Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  A combination television-VCR sat atop the dresser with a stack or two of videos having to do with Christ and the Resurrection.

  There was a bookshelf of sorts to the left of the dresser, consisting of cinder blocks and warped boards that had been painted in bright pastels that did not match either in width, length, or color, that were loaded down with volumes on Christianity, and further videos having to do with the Prince of Peace and the “inevitable” Second Coming.

  J.C., crucifixes, porcelain figurines of various characters from His era lined the top shelf—and all of it, with the exception of the books, covered in a layer of dust.

  To the left of the bookshelf that occupied the corner, was a moderately small stage and a burgundy velvet curtain that hung from the ceiling above it.

  The wall connected to this one was almost entirely covered in one-foot square, self-adhesive mirror tiles. To the right a bit was a closet door. A good section of this wall had nothing blocking the mirror tiles, should Biggs have a yen to watch himself while he enjoyed the various trysts with paid-for-hookers and/or victims.

  More bookshelves throughout the room occupied every available nook and cranny. The titles were there to point out/confirm/underscore (lest anyone be so bold as to challenge his IQ), Cecil’s unique and far-reaching genius. The bookshelves were bulging with titles by and/or on Stephen Hawking, Einstein, Darwin, Plato, Socrates, Aristotle, Kierkegaard, Heidegger, Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Hegel, Machiavelli, Sartre, Marx, Shakespeare, De Sade, Foucault, Derrida, Freud, Jung; a book or two on the US Constitution and the Bill of Rights; law books, and a volume entitled Penal Code of California, Peace Officers Abridged Edition.

  There was a hard-bound, thick volume entitled The Encyclopedia of Crime; books on pyramids in Egypt, the Aztecs, oil drilling in Alaska, pythons in the Amazon, crocks in the Florida everglades, sharks off the coast of Australia; anthropologists Margaret Meade and Louis Leakey; naturalist Diane Fossey’s tome entitled Gorillas in the Mist.

  The bookshelves practically reached the ceiling, with books on just about every subject under the sun: books on celebrities, prize fighters and wrestlers; generals like George Patton, Nazi Rommel, Eisenhower; illusionists like Houdini and others of his stature; books on film directors like D.W. Griffin, Ingmar Bergman, Roberto Rossellini, Abel Gance, Fritz Lang; political heavyweights Ronald Reagan, George Washington, Ben Franklin, Abe Lincoln, Harry Truman, John Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Ulysses S. Grant, Woodrow Wilson, Franklin Roosevelt, James Madison, JFK; books on Churchill, Maggie Thatcher, Genghis Khan, Ho Chi Minh, Alexander the Great, Julius Caesar, Hitler, Stalin, Nazi death camp sadist Ilse Koch, SS Kommandant at Auschwitz Rudolph Hess (and others), as well as several titles by those who survived said Nazi death camps; all the major wars and battles since the beginning of civilization; inventors like Nikola Tesla, Edison, and others. History books, books on biology, Scientology, hunting and fishing, embalming and the undertaking trade, the universe, and medical books, and books on mental health (as well as mental illness—and so-called cures).

  It was all there. Biggs, at one time or another, had read them all. And not a single name behind these volumes, be it male or female, be it pole-smoker or muff-diving dyke, did he feel had anything on him or what he knew to be his superior intellect.

  “What, no Walt Whitman?” one of the women asked.

  “No,” he said, while shoving a religious epic into the VCR with the sound turned down low. “Absolutely not.”

  Truth was he had very little use for poets and poetry; truth was poets were useless sacks of sniveling snot.

  What was it that drunken Irishman said? Rage against the dying of the light? Rummy got it wrong. It should be, instead, while jamming hard bone into a victim’s mouth, instead of raging against this and that, there’s nothing like shoving all that rage in their throat, after the rage had been rammed into their shitter first. Topped off, of course, by the coup-de-grace: some righteous slicing and dicing; better yet, partial strangulation during copulation and/or fellatio, to be followed by some insanely gratifying cutlery mayhem.

  That was the only kind of “rage” he ever got anything out of. This explained why he did not want poetry contaminating his library. Poetry was nothing more than a stream of excreta drizzling out of some so-called poet’s asshole—and when it came to drizzling excreta, he preferred seeing it drizzle out of a petrified bitch’s rectum after she’d been fed Ex-Lax and beer.

