It is surprisingly easy to acquire a Neena, a thousand ways of doing so come immediately to the enterprising mind, and a thousand more after hardly a moment’s further reflection; it should be clear, by now, that by applying even a modicum of modest ingenuity, the plethora of ways to kidnap a Neena is virtually as unlimited as the channels on satellite TV.
Let’s say, for instance, that you meet her for mojitos in a bar, one of those chic wood, brick, and/or stucco trendy downtown joints, all ferny green and mellow dark, although please note that a pleasant café, a bookstore, or any one of the many museums of modern art will do you just as well, especially in a pinch, whether pinched for cash or time or, as more commonly is the case, both. (You’re forgetting patience, Pinker, of which I’m pinching the last grain. Please get on with it! Even our hypothetical victim is about to walk away for lack of interest…)
In the museum, for example, she is standing about looking fetching, admiring a Rothko (oh for crissakes, Pinker, a Rothko? Do women—that is to say any woman we’d care to kidnap—really go for that over-intellectualized minimalist macho Abstract Expressionist crap? You might as well say she was looking at Op Art if stretching credulity is what you’re after!!). She’s wearing a tight pair of woman’s slacks, those commonly referred to as “capris,” but these particular slacks are markedly looser at the cuff than typical capris, giving them a sexier, more casual air…well, whatever this sort of trouser may be called, a style, that, in any event (whatever they’re called [?!]—Pinker, if you aren’t sure of the correct name for this cut of slacks why not use a style whose correct name you do know? It would certainly cut down on the need for subsequent research on the part of our poor already-beleaguered research department and the strain on the weary imagination of our hypothetical readers, not to mention all your verbal dilly-dallying and these intrusive notations of mine. Clarity and conciseness would be a much welcome consequence of knowing what the hell you’re talking about–much welcomed by all concerned, I’m sure; I can guarantee you it would be welcomed by me) leaves a good part of her perfectly lovely and suggestively rounded calves exposed, as well as her delicately turned and delicately adorned—with anklets, of course —ankles.
These pants, in addition, (sigh--the pants, again) are low-slung, hip-huggers, so let us imagine them, made of denim, pink, to keep it simple, the mulberry-t of a lacy g-string exposed just above the waistband when she squats down to take a photograph of a lower-than-usually hanging Cy Twombly or to examine, studiously, the loose brushwork near the bottom left-hand corner of a late deKooning. Is that a tattoo we espy at the small of her back, a butterfly, perchance, a camellia, a provocative bit of Chinese calligraphy? (NO! Not yet, Pinker! Patience, patience!).
Okay then, to continue: (Yes, please, we’ve begun to give up hope…first patience, now hope…we can’t afford to give up much more!) the buttoned top she’s chosen (-rolls eyes-) is extremely brief, but not too brief (ridiculous, stupid—but the funny thing is… we actually know exactly what this means…), clinging to her plump breasts and upheld by the daintiest of spaghetti straps at the same time that the brevity of the top gives a complimentary glimpse of her navel, doing so in that teasing, oh-so-adorable peek-a-boo fashion which we cannot get too much of. The aforementioned navel is pierced and set in a tanned and concave tummy which would be completely exposed if she reached up, even just a little, to take a snapshot (of a Giacometti/Brancusi/Easter Island (?) statue--this is not the place to skimp on detail, Pinker) for instance, or to readjust (or completely remove, I suppose?), a barrette or pink scrunchy that has, up to this point, restrained her voluminous hair, taming it, temporarily, into a sleek but sassy ponytail, blonde or brunette, take your pick.
Naturally, our Neena would not be complete without the usual—and at the very least semi-impractical—sexy footwear: in this case, a funky but fashionable pair of platform mules would do nicely for a day at the museum, their color relatively unimportant, open-toed, need it be said (and yet you cannot resist saying it, anyway, can you Pinker? You inveterate pervy foot-lover, you…) backless, to suggest easy and imminent removal, as per always, or, even better, to imply their instantaneous loss during any application of force upon her person whatsoever, ie. dragged into obscure alleys or carried up flights of stairs through eerily uninhabited buildings, likewise eerily uninhabited landscapes, etc.
