Not My Type :
No girl had ever refused to date Charles Spiffington. He was born into a very wealthy family. From an early age, his parents had spoiled him and he was used to getting everything he wanted. When he grew up, his father pulled some strings and arranged a high-paying job for his son. This allowed Charles to buy himself anything his heart had ever desired.
He drove the most expensive cars, ate at the finest restaurants, wore designer clothes and lived in an exclusive mansion. Having so much money made Charles believe that he could charm his way into any woman’s heart. No girl had ever refused to date Charles Spiffington. But that all changed on the day he met a girl named Gillian Hackworth.
Charles had accidentally bumped into Gillian at a cafe, one afternoon. After he politely introduced himself, they both sat down at a table together and Charles ordered they some coffee and pumpkin bread. The two spent hours talking about their favorite music, books and movies.
Time flew by and soon it was almost closing time. Gillian thanked him for the food, the drinks and the pleasant conversation. As she was about to leave, Charles grabbed her gently by the hand.
“Gillian,” he said. “I had the most wonderful time with you this evening and I’d like to get together with you again. How about tomorrow night? Dinner and a movie. It will be my treat.”
There was a small pause, then Charles watched as Gillian’s sweet smile slowly turned into a nasty scowl.
“I’m sorry, Charles,” she said angrily. “It’s just that… well… You’re just not my type.”
With that, she jerked her hand out of his grip and stormed out of the Café. Charles just sat there, dumbstruck. He couldn’t understand what he had done wrong. They had been getting along so well, everything had seemed to be going perfectly. What could have happened to make her so angry?
Being a stubborn man, Charles was not about to let Gillian slip through his fingers. During their conversation, she had told him that she was a creature of habit. So, for the next few weeks, Charles returned to the Café every day, in the hopes of bumping into her again. Each time he went, he had a bunch of flowers in his hand.
Every day, Gillian would look through the cafe window and see Charles sitting inside waiting for her. The minute she saw him, she would storm off back her car and drive away.
This continued for a long time. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Finally, Charles couldn’t take it anymore. After Gillian had driven off for what felt like the hundreth time, Charles took the flowers he had brought for her and threw them on the ground. Then he began stomping on them violently, much to the alarm of the other people in the cafe. Charles never cared if anyone saw his outrageous behavior.
“Thats it!” he yelled. “That’s the final straw. Gillian Hackworth, I don’t care what you say. I’m going to make you my girlfriend if it the last the thing I ever do!”
The next day, Charles looked up Gillian’s address in the phonebook and drove straight to her house. It was getting dark outside and dark clouds were beginning to gather. It seemed like a thunder storm was brewing. Charles stepped out of his car and walked up to Gillian’s front door. He pounded on it impatiently for five minutes before the mail slot suddenly opened and he heard Gillian’s voice.
“Charles, what the heck are you doing?” she asked.
Charles got down on his knees and peered in through the mail slot.
“Gillian,” he said. “I dont understand why you won’t go out with me. We had such a great time together at the cafe. We obviously have a lot in common. We clearly enjoyed each others company. I don’t understand what went wrong. Why won’t you go out with me?”
“I already told you, Charles,” she replied curtly. “You’re just not my type.”
“If I’m not your type, then who is?” he shouted, angrily. “I can buy you expensive clothes. I can give you beautiful jewelery. I can take you to the finest restaurants. What more could a woman wish for? What do I have to buy you to get you to go out with me?”
There was a long pause, then Gillian opened the door.
“Oh, Charles, Charles, Charles,” she said, shaking her head. “I told you you’re not my type. But if you really want to know what my type is, just come inside and I’ll show you.”
Pleased that his determination was beginning to pay off, Charles gladly stepped into the hallway and Gillian closed the door behind him.
“You see that door at the end of the hall?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Go inside and you will see what type of men I like.”
Charles did as she instructed. He walked to the end of the hallway and opened the door. There was a staircase that lead down to a basement. As he walked down the steps, Charles wondered what Gillian wanted to show him. He figured that she must have pictures of all her ex-boyfriends that she wanted him to see.
When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he noticed that there was a strange odor. It smelled like rotting meat. Putting his hand over his nose and mouth, he reached for the light switch and flipped it on.
To his horror, he realized that he was surrounded by the dead bodies of twelve or thirteen young men. Some were nailed to wall, some were hanging from the ceiling and others were lying in wooden boxes on the floor. All of the corpses were headless.
On a table, against the wall, their severed heads were arranged in a row. Their dead eyes were open, staring blankly.
Suddenly, Charles felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and found Gillian standing there, clutching an axe. Before he had a chance to scream, Gillian swung the axe and it sliced straight through his neck. His severed head was sent flying across the room and his body crumpled to the ground.
Gillian put down her axe. Then, she walked over to Charles’ severed head, picked it up by the hair and smiled.
“Now you’re my type,” she said and kissed him on the lips.