  Since there was more to life and the world than books and slaughter and porn, more to life than abducting victims and torturing them, sodomizing and carving them up into chunks to be tossed into Greta Otto’s kettle to be turned into jambalaya, he let his walls do the talking to prove it.

  Blowups of televangelists of the likes of Billy Graham, Gene Scott, Jimmy Swaggart, Robert Schuller, and others, had been tacked to walls in an obvious, although less-than-successful, attempt to conceal cracks as well as hold down the faded wallpaper.

  Among the Bible-thumpers who decorated the walls, were also a few motion picture posters from epics like The Ten Commandments, The Robe, Ben-Hur, The Greatest Story Ever Told, others. And up, above, in the corners, cobwebs with dead moths and flies.

  CHAPTER 150

  The women worked to conceal the disappointment and general feeling of disgust that they felt by now. Man had money and was this religious type, supposedly, head of his own little “house of prayer,” and yet basically existed like a piggy in his private little pigsty. And then there was that off-putting odor, the odor; it could not be ignored—and yet they did their best to do just that.

  “Yeah,” Lana “Da Bottom” said, “it’s medical school for that Chicana. She’s going to be a brain surgeon. No lie.”

  “Actually,” Olivia said, unperturbed, “I’d like to be a foreign correspondent for a cable network or news publication.”

  “Nothing the matter with that at all,” Biggs said.

  “For a whole year girlfriend was going around telling everybody how she was going to be a brain surgeon, just because she seen some woman brain surgeon interviewed by Barbara WaWa on 20/20,” Lana said. “You think that’s all there is to it, Olivia? What you see on tee-vee? If it was that easy every Tom, Dick, and Harriet would be all over it.”

  Biggs spoke in a relaxed tone. “I’m a registered practical nurse myself, Liv, you know? You might look into it. The money is not bad at all. Of course, I got a leg up, so to speak, by being in the army, where I received medical training. Once I got out I enrolled in a practical nursing program that lasted a year, followed by a six-month internship at a general hospital. Well worth it; being able to help people that way. I do miss it. Yearn to return to it—if only it were possible. These days most of my time is consumed by the church: running it, tending to countless details and issues, overseeing staff and aiding/assisting members of the congregation. Keeps me fairly busy. I’m convinced neurosurgery is certainly a worthwhile goal for someone to pursue. Tough, but not impossible, if you have the stomach for it. Personally, I don’t have the stomach to cut into someone’s skull and tinker around in there. I just don’t have the nerves of steel something like that would require.”

  “God, that’s gross,” Stella said. “Couldn’t we talk about something else?”

  “Of course,” Biggs said with a smile. “Like what else?”

  “What else?” said Stella. “The rank odor, for one. That’s what else. What’s up with the stench, Bishop?”

  “Oh that,” said Biggs, reaching inside the mini fridge that was situated between the wall covered in mirror squares and that end of the futon. The mini fridge was stocked to capacity with beer and sodas. He passed them around for those who were interested, and for others, like Marvin Ritalin Muck, who grabbed a beer, but preferred to toke, better yet, to do blow, Biggs had rolled joints on hand. He was saving the hard drugs for later. He saved the expensive dope for his guests, in order to get his money’s worth. You didn’t dole out the nose candy until the time was right and you felt you’d
get what you wanted in return. Quid-pro-quo. Something like it. He cracked open a can of soda for himself. Reached in back of the futon where the stereo sat on a shelf between stacks of books, explaining: “Had a cat once—The Ripper—and a German shepherd we called Rutherford. They didn’t exactly get along. We’re certain Rutherford killed The Ripper, then ran off. As a result, we have the carcass of a dead feline in the basement somewhere. Odor has a way of wafting.”

  “Why not take the body out?” said Stella. “The dead cat, I mean, and get rid of it?”

  “We would, if we could pinpoint the location. We have a staff member, Norbert Fimple, who may have stashed it away somewhere.” Biggs thought to pause here. “Please don’t ask me why. It’s one perplexing dilemma we have yet to resolve, obviously.”

