Thriller/Suspense First Place Winner: "Some Pig" - Writer's Digest

Thriller/Suspense First Place Winner: "Some Pig"

Read "Some Pig" by Thomas D. Gutierrez, the first place winning short story in the Thriller/Suspense category of the 14th Annual Writer's Digest Popular Fiction Awards.
Author:
Publish date:

Introducing "Some Pig" by Thomas D. Gutierrez, the first place winner in the Thriller/Suspense category of the 14th Annual Writers Digest Popular Fiction Awards. See a complete list of the competition winners and read the first place entry in each category here. For an extended interview with the grand prize winner, visit this page. Read the grand prize winning short story here.

Image placeholder title

Some Pig by Thomas D. Gutierrez

I slipped the powder from the baggie into his beer. It turned a bit milky, but he wouldn't notice in the low light. He was already buzzed. In 15 minutes he would be out and in four hours, he'd wish he was dead.

A few minutes earlier I had arrived alone, near midnight, at the Sigma Upsilon Xi Halloween party. I made my way up the porch of the giant old Victorian frat house, through the crowded living room, and into the backyard with the beer kegs and coolers. The music blared from both inside and out, combining thumping rap beats and twitchy dubstep in unpleasant ways. The place was packed. Guys were doing shots of something wicked smelling. Others were doing beer bongs off the garage roof.

The backyard smelled like urine and stale beer. Partiers were in the shadows, hooking up, flirting, sexting. Drunk Delta blah blah blah girls danced with each other, trying to be sexy; they were all dressed in variations of the stupid Halloween slutty-fill-in-the-blank getup. The frat guys were mostly dressed in togas and other improvised non-costumes.

I was dressed as a spider. Or was trying. Probably looked more like a bug. A freshman bug in a skin-tight black outfit. Cute. Sort of. Just like two years ago, the mask over my eyes and the coy painted features hid the details of my face. The sparkly, bouncy bug antennae and my little white gloves were so cliche.

My purse was too big for a party like this, if anyone bothered to notice. It looked like an overnight bag and was full of all sorts of surprises. Surprises for the man who raped me. I stopped and reached inside my bag and placed a few vodka bottles in a cooler in the yard. As I put the bottles in, my hands were shaking. I was scared to confront him. Scared of what I was going to do to him. I wasn't bringing drinks to be social. I was undercover and it was a weak effort to justify my giant purse. I also brought my own personal drink: water in a Zima bottle. Zima was clear and was the kind of light, wine cooler drink a shy freshman girl like my former self might try in order to fit in. But there were no clear drinks in the cooler, until the vodka I just put there. No other clear drinks at all.

I scanned around the yard, but didn't see him. He better be here. There was no way he wasn't. Then I saw him as the crowd parted a bit. He stood in the middle of the group dressed as a cowboy, just like last time. Hat. Vest. Chaps. How creative. Other guys were looking at me, but I caught his eye, then quickly averted my gaze. All according to plan.

Apparently this was flirting, but for him this was affirmative consent. I walked near a sofa in a shadowed part of the the back porch and sipped my drink, being a wallflower. He made some hand signal to one of his douchey bros above the heads of the crowd, telling them he'd found a mark. I'm sure they thought their system was so very clever.

I met him at this same Halloween party two years ago. Cute older guy. I was a freshman and he was a sophomore. We flirted. Time of my life. Fall quarter, part of the fabric of my first college experiences. Then he slipped me a roofie in a beer I was drinking. I passed out. Woke up in his room on the floor, half naked, bleeding. Raped. I remembered nothing after that beer, but I knew what happened. I hid the experience for a while. I withdrew. After a while, I needed to speak out, but it was too late.

The police were judgmental. Why did you wait so long? Drunk kids getting it on, the girl regrets it later—classic, they said. "He said, she said," they said. My dorm mates, every one of them, pushed me away or ignored me, hoping I'd shut up. They didn't get it. They weren't really my friends. I'd just met them a couple weeks before. Some said I was being a prude, overreacting.

