“. . . Girls want to be her / Boys want to be her / I want to be her,” a singer wails from the stage of a grungy metal club. A hole-in-the-wall that even the Sex Pistols in their heyday would’ve said was too filthy. The perfect club for a wild child of the night, for an untamed mistress like Midnight: red and black hair and makeup and leather and mesh, tats and tits, fishnets and piercings. Holes in her head and morals, the life of a freewheeling spirit, evident by her gyrating between partners of questionable identities and virtues. A t-girl who should be setting an example, be a pillar of her community, but instead chooses to be a foul, flamboyant, flaunting fool. She’s perfect—the perfect target for an opportunist on the hunt.

Tonight’s the night. The last Midnight.

💀💀💀

Later, outside the club, she bids adieu to her playmates. She takes out a flimsy joint to entice new toys. The siren song of police sends her scurrying out of sight, wandering down a poorly lit alleyway, a hellhole, an abyss, a hunting ground. The alleyway goes pitch-black dark . . . darker . . . darker . . .

Midnight awakens in a room devoid of life and of any color, bleak and brown like a dirty public lavatory. A grave of nothingness. No exit. The room is cold, colder than the fall night, colder than the chilling winds of an early winter. The surroundings are damp, moist from an unseen source. Not rain, not snow, but the reminisce of those that died in this limbo before. No exit.

Duct tape over her lips, there is no way to scream out. Assuming there is anyone near to hear or care. Her hands are in steel handcuffs connected to a towing hook, bolted to a run of chain from the ceiling. Her legs are being pulled earthbound by another chain and cinder blocks. She is being stretched out by gravity. A high ceiling makes this force possible. Amid the looming threat of isolation with her captor, there seems no hope of being rescued. In her circles, both the rocking and transgender communities, bad shit just happens. No one pays any attention to the loss of another drugged-out, sexed-up tranny. The only one who can save her is herself.

Taking in the poor condition of the room, the low wattage of a single bulb dangling from the ceiling gives little indication of much. No sign of a wall or ceiling-mounted cameras. Apart from the heavy chains, the room tells a story of frugality and utility over a quixotic framework: it is simple and utilitarian. Cinder blocks and duct tape are cheap, abundant items. The blocks can be bought at any large hardware store or stolen from a construction site. Duct tape can be purchased anywhere—from gas station convenience stores to every Walmart on the planet. Chains are just as readily available, minimum fuss required. The room’s minimal design and weak lighting is a page out of any crime analyst’s text, imparting dread, despair, and eventual lethargy from the victim. No exit. No way out, no way to safety—a dark, windowless, seemingly doorless tomb.

The only oddity are the police-style handcuffs. Maybe the perp bought them at a surplus store, or worse, this is a “vigilante” cop. Police abusing their access and authority for personal gain isn’t unheard of, particularly against the marginalized. A lot of Lou Ford and Dexter wannabes out there. Look up records of a person on the fringes of society that nobody would miss. Who better than someone who sells their body—sold their soul—to be their self?

The who, what, where, when and how doesn’t matter. Getting free from this bastard’s bondage is what matters.

Midnight shakes around to gauge her suspicions of a lack of cameras. Minutes pass. Nothing. Now the use of her legs, lifting both together where it looks like she is sitting in midair. The weights on leg day are more of a challenge than the cinder blocks. The bastard must have assumed she was too weak from HRT to attempt an escape.

Fucker!

The handcuffs are tight by design, but they still have a bit of give to reach the—

CLANK.

A crash of metal from one of the walls. A seam forms, giving way to a door that opens outward into more darkness. From the shadows, a male form emerges, dressed in a hoodie and a Party City Predator mask.

How appropriate.

“Ah good, you’re awake,” says a slightly pinched voice. “I was afraid you wouldn’t be alert for the festivities to come.”

That tone. Where have I heard that tone?

He steps closer, admiring his handiwork. “I wasn’t sure if that dose I gave you would be too much for someone of your unique . . . anatomy.”