  Marvin had taken it upon himself to begin spraying the room with disinfectant in order to get the women to stop complaining about the smell. Biggs looked at him. Told him to stop it. “All you’re doing is making it worse.”

  Marvin stopped with a shrug.

  “What then?”

  Biggs found a bottle of inexpensive cologne on the bookshelf. Got enough of it on the tips of his index and middle finger, and then dabbed at the area just below the nostrils. Did the same for the women. He took the rest of the bottle and splashed the ceiling and walls with it. Solved the odor problem. Pretty much. For the time being. Only now, Stella “Storm” Martel was bitching about the place smelling like cheap aftershave. Some people were hard to please. “Storm” was a good moniker for her, as she was always stirring up trouble.

  “You know, I have often said to Marvin: Some people like to complain about everything, while others never complain about anything.”

  “You’re absolutely right about that, honey,” said Stella. “Negative people are a turn-off; real pain in the ass. Exactly why I never had any patience being around them.”

  “Amen.”

  On that, Biggs cranked up a sexy tune by Barry White. White sang loud enough to rattle the shutters. That was fine with Biggs, the way he liked it. All seemed pleased with the choice in music, reefer and beer, all that is, except Olivia Duarte, who passed on everything, including the soda. She was determined not to accept anything to eat, drink, or smoke in this place. That was not for her.

  Be patient long enough for Pearleen and her loose pals to do their thing and get out of here. She needed to get home. It was then Cecil Biggs produced (a la some great illusionist like Copperfield) a black leather men’s purse that contained a vial mirror, straw with gold trim, and a clear plastic baggy with the powder. Devil’s dandruff. Dumped a small mound of it on the glass-topped coffee table. Pearleen Bell wasted no time locating a super market discount card in her purse and began chopping at the cocaine with it, cutting out six equal rails-plus, in that there was enough left over for the deacon, as well Olivia, should she have wished to change her mind about partaking.

  The strippers dug up their own tooters and snorted away. Pearleen banged a rail up one nostril, then the other. Life was good. Definitely worth living. With a little help from the neighborhood “Bishop” named Cecil O. Biggs.

  “Tell me something, Peach,” spoke the host. “Is there any truth to the rumor?”

  “What rumor is that?” said Pearleen, dabbing at the white flecks about the septum, as well as either side of it.

  “That you did hardcore at one time?”

  “Porn?” She looked at him now.

  “Yes. Porn. Hardcore porn.”

  “Not hardcore. I wouldn’t do hardcore. Did a couple of soft porn-type videos, though. I was the only one in them. Needed the money.”

  “Word is you did a hardcore video once. I’m not judging; don’t misunderstand. I’d like to see it. Would pay money to get my hands on it.”

  “People like to spread rumors. They can believe whatever the hell they want. They like to talk shit behind my back because they’re jealous. That’s what it comes down to: jealousy.”

  “I understand. I’ve dealt with it practically my entire life.”

  The hottest stripper, by far, of them all, was eager to change the subject—and what better way than to jump up in the center of the living room and begin a slow dance number.

  Although she took nothing off initially, the choreography was considerably erotic as she moved nice and easy, swaying those bountiful hips, grinding the pelvis, teasing the hell out of Cecil Biggs and his crony Marvin Muck, and even drawing enough interest from Lana Sepulveda and Stella Martel. Pearleen Bell, aka Peaches LaBelle, was second-to-none when it came to this sort of thing; making men, even enough women, stare with a deep hunger within for something they could not even begin to describe or pinpoint—only there was no denying that it was there: indefinable, ephemeral, and mesmerizing to all those who witnessed it.

  What Pearleen had could not be taught. It was a quality that one was born with.

  They watched. In awe. Cecil O. Biggs and Marvin R. Muck had lust in their eyes and rape on their minds. Rape. Rape the hoez. Sodomize the sluts. All of them had it coming.

  CHAPTER 151

  Eventually, gradually, the black stripper began to discard items of clothing. Olivia was quite embarrassed and felt out of place. She hadn’t been brought up this way. She knew it wasn’t right to be so quick to judge, but these people were different, had different morals, or at least their ideas of morality conflicted with the way she had been raised. Biggs called this place, this house, a church. What kind of “church” was it? They used dope, drank alcohol—and now a woman was taking her clothes off in front of others.