Title IX required the university have a conversation with him, but he denied everything. After that, they didn't do anything and didn't seem motivated to: they were concerned about their star baseball player. They were worried about the bad press. Then someone told his teammates about me and my conversations with the university. Anonymity breached. That's when the relentless bullying started. Then pornographic pictures of me started to appear online and in emails. Alone, naked, defiled. No evidence pointing to him. To everyone, the police, the university, I was a wanton, drunken slut. I left school.

I stood on the back porch with my Zima. He walked up to me, stood too close, leaning in a bit. He was tall. His face was rugged, with half-shaved stubble and that same sly, disarming smile. He put his arm against the wall above my head.

"Hey little bug bug," he said, keeping cool, alcohol on his breath. "What's your name?"

"Charlotte," I said, trying to be demure. It wasn't my name. I swayed a bit to the music, acting a little buzzed. He didn't recognize me. Didn't remember me. I knew he wouldn't.

The bass dropped and then the beat kicked up. It was loud. "Where are your friends, Charlotte?"

"I'm not sure. They must have left early."

My friends weren't here. They didn't know I was here. "Hey, I can be a friend too. Let's hang."

I smiled, then took a quick glance at his crotch, making sure he noticed my gaze. I sat down on the sofa. He sat down next to me on my left and set his red Solo cup full of keg beer on the ground next to his right foot. I set my drink down on a small table to my right and spilled a little, my hands shaking. I fumbled in my purse for a moment, pretending to look for something. I had written a note to myself: "Don't back down. Don't be afraid. Jiu-jitsu his ass if things go south." A reminder that I'd prepared for this for two years; I could take care of myself. I breathed again. In my bag, I wrapped my right fist around a small baggie and palmed it. He snuggled up to me and started playing with my hair a bit. Rubbing my knee. I shivered. I wanted to throw up. A flood of triggered memories blasted into my mind. That party two years ago. Same guy. Waking up bloody and violated. So much anxiety. So much fear and hate. The bullying. The pictures. Leaving school.

I suddenly felt someone brush past me on my right side and I snapped back into focus. I glanced at my clear drink and it was taking on a blue hue. That was risky of them. They didn't expect me to notice in this light, but I knew what I was looking for. A roofie, a date-rape drug. No taste or smell, but blue. That's what happens in clear liquid. That's why there were no clear drinks in the cooler. I wish I'd known that the first time.

All on schedule.

I pushed back away from him a bit, still acting a little buzzed, and grabbed for my drink. As I brought it to my lips, I pretended to take a big swig then, oh no. Dropped the bottle.

I leaned down low to pick it up and placed my left hand on his left knee. A misdirection. His beer was on the ground next to me. That's when I slipped him my special cocktail from the baggie I had palmed from my purse: a homemade nightmare of G and viagra. G was another date-rape drug. Very potent and easy to make in a home lab. Could lead to brain damage, but I wasn't particularly concerned. The dose I gave him would drop him like a rock for hours, but the viagra would keep him hard. It was a weird mix, not a popular one, but it would serve my purpose.

Still leaning down, I rolled my bottle under the porch. Didn't want it to get in the wrong hands. I sat back up. He came onto me again and I pressed him back a bit, told him I was going to get another drink. "Drink up, cowboy." He grabbed his beer, stood up, and took a big, long chug, finishing the brew. There was a flickering expression on his face, ever so faint, that indicated something didn't seem right. Something funny in the beer, perhaps? The G was invisible, but would make it taste a little salty. The viagra probably tasted like crushed aspirin. Conspicuous, yes. But bros are bros— never a beer wasted. Save face. Down the hatch, even with a bitter aftertaste. He threw the empty cup to the ground and wiped his mouth with his sleeve.

The clock would start in about 15 minutes, so I had to move fast. I walked into the house and staggered a little, just to put on a show for him. To bait him. He followed me in.

"I think I need to sit down," I said, slurring my words. "I'm starting to feel a little funny. Too much wine cooler for this itsy bitsy spider."

He smiled and put his arm around my waist. Then I started to go all wobbly and he shepherded me upstairs.

