by Kirk Alex
“Do you see now why I keep this place tighter than a virgin’s pee hole?” Biggs was recovering. “Keeps this type of nuisance down to a minimum.” A grin crossed his face. He still had to be careful how he moved. Anything sudden, and the pain would be back; the unpredictable nerves that ran up and down his spine were sure to let him know it.
Easy does it. Nothing sudden. Got to be a slipped disk. Wrenched back. Something like it.
He walked to the part of the basement on the Roscoe side, stopping at the Abattoir door. Unlocked the lock that hung from the chain and unwound the chain.
“Cunt has balls. Can’t say that I don’t entirely appreciate it. Feisty.”
“Sho is.”
Muck shook off the cobwebs in his head. Began to rub his hand between the victim’s upper thighs.
“We’ll see just how ‘feisty’ she really is. Bring her over here.”
Marvin carried the young woman to the walk-in.
“Yo. Put the ho on the hook, Cecil?”
“You sound eager.”
“I ain’t eager. Only be akskin’.”
“No. Not yet.”
The idea what may have been inside the cooler might have terrified the woman a moment ago, only now she was getting an eyeful of the real thing: the stench, a degree or two stronger than what her nostrils had been exposed to heretofore; the hanging, bleeding bodies, the animal carcasses dangling from hooks in the ceiling, the eyeless skulls lined up along a top-tiered wire shelf, and began convulsing, heaving uncontrollably.
Biggs motioned to the wall on the left. “Chain the strumpet to the wall. Over there. In the corner.” Was close to chuckling to himself for using the word “strumpet.” Hell, his word of choice to describe them was “whore,” “bitch,” “cunt,” “slut.” All meant the same, as far as he was concerned, but did use “strumpet” and/or “harlot” from time-to-time for Betty Lou Rutterschmidt’s benefit. Prune-faced Betty Lou got a real charge from hearing the word spoken by others and uttered it often enough herself.
“When do I get me a piece of this one, Cecil?”
“Do it, asshole.”
Muck did as ordered.
“Only it don’t be my fault when the ho end up like a Popsicle Finger Lickin’ always be suckin’ on.”
“Not likely she’ll end up a Popsicle.” Biggs tossed him a key. “Go in the Storage Room and get a blanket.” Marvin was about to do as ordered. Biggs stopped him. Instead had him free her from the chain and had him walk her out of there and to the pit in the floor.
Biggs stepped out of the Abattoir, wrapped the chain around the handle, being cautious about it, as his spine continued to give him intermittent reminders that anything sudden could force him to freeze up again.
He snapped the lock into place. Dixie’s wrists were cuffed behind her back, and she was dropped in the water in the pit with the other victim.
The door was closed over them, and locked.
CHAPTER 118
Biggs returned to the Mattress Room. Addressed Dione “Divine” Aragon from where he stood in the doorway: “The next step for you is the pit. There’s just about enough room in there for another one. It wouldn’t be easy, but I believe we could squeeze you in—pack you tight—like sardines.” A pregnant pause followed. “I don’t want to hear a peep out of you. I don’t want you climbing up on the coffee table. It’s flimsy and is liable to break. I can’t keep wasting hard-earned money on second-rate furniture that McVictims feel they can destroy whenever they feel like it. Are we clear on that?”
Dione looked at him without saying anything. Tears rolled down from the good eye. She wiped away. “You don’t have the right to keep people locked up like animals. That poor girl you’re keeping in that pit out there is dying. Don’t you get it? She’s dying.”
“She’s faking.”
“They’ll get you. Sooner or later, the police will get you for what you’re doing. You can’t keep people locked up like slaves.”
“Marvin is a proponent of that, actually: slavery. Mack Daddy Muck would like us to start our very own Rent-A-Bush service.”
“What have you done with my baby?”
“Let me remind you again: That coffee table cost me money. There is nothing to be gained by climbing up on it and banging on the boards that cover the window. Nothing.”
Marvin showed at the door with a paper bag that contained peroxide, gauze and Band-Aids, Tampons; balls of white cotton.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
“A dead ho don’t do nobody no good.”
