The Escort

Gretchen Ellison was a beautiful young woman, as many men (and a great many women) would attest. Though modest by nature, she wouldn’t disagree. She knew her face had a Madonna-like, cherubic innocence. Her hourglass figure was exquisite. She sometimes braidedher flowing chestnut hair into a ponytail for work. The male clientele really seemed to like that style with a lily-white sundress. It gave the impression she was being married off. It reflected her purity of spirit, despite the disdain many held for the world’s oldest profession.

Gretchen worked at the Kit Kat Ranch, a high-class escort service situated in the desert a few miles west of Las Vegas. At a glance, the locale wasn’t what most would envision for a decadent establishment catering to the haves and have mores. It certainly didn’t look like the Playboy Mansion. It resembled an upscale motel and college campus combined in the middle of the desert. Single story buildings spread over a ten-acre expanse, complete with dormitories for the working girls, and barracks for security personnel. A small, shoddy desert villa sat at the rear. It had a minimalist design with large tinted windows to maintain privacy. Though well-maintained, the entire establishment had a bit of grit that blended in with the desert terrain. It gave the place character, “like a desert oasis,” visitors to the Ranch would comment.

Gretchen had gone over to the villa for more important reasons, even in the 110-degree heat, entering through the front.

Gretchen now stood in Old Man Johnson’s office within the villa, wearing that white sundress the clientele so loved,. She clasped her hands behind her back to keep them from shaking while the fat man to finished his cell phone conversation. Behind him the security monitors and terminal recorded virtually all the goings-on at the Ranch. Voyeurism was his favorite pastime when not promoting the Ranch to wealthy investors and clientele.

“Yep, yep, that’s right, Bill, my very, very best. Come on back by, enjoy some of the good ol’ fashioned fuckin…” Johnson said. He laughed so hard he began to choke, unable to catch his breath. Finally, he pounded hard on his chest a couple times and managed to clear his airway and breathe again. “Anyway, let me know when you arrive at the airport, bud. Yep, take care.”

Johnson ended his call, wiping beads of sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“I’m here to give my two weeks notice,” Gretchen said.

Johnson blinked, staring at Gretchen without saying a word.

The Ranch was a seedy venue that catered to individuals of means. The less exuberant appearance kept the enterprise somewhat discreet. It served as a brothel and studio for shooting adult films. Gretchen herself had been featured in a couple. Filming wasn’t her cup of tea. The films proved to be excellent advertising, as wealthy patrons would be able to solicit sex from their favorite stars.

Dozens of young women found themselves working here, their dreams of fortune and fame in Hollywood having come to naught. Gretchen had come from the Midwest at nineteen as an aspiring actress. She and the others had been recruited by the sleaziest fat bastard of them all: Horace Wallace Johnson. Or Old Man Johnson, as he preferred to be called.

He was an unsightly creature, completely bald, with loose jowls and extensive folds and wrinkles on his wretched face. His penetrating blue eyes, unkempt beard, and hypnotic aura resembled Grigory Rasputin. His massive girth and bulging eyes were akin to Jabba the Hutt. To Gretchen, his Southern accent, nasal voice, and cruel, cunning nature made him more like a captain overseeing a 1930s Georgia chain gang. He certainly looked the part, with his white Colonel Sanders suit and cowboy hat. He sometimes had to use an electric scooter due to his massive weight.

No one really knew how old he was, but one of Gretchen’s coworkers claimed to have found an old album featuring a black and white photograph of Johnson with Richard Nixon. They all surmised it must be a relative, or some type of novelty item. Even in that picture, he looked old.

“What’s that, darlin?” he finally asked.

“You heard me,” she said, lowering her gaze. Her throat contracted.Her stomach sank, and she briefly second guessed her decision. But Gretchen wanted nothing more to do with the Ranch, period. That went triple for this lecherous fiend.

Without warning, Johnson burst into voracious laughter.

“Greta darlin, what do ya mean you quit?” he asked, using the pet name she loathed. “You have any idea what you’re sayin? Where would you go? What would you do? How would you support yourself? This here is where you belong, girl. We’re your family.”

He smiled that same ugly, mordant grin that chilled the marrow in her bones.

She wasn’t going to let him talk her out of this decision. She’d never fit in here, and had nothing in common with her coworkers aside from their occupation. The small talk often bored her. Gretchen found it difficult to have any really deep conversations with anyone at the Ranch. Tthe job paid very, very well. There were times she'd enjoyed it. But not anymore.

This wasn’t her family, and this fat tub of lard certainly wasn’t any type of father figure. Far from it. She’d been at the Ranch for seven years. She wanted to get out into the real world, utilize her true skill set, find a nice man, and make a family of her own. A real family.

Was that too much to ask?

