The story you are about to read is a continuing work of total and pure fiction. The names do not refer to any actual persons, living or deceased. As a work of fiction, the content is not intended to be considered, viewed or understood as an actual plan or attempt to commit the deeds described. This work is designed for the reading pleasure of consenting adults and should not be read if the idea of non-consensual sexual contacts offend.
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"Targeting" is a phrase often used these days in business (target audience), in education (target course or degree) and in medicine (target reaction), but my own use of the term had no such legitimate connotation. The women described earlier had actually become my targets. They were now being hunted. They were sought after by a hunter who would not give up until his quarry had been brought to ground and subdued. They were 'in my sights' so to speak. And I began to close in on them, one by one. There was, truthfully, no escape; but only I was aware of that fact. They were blissfully ignorant. Realizing I had all the time in the world made it ever so much easier for me to actually make the 'kill' when the most propitious moment presented itself.
Sixteen months. Sixteen very long, very involved months. Sixteen months of following. Sixteen months of observing. Sixteen months of stalking and spying, if you will. Sixteen full months of filling notebooks with work schedules, leisure activities, restaurant and shopping preferences, names of acquaintances and their addresses and their schedules as well. When I made my move, I wanted no interference from inaccurate timing. My plan unfolded as the months stretched behind me. The nuances of my revenge began to heat up, simmer and eventually reached a boil just before Labor Day of this year. I was now ready. I often wondered if they were.
In continuing this tale, I need not describe the innumerable days, evenings and nights that I spent in secluded places, cars, buses, parks, stores, restaurants, bars, clubs and even churches observing the idiosyncrasies of my five targets. Allow it to suffice that I learned many otherwise-unobservable things about each of them. I spent countless hours in computer research detailing everything they had purchased, every site they had visited, every tiny crack in their otherwise normal facades. It is truly amazing what a person will tell another on the telephone when the caller professes to be a representative of a particularly well-known research and polling organization. Their personal existences were no longer personal, except that they had no idea of this condition. I knew as much about them as they did, themselves.
Night vision goggles and an aptitude for climbing fences and trees provided views of the private areas of their homes and apartments that anyone else could not hope for. Physical abilities honed in private on my own personal training machines provided for stealth and secrecy when observing them outside their homes. Copies of outdated CIA/FBI training manuals obtained through the Freedom of Information Act delivered techniques and procedures for following them so they suspected absolutely nothing over that long span of time. There were times when I was within six feet of them and they never knew I was anywhere present. The lengths to which I went in learning to observe behavior and compile statistics were most likely unmatched outside of the covert operations theater. I actually became good at what I was doing.
One particular incident that bears re-telling here involves Miss Ramada, the English teacher I spoke of earlier. I had been watching her for more than a month at that particular moment and knew her routines quite well, simply because they were routine. She rarely did anything differently at any time of the month. Each day was exactly like that same in the previous week. But one Friday morning as I was watching from my hiding spot, I noticed she took extra effort in cleaning up her kitchen, picking up everything that had been strewn about the night before, and even changed the sheets on her bed – something she had never done on a Friday before. She checked the contents of her refrigerator and cupboard several times before she left for work. I searched my notes for some clue as to what might make her change her routine so drastically. I had watched her do her regular shopping the evening before and nothing seemed amiss at that point. She had spoken to several people in the local market, as she always does. Most of them were lily-white liberals from the suburbs who most likely figured it was politically correct to engage one of the few black customers in some sort of conversation. To her credit, Miss Ramada never allowed what were probably her true feelings, to show on her face. She was polite and cordial to everyone who spoke to her. But, yes, there it was; she had spoken to a stranger in the store – a very large black man had approached her near the produce bins and had engaged her in conversation for some ten or twelve minutes. How had I missed that? Stupid! A drastic change in her routine! Had she invited him to her apartment? For what purpose? She never dated. She never went out with anyone, except two other teachers from the English department on their bi-weekly payday excursion to a local Italian eatery. This was worth looking into.
Within three minutes of the time she left her apartment for CHS, I was inside, searching for the smallest of clues that might point me in the direction of what had caused this alteration of my quarry's routine. It was not my eyes that found the clue, it was my nose. Within minutes I noted a strong aroma of a spicy nature and followed the lead of my olfactory sense to the large crock-pot on the counter in the kitchen. I could see through the glass lid that Miss Ramada had prepared a rather large quantity of a red sauce. Carefully lifting the lid, I sniffed the simmering concoction and was actually quite surprised. Miss Ramada rarely cooked on her own. She was a slave to the microwave-style quick meals that so very many companies have dropped into our collective laps. I quickly replaced the lid and took a peek into the trashcan at the other end of the counter. Ahhh, I was not disappointed. Three large, empty jars with the labels boasting a nationally known brand of 'roasted peppers and mushrooms' pasta sauce lay at the bottom of the can. She did not prepare the sauce; she had simply opened the jars. So much for the mystery of how I had missed all that preparation.
I checked the refrigerator to find two large bags of pre-prepared Italian Mix salad greens alongside a large-size bottle of Robusto Italian dressing. Smiling, I turned to survey the rest of her kitchen. There it was! The key to all of this was the appearance of two bottles of a rather decent California Merlot on the counter in the corner where it meets the walls. I could not have seen this from my vantage point. She was going to entertain. Would it be the large gentleman I observed her speaking to yesterday at the market? This would take some thought.
