If Marilyn Manson had 3 Days to live: The Conclusion Story

Goes all but right . . .

Remember this?

******

Agent Keller stepped down from the podium, a few reporters still trying to ask questions. She walked quickly away before they could get to her. Sweat pooled down her back and into her waistband even though it was 18 degrees outside.

She stepped into her police cruiser, and with the lights rolling, drove quickly away from the scene.

A thousand things went through her mind in a second.

Will I go to prison for this? What would I get charged with? Worse, will I go to hell?

WHY on EARTH would he fake his death. . . what was he planning? . . .

She shivered. Her hair came down from its bun, and the tips found their way into her nervous hand.

He's still crazy, Annie. He's still CRAZY Marilyn. . . He's never changed.

The memory of the last time they spoke was a blur, but she remembered the last time they saw each other:*****

For the first time, she saw the inside of a court room. Her father was beside her, facing the judge.

Brain was on the other side of the courtroom, where the bad people were. 

He wasn't bad though. They were BOTH bad. Guilty. It only looked bad on his part.

"My daughter is nineteen, your honor," Said Mr. Keller to the judge, "I cannot make her do anything, because she is an adult, but please find this man guilty of statuary rape! He is too old for her."

"Granted that they are years apart, but it cannot be statuary rape."

Father pleaded to have an O.P. out for Brian. The judge consented. Brian couldn't come within 500 feet of the nineteen year old. Not for another three years.

Annie could see herself looking at Brian, saying sorry in her watery eyes. He looked back at her behind his dark glasses. He was devoid of any emotion. She could see that he didn't love her.

It was over.

"Annie," her dad said, walking her away from the courthouse, "Listen to your father. That man is crazy. You don't want anything to do with him. He's crazy, crazy Marilyn. You don't love him, girl."

"Yes, daddy."******

"Crazy, crazy, Marilyn." She whispered sadly to herself.

The police scanner sounded, calling for her.

"Unit sixteen, copy."

"Unit sixteen, this is Unit 9, where is the body of Brian Hugh Warner? It's left the scene."

"Copy, Unit 9, he was already taken away by the CSI. He's in the morgue." She lied.

Looking into the passenger seat, a damp leather seat looked back at her. Damp from the water, damp from him wiping away the makeup on his arms. Scars from hell were washed away like they were nothing. He was never cut to begin with.

Her scars, on the other hand, were the kind that couldn't be seen clearly enough to be washed away. Brian doesn't know that though.

He never knew that-

"I still loved him."

****

She arrived at her downtown apartment, the amount of things she needed to do grew and grew before she had the chance to think about which to do first.

She grabbed the money, now dwindling down to 45 thousand dollars. She stuffed it in a cookie jar above the fridge. It was dirty money.

Dirty money that he KNEW she needed.

She was a woman of the law for nearly three years, and she was breaking every rule the men in blue took an oath to. With holding information, extortion, bribery, and treason. Gripping the counter, she panted. . .

But couldn't stop herself.

Next, she ran into the living room, grabbing her phone from the table, and pulling a list out from her uniform pocket. She ripped off her belt, and threw the sixty pound thing onto the floor.

Brian's instructions.

She made the first phone call, a 1773 area code.

It rang.

"Hello?" a man said.

She read what it said on the sheet under READ: "Tell everyone else that he's alive at the. . ."

she looked over the word. Xiekrit.

What did it mean? How do you pronounce that?!

"Zee-krit." she said, confusedly. Hopefully who ever she was instructed to talk to understood.

"Right," said the man's voice, "okay." he hung up.

Shaking back her hair, she looked down the list, and called the next one, an 847 area code.

She felt woozy, like there was a mobster hanging over her, making her do the mob's bloody work.

The dial tone.

A girl picked up, she sounded young. Younger than nineteen. Her voice was unbelievably sad, and racked with tears. She was crying a little into the phone.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Annie paused, heat swelling into her chest. She knew what this was. . . .

The girl said, "Brian? Is this you?"

Annie looked down at the list, under READ it said: Tell the girl who answers: It's not true, don't believe that what's done is done. Meet me at Zack's building in the city tomorrow night. Sorry about scaring you on your birthday.

Annie looked up, the familiar feeling of hate rising into her head, turning her brain into mush. She looked down at the phone, to whatever little girl was on the other line, and quietly said,

"His last words were: I hate her, and hope she has the greatest birthday ever, knowing she killed me." Annie slammed the phone down. Her teeth appeared in a slow, but satisfied grin.

*

Marching into the bedroom, she watched her hands work on their own accord. They pulled open the forbidden closet. A thing not opened since. . .

The doors were pulled wide, posters, papers, clothes, and dolls tumbled out onto the floor. Marilyn Manson's life size picture hung blatantly in the middle. The full body of him in Mechanical Animals where he stares animal-like into the eyes of the beholder, barely clothed, and looking pissed.

Her hands straightened out the things on the floor: Home made Manson-playmate dolls covered with her bite marks, kisses, and worse; Home made clothes replicating his; S&M whips, cuffs, and gag; cut-outs and photos;

and her favorite photos she personally took of him. Passed out. Naked. Many photos with her hand in his mouth.

God, she nearly let him go.

Coming out of a trance, she found her hair in her fist, blood oozed from her scalp. She laughed, sides sore, remembering how much she loved him. How much. . . .

He let her go, though. He didn't want her, he wanted someone new. Someone younger. Who ever she was, she was going to be dead!

She laughed, stuffing her bloody blonde hair into her mouth, silencing her finally. A plan was being formed in her jealous, needing, reeling, mind.

Soon. Revenge.

*********

HAHAHA some thunder rolled just outside my house when I finished this chapter! What a coincidence. I think I'll add rain soon . . . .Next chapter, soon . . .