#

He opened the door into a darkened room, turned on a light, and put me face down on the bed. Locked the door. I let my bag slip from my fingers. It made an awkward thump, but he didn't notice. The music and murmurs of the party were surprisingly loud even with the door closed. Convenient. I just went along with his game and acted loopy, waiting for the drugs to kick in.

Being alone with him in the room again, after two years, made me nauseous. I was in a cold sweat. I felt sick, acidic puke creep up my throat. I spit into the sheets. I felt an dizzying anxiety, but I knew his turn was coming soon. Hold it together. Starting from my hair, he ran his hand down along the length of my body. It took everything in my being to stop from screaming in terror. I spit up again. But I had to play doped for just a few more minutes. I needed to carry out my plan. Jiu-jitsu his ass if things went south.

He tried to undress me, but the costume was proving difficult for him. He grabbed some scissors from a drawer and started to cut my clothes off starting at my ankles. I could see him getting aroused. He didn't seem to be slowing down. When was that fucking G going to kick in? With a slice in the black cloth on my right foot, he threw the scissors aside and just started ripping. I rolled off the bed as if by accident, hoping to slow him, but one leg of my costume tore from the hip down. He kept coming. He grabbed my bare leg and pulled me swiftly back on the bed and put me face down like a rag doll.

He started tearing again at my clothes while pulling down his pants under his chaps. He was on top of me trying to get in. I was about to scream. Really scream. I needed to get out from under him fast. Things were going south.

Then my training kicked in. With a sharp upward jab of my calf muscle, I kicked my foot quickly behind me and hit him square into his exposed testicles with the heel of my shoe. He stopped with a shocked wince. In one fast move, I wrapped my legs around the inside of his and locked them apart. I grabbed his neck from behind with my left arm and swiftly pushed off with my right, flipping him hard off the bed onto his back. My bottom crushed into his diaphragm as I fell on top of him and he made a wheezed gasp.

Now I could feel him slow down, the G was kicking in. I rolled off him. He was stunned by the jab and the fall knocked the wind out of him. His breathing slowed. He started babbling something, a bit of spit flopping around his mouth. His pants were still down, tangled with the chaps, and he was hard, despite both the shot to the testes and the sedative. The extra viagra was doing its job.

#

I stood up and took in the scene. This guy was a fucking monster. He deserved every bit of what I was about to do to him. The life he knew was about to come to an end. He was barely conscious, a line of drool dripped from his open mouth, down his cheek, to the floor. I glanced around. The room was a mess and full of frat boy crap. The shades were drawn. Dirty clothes were spread across the floor. A confederate flag was draped across the overhead light. An impressive set of baseball trophies were on a shelf near the window. They seemed to be the only thing put in a proper place and away from the childish chaos of the room.

I walked over to a dresser and saw his wallet and some keys next to his phone. I lifted an old sock, and saw the camera. I knew it would be there. That's where it was last time. That's the location where all the pictures were coming from online.

All those girls. How he was using them. Revenge porn. Posting pictures of them on his site, mocking them. Most didn't even know they were there. Those that did were too ashamed. He blackmailed some of them. He threatened to send the pictures to one girl's parents unless she sent him $1,000. Another was a woman, mid-20s. He threatened to send the pictures to her boyfriend and the preschool where she worked. Dozens more like this. For some, the pictures were originally just sexy fun. A little experimentation with a hot college man. Then he exploited them when he tired of them.

But for some of the girls, it was rape masked as porn. No blackmail. Just bragging. Bullying. Ruined lives.

I had to remind myself: this wasn't just for me. He was a monster.

I looked in the mirror and my bug makeup was smeared, the lower half of my face streaked with dull grey lines over my white skin. I took off my mask and bug ears. I was careful to keep my gloves on so I wouldn't leave any prints. My eyes were sharp, but my face looked tired. The lower half of my costume was in tatters, my naked body was mostly exposed below the waist on the right side.

I set my bag down and started laying out the tools I would need for the evening. I figured I had a good hour and a half to work with.

Latex gloves.

