Romeo Blanco took the time on a Monday, while the restaurant was closed, to make some orders for the more specialty dishes. His office door was opened, so he had no trouble in hearing the pounding on the kitchen door. The bartender heard it also. He made it to the door before Romeo.

There was a petite, beautiful Filipina, proud in her shiny, long, wavy black hair, dressed in fancy evening clothes on the other side of the door. This time, she wasn’t wearing sunglasses; her amber eyes were dancing and her full mouth formed into a pleasing smile.

“Good evening, is Romeo here?”

The bartender Ling said, “Why, yes. I’ll get him.”

“Don’t bother, Ling. I heard the lady ask for me. I’ll take it from here,” Romeo said, walking around from behind Ling, a most obedient Asian-type gentleman who possessed a highly precise way of carrying himself, which made him an asset to Blanco.

“Well, well, the lady herself! I was expecting a curt email when I told you I couldn’t provide the balut anymore,” Romeo said, getting closer to her as she walked inside the kitchen.

Amora Rathbone raised her thin ladylike fingers to stroke his chest hair, peeking out from his V-necked Polo shirt. “My Romeo, I harbor no hard feelings. I know you received a visit from a couple of detectives. I was more disappointed I would not get to see your handsome face again.”

“Wow! I wasn’t expecting for you to be so generous,” Romeo gasped, getting turned on by her sudden affection.

“Tell you what. I’ve made a reservation at the Drake’s dining room. Let’s say I want to smoke the peace pipe in the form of a high-caloric high-class dinner for two. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the special menu the dining room has been famous for,” Amora said, almost with a purring sound to her soft voice.

“Well, I can’t turn that down. Let me change into more appropriate dress in my office. Won’t be long,” Romeo heartily agreed.

Amora and Romeo were taken to the famous Chicago hotel by the Rathbone butler, Wesley Thornton. Throughout the 40-minute drive, Wesley could hear the groaning and moaning of sexual body-banter in the backseat. Pulling into the front entrance of the Drake Hotel, he used a discretionary period of time before he opened the back door of the sleek, black limousine.

The well-dressed attractive and sated couple rolled out of the backseat and made their way to the entrance. The couple, during the dining process of feeding each other oysters-on-the-half-shell and drinking large amounts of a California red blend vintage—along with consuming respective entrees of prime rib—went about a post-sexual exchange.

They came outside of the hotel entrance to notice the night air was uncomfortably still. Another summer heat wave had hit the Midwest. Wesley Thorton dutifully pulled up performing his poised routine; stop, get out, and make sure the couple got into the backseat safely. Amora looked up and whispered to Wesley, “Drive to a dense wooded area near Milwaukee. Take the first exit.”

Romeo’s motor was running on a high caliber of sexual arousal. Amora sat there, waiting for him to begin the dance again. Her full, supple lips felt like velvet. Something wicked brewed as Romeo began to realize Amora’s petite soft body was transforming.

Her hair disappeared into a rough, bald head full of warts. The softness of her lips changed to a feeling of scales, while her teeth, partially decayed, smelled of death. The remaining teeth became sharp razor-like fangs, tearing away his clothes to get to the flesh in his midsection.

Wesley kept driving, pushing a button for a divider to muffle the inhuman sounds of savagery, as well as to shield the reflection from the rearview mirror of a man being eaten still in the state of consciousness. It is unconscionable that a highly-efficient cultured man could let this type of killing go on without stopping it.

The butler held his terror in check, knowing full well the beast Amora transformed into could sense his revulsion combined with hot fear. He pulled into an exit for the Tupelo Wilderness, travelling deep into a dense woods away from any passing traffic.

Wesley moved in trepidation, looking down as Amora used her wingspan to scoop out the torn body of Romeo Blanco. The butler took out cleaning cloths and a bucket of solution. Wiping and drying the entire backseat gave Amora the time to dump the body and transform back into her human shape.

Putting down the cleaning bucket and trash bag of soiled cloths, Wesley pulled out a small piece of luggage. He shut the truck in a simultaneous action to hand Amora her bag, then opened the back door for her. During the heinous evening of sexual liaison, high-class dinner, and post-meal of human aspic, Wesley stayed in his dutiful role of a trusted servant.


I was able to bed down early, knowing Luther might be coming back into the fold of law enforcement. In a dream state during my REM sleep, I became a watcher in a step-by-step progression of a highly unusual night of combining food consumption with cold-blooded murder.

The couple I watched, as though suspended above on some ethereal canopy, was intense in their shared hunger for sexual pleasure. They moved on to an elegantly set table fit for the very rich. They moved on in the backseat of a moving vehicle to resume more sexual play.

Suddenly, being plagued by loud ticking, blood-curdling cries from a man in the throes of unbelievable fear and agony caused me to jerk and thrash all over my bed. The next image I saw and actually felt: the victim’s midsection almost torn in two with his pancreas and liver eaten away. The shock of my body falling to the wood floor woke me from my tortured sleep.

Like a shot hit me, I got up and ran to the bathroom. I doused my head in the sink with cold water, as if the shock of the coldness could vanquish those horrific images. Going back to sleep was impossible. My mouth was so dry it was hard to swallow.

I went into my kitchen and quaffed a glass of ice water before making a pot of coffee. Drinking the strongest coffee I could make, I sat down at my dining table and went into my childhood pastime of sketching.

As dawn approached, I had filled four pages of the images. One of the pages revealed the face of the victim. His round, dark eyes were filled with an intense amount of fear with his mouth opened, as if he was crying out in sheer agony for his life.

I studied the shape of his nose, the specific structure of his square-shaped cheeks, and strong manly chin. I shouted out in the solitude of my quiet apartment, “It’s that restaurant manager owner, Romeo Blanco!”

My next mode of action: get Agent Stark to see these sketches. John, Paul, and George would tout off, saying all those revealing images mute due to showing up in a dream. Over the last three months, my sarcasm about this legend had changed to fully embracing every aspect of it, down to supernatural auspices affecting my very dream state.


For all installments from The Islands Tell of It, click here.

Previous installments:

  1. Chapter 1: The First Victim
  2. Chapter 2: Four Months Before October
  3. Chapter 3: Bobber’s Café
  4. Chapter 4: Heat Wave
  5. Chapter 5: Deep-End Dining
  6. Chapter 6: Rathbone Estate
  7. Chapter 7: Althea’s Run
  8. Chapter 8: Emergency Interrupts
  9. Chapter 9: Girls Talk Turkey
  10. Chapter 10: There Came a Lull