“Two weeks. After that I’m gone. You can’t force me to stay by trying to humiliate me. This is not my home, and it never will be.”

Johnson’s eyes narrowed to blazing slits. His bottom lip quivered as he straightened up in his seat and leaned forward.

“How dare you…” he said, in a sharp, bitter tone. “After all I’ve done for you, you’re gonna go and run out on me? You think I’m gonna just let one of my best money makers skedaddle and make me look ridiculous? Is that what you’re tryin to do, make me look ridiculous?”

Gretchen regarded Johnson with utter contempt.

“Not everything is about you, Horace.”

Johnson’s forehead crinkled into a threatening frown.

“Of course it’s about me. That’s what these types of situations boil down to. Ya ain’t the first, and ya won’t be the last. But fine, you want to go out into that hellhole of a world and have it knock the shit out of you, be my guest. You’ve got your two weeks. ”

Gretchen feigned a smile. “Thank you.”

“Get outta my sight,” Johnson grumbled.

This wasn’t their first time butting heads, Gretchen being much more strong-willed and intelligent than Johnson would like those working for him to be. Hopefully it would be their last if all went to plan. She headed into the courtyard and stopped by the medium-sized, round enclosure in the center. Her favorite part of Kit Kat Ranch: Orville the orangutan. Old Man Johnson’s prized pet served as a sort of mascot. She had no idea where he’d gotten it from. Orville was a kindred spirit who also desired to be free of the Ranch. He just had more limited options than Gretchen did. The poor beast loathed Johnson though, that much was readily apparent.

She sidled up to the cage, hands on her knees, watching the ape as it ate the various fruits and vegetables Lewis had left. She smiled and waved. The orangutan gave her a cursory glance, then resumed eating his dinner. He normally had a much more jubilant reaction when she stopped by. Gretchen was the ape’s “favorite human” according to Lewis. Honestly, she didn’t doubt that one bit. When he was a juvenile, he’d eat right out of her hand and even let her pet him. She had a stronger bond with the orangutan than any of the working girls Gretchen wasn’t allowed to own any pets while working at the Ranch, so Orville functioned in that capacity. The no pets rule didn’t apply to fish or small mammals and reptiles that could be kept in tanks. But she didn’t want a pet fish. They tended to die easily. As for hamsters and gerbils, she’d never consider having one as a pet. And she harbored an innate fear of all reptiles.

Strange that Orville reminded her of that.

She left Orville to finish his dinner. Two weeks left. She could handle that.

 Would Johnson keep his word? People had disappeared from the Ranch before—unruly clients, reporters, some of the working girls. Several with no explanation ever given. Gretchen wanted to avoid their fate.

An electric tension crackled in the air. A bevy of illicit dealings were rumored aside from prostitution and pornography. Drugs for one, as well as other shady activities that no one ever discussed for any reason. Dark satanic rites, black masses practiced in secret, underground bases, including one rumored to be beneath this very establishment. The invisible masters who gave Johnson his marching orders hung over the place like a dark shroud.

 Gretchen decided not to worry about things beyond her control and focus on the present. She’d be gone soon enough. She truly believed that with all her heart. She wouldn’t let Johnson’s shadow hover over her any longer.

She worried Johnson may have other plans. A cold shudder surged through her.How far he would go to keep her caged up? As far back as she could remember, Johnson had been a constant presence in her life that refused to be cast off. Though he wore the facade of a shrewd businessman and innovator, Johnson was stark, staring mad.

 After that day, life improved for Gretchen immensely. She’d saved up during her time at Kit Kat Ranch, so she was able to afford an apartment in a more affluent part of Los Angeles. She made a second attempt to break into the film industry., According to her agent, no one wanted anything to do with her for mainstream productions because of her past association with the Ranch. It seemed people were only interested in casting her for pornographic films. She turned downevery offer She had encountered some very shady and salacious individuals offering her roles in these adult films, some of whom rivaled Johnson in their depravity and penchant for perversions. At least that was her general impression from the few meetings she’d had with such men.

Her fortunes changed when she met a handsome, eminent thirty-seven-year-old Arab American businessman named Ahmed Abdallah. He even secured Gretchen a speaking role in a feature horror film. A minor part, but she hoped it would open doors for her.

What’s more, Ahmed told her his father was even more well connected. He was good friends with a few industry insiders from Dubai who had financed several Hollywood productions. Not just independent or art house films. Actual multimillion dollar budget films.This wasn’t why she dated Ahmed. His personality complemented her own: generous, kind, and innovative. His connections were an added bonus, a welcome boon.