A few boxes of saran wrap.

An electric razor and a hot wax kit. An apple.

A roll of heavy duty fishing line.

They were all in one neat line on the floor.

Then there was a sharp pounding on the door. Bam. Bam. Muffled, "Dude! When the fuck are you going to be done with that piece of ass?" They tried the locked door. "My ladies are here. You're driving. Let's fucking get out of here!" He was slurring his words. I heard a couple drunk girls with him, making some kind of laughing sound, although it was hard to tell with the raging party.

I froze.

Bam. Bam. I could hear him trying to jimmy the lock. Bam. Bam.

I quickly pushed my things under the bed, then sat on top of cowboy, wrapped my legs around the inside of his, lay down on top of him then flipped him on top of me. A big dollop of drool spattered on me. He was out. I started moving my legs like he was humping me. I felt nauseous. I spit up again, held it in my mouth. Then the door popped open and a guy stumbled into the room. He was wearing an improvised toga and a backwards baseball hat with a stiff bill. Lots of tattoos. He had a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand. The girls stood in the door and were wearing little black dresses and devil horns. Each had a plastic Solo cup full of beer.

"Fuck, dude. Fine. Take your goddamn time." I just kept moving, my eyes now closed. One of the girls giggled.

"Ok, don't say anything, you pussy. If you're going to be like that," he said.

I heard him stagger over to the dresser, rummage around, and grab something. I heard him pick up the car keys.

"Last chance, dude. I'm taking your car. We're going."

I just kept the movement going, eyes still closed, the bile in my mouth.

"Fine. Gone."

He pushed his way out of the room, leaving the door open.

I opened my eyes and violently pushed the sack-of-shit off of me. I got on my knees and vomited, grabbed an old t-shirt from the floor and wiped my face. I slowly made my way to the door and peeked out. The party was raging and the music was painfully loud. I shut the door gently, then pulled my stuff out from under the bed. I took a few feet of saran wrap and fishing line, went back to the door, and improvised a pretty solid lock. So I thought.

#

I walked back over to the mirror, wiped off my face again, and put on my next costume from the bag: a woman wearing jeans, t-shirt, and jacket. Me. In this room, at least, it felt like another costume. Charlotte was more real to me here. I kept the little white gloves on and put the latex ones over them.

I stripped him down completely naked. I shaved his head, then the rest of his body. I waxed him down bald. Everywhere. The job was a bit patchy, but I wasn't really going for aesthetic. The shave and wax took way longer than I expected. Time was up. I was exhausted and it was nearly two in the morning. I could still hear the din of the party going on. The surreal thump of EDM pulsed through the house.

To finish the job, I needed to get him onto the bed. I wasn't strong enough. I pushed and heaved and shoved, but he was just too heavy. He babbled something and vomited on the floor. He stirred some more, but wasn't lucid. He wouldn't remember any of this. He wasn't feeling anything. I'm sure he never did anyway.

I tried to lift him up again when another guy suddenly barged in, effortlessly breaking my lock. He was completely shit-faced, eyes half closed, bottle of vodka in hand. The jig was up. I jumped up on the bed. I slipped behind it ready to run. But he walked right past me, taking no notice. He looked around, confused, then walked over to the closet, stepping right over the shaved, naked man lying in his own on vomit on the floor. The guy in the closet unzipped his pants and urinated into a boot. He shook, zipped, then walked right out again without a pause. I ran over and closed the door, then pushed a chair under the doorknob.

Cowboy grunted and stirred a bit. "Come on, let's go," I hissed. "Yes, that's right. Climb up." He was slow, very slow, but he complied. I pushed him into the bed on his back. He looked hideous, shaved and raw. I took the saran wrap and tied him down: over, under, over, under the bed. Next box. Over, under, over, under. Next box. Over, under, over. Except for his bald head and his right thumb, he was completely caught in my web. Poisoned. I took the scissors he had thrown down and made a spot for his hard penis to poke out. Then, with a good shove, I stuffed the apple in his mouth. I turned his head so he wouldn't drown in his own vomit. He needed him to live with what happened tonight.

