Gale recently heard rumors about a place called the Ranch. It seems it’s a playground of the rich and shameless. Located in the Nevada desert, members can indulge, for
the right price, in any darkly amusing sin imaginable, supposedly including the torturously brutal murder of beautiful women.”
After flying to Vegas, Gale researched the local paper on Monday morning. The rumors of beautiful women mysteriously vanishing, never to be seen again, were all true. But
there could be dozens of reasons, other than the existence of the Ranch, for these disappearances. However, one common thread ran through most of the disappearances. Most v
ictims’ apartments or hotel rooms looked like they just stepped out and never returned.
On Tuesday, my next stop was the Bureau of Records to see if large land purchases had been made in the desert within 200 miles of Vegas in the last few years. I found several
purchases, but only one large purchase for a thousand acres off Route 93, 120 miles north of Vegas.
The following day, I drove out to check that single large purchase. My GPS said I was there, but there was nothing in sight but endless desert. Pulling out my binoculars, I
noticed an old, rusted barbwire fence about one hundred yards to the east. Curious, I drove along until I spotted tire tracks leaving the road and heading toward a gate in the
fence. The gate, while rusted, was in surprisingly good shape and opened easily on well-oiled hinges. The tracks led between two low hills and ended at a rundown ranch house.
I was just getting out of my car when two men came out of the ranch house carrying assault rifles, “You are trespassing on private property. Return to your car and leave.”
Smiling suggestively, I arched my back slightly to make my cleavage more prominent, “I’m right where I want to be. This is the Ranch, correct? A playground of the rich and shameless,
where for the right price, any darkly amusing sin imaginable, supposedly including the torturously brutal murder of beautiful women, can be had.”
I could sense the guards growing tense, “Relax, I’m not a police officer or a reporter. I’m just a woman who wants to make a deal with your boss.”
I could sense them both relaxing as the lead guard decided, “We have twenty minutes before the next satellite passes overhead. Park her car in the barn. I’ll take her to see the manager.”
The guard escorted me into the ranch house and downstairs to the basement. Like the house above, the basement was dilapidated, except for the high-security vault door on the far wall.
The guard paused to enter what looked like a 32-digit passcode and placed his hand on the palm reader before, with a hydraulic hiss, the vault door swung open, revealing an ultra-high-class
office suite. “Go ahead. The manager’s receptionist will tell you when he’s ready to meet with you.”
Entering the office suite, the receptionist smiled, “Go ahead in. He’s ready to see you.”
Opening the door, I walked into what would have been any successful CEO’s office, motioning me to take a seat across from his desk, “So Gale, what can we do for you?”
Well, it isn’t what you can do for me as much as it’s what you can do to me.”
I could see that I’d perked his interest, “I was thinking of a black latex over bust corset, one that enhances my cleavage while compressing my waist four to six inches, with a matching
thong over black glossy tights with matching high heels. An oversized black rubber ballgag strapped tightly into my mouth, and if you desire, a matching collar around my throat. My killer
is wearing a face-concealing mask with a sword or oversized knife sheathed on his left hip, so long as it has a blade long enough to run me through.”
Leaning back, the manager considered Gale’s request, “Why the mask?”
“From what I understand, your client list contains many well-known celebrities. I want to die on the blade of a stranger, someone whose identity I’ll go to my death never knowing.”
Smiling, the manager replied, “Well, that shouldn’t be a problem; we have a client arriving this evening, one renowned in private circles for his vast collection of swords. I believe
he’s bringing his ninth-century Saxon blade with him this weekend. He should arrive at eight, more than enough time for our staff to prepare you.”
Trying to hide my confusion, “Prepare me?”
“Yes, you’d want to look your best, Gale. They’ll wash and comb your hair, do your makeup and nails, and get you dressed. I’ll have my receptionist take you downstairs so they can get started.”
It was 7:45 in the evening when one of the Ranch’s black-clad executioners led me into the torture chamber. Securing my wrists in the overhead restraints, he pressed the oversized ballgag
deep within my mouth and buckled its strap tight, “The client likes to make his victim scream in agony but try to hold out as long as possible. He likes a challenge.”
It was just after eight when the heavy, soundproof door of the torture chamber opened, and he walked in. He was dressed from the waist down in black leather pants and boots, his sword hanging
in its sheath at his hip, and his face concealed by a black leather mask.
“My, aren’t you a feisty one, Gale? Shall we find out how tough you are with 28 inches of cold steel buried in your guts?”
Before I could make even a gag-stifled response, in a single fluid motion, he drew his sword and brutally ran me through. I felt the sickening sensation of cold steel sliding through my
guts as the razor-sharp blade effortlessly passed through my corset-compressed abdomen and came out my back. The explosion of overwhelming agony was like nothing I’d ever imagined enduring.
Watching the tears welling up in my eyes, he smiled, “I’d preferred if you’d screamed, but I’ll take the tears. And don’t worry, the screams will come. They always do.”
With that, he slowly and cruelly twisted that blade deep within my guts, and with the tears already running down my face, a sharp gag-stifled scream escaped my lips.
Smiling behind his identity-concealing mask, “See, I told you you’d scream, but I’m betting you didn’t think it would happen this quickly.” Then, with a final twist of the blade, he pulled it
out of my guts. Any relief I felt was merely incidental as, seconds later, he ran me through a second time, the blade twisting savagely, slicing obscenely through my insides as I quickly lost consciousness.”
Wiping the blood from his sword, the client pressed the intercom button, “Sorry, Gale can’t come to the intercom. She’s busy dying.” Pausing to judge the growing pool of blood around her high-heel-clad
feet, he continued, “If you’d care to wait, she should be finished bleeding out in another few minutes.”
The Ranch’s manager replied, “Funny. Just leave this one hanging. A cleanup crew is already on their way to pack her for shipment.”
Curious, the client replied, “What does the Resort do with all the bodies you send them?”
“I don’t know. I’ve found that you should not ask too many questions about the Resort. We pack the bodies in ice, and they send a jet to pick them up. About ten percent of what we provide meets
their criteria. They pay us $100,000 for each and dispose of the rest.”
“Drop by my office after you’ve had a chance to clean up. I’m looking forward to you telling me about your latest film project.”
As for Gale, she awoke to discover she’d become an indentured Resort companion, but that’s a story for another time...