Virgin Pie

"Hey Brit, I think I hooked one for you girlfriend! Says he needs some company."

"Cool," Brittany replied, smiling. Good, healthy eats were finally on the way.

She peered at the monitor, read the lurid message and invitation by some guy calling himself SEXAHOLIC. "Oh ya, this guy's a classic. But so obvious. He could at least try to be clever about it."

"Well, he says his name is Chet and he's seventeen," Jas replied, popping off Ballerina Barbie's head and screwing it onto her middle finger.

"Ya right. Means his name is Dick, he's about forty-five, bald and beer-bellied."

Jasmine snickered. "With wicked body odor, huh?"

"You got it," Brittany said, nudging her. "Now outta my way."

Jasmine moved aside. "You get him, girl!" she said, and gave the screen the Barbie-finger.

~

The bus ride over was pretty brutal, filled with screaming, snot-nosed kids, gangs of noisy, fashion-impaired preteens and several deranged old ladies. One of the latter sat beside her, and was making a pathetic attempt at conversation.

"That's a pretty outfit," she said, the corners of her shriveled mouth foaming in approval. "You look like such a nice girl. A good girl."

"Uh ? thanks," Brittany said under her breath. So prudish little granny liked her frilly camisole top and flowered capri pants. Perfect!

Little did granny know.

Partly in an attempt to quiet the old biddy, she pulled this morning's newspaper out of her beach bag and scanned the lead story: POLICE NAME SUSPECT IN SERIAL MURDER CASE. Seems the cops thought they had their man, or at least thought they knew their man-a prison escapee bent on avenging his childhood molester by tracking down and killing all the pedophiles he could-through the Net, no less. Of course some people thought that anyone who knew a browser from a screen saver was automatically guilty of something.

The police sketch printed beside the article showed a lean, nerdy looking guy with a shaggy goatee, thinning hair and deep-set, angry eyes. His name was Dennis Johns, and they called him clever, dangerous, remorseless and impossible to trace: a true sociopath. Others called him a true hero, especially on the Web and in the chatrooms and newsgroups, where he was becoming a folk hero. Brittany smiled. Wouldn't they croak if they knew, all of them! Not even Jasmine had made the connection, and she was a card-carrying member of the Perve Patrol.

Brittany folded the paper back into a neat rectangle and replaced it carefully in her bag. This was definitely one for the scrapbook. Ah, and here was her stop. She rang the bell and climbed over the old lady, who was both drooling and snoring as she leaned forward on her cane. Brittany felt embarrassed, but also relieved. She would never end up like that, would never be old. She'd never have skin like a raison, saggy boobs or smelly dentures that rattled as she rode public transit.

Although, she thought with a mental sigh, she'd never look like Cindy Crawford either. Life just wasn't fair. Even eternal life.

"Bye bye little girl. Don't get lost now," the old woman croaked as Brittany stepped off the bus.

~