Twilight of the Gods

The office was buzzing like a beehive. President Wallner had taken over; there was a lot to do. After the hunt, the big cleanup began. The president went down to the forensic medicine morgue to see Frank Halter himself. Dr. Gangl explained everything. "Two shots, precise to the knees. One shot to the intestines. One shot across the cranium, the skull. That split his skull bone and tore away lots of brain matter. The other injuries were the result of the fall from a great height, but he was already dead by then." Dr. Gangl glanced briefly at the president. "Hofstätter is a good shot, four precise shots from 30 meters. Wadcutter ammunition, Hofstätter played it safe. Not just a tickle, but a man-stopping, lethal shot." He turned fully to the president and looked up into his eyes. "I see the eight poor women before my eyes, as well as the three dead judges and the dead bodyguard. I see Ms. Morgentau's battered back before me, which I had to oint and bandage for weeks afterward. I'm glad that this senseless slaughter is finally over. I'm only human, and I feel the horror just like everyone else." Wallner silently squeezed his hand, then left.

✨

Fatme sat by Ron's bedside for four days and four nights. She only got up when Ron dozed, then she washed her face and used Ron's toilet. Like him, she received the simple hospital food. Rosa came by regularly. Fatme shook her head, "No, thank you! I'm staying with him, no matter how long it takes." It was a statement, not a point for discussion. Ron was mentally alert again by the first afternoon, and by the third day he was already limping around the room, until the nurse shooed him back into bed. He was discharged late in the morning of the fifth day. Leaning on Fatme's arm, he limped to the taxi.

Fatme stood under the hot shower for almost an hour until the boiler was empty. Ron sat beside her at the stove, where she cooked under his guidance. Rosa had done the shopping, Fatme sliced ​​the pork loin and fried the small medallion pieces in butter. Then she fried the broccoli, the carrot slices, and finally the halved tomatoes. Rosa arrived right on time with the flatbreads from the Turkish bakery, and they ate happily. They didn't skimp on the canned beer; the refrigerator was still bursting at the seams. The meal was delicious.

Ron pushed his plate back. "Fatme, I have to tell you something. Rosa and I did it every night, really properly, with ejaculation and wildly, over and over again, until we were exhausted..." Fatme put her fingers over his lips. "If I were your girlfriend, I would have slept with you just like that, no question. That's perfectly normal, Hakim. To make sure you stay and can be a strong man." Fatme placed her hand on Rosa's forearm. "You're a good friend, Rosa, and thank you. - And now we won't talk about that anymore. Tell me instead how little Bodnar managed to lure the old grump into her cave." Now all three of them laughed with relief, and Rosa recounted the story with meticulous accuracy.

After each encounter, Rosa had lain on Bodnar's broad chest and coaxed every detail about Laura out of him. They had been real, in-depth interrogations. Ron had no idea how good Rosa could be at pantomime. Perhaps Rosa embellished it here and there, but the story was spicy and delightful, and Rosa loved to be raunchy. Rosa used both hands to bring the pantomime to life. Ron and Fatme laughed until they cried, because when Rosa mimed Bodnar's wrinkled face during the happy ending, or when he mounted Yvette and his smug, self-satisfied grin when he pushed Yvette away afterward, or when Laura had milked his seed with strained sweat, they doubled over with delight. Of course, Rosa mimed Yvette and Laura perfectly, the tip of her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth and sweating from the exertion of milking. And Rosa's whole body wobbled as she strained to milk the air with her fist like a wild woman, her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth. And then, like a chaste virgin, she flinched in surprise when she had her lips drawn over the invisible glans and the invisible fluid splashed into her mouth, and then they both shrieked with pleasure.

✨

Rosenblatt slapped Ron on the back in delight as he limped back into the office. "Didn't I tell you, Hofstätter could hit a fly from 100 meters! Bravo, Hofstätter, you've put an end to that monstrosity... and saved us a lot of trouble. I mean, of course, all the paperwork, hey!" Rosenblatt sat down with Ron by the screen and showed him all the reports and documents that he and Bodnar had produced. "Rosa dictated the showdown to me; she's an eyewitness, after all. Speaking of eyewitnesses, you two have to go to the magistrate and give your statements, you and Rosa as witnesses. A fatal shooting — that's the rule."

