Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  “Suit yourself. If he sucks you off, how does that make you queer?”

  Marvin cursed. Didn’t like the idea of it.

  “That be the kind of shit went down in reform school and bug bin: fag punk’ suckin’ and fuckin’, playin’ grab-ass. I don’t be likin’ it.” He needed to get off, only it was no use. The mothafuckah wouldn’t let him have none, least way’ not right now. If he wait’ he would get his chance at Sloppy Second’—or Thrillin’ Third, but that be later. He be wantin’ in on some tang right now, not a week from now. His dick couldn’t wait that long.

  Biggs had his hands under the blond’s buttocks. Held her up like that as he continued to stroke himself. He probed with a finger and slid it inside her rectum, just as he had that time with Dione Aragon. Different bitch/same method.

  So long as it worked for him. He pushed his finger all the way in. After a while he withdrew it, then stuck it in his mouth and worked it like a Popsicle.

  Suddenly, he grabbed a handful of the girl’s hair, yanked her up, toward his erection, and ejaculated on her face. Forced his organ inside her mouth and ordered her to finish him off. He wanted his knob polished.

  “Lick my cum, bitch. Lick it. Lap it up with fervor. Yeah. Do it right. Polish the knob. Suck the toxins out. Siphon the poison out.”

  She finished him off and he rolled off of her. Dipped his hand into the Little Playmate Ultra Cooler full of crushed ice. He withdrew a can of Hawaiian Punch. Fruit Juice Red.

  Had several long pulls. Marvin asked for a can of the “cat piss” for himself. Biggs let him have his instead.

  “Drain it. And start enlarging the hole.”

  “How big?”

  “How big do you think?”

  “For both of them?”

  “No. Just the ‘bumpkin.’”

  Marvin finished off the Hawaiian Punch, grabbed a shovel and scooted out the open back door. He looked around for the rectangular sheet of weathered plywood that they had left over the shallow grave a while back. As before, they had tossed brush and weeds, rocks and dirt on top of the plywood and it was not easy to locate.

  He discovered it eventually. Dug a hand under one end of it and flipped the plywood over and out of the way.

  Enlarging the grave and having to make it deeper, as usual, required work—not that in and of itself was unusual, as there was always work that was required of him. Problem was Marvin wanted pussy so bad his balls hurt.

  CHAPTER 109

  In another ten minutes Biggs was ready for seconds. He flipped the girl over on her stomach, propped her rear end up so that she was on her knees now, face down against the blood-stained, grimy mattress.

  He stroked his groin some more, watched it harden, and slid it inside the woman’s vagina. Biggs had shut his eyes this time as he did this.

  “I want it to last. We’ll make it last. . . .”

  It was sudden, although not entirely unexpected, when the boyfriend rolled out toward the open back door, landed on his side on the ground outside, scrambled to his feet and made a break for it. The kid took off into the dark woods.

  Marvin looked up, saw Cecil shove his erection back inside his fly, grab the Maglite and withdraw the .357, and hop out of the van after him.

  “Stay here. Keep an eye on her.”

  “Yo. Keep my eye on her all right.”

  Muck dropped the shovel and was in the van, and did not waste time jamming his groin inside the woman’s mouth.

  He discovered soon enough that she wasn’t very good at it. Not many bitches knew how to suck dick; they had to be taught. Only there was no time for dick sucking lessons here. Besides, it didn’t matter. The act alone of seeing her lick it was thrilling enough.

  He slid the entire ten inches in and out. Watched her gasp and gag. Too bad. He liked it this way. Make the bitch choke on it.

  “Suck it, ho. Suck the big black Jones, white trash ho. . . .”

  He withdrew it for a bit. Let her catch her breath. He was grinning. “See, that fuckin’ clown ain’t shit. Got hisself a weird lookin’ sissy-ass weenie. Got them scar’ and shit on it; that black mole right on the head what look’ fuckin’ nasty, if you aks me.”

  He stroked himself. Hurried about it. Needed to blast cum before Omar got back and put a stop to it—and maybe kicked his ass. A-hole Omar.