You approach, round-aboutly, to avert suspicion, as human predators all-too-often make an alarming bee-line; instead you approach according to the usual benign formulas, smiling, looking as friendly as it is possible for you to look, or serious, all-business, “quite in earnest,” like a college professor or an amateur student of art history. If possible, you might ask an easily-answerable question such as “Are there more Rothko’s on exhibit, do you know?” or “Do you think they might have a print of this in the museum shop?” Even better yet, for those with a little more imagination (but not much more), a more open-ended statement may be in order, such as “I didn’t realize the actual painting was so big”—or small, or anything at all, it really doesn’t matter.
The goal is to seem harmless enough that a subsequent invitation to share a cup of coffee would not be out of order, the offer proffered suavely, but playfully, just a tad off-handedly, to take a piece of cake “at a charming little bistro not far from here,” won’t seem like the come-on of a pervert, and, after that, a suggested date, maybe, for a movie, dinner, and/or some late-night drinks and dancing won’t seem like the bait to a trap that it actually is.
Now, let’s suppose you’ve done it all correctly. Your Neena marked, the date set, you may proceed from here with or without haste as circumstances warrant. It’s not important, ultimately, whether it’s the first night, the second, or the third—one night, unless you are hopelessly inept, you are bound to return to your apartment and from there a sexual encounter of some sort will certainly proceed—or begin to proceed—from this to that and the other. It is up to you, of course, to choose correctly the form of seduction appropriate for the particular variation of the basic Neena you may find on your couch, window-seat, futon, bean bag chair, etc., or even bed, if you’ve been lucky and/or skillful enough to take it that far, if you are in the mood, not too nervous, and find such exertions necessary, desirable or, for that matter, even possible; generally speaking, though, it’s usually more convenient to have your Neena already laid out unconscious long before you even attempt to proceed.
The injection is administered while she is lying on her belly to receive one of your “world’s famous” shoulder massages, let’s say, or, even better, with her knees pulled up under her as she readies herself for anal penetration (are you really that good?). She loses consciousness rapidly, but not all that rapidly, as one should not miss the exquisite eroticism of seeing the paralyzed terror, the disorienting confusion, the shock and uncomprehendingly slow realization (lubricious paradox!) of betrayal in her eyes as she feels herself being stripped, prepared, and packed for transport for upcoming atrocities, everything removed, from her jewelry right down to her pink glitter toenail polish. (Nice little touch this last. Bravo, Pinker!)
You explain to her the obvious, patiently, if you are a patient man, and perfunctorily with violent threats, blows, and over-the-top brutality if you are not so patient, or if you are pressed for time, or if you get excited by being a bastard, or if you simply can’t be bothered with any more subtleties now that the preliminaries are concluded, and she is now, to all intent and purposes, your property, that she is henceforth your meat-slave, your sex mannequin, pain-slut, etc. She may start babbling at this point, or blubbering, or both, in fact the chances are almost certain that she will do either and/or both, and, usually, relatively incoherently at that (is there really any other kind of babbling/blubbering? –sigh-), something about “how you can’t do this,” or the ever popular “how can you do this?,” or, best of all, and not exclusive of the foregoing, “please don’t do this to me.”
You can listen, or not, to her pleas and blandishments, it can be amusing, or even a turn-on for certain types, for others, it’s just sounds like a lot of nagging. In any event, a gag will stop the caterwauling soon enough if you grow bored, or insulted, or just plain annoyed; and, naturally, the situation itself may require silence. An often quicker, and even more effective inducement to peace and quiet, especially if a gag isn’t close to hand (any dolt whose gotten to this point, Pinker, without a gag “close to hand” deserves to have his ears nagged off, or, at least, boxed, don’t you think?), is a threat to slash her face to ribbons or to cut her throat. This will usually convince her to pipe down. If time is of the essence or words fail you, a good old-fashioned, open-handed palm strike across the face, the kind that leaves a shocking scarlet imprint of your hand on the soft, ultra-sensitive flesh of her oh-so pale, oh-so creamy cheek will seldom fail to do the trick—and ah that tell-tale rosy hue!