Bodnar came over. "Ron, the press conference with the old man was top-notch. Not a word about the Wild West or High Noon. The victims' portraits were displayed as posters behind him; the press also received them by email. He named all the victims and said a few words about each one, so you could get a sense of the eight policewomen, the bodyguard, and the three judges. He was very emotional when he spoke about the judges. "For me, they weren't just names on slips of paper dangling from a dead toe." - "No, they were friends of mine, good friends." The hunt had lasted 11 months and 17 days. Then 75 officers surrounded the cop killer Frank Halter, a brief exchange of gunfire, and the serial killer was dead. One officer was shot but is already on the road to recovery. The Galebnikov and Halter cases are closed and will be archived, for good this time." Bodnar gesticulated wildly. "And then the chief stood up and stared at the crowd, like a lion tamer at his lions. It was deathly silent. And then he thundered, 'Ladies and gentlemen, please either quote me verbatim or put down your pen.' Television broadcast this press conference three times, three times! And the next day, at least in the better newspapers, there was no nonsense; Wallner was quoted word for word."

✨

Wallner entered the aquarium with a bottle of Glenfiddich, and Rosenblatt quickly fetched five glasses from the coffee bar. The president poured. "We gave 150% for a year, and now we've finally caught him. Despite all the cunning, treachery, and tricks, your solid detective work and a bit of luck made us victorious. Let's drink to that!" Wallner raised his glass in their toast, remaining standing with it, and continued. "And let's raise a glass to the health of our good Bodnar. He's leaving us after 37 years as a police officer, vice squad member, and detective. He's taking early retirement at the end of this week; the personnel department has already taken care of everything. Bodnar, here's to 37 years of loyal service! Cheers!" They drank, more or less surprised. Wallner sat down. "Bodnar, I told you so. That Kerzendocht incident took you out of the running. You've become sleep-deprived, unfocused, and unreliable. I can't let the spearhead go blunt, you understand. Early retirement is fine, isn't it?" Bodnar nodded, a lump in his throat. "Thank you, Mr. President!" he finally managed. Wallner turned to Rosa. "The new guy starts next month; I chose him myself, not the minister. A capable fellow, five years of police service, a detective through and through. He'll fit in well with us, I think."

The Scotsman, of course, hit them right in the guts, but an hour later everyone was at their screens, getting on with their work.

✨

Fatme allowed herself exactly five minutes of break, then pulled out her laptop and dove into the material for the third semester. But she wasn't fully focused. She went shopping and tried to cook. Spaghetti and ground beef; she had found a recipe for Bolognese. She was in despair; the half-kilo of ground beef was burning in the pan. When Ron came home, he took it in stride. They ate spaghetti with canned pesto sauce and drank beer. Ron flushed the burnt ground beef down the toilet; it was better if the fish in the Vienna Canal got sick. Fatme was still sitting at the table, turning the beer glass between her fingers. Ron sat down next to her and waited patiently.

Fatme glanced up briefly and then looked down again. "Hakim, I'm pregnant. Frank, of course, hadn't brought any pills. He took me every day and grinned wickedly because my body reacted so quickly during sex. I was ashamed of it, even though I usually enjoy the ecstasy. You know how easily it goes for me, even with most of the guests. Now I'm pregnant. I've taken four pregnancy tests yesterday and today, all positive. I don't want his child, I don't want to carry his child to term." Ron took her hand and stroked it gently. "It's kind of murder, but I don't want his child, I'd rather die," Fatme whispered. Ron roared, "There's no dying here, Fatme, don't talk nonsense! He raped you and got you pregnant. No discussion necessary. Don't make it so hard on yourself, you're not turning against the child, but against the rapist, and rightly so. Of course I'll go with you to the clinic, I stand by you, I'm your man, Fatme." She squeezed his hand and smiled. "I was sure you'd take my hand and hold on tight, Hakim. Thank you, and thank you again."