  He jammed it back in there. She was getting better at it, not gagging and carrying on as much. Yeah. Suckin’ it. He helped her with it by sliding it inside and out. Tried pushing it down as far as it would go once again. She had a hard time breathing. It pissed him off.

  “Do it, ho.”

  He withdrew, nervous about it all. Cecil gonna be back any minute. Fuck. He rubbed the massive head of his groin, and it happened: spurted sperm inside her open jaw. Filling it plenty. Yo. Be like buttermilk. All that white cum filling up the inside of her throat and jaw.

  There was nothing else to see: no teeth or tonsils or even tongue practically. It was all a big load of sour cream or yogurt. Yeah. Yogurt by Marvin Muck. You got it. And it felt good.

  He zipped up. Dug his hand inside the cooler and grabbed a cold Butterfinger candy bar. Jumped out of the van. Took his time biting into the candy bar while resting an elbow on top of the shovel handle.

  There was always a way to beat the dude at his own game. All you had to do was be patient, take your time and wait for opportunity.

  He heard voices, or was it just Omar talking not far from there? Caught up wiff the punk by now. Serve’ the punk right. Shouldn’t a took off that way. Don’t matter. Wouldn’t work out for him nohow. Clown gonna cap his ass no matter what.

  CHAPTER 110

  It didn’t take much or very long for Biggs to catch up to the boyfriend. The kid’s wounds hadn’t allowed him to get very far. He’d kept fainting and faltering, and by the time he was finally able to rise to his knees from the last blackout, he was staring directly into the barrel of Cecil’s Colt “Python.”

  “Now that was a cowardly thing to do: abandon your little girlfriend that way.”

  Biggs smacked him across the mouth with the revolver and watched the kid go down, spitting several teeth, bits of lower lip.

  Biggs shined the Maglite on the kid’s face. There was blood in and around his mouth.

  “Get up.”

  The kid struggled to make it and did not have the strength.

  “Quit your fakin’, boy. Get your dead ass up. Heard what I said, boy?” It was all done in his best John Joseph impression. When the kid still failed to do as ordered, Biggs reached down, snatched him by the cuffs and yanked up, hard. Pointed him in the direction of the Party Wagon. Half-pushed/half-carried him along this way.

  CHAPTER 111

  For all of Marvin’s (seeming) toil and sweat, all he had to show for it was nothing more than a slight improvement on the shallow grave that they had dug the last time they were out here. On top of that, a cigarette dangled from his lips while he lazily shoveled a measly portion of dirt out.

  Cigarette smoke was something Biggs had detested from the time he was a child being around J.J. and the old lady, who were heavy smokers. The smoke caused his belly to cramp and gave him headaches, and it didn’t matter that they were in the outdoors. Cigarette smoke and the smell and taste of rotgut: two things he hated about as much as he hated anything else when it came to being alive. But he let him drag on the butt; the backslider had to have something to make him happy. Never mind that he was close to useless.

  Biggs let the fool go, and took a long, hard look at the girl. Could not be certain that anything was amiss.

  Had the asshole been molesting his piece while he was gone? He couldn’t tell. There weren’t any telltale signs he was aware of. When he turned his head back to look at Marvin, the freeloading retard continued to go about his business with that shovel in his hands as though nothing out of the ordinary had gone on while he’d been off chasing down the kid. Could be he was being paranoid. It was possible. Wouldn’t be the first time.

>   Hole was hardly deep enough. It would do. Biggs gestured at the poor excuse for a grave.

  “Get down there.”

  The boyfriend managed a couple of unsteady steps. It was the best he was able. Tears poured. Snot and blood traveled down his chin. The more anguish of this nature Biggs witnessed, the more he relished it. What it was about. What he lived for.

  “Please. Don’t. Please. . . .”

  “Lie down in the grave.”

  The kid hesitated, his blood-filled eyes imploring to be spared.

  “Do it—if you want your girlfriend to live.”

  The kid did as told. Slipped and fell on his side. Cecil glanced back at the van and noticed that the female vic had gone out again. He climbed back in. Shook the girlfriend and slapped her several times hard enough to bring her to.

  “Get him in there. I want him on his back looking up at me.”