He places a silicone-gloved hand upon Midnight’s face, holding it firm as he examines her.

Use your anger as if you were afraid of him. Throw the bastard off.

Tremors, flinches and tears.

“My dear, you have nothing to fear—not yet. You are an interesting specimen.” His other hand gropes her crotch, confirming his suspicions. “You’re not my first transsexual . . . deviant, and you’ll be far from my last.”

That phrasing. I’ve heard that before.

Thinking back: “You’re not my first transsexual . . . tenant and you’ll be far from my last.”

Hate fills her eyes. You sick bastard!

Checking her face, he is not done toying with her. “Don’t worry, my dear, I am an equal opportunity processor. I haven’t just dispatched you gurls, I have recycled a few of the bois, and I will have trophies from non-binaries soon enough. Speaking of . . .”

The bastard pulls on an outer nose ring from Midnight’s face, taking a piece of her nostril in the process. Blood flows like a river. She yells out in pain, only for the duct tape to muffle all but the faintest of screams.

“I guess hormonal replacement therapy doesn’t come with the same pain tolerances that natural biology allows. A shame. What I am about to do will be very, very”—he draws out his pause for effect—”uncomfortable, my dear.” Holding up the blood- and tissue-soaked ring for her to see, he adds, “This will go nicely with the rest of my trophies.”

I will fucking kill you! Eyes burning on every one of the bastard’s movements.

“Yes, yes, yes, lose yourself in anger. Let the hate fill every pore of your being. Death is your destiny; hate is the final fleeting remains of your pathetic existence.”

Calm down. He wants you to be angry. He wants you to expend your energy before you can force it in the right direction. Stop before you lose all your fight.

Holding back the pain, Midnight listens to the voice in her head, but continues to look frayed for the benefit of this bastard.

“Good, good. Get mad. You will do well at the end of my knives.” Stepping out, he says, “Don’t go anywhere.” Then he chuckles as he leaves.

Another loud CRASH.

Midnight’s face is in agony, the torn flesh of her nostril burning.

Fight through the pain. Breathe. Breathe. Not too hard. You don’t want to suck up any of your blood. You could choke. Be calm and careful. Calm and careful.

Her hands grip the chain above her head, popping the cuffs free from the hook. She begins lifting and tucking her legs back and forth, back and forth, building momentum, harder and harder, faster and faster.

Loud CRASH. The door pops open. The bastard pushes a cart inside. “I hope you’re ready for—” He stops at the sight of Midnight’s swinging. “What are you doing? Stop that. Stop that this instant!”

You’re the boss.

Releasing on a forward swing, she flies cinderblock-first into the bastard, sending him through the wall, breaking the blocks on impact.

Midnight rips the duct tape off her mouth. “FUCK YOU!”

She pats his form for the handcuff keys and pulls out a keyring. Unlocking herself, she takes the cuffs off her wrists and locks the bastard to a piece of exposed rebar.

“See how much you like it, fucker.”

Not content, Midnight looks over the assortment of tools on the bastard’s cart: knives both large and small, saws, crowbars, hammers and mallets. She grips a heavy crowbar in one hand and a large knife in the other and returns to her assailant’s side. He was still unconscious on the floor, or so she thinks. She sets down the knife. Crowbar at the ready, she leans over the bastard and, in one swoop, unmasks him. This Scooby Doo moment is brought to you by the landlord’s illegitimate son, Alvin Bach. The bastard is nothing more than a snooty fuck, taking advantage of the outliers of society.

“You fucking piece of shit,” she says, slamming him in the crotch repeatedly with the crowbar.

Thrashed, awoken in pain, he reaches for the discarded knife. Mid-swing, the bastard stabs her in the lower arm. Midnight drops the crowbar and staggers back. In spite of the pain, the bastard manages to rise to his feet.

Gloating, he takes the opportunity to mansplain: “Rule one for being a killer, never get too caught up in your own malevolence.” He gives her a swift kick.