I tore off long strips of sarin wrap and laid them out on the ground. I twisted them around into tubes. Pressing them hard against the wall behind the bed, I wrote in big, scrawled four-foot block letters, "SOME PIG."

I took his phone and pressed his thumb against it to unlock it. I snapped some pictures of him, then set it up to automatically post to all his social media in three hours, "I like to drug and rape girls at frat parties!" It would email the pictures to the university, police, and the local paper at dawn: "local university baseball star, serial rapist, revenge porn peddler, maimed at Sigma Upsilon Xi halloween party."

I went to the window and opened the shade. It was dark and no one was on this side of the house. The window was next to a tree on a narrow street with no streetlight. I unlocked it and pushed it open. Looked down. About 20 feet. I'd have no problem getting out. I tied my bag to the end of a tight braid of saran wrap that was left over from the bed, then lowered my bag out the window to the ground. The saran wrap now made a sturdy, taut rope.

I walked across the room and tied the loose end of the fishing line around the doorknob. I reeled it to the bed and wrapped it a few times around his hard penis, up and down, tight against the skin. I unwound the spool to the window then added another 15 feet of slack. I secured the end around one of his giant, heavy baseball trophies. I went back to the window and, without looking back, threw the heavy trophy out. It came to a sudden halt about two-thirds the way down. It swayed chaotically for a beat, then dropped to the ground. I heard an awful sound of rending, popping flesh behind me. He'd bleed, but I bled too.

I took off the latex gloves and lowered myself down the saran wrap rope leading to my bag. It was tough stuff and easily held my weight. I detached my bag and picked it up. My hands weren't shaking anymore. With the loud grooves of the Sigma Upsilon Xi Halloween party blaring behind me into the night, I strode down the darkened side street feeling terrific. Radiant. Fearless.

writer's digest wd presents

WD Presents: The 3 Prime Rules of Horror Writing, Contest Deadlines, and More!

Welcome to the first installment of a new series! There's always so much happening in the Writer's Digest universe that even staff members have trouble keeping up. So we're going to start collecting what's on the horizon to make it easier for everyone to know what's happening and when.

Bell_10:25

Lenora Bell: When Fairy Tales Meet Reality TV

Bestselling historical romance author Lenora Bell discusses researching, avoiding info-dumps while still charming readers, and how her latest book was inspired by her life.

Major_10:24

Three Keys to Crafting Chemistry Between Characters

Romance author Michelle Major explains her three go-to tips for ensuring your characters have believable chemistry.

Saving Money on Your Screenwriting Career

Take Two: Saving Money on Your Screenwriting Career

No one wants to break the bank to learn how to write a screenplay. Jeanne Veillette Bowerman shares practical tips on saving money on the pursuit of a screenwriting career.

richard_adams_watership_down_quotes_a_rabbit_has_two_ears_a_rabbit_has_two_eyes_two_nostrils_they_ought_to_be_together_not_fighting

10 Epic Quotes From Watership Down, by Richard Adams

Here are 10 epic quotes from Watership Down, by Richard Adams. The story of a group of rabbits who escape an impending danger to find a new home, Watership Down is filled with moments of survival, faith, friendship, fear, and hope.

WD Poetic Form Challenge

WD Poetic Form Challenge: Quintilla Winner

Learn the winner and Top 10 list for the Writer’s Digest Poetic Form Challenge for the quintilla.

plot_twist_story_prompts_fight_or_flight_robert_lee_brewer

Plot Twist Story Prompts: Fight or Flight

Every good story needs a nice (or not so nice) turn or two to keep it interesting. This week, it's fighting time.

Garfield

Vintage WD: 10 Rules for Suspense Fiction

John Grisham once admitted that this article from 1973 helped him write his thrillers. In it, author Brian Garfield shares his go-to advice for creating great suspense fiction.

Pennington_10:21

The Chaotically Seductive Path to Persuasive Copy

In this article, author, writing coach, and copywriter David Pennington teaches you the simple secrets of excellent copywriting.