Cancel Culture by Kim Cancerous - HTML preview

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5

Finally, enough was enough. Samantha had tired of his cycles. She’d seen Kara and Kara’s fiancé; how happy they were. Sure, the two had fights, but nothing like Samantha and Colin.

Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer Samantha, at Kara’s urging, decided to give Colin an ultimatum. Get mental help, get in therapy, get on the right meds, or they’d have to split up.

Colin didn’t take well to Samantha’s request. He took it personally. As an insult.

Accused her of cheating on him, trying to find a way out of their relationship.

Samantha, while sitting next to Kara, in Kara’s tiny apartment, sniffled and cried on the phone as Colin berated her. Kara, her pink hair in a tight bun, knitted her brows, and looped an arm over Samantha’s shoulder, leaned in and listened to Colin’s cursing, his shrieking voice, and then whispered to Samantha that they should call the police.

Samantha pursed her lips. Shook her head. She didn’t need the cops. She could handle this herself. And so she drew in a deep breath and summoned the courage to end things, knowing Colin needed far greater help than she could offer. Like Kara had said, Samantha knew Colin would have to sort out his issues before he could have a successful relationship with her. Or anyone.

After telling Colin this, he yelled even louder, and for the first time, threatened to kill her. But she simply hung up. Then collapsed into Kara’s arms, burst into a fit of hot tears.

But, later that dark, windy night, Samantha’s sadness shifted to fright and her stomach churned.

She worried Colin would call back. Maybe show up to her apartment, with the most malevolent of intentions...

Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer 6

Eerily, though, she heard nothing from him. She worried he’d taken it too hard.

Maybe had killed himself.

But then she remembered his guttural, sibilant screaming, how he’d threatened to kill her. And she started to become increasingly panicked.

What if he was serious? What if he showed up to her workplace, to her apartment?

Worse yet, he was rich. Not super-rich, but wealthy. A trust fund kid with ample financial resources. Aside from painting and going to art galleries, traveling, he didn’t do much, so he had plenty of time and plenty of money to attack her. Or hire someone to do the job.

She started to picture that. She’d read an article online about Dark Web sites offering “life-ruining services”, for-hire services selling stuff like disfigurements, e.g. throwing acid at someone’s face, or beating someone with a blunt object and paralyzing or otherwise maiming them; or grapple-fucking or murdering them; or even just spreading online rumors, sending fake or real nude pictures to porn sites; hacking into someone’s Twitter or Facebook and posting outlandish tirades; stealing their identity, driving them into debt, all sorts of nastiness. Colin could easily pay for that…

Or he could hire a mob guy or a cartel killer, a professional killer. Just thinking about that made Samantha peer out her living room window, terrified that there was a masked man, hiding in an adjacent building, a sniper, perhaps, who’d shoot her from afar, kill her like Kennedy.

Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer But it didn’t have to be done with gunfire. A hitman could possibly poison her.

She’d read about that in a thriller novel. A pro-hitman could easily disguise himself as a policeman or repairman, gain entry to her apartment and lace her food with cyanide or anthrax.

Or he could be following her, to and from work, mapping her movements. He could be anyone. Anyone among the knots of people. He could be some inconspicuous bald guy in a business suit, walking briskly by her on a bustling subway, jabbing her in the small of her back with a syringe and she drops dead on the spot and the whole thing looks like a heart attack.

Or a former IRA operative, a killer rigging her apartment with a bomb. Like one of those bombs that could be triggered by opening the fridge or turning on the stove.

After thinking of that one, she only ate takeout for a few days, checked all her appliances.

Her mind racing at night, she slept less and less. She could see any of those scenarios. She could see Colin, polishing a gun in his palatial bedroom. Colin, with his strong jaw set, staring with his evil eyes of shit at the nude paintings of her on his walls. Him throwing darts at her portraits. Him concocting all sorts of dastardly schemes to make her suffer.