  She had always known Cecil to be eccentric, everyone knew him to be “off the wall,” weird; sure, he had money and the luxury cars—he was a weird one, only what was taking place in front of her was too much and out of line.

  Biggs turned the lights down low. Switched on red lamps. Changed the record for a slower, smoother tune. Noticed the look on Olivia’s face. Pearleen Bell continued to shed a few things.

  CHAPTER 152

  “We’re a free-wheeling parish here, Olivia,” explained Biggs. “There’s no need to be nervous. We adhere to our own rules and guidelines, our own Code of Conduct, so to speak. Sex is not thought of as a dirty activity in here the way it is out there. Every single member of the United Christian Church of Re-Newed Hope is indeed moral. It’s just that we have our own ideas, beliefs—if you will—of morality, so please don’t misconstrue what you see here. Our attitude, my attitude, is that sex is to be enjoyed, have fun with, and not thought of as repulsive and spoken of in hushed tones in darkened rooms.

  “Intimacy is, after all, a beautiful thing. God’s gift to us for all the indignities and suffering we endure on a daily basis. From womb to tomb. Sex is there to give us a break, that much-needed release from the grind that life very often is.”

  That was all fine and dandy, thought Olivia, for others, and wondered when he would make that phone call regarding her purse. She brought it up again.

  “Soon,” said Biggs. “Soon.”

  When he glanced down at the glass-topped table it was obvious enough that cokehead Marvin had snouted it clean. Could have easily gone for more. Looked like.

  Biggs pushed him aside. Came up with the plastic Ziploc baggy and carefully tapped out enough for a rail or two. Produced a tooter. Gestured in Olivia’s direction to take it and snort up. Olivia steadfastly declined. Wanted none of it.

  Lana managed to get her arm around the presently seated bishop’s neck, tongued his ear, while squeezing his groin inside his trousers—then just as swiftly as she managed this maneuver, she swooped down to where the bag with the dope was and shook some more out to add to what was already on the table.

  Biggs eyed her with great dismay, although he did not move to stop her, as she not only extended the rails considerably, but made them way too fat. And before the other women could get in on it, before Marvin could move and get a piece of the action as well, Lana Sepulveda wasted no time huffing the lines like a Hoover vacuum: up
one nasal passage, then the other.

  She liked that so much she was back nibbling the bishop’s upper chest and neck. Stella was not happy with what she just witnessed Da Bottom pull and she was not reluctant to show it.

  “Greedy bitch,” she hissed. “I hope your nose falls off.”

  Pearleen was shaking her head as well.

  “Pulls that shit a lot. That’s Lana for you.”

  “You know you ain’t right, Lana,” grumbled Muck. “Was enough candy right there went up yo nose for everybody in this cribby to get fucked up on.”

  Unbeknownst to Lana, one of her nostrils had begun to bleed. Stella reached inside her own purse for a Kleenex, and held it out to the rude bitch to take. Lana wadded enough for a tiny ball and stuffed it in her nose.

  “Serves you right, ‘girlfriend,’” said Stella Martel.

  Lana wasn’t interested and didn’t care. She had seen Stella do the same damned thing herself lots of times. Couldn’t be helped. The only thing that bothered her about it was the nosebleed. Too much huffing did it. Crack and base were preferable for this reason. Nosebleeds and sores was the price one paid.

  She worked away on the bishop. Had her tongue in and around his ear, while slowly running her left hand along his left thigh.

  Biggs was in heaven. Three hot bitches high on blow—in his place. This was life. Took a lot of money to pull off, too. If only Tillie Marie could have been a little more flexible. She could have been part of all this. And Honesto . . . Kid would have been raised the way a kid should be raised.

  “Where’s the glo, Rev?” said Lana. “Toot is great, but it’s destroying my sinuses.”

  Stella had her crack pipe out and was readily agreeing. Crack was the thing he should have had them on to begin with, thought Biggs, before Lana snorted all those rails. Could have saved a few bucks. “Jellybeans” were easier to dole out. Less “waste” involved.