Biggs held his hand out. Muck placed the bag in it.
“The key.” Muck handed him the storage room key. Biggs redirected his attention to the victim. “You should count your blessings.”
She didn’t say a word. Her expression said enough.
“Look, we all have our problems. I’ve dealt with a fucked up back for years. Hemorrhoids, migraines, depression. Not to mention childhood-related flashbacks. What the fuck do you want from me? Whoever said life was going to be a bed of tulips? What the hick used to say to my mother. ‘Tulips,’ not roses.”
“I want to go home.”
“Yeah, well, I wanted to kill the asshole who brought me up . . . and never got the chance. . . .”
He left the peroxide and the rest of it with her. Checked to make sure the water jug had fresh water in it. Saw that there was enough toilet paper around. Had Marvin take the chamber pot and dump it in the john, and bring it back.
Biggs locked the door to the Mattress Room on their way out.
“Ho be hurt.”
They climbed the stairs to the first floor.
“Which ho?”
“Divine ho. Dione. Got her eye fucked up.”
“Been taken care of. What else am I supposed to do? Bring a doctor in here? Wouldn’t work anyway. Doctors don’t make house calls these days.”
“Ho got damage. Can’t make no kinda bank wiff a ho got a messed up face like that.”
Biggs stopped at the top to unlock the door. Turned his head to look at the other one. “Isn’t it about time you came to your senses and realized that the life of a Mack Daddy just isn’t in the cards for you? First of all, you have to be super sharp—up here—to even control these bitches. It takes a lot more than having a dick the size of a zucchini.”
“Lot of them hoe’ be likin’ it. Dude can control a ho wiff his dick, if he got him a big dick. All it take’.”
“Bullshit. A smart dealer never gets high on his supply, a clever pimp never shags his stable. If you want to have control over a bitch these days you have to put the fear in her, let her know you’re willing to cause her serious pain in order to keep her in line—not only that, but are ready and able to dismember her and her twat friends whenever you fucking feel like it.”
“Rent-A-Bush be a good way to make bank. Got to admit that.”
“Yeah, it would be a good way to end up back in a padded room up at Atascadero—or on a cold slab and a toe tag.”
He unlocked the door. Waited for Marvin to walk past, then locked it back up. Biggs wanted to be by himself and told Marvin to get lost.
Muck shrugged. “Be that way, homes.” Made it to his room. Biggs walked down the hallway. Unlocked his bedroom door. Entered. Closed and locked it behind him.
CHAPTER 119
He needed to unwind and hoped the pain in his lower back would go away and let him be. All he could do was wait it out.
He shoved one of his favorite videos into the combo TV/VCR. Fluffed a couple of pillows against the headboard and took great caution and care to stretch out on the bed.
The low-budget, Z-grade color flick came on. Something about a dark-haired wench from the big city moving to an isolated cabin in the sticks—real bright of her—to sketch and paint nature scenes and keep a journal of her progress. A real nature lover and bird watcher, who went around with a pair of field glasses observing various species of birds in this lush, seemingly tranquil habitat taking photos of
a vast array of flora and fauna and general scenery/serenity of and by a gently flowing clear water stream nearby.
None of this interested him much: not the warblers, nor nature scenes. What engaged his interest (and gripped his nut-sack) was the way this bimbo was assaulted by a group of pee-hole craving swine farmers. Brutalized and fucked. Left for dead. Only the dark-haired “city heifer,” a label J.J. had been partial to (and used at every opportunity regarding every bitch he laid eyes on, especially Charlotte Yvonne) unfortunately didn’t die. They left her for dead—but did not take the time to make certain that she was, in fact, no longer among the living. Just as he had failed to do with the dominatrix. They would pay, no doubt, just as he had paid.
The twat recovered (as one might have expected she would) and proceeded to seek sweet vengeance by going after the white trash hillbilly scum, dispatching them one by one.
He ate four Ding Dongs and two Butterfinger candy bars. Washed it all down with Hawaiian Punch. Fruit Juice Red. Ejected the tape and watched something about some deranged killing a-hole who wore a hockey mask and chopped his victims up with a machete. Amusing stuff.