  Marvin bent down. Dragged the kid over until his upper body was in the grave. Did the same with the kid’s legs and feet.

  “In here, Marvin. Make sure she doesn’t miss out on any of the fun.” Trusty scrambled over to where the shallow grave was, while Base climbed into the van.

  Although he had both his arms on the woman’s shoulders, she was still able to keep her face turned away from what was about to transpire. Cecil glared at him.

  “Can’t you do anything right?”

  “What now?”

  “I want her to see it. Every bit of it.”

  Marvin clamped her jaw in his hand and forced it in the bishop’s direction.

  “How that be, Cecil?”

  Biggs said nothing. Continued to glare. Finally nodded, and was back focusing on the girl’s whimpering male companion.

  “Jesus, no,” the kid’s girlfriend cried from the van. “Jesus help us. . . . Please have mercy. . . . Please. . . .”

  “How’s He going to do that? When He couldn’t even help himself? Where was He when I begged to be spared and delivered? Where was He for me, bitch?” Biggs stood over the shallow grave. Aimed the .357 at the kid’s battered face. The vagina continued to invoke her “Savior’s” name to the point it was beginning to rub him the wrong way. Just a touch.

  “Shove Jesus.” Biggs glared in her direction. “Buddha, Krishna, and the rest of them while you’re at it.”

  She wailed on.

  “Shut her up. My concentration is being disrupted here. The key is focus. I’d like to be able to focus on what I’m doing.”

  “Ho be loud.”

  “Make her eat dirt if you have to.”

  Muck was uncertain what that meant.

  “You heard. Feed her dirt. Make her eat dirt. But shut her up.”

  The sidekick was out of the van, scooping up a fistful of dirt mixed-in with grass and pine needles and leaves. Proceeded to jam the works into the victim’s mouth. That muffled her to the point that it was manageable.

  Biggs re-aimed the Magnum at the kid’s face.

  “Now get the bull’s- eye.”

  The “bull’s-eye” he had Muck retrieve from underneath the blankets in the van was similar to the version used on Danny Aragon, in that it was approximately a fourteen-by-fourteen inch, quarter-inch-thick sheet of stainless steel sandwiched between two pieces of plywood of equal size and had all been cemented with glue, as well as bolted together, to withstand Cecil Biggs’s notion of “target practice.”

  As with the other board, both sides of this one contained a painted on, perfectly-centered bull’s-eye. Marvin had it placed under the boyfriend’s head in no time. Biggs’s itchy trigger finger went the next step. Marvin did jump back in time. Blowback was something to witness: brains and blood punched out both ears and nose, while a good chunk of the back of the skull exploded.

  Biggs fired a second shot. Coup de grace. There wasn’t much of the head to look at after that. The girlfriend was out for the time being. It was just as well. Made no difference at this point. Party was over.

  Biggs gestured with his head for Marvin to get on with the follow-up. The body was rolled on its side, the mess scraped off the plywood with the shovel. Held the board at an angle that favored the glow given off by the moon to see if he could make out the location of the slugs, or if they had penetrated the board.

  None. Board had contained them both. Bull’s-eye. Both slugs this time. Seemed that way.

  Marvin handed the board to Biggs to take a look at, make sure. Biggs nodded. Hitting the bull’s-eye was always a crap shoot and seldom easy. Took practice, lots of practice, so when it happened there was a strong sense of accomplishment.

  The board was returned to the van and concealed under the layer of blankets and tarp on the bottom. Biggs would pry the bullets out later, at his own convenience, and dispose of them. Had to remind Marvin to remove the dirt from the girlie’s jaw.

  “Wouldn’t want her to expire before her time.”

  Muck took care of it. Held his ear against the woman’s chest.

  “Ho ain’t dead. That I can tell, me.”

  “Get his cuffs off.”

  Biggs handed him the key. Marvin did that. Tossed them back. Cuffs and key. Biggs reloaded the Magnum.

  “Throw dirt on him.”

  “What about the big plywood board?”

  “We’ll take it with us.”

  While Muck busied himself covering up the body, Bishop Biggs busied himself in his own way: got in the van in order to conclude what he started earlier with the blond in the brunette wig.