"But I won't let you get away with the mincemeat murder. We'll practice until we can eat it. Cooking isn't hard, I think. You'll learn it in no time." Fatme breathed a sigh of relief. They were a goddamn good team, she and Hakim. She didn't contact the pimp until 10 days after the abortion. Life went on; the kidnapping, the rapes, and her captivity lay far behind her, shrouded in the mists of the past.

She carefully applied her makeup, smoothed her evening gown, and went to her escort appointment. The pimp swallowed hard when she told him that the triple price had just doubled. "That's right," she emphasized, oblivious to Charly's distressed expression. She told him casually that the price would double and double until it simply became too expensive for the clients. They would stop coming, and that was the whole point. But Fatme was wrong. The clients readily handed over the bills; after all, it was just printed paper, wasn't it? They all wanted a happy ending with this expensive, high-class woman, no matter the cost!

✨

Ron knew she would continue escorting, even after they had taken their vows before the Imam. She would continue escorting until she decided, for example, that she was too old. No, since Frank had been with her nonstop for three weeks, it was essential for her to experience other bodies and orgasms with other men, in addition to those with Ron, her "married" orgasms. They had talked through entire nights, and Ron realized how much she had changed. Fatme lay with her face on his chest, her tears streaming down it. He held her head, her hair, and caressed her, for they were closer than they had been in a long time. Fatme was now walking a tightrope; she no longer simply processed her paying clients professionally and quickly, "in-out-thank you, Madame." No, she wanted to feel her own emotions; she no longer wanted to see her body merely as a money-making machine. No, she wanted, she needed feelings, sensations, ecstasy, orgasms with many different men. The men had paid for the privilege of taking her completely, that was okay. But she only surrendered so that she could feel it too — the arousal, the surge of emotions, yes, even the orgasm, even if she sometimes had to use her clit to help.

Fatme's tears dripped onto his chest, but her whispering voice was steady. "Hakim, I have to be honest with you. And more importantly, I have to be honest with myself. Who I am, and not who I pretend to be. The first time I was allowed to lie down with Dad, I was breathlessly curious and ready to receive him completely. The tearing of my hymen wasn't the spectacular thing; it was the beautiful, even sacred feeling of him gently and tenderly pounding me to climax for many minutes, and only then, ecstatically, he pumped his seed into me, jet for jet, kissing my lips after every single jet. My body signaled how right and how beautiful being pumped was. Even when Charly rented me out the first few times, long before I started escorting, I breathlessly anticipated the moment when the man would penetrate me. That was the real thing, the way I, how my body reacted to his thrusting and pumping, and what I felt. And when I started escorting, I wanted to experience that again and again. Yes, that was me, that was my true self."

When you later asked me to save the 'full passionate program' for you, I agreed. I certainly didn't give the guest everything just to get close to you. But it meant denying my true self. It was Frank who reawakened me. He tried, of course, to get me drunk and make me compliant. He made me swallow poppers, a whole lot of them. Only then did my body react, entirely according to his will. I became more driven than ever before, and he grinned from ear to ear because now he had me where he wanted me. Every day, in the face of death, I returned to my true self. I let my body feel and experience things again and no longer denied my ecstasy. Frank, that idiot, naturally attributed it to his equipment and his 'fabulous skills.' Pah! But I knew it was only me who gave my true self complete freedom. And precisely in those situations, with imminent death before my eyes and insatiable Frank between my thighs, impaled by his enormous member and pumped like a steam engine, then it was like scales falling from my eyes. No, I would never again pretend to be my true self, never again. When I resumed escorting, my true self experienced true, genuine feelings again when I was pounded by the client, yes. Hakim, I know now who I am. Who I want to be." Fatme's soul trembled, but she simply couldn't imagine it any other way.

Ron was no longer so sure whether he would and could continue to approach escorting with such detachment. Nevertheless, or perhaps precisely because of this, she clung to the idea of ​​marriage. "No, you don't need to convert to Islam, Hakim," she had said. "It's quite enough if only one of us belongs to that abominable medieval religious and cultural community. And I won't raise my children to be Muslims, that's for sure. I'll raise them without the straitjacket of my religion or yours, and when they're older, they can decide for themselves." Ron had smiled; he hadn't expected anything different. "And if we do marry," Ron added, "it will only be to make the official declaration of our deep connection. But it's not time for that yet, my love."

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