On the other hand, if you do choose to listen, then what gems might fall from those soon-to-be-bruised lips! You might hear something along the lines of how she knows your name, your address, your phone number, even your email addy; how she’s linked to your Twitter, Facebook, Youtube, Xtube account, etc. and how several of her friends and family all have this information, as well, or soon will, if she’s gone missing too long. They surely will make inquiries, contact the police, who will come looking for her, (and you), and know exactly where to find you both, blah, blah, blah.
You listen, an amused and worldly half-smile on your face (the male Mona Lisa?—sorry, Pinker, I just couldn’t resist), a sophisticated, ironical, enigmatic expression, and, yawning, check your Blackberry for upcoming appointments or sports scores, deleting old text messages or listening to voicemail on your cell. When she has, at last, exhausted, this desperate line of reasoning, tired herself of pleading, given up her last-ditch hoping, you will have the inestimable satisfaction of seeing the realization of total and unconditional defeat which registers on her beautiful (still pink-hued, lol?) face when you lay down your trump card, (perhaps, this information ought to come sooner?) which is, the following:
You have established well ahead of time the identity by which she knows you for the specific purpose of her “acquisition.” The apartment, phone, email addy, all of it, even the driver’s license and ancillary cards and wallet whatnot that she’s scoped out snooping here and there at random among your personal effects, are skillfully wrought fakes, it hardly being difficult anymore to procure such realistic-looking bogus documents, or to create them yourself using affordably-priced quality computer software, cameras, scanners, and the like, which are now readily available even to the amateur and/or part-time psychopath.
Nor is it difficult, using said documents, to rent an apartment of furnished rooms that can quickly, and cheaply, be made to look as if someone specific really lived there, right down to the framed family photos on the computer desk. With the recent or, at least, always imminent economic downturn, the city’s real estate market is bound to have something to suit the needs and budget of any enterprising lunatic. The rise of discount department stores, such as the near-ubiquitous Target chain, offers everything you could ever need to make a fake home, at least upon cursory examination, look real.
And so, with a cheerful pedantry (<--why Pinker, you sadist! Not even I could have done better!—lol), you go on to explain to your victim that in the 21st century, more than ever, it is possible to be entirely anonymous, entirely artificial. Not even in the Middle Ages was it possible to be so nomadic, so elusive, to live without fixed and fixable identity—or, perhaps more accurately, to exist in so many places at so may times with so many fake identities. One day you’re this; one day you’re that. Who are you? Who knows!
“Why if I wanted,” you tell her by way of climax, “I can even be you! Ha!”
Touche.
You sound like a lunatic, sure, (and why not?) but she probably will have quieted down considerably by now, which was the main point of your peroration, and, besides, the drug would likely have rendered her more or less, if not totally unconscious, delightfully cooperative, pliant, flexible as a yogic adept, and so you will find her quite ready to be zipped away into a sleeping bag, or neatly folded into a large steamer trunk set for convenience on dolly wheels, or likewise she may be boxed, or crated variously, whatever’s most suitable to your means of transport and the least preposterous.
And, so, just like that, voila! In a mere matter of minutes, your Neena is stowed inside the boot (that’s trunk for you Americans), or rented trailer, or on the floor of a dark, late-model Chevy Suburban van, or whatever your vehicle of choice for cruising the streets on your hunting expeditions.
Plot your course, observe local traffic laws with scrupulous attention, and zap-just-like-that you are on your way out of the city, taking I-95 north or south, home-free in whichever direction you make your home, ie. secluded cabin, rented storage unit, makeshift tomb, do-it-yourself torture chamber, or wherever and whatever you happen to call the place to which you habitually take young, helpless, pretty kidnapped women to torture, rape, and kill.
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