. The van itself reeked. The entire thing stank of fear, pain, and the blood of many children. I knelt and looked at some of the pictures. They were all young, most younger than me. Pain and terror was etched across their too-young faces. They were all races, all types. And all of them… girls. I stood up and looked out the back window. I saw my bike not too far down the road. I was surprised. I thought we’d driven farther, but whatever. As I went to the side door (which was half open), I heard moaning. Turned out Methboy was still alive. “Guess you should’ve remembered your seat-belt,” I mumbled. I pushed the door the rest of the way open, got out, stretched and walked to the front of the van. We’d hit a big oak tree. The whole front left side of the vehicle was crushed. Methboy hung face-down, ass in the air, his upper body slumped over the vans stubby nose. His clothes were ripped, his body torn and blood ran in rivulets down the grill. He looked like dirty clothes, mixed with roadkill. He still had the gun clutched in his hand. The smell of Meth rose from his body and his blood. It smelled like window cleaner had been poured over raw, bloody hamburger. The smell made my nose burn and itch. Angry, helpless gurgles came from him as I approached.
I watched as his body twitched and jerked and, somehow, he managed to jerk his head around enough to to turn it in my direction. He glared at me though dirty, bloodstained hair, a combination of hate, pain and fear in his eyes. Whether it was fear of death or fear of me, I didn’t know. If he thought I was going to eat him, he was mistaken. I prefer my meat free-range, not stuffed full of chemicals, thank you very much. Besides, people taste nasty. “Whaaattt…….are….you…?” he rasped. I looked at him for a moment, considering. Should I answer him? Does he even deserve an answer? “What do you think I am?” I countered. “Nooooottt……girl…” he rasped. “Mmmm….MONNNN….STERRR!” I laughed. “Really?! You kidnap, torture, rape and kill little girls, but I’m a monster?!” I shook my head. “I’m thirteen and I’m a little girl. I’m just more, is all. Trouble is, you only saw a little girl. You saw me as prey, just like all the other little girls you and your ‘friends’ took.” I looked him in the eye. “But I’m not prey. I was never prey. You and those two cooling piles of shit are the monsters here, not me.” I walked over to him and knelt down. He flinched at my approach, even tried to lift the gun, which he still hadn’t let go of – maybe he couldn’t – but his arm wouldn’t work. “Ddddonntt!” he blubbered, eyes wide and terrified. “DDDDONTT ….EEEEEEEET….MEEEE!” “Oh, please,” I said, rolling my eyes, “as if I’d eat any of you. With all the drugs and other crap you’ve put in your bodies?” I made a disgusted face. “Sorry, I so don’t eat junk food.” I leaned into him. “To answer your earlier question, my kind have gone by lots of names over the years, but personally I prefer ‘shifter’ or ‘Lycan,’ myself.” I grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head up. “I’m the mantis in the orchids,” I told him coldly. “The alligator under the lily pad. The wolf in sheep’s clothing.” I chuckled; I couldn’t help it. “I’m the thing you never know is there, until it takes a bite out of you.” I let go of his hair and stood. “You’re not the first bunch of pervs we’ve had to deal with, and I doubt you’ll be the last.” I knew what had to be done. I turned and climbed back into the van. I grabbed the two gas cans and a couple of flairs, and, using a rag on the floor, grabbed a big handful of pictures. I leaned out,  put one can outside,  then tossed the handful of pictures onto the ground. I opened the other gas can and poured gasoline over the inside of the van, making sure to soak both Zitface and Greaseball. When the can was empty, I tossed it onto Zitface’s body and got out. I took the other can and poured most of it over Methboy. “You thought of yourselves as predators, didn’t you?” I asked as I poured. “Preying on those who couldn’t fight back? You thought you were badasses, but I bet you never went after anyone you thought could fight back. Just preyed on the vulnerable and alone.” I poured the rest in a short line away from the van, tossed the empty can into the van, then closed the door. “Now you’re the ones who are vulnerable and alone.” “Please!” Methboy begged as he spit gasoline out of his mouth. “Stop! Don’t do this! DON’T DO THIIISSS!” I tilted my head to the side. “Did any of the girls say that?” I asked. “Did they cry and beg? Call for their mommies? Their daddies? Say the exact same things you just said while you and your friends hurt them?” I lit the flair, making sure he saw it. “Well, I guess I’m going to give you the same answer you gave them.” I held the flare over the line of gas. “Bye-bye!” I said as  I dropped it. The gasoline quickly caught, rushing quickly towards the van. And Methboy. I lit the second flare and threw it through the broken window, then went to get my bike. “Stupid fucking human pervs!” I grumbled as I got on my now dented and scratched bike. “Made me damage my bike, ruined my favorite shirt, and almost ruined my me time.” I heard his screams as I pedaled past the van-shaped inferno, towards my original destination. I knew it would take the cops and fire department some time to get here, being so far away from town, but by then any trace evidence I might have left would be ash. Luckily, it had been a very wet spring, so the surrounding foliage wasn’t as dry as could be and the tree was a bit away from the others. I felt bad about the tree and the fire, but I knew I couldn’t take the chance of leaving any traces. Besides, the tree was big and old, so it might even survive. It would take me awhile to clean the blood off under the little waterfall and since my clothes were wrecked, I’d have to stash my bike, wait till nightfall, then head home, soggy clothes in my teeth. Maybe I should get one of those backpacks they put on dogs? But, no. If I did that, my litter-mates would never let me live it down. Oh, well. Mom and dad were going to be pissed about the clothes (they’d just bought them), but proud that I’d done what was necessary. They’d also be impressed that I’d taken down three grown human men as quickly as I did, without having to chase one or more of them down. After all, it was the job of every clan and clan member, to deal with those who would hunt the weak and innocent, especially if we come across them in our territory, and deal with them appropriately – which I did. A big smile stretched across my face, as I realized I’d just removed three – three, count ’em – wastes of flesh form this earth. I laughed as I peddled. So what if my bike got damaged? So what if my clothes were trashed? I’d taken out three child-raping, murdering bastards. All by myself. It looked like I was getting my perfect day after all. Credit: Lola Lo (Facebook) Copyright Statement: Unless explicitly stated, all stories published on Creepypasta.com are the property of (and under copyright to) their respective authors, and may not be narrated or performed under any circumstance.