It had been three months since she’d left Kit Kat Ranch, and she’d been invited by Ahmed to meet his family at a small dinner party in a lavish Beverly Hills apartment complex. They’d only been dating a month, but Ahmed insisted. He told Gretchen it would be the perfect time to introduce her to his father. Ahmed had told his father about her aspirations to establish herself as a serious actress in Hollywood. Ahmed hadn’t told him of her past occupation, but he assured her it wouldn’t matter. She’d still been nervous about the dinner.

“Do not worry, my dearest, you are beautiful and radiant, with a truly loving soul. They will see that—you have nothing to fear,” Ahmed said. They had kissed, and together strode into the penthouse.When her phone rang from a private number, Gretchen didn’t think it was unusual. Her agent often called from a private number.

She stopped at the threshold to answer.

“Hello?”

Silence at first, then a deep bass voice she didn’t recognize said, “Abraxas…”

The next thing she knew, she was standing in the dining room. She was no longer holding her phone. Her hair was matted with blood that stained her hands, legs, and dress. She attempted a forward step, but slipped in a puddle of blood, arms flailing for balance. Gretchen kept herself from falling by bracing on the table edge.

Her mind refused at first to accept what her eyes beheld. Yet it was a cold reality of obscene splendor that could not be denied. Sprawled all over the capacious chamber were the bodies of Ahmed’s family. All five were dead, brutally murdered by an assailant who had utilized any and every available item in the room as a weapon for bludgeoning and stabbing, done with efficient, machine-like precision.

Her body grew rigid. Ahmed had sustained the most grievous wounds. His battered and broken body resembled a human voodoo doll. Instead of pins and needles, silverware had been plunged into his torso. His eyes had been gouged out. She stared at her bloodstained hands once again.

At first, Gretchen thought she must have been injured in this heinous massacre as well. But there wasn’t a mark on her.

It made no sense.

This was the work of Old Man Johnson. She wasn’t sure how, but deep in her heart, she knew. The fact that she was alive while Ahmed and his family were brutally murdered all but confirmed this. Given the “good ol’ boy” network he was a part of, it would be simple for one as well connected as Johnson to arrange such an atrocity, even against an individual of means. He’d done it before—several times—and for the pettiest of reasons

This was Johnson’s revenge for her walking away. To Johnson she wasn’t a person, but a possession.

The depths of his sadistic cruelty and its potential repercussions was a lot to process.

Gretchen felt numb. She should be grieving. Ahmed had loved her. She had loved him. And that bastard had ripped him from her life before they could even have a future together. Yet that part of her had been shut off.

“It’s not fair…” she said, a silent tear running down her cheek.

She was behaving more like a petulant child than an adult.

She knew Johnson. He had something else up his sleeve. There was much more to this than it seemed at a surface glance. That certainty flowed like acid through her veins. But to be sure, she had to check the security recordings, which were located in an alcove at the rear of the penthouse.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Her hands shook as she rewound the tape half an hour back.

 Gretchen pressed play, holding her breath as she watched the footage. Tears welled up in her eyes. Her heart broke right then and there.

The individual who killed Ahmed and his family wasn’t some assassin.

Gretchen threw up a little in her mouth.

“No…” she said aloud, to no one but herself. “It can’t be.”

Yet she knew it to be true. At some level she had already known. The assailant she saw on the screen was one she saw every day in the mirror. She backed away from the monitor, almost fainting.

It beggared belief. She wasn’t trained in any type of fighting style, and the savagery of the attacks, the lusterless, dead eyes of the woman on the security monitor who wore Gretchen’s face. It was like an alternate persona. But she’d never suffered from such psychological issues in the past, nor had she ever been diagnosed. It was like a demon had possessed her mind, body, and soul.

No. This was something else. Something more deliberate and insidious.

Mind control. Trauma based mind control.

Where had she heard that term before?

A memory from a couple years ago came to her. He had been one of the weirder ones she’d had at the Kit Kat Ranch. She loathed the scientific type. They were drab, dull, and uncreative. This one claimed to have done some work for the military.

“Mind control, ma’am, it’s a real thing,” he’d said. He was a slight, bespectacled middle-aged man, an unimpressive specimen all things considered.

 Pretty much his only remarkable quality had been his knowledge.

“Mind control?” she’d asked.

He smiled like a weasel, with an eerie gleam in his eyes.

“The beautiful thing about it is that they have no clue, literally no clue that it’s been done. That’s how fucked up in the head they are!”

She had recoiled from his touch. “That sounds horrible. I’d kill myself before I’d let someone do that to me.”

The man grinned. “But how would you know? You wouldn’t! You could be under Monarch control right now, the perfect mind-controlled slave, and you’d be perfectly happy, have no memory of it at all, none at all. It would all be cataloged into your subconscious—”

“I think you should leave right now.” she’d said.

The man had done a double take, slack jawed and wide-eyed.

“Why?”