Horny “camp counselors” appear at a summer camp by a lake in order to get things in tip-top shape before the kiddies showed for the summer and the camp’s official opening.
This was the general premise. Only the antisocial type in the hockey mask and the machete for an equalizer had an agenda of his own: To lop off a few heads and limbs with that stainless steel whacker before the youngsters arrived.
It was entertaining to see these generic, two-dimensional, irritating camp counselors turned into screaming, weeping, helpless vics pissing their panties.
The thing that was always missing for him (and stuck out like a sledged and swollen thumb) was the fact the killer didn’t rape the cunts. Before or After. Wouldn’t have mattered: either/or. . . . The sex was missing. How can that be? So strange and obvious and unrealistic. Sex and violence went hand in hand. Like love and hatred. Like gore and spooge. Life and death.
He should have fucked them, slashed their clothes to ribbons and sodomized them, made them blow him—and then, only then—carved them up to his satisfaction and taken his sweet time about it.
Hurt them, rape them, torture and discard them. . . .
What do you expect? This was excreted by the Tinsel Factory. Suspension of disbelief. Sissies made these movies. Liberal queers without balls created these celluloid fantasies in order to turn a quick buck, without ever being interested in the way it was in the real world.
They didn’t make horror films. They made comedies with corn syrup and red food coloring. It was done with trick photography and cheesy effects.
CHAPTER 120
He shoved another movie in. Watched favored parts and stroked himself.
A young slit in a pair of short shorts enters the crazed killer’s house in search of her boyfriend. Dumbshit boyfriend had entered a moment earlier seeking the owner/resident in order to “borrow gas.” She takes a cautious look around, sniffs out the odoriferous air and decides it’s time to vamoose—just as the killer freako (wearing a mask of human skin) appears from a loud, sliding and shiny aluminum door at the other end of the hallway and gives chase. Short Shorts screams at the top of her lungs. Makes a mad dash for the front door. Gets as far as the threshold and is snatched up by the beefy psycho.
Biggs wondered if the filmmakers got the idea for the skin mask from reading about Nazi uber SS cunt Ilse Koch, who had an endearing habit of selecting male prisoners whose tats she admired and would then have the unfortunate prisoners put to death and had their tattoos sliced out and framed. Real nice of her.
Ilse also had the somewhat unconventional and peculiar (to some) habit of having lamp shades made from human skin; and there were other things that she did with it. It was also said she favored shrunken human heads that she used as paper weights. A heartless bitch after his own heart, thought Cecil.
Too bad they didn’t take her, after she was hung post Nuremberg trial, carved her up and flushed her away like so much sewage. He envied the fuckers for what they were able to get away with. The lot of them.
There was also dorky, grave-robbing Eddie Gein, who had the habit of prancing about in the moonlight in a suit fashioned from human chamois. Filmmakers may have gotten the idea from hearing about him. It was possible.
He replayed the moment. The fat fucktoid appears, nearly causing the young wench to shit her shorts. She makes the feeble attempt to flee this Mansion of Nihilism, and gets about as far as the front entrance, makes it past the screen door—in time for lardo to clamp his massive arms about her waist and carry her back inside this dwelling of dread and doom. And the city heifer is hung on a hook in the kitchen.
Biggs came close to laughing. Almost. Laughter was alien. Always would be. It was close enough for him. His back was all right again. That’s what mattered.
Chop ’em up, make them feel pain, make them squirm. Strike out, strike fast, strike hard. It was entertainment at its best.
He replayed the scene. Couldn’t get enough of it. Liked to hear the sound made by the hook as it penetrated the bitch’s spine. You could never make them suffer to the extent that they had made him suffer. Couldn’t come close. If you captured a million cunts and burned them alive—it still wouldn’t come close to paying them back for all the suffering they had caused him over the years.
“Let the bimbo hang like that for a while.”
Bishop stroked himself lightly, massaging the helmet, but would not go all the way with it. Restraint was called for here. He would save it for later. It always felt better with the real thing.