“Good advice,” she says, getting her bearings. Then she pushes the cart at him, knocking the bastard back. Taking the opening, she races off out the side door and into the front hall. She is greeted by a large window overlooking the cityscape, the wayward neighborhood of ramshackle offices below. She’s on the top floor of her building. No point yelling for help.

Surveying the space, there’s a door in the far corner, a roaring fire crackling in the fireplace at the other. An exit waits, if only it wasn’t spinning. Midnight looks for anything to serve as first aid. Her movements are slow, dizziness from blood loss dragging her down. Staggering, she wanders into the kitchen.

No time to doddle. Proper first aid can wait. Need to slow the bleeding if I can’t stop it.

In a drawer, she finds rubber bands, wrapping them around her elbow multiple times, working as a makeshift tourniquet. Reaching for paper towels on the counter, she pulls the roll out and wraps it around her arm. From the butcher block, she snags a meat cleaver.

Come and get me, you asshole.

As if he read her mind, the bastard circles the corner of the kitchen island, a fireman’s axe in hand. Down goes the head . . .

“Shit!” Midnight dodges his swing.

“Did you find the accommodations adequate, Miss Midnight?”

“Yeah, they’re a chop above the rest,” she says, swinging the cleaver and embedding it in his back.

Dropping his axe, he howls, “Bitch!”

Midnight grabs the axe and rushes to the front door—only for the rug to be literally pulled out from under her. She falls feet from the exit, cracking her back as she slams into the hardwood.

Looking her over, the bastard sneers, “I’m sorry your stay wasn’t to your liking.” He reaches for a hot poker from the fireplace. “I’ll do better upon check out. Starting with your low . . . hanging . . . fruit.” He stabs her in the crotch, the poker searing, burning, blistering, unholy flames melting the material to her skin and genitalia. Midnight screams. The pain becomes blinding. Fighting shock, she grips the handle of the axe, slamming the flat back against his face. She breaks his nose and knocks him back onto the handle of the cleaver, driving it in further.

The bastard is temporarily disabled. Midnight crawls backwards, overcoming a mountain of pain. She manages to catch her breath, rising to her feet. Deciding to return the favor, she flips over the axe to the blade side, takes a mighty swing, then plunges it down onto the sadistic bastard’s crotch, pinning his manhood to the floor. He wails out in agony. Unable to dislodge the axe with one hand, she kicks the bastard across the face. With that, she staggers out into a long hallway, racing to an elevator at the other end.

Reaching the elevator, she finds . . . it’s key operated. Of course it is. She searches herself, frantic.

“Looking for something?” asks a gravelly voice. Her tormentor stands at the far end of the hall, taunting her, dangling the keys like he’s trying to get the attention of a newborn. He tosses them back inside the apartment.

“Shit.”

“Yes, shit.”

Midnight spies a staircase behind him, mocking her.

The bastard follows her gaze. “It’s your only way to freedom, but you’ll have to get through me.” He raises his blood-covered axe. “Do you have anything left to give?”

Only so much, she thinks—until, coming into her periphery, she sees her way to salvation. Even for a psychopath, safety matters. She pulls a fire extinguisher from the wall with her good hand and cradles the body of the extinguisher in her bad one. “I think this will do.”

“Bring it on . . . bitch!”

Blood-soaked and broken, this battle is the last stand. Like a pair of medieval jousts on imaginary steeds, the two charge at one another, screaming for life, death, vengeance, and gory glory. In the end, only one is left standing.

💀💀💀

Down the last of the stairs and out the door, Midnight stumbles into the early morning—bloody, beaten and burned, but alive. The bastard’s head hangs from her fingers by his stringy hair. It’s no longer the vestige of a human, but a trophy for all his fuckery, for all his detestable acts, and God knows whatever else.

Making her way down an empty city street, Midnight tosses the bastard’s head into a city dumpster. A trashy end for a trashy creep claiming to be a man. No reason to litter.

When she has time to reflect, she wishes she’ll have the strength to move on from this deplorable episode. From the darkness breathes life, and from life, hope.

And she hopes she will make it to an emergency room before the adrenaline wears off.