  CHAPTER 112

  Cecil O. was feeling hungry and wanted to get something to eat; he also wanted to get back to the house before dawn. The blond was going to have to be carried through the back door and he just didn’t want to make it any easier for his nosy neighbors; did not want to give them further reason to talk more shit behind his back. They wagged their tongues enough as it was.

  The blond was forced down into the same custom-crafted suitcase used for Dione Aragon. As before, the tube was double-checked to make certain that no pebbles, dirt, leaves, encrusted blood or vomit remained to make the intake of oxygen an issue.

  Biggs stuck the mouthpiece in her mouth, ran the other end through the hole between the nylon cord handles, and the lid was slammed down several times before it stayed down. The clasps were flipped in place. Victim was good to go—and she was not about to go anywhere that her abductors did not want her to.

  Handcuffs were taken off of Patience McDaniel’s wrists and she was escorted back to the cargo van.

  Biggs sat in the driver’s seat eating a glazed doughnut and considered killing the retarded black woman. Why not? Was she even worth keeping around? He’d needed her from time to time to attract/lure others like the young couple, cunts Marvin otherwise did not have much success with; and if he did away with Patience he would only be forced to go back to the nut house and recruit another nut like her—and it would be the same trying bullshit all over again, having to break the new one in the same way. It was never easy. All you had to do to be reminded was take a look at the hassle the diaper-wearing Goodfellow deviate from one of the Dakotas was putting him through.

  Olin Goodfellow. Aka “Swine Vomit.” What Greta Otto had named him. Pinned that tag on him ever since she found out that Goodfellow had been in and out of bug bins all over the damn Midwest and West Coast for molesting farm animals. Gave pigs a bad name. Certainly did a pig like Parfrey.

  Well, you had to keep extra retards on hand. No choice. In case some up and dropped dead, or committed suicide, or just could not take the juice in the pit that they had coming to them on occasion—for not obeying rules and regulations. So the extra loon now and then was nothing more than a backup ’tard. Backup.

  At least Patience did not talk much, didn’t seem to care or notice what was actually happening to her, nor around her.

  She was just too far out of it 99.9% of the time, the bishop concluded, and that was the only thing that kept him from ultimately putting a bullet in her head.

  He ate his glazed
doughnut and looked at her as she sat across from him just staring at nothing in front of her, at the darkness; staring, lost, shivering. Saying nothing. Christ, Biggs thought. I hope I never get that fucking bad. There had been times in the past he had acted like it to get over. Faked it. I’d rather be dead than live like that, than actually be that way.

  Look at her. Unbelievable. All she talks about is being cold. Doesn’t ask for food, or want sex or anything else, unlike the other rejects who made up his staff and board.

  He wondered if maybe a hard prick in her asshole might solve her problems. Yeah. Only she didn’t do anything for him. Too bad. Patience was unattractive. Ugly duckling was mentally defective. Too much so even for him.

  Biggs came close to cracking a smile. Shook his head. He turned to look at Marvin. Gestured in Patience’s direction. Marvin shrugged his shoulders. Had other things on his mind.

  “How about we get something to eat, Cecil? I’m hungry. All that hard work make’ me hungry.”

  “There’s always jambalaya at the house.”

  Biggs started the van up and turned it around. Steered it back down the dirt road toward the paved highway.

  “I’m sick of that shit. Sick of it. Sick of Greta’ cookin’, too. Bitch burn’ everything all the time. Cause me abdominal pain.”

  “I want to give my broker a call from the house.”

  As much as Biggs wanted to stop at a Jack-in-the-Crack, or some other fast food joint to pick up a cheeseburger and a milk shake, he would not do so—because then that might have meant having to buy Marvin R. and even Patience something to eat as well. He did not feel like spending a dime more than he had to. Money spent on dope was something else. That was different.

  Had to be done. The way he saw it. Money spent on drugs was bait money, slush fund; cash he kept on hand, set aside for dope and dildos, chloroform, handcuffs, chains, chainsaws, ice picks, lumber for building coffins and all those other torture contraptions (tools of the trade). That was different. Money well spent. Not that he liked to spend anything at all, but it had to be done.