He stopped the film. Channel surfed until he happened upon an episode of Leave It to Beaver. Now there’s a name for home-spun family entertainment. Amusing stuff. Had nothing remotely to do with reality and the way things truly were.
June Cleaver. Talk about a fictional character. Pure make-believe. And then, of course, the other lie: Mr. Cleaver. Good ol’ Ward. Patient. Understanding. More so even than Patience McDaniel—in that Ward was clearly clear-headed, while Patience, it could safely be suggested, was slightly confused.
What a dad.
He switched channels and came upon another scene from a world he had never known: More make-believe. Father Knows Best. Everyone seemed sane here. Reasonable. Made him (almost) chuckle. Daddy knew best. J.J. was best at being brutal.
Stayed with the comedy for a while. Moved on to the Donna Reed Show. Beautifully coiffed. Impeccably attired. Groomed. Family lived in a nice, clean, organized home. No rats or roaches or dog crap in sight. Nothing was out of place, not so much as a single pubic hair on anyone’s precious groin. Furthermore, no one was required to eat dog food, no one was humiliated or cuffed or had wine bottles pitched at them for wetting the bed.
He kept watching, on the verge of chuckling to himself. You never saw Donna Reed running down some busy city street in broad daylight without any clothes on and urine pouring out of her hairy muff like a waterfall. Not this wife and mother. You never saw June Cleaver hop on the hood of a parked LAPD car, hike up her dress and take a major dump, then hop off with a satisfied grin on her overly made-up face as though she’d just given a grateful homeless bum a Mickey D’s Happy Meal. Not Mrs. Cleaver. Not Ward Cleaver’s sane and pleasant and dutiful better half.
He kept watching and half-grinning to himself. Recalled, as a kid, while viewing these blatantly bogus scenarios, and believing it all at the time, how much he wished he could have been a part of a family like the ones he saw on television. Recalled, praying secretly, under the covers in his bed, to be taken away from his parents in order to be adopted by someone like June and Ward Cleaver, by someone like Robert Young and Jane Wyatt, by Donna Reed and her easy going tv show spouse, better yet: a sweet and sane couple like his friends Flora and Truly Turnbull. He would have loved it. Prayed for it to take place. Confessed as much to them both. Even after Mrs. Turnbull had passed away when her ticker finally
gave out, he had begged Mr. Turnbull to take him in permanently, adopt him. Cried and pleaded, and so had the old man—cried, because he had not been able to; city wouldn’t let him. Established laws made it not only impossible, but absolutely unthinkable.
Charlotte and the redneck had been unwilling to give up their favorite punching bag.
“Mr. Turnbull, sir, you see how good I am with Parfrey. You don’t see how much I love you both? You’re not able to drive, sir, to get to the market. I don’t mind doing the shopping for you. You know I don’t. You got that catheter in you and the tube that runs down to that plastic bag strapped to your leg. You need me, Trusty. You need me. You need me as much as I need you and Parfrey both. I don’t mind taking the city bus; or walking. I would walk miles for you.”
Images were there, easily triggered, as they always would be; had imposed themselves over the bullshit on the screen.
The old man had been dealing with BPH, enlarged prostate. Couldn’t pass urine without medical help. And they had stuck a tube in his penis at the VA; tube was attached to a hose that ran down the side of his right leg to where a urinary drainage bag had been secured. Urine would flow through the hose down into the plastic bag until it filled up and had to be drained. Cecil never had to actually assist with any of this, but knew of it from the old man, who had patiently explained what his troubles were and why he limped when he walked and why it was difficult for him to leave his house and take his pet for a walk or buy groceries or do much of anything that required physical stamina. Cecil easily understood. He may have been repulsed by it initially, but he surely understood what a big help he was to his friend and was always glad to support him anyway he could, as a way of repaying the kindness he and his gentle wife had shown him all the times he had nowhere to go or hide away from the unpredictable loonies he was stuck to live with that had been nothing short of a toxic nightmare for him; that Biggs, even then, at that young age, had been aware enough to know, would leave him scarred forever.