Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  “Yeah. Only your wife don’t stay on your ass like Petunia. If it ain’t the noise she’s bitching about, it’s the stench; if it ain’t that it’s the sluts in their ‘short skirts’; and if it ain’t that, it’s something else about Biggs himself and that strange buck he runs with.”

  “Sounds domestic from where I’m sittin’.”

  “What do we do about Biggs?”

  “Me—I keep away from him. Mind my own business.”

  “Sure seen some big titters go in that ‘church’ lately. Gotta be some mighty interesting preaching going on in that house these days.”

  “You talking about Peaches LaBelle—”

  “Her and some others. She takes her clothes off for a living, the hell would she be doing in his church?”

  “Prayin’, what else? What a church is for, ain’t it? Where you go to be at one with the Lord.”

  “She’s prayin’ all right: On her knees. Peckerwood’s got the bank account.”

  “Peckerwood? Take my advice, Marty: that’s one ‘Peckerwood’ you don’t want to be messin’ with. Man got that look to him like there ain’t nothin’ living inside of him, like even if there was at one time it died a long time ago—like maybe he’s dead inside. I know he’s breathing, walking and shit; talking. His eyes blink, seem to. He looks and appears human. There’s something cold-blooded about that dude. . . . Manson’s like that. . . .”

  Marty Roscoe nodded. “I get chills every time I look at the creep. It ain’t that I’m afraid of him, because I ain’t. I can take care of myself. I ain’t exactly a wimp—but you’re right about them psycho eyes.”

  “Stay away from Cecil O. Tell your woman to do the same. If he got the cash to pay for all that gash and all them young hoes to do their number for him that’s his business. If I was twenty years younger and single and had his bank account, shit, I’d probably be doing the same thing. Come to think of it, did have me a taste of life in the fast lane. What caused the ticker trouble. What the hell. You go around one time.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” Roscoe re-joined as an afterthought: “Petunia was wondering if Fay might go inside and take a look.”

  “Inside where?”

  “Preacher’s place.”

  “After what I just said? Come on, Marty. Gimme a break.”

  “She’s been after me to talk to you. I don’t want a divorce on my hands. I know she’s emotionally unstable. I also know that she’s got good qualities that a lot of people don’t see, maybe don’t want to see. She just got promoted to assistant manager at the supermarket where she works. This would get her off my back; if Fay could go in there and talk to the man, look around.”

  Harold Crust was shaking his head. “There’s a saying I like a lot, Marty. Goes something like this: Leave well enough alone.”

  “What about the stench and the screaming at all hours of the night?”

  “Don’t know. Could be sounds like screams—could be music—”

  “Your wife’s religious, ain’t she? Man’s a pastor. Got a lot in common right there.”

  “Ever seen James Brown scream?”

  “Sure. He screams.”

  “Could be what you heard; what all of us been hearin’.”

  “It ain’t me—it’s the old lady. I went over there. Tried to get in, tried to join. I don’t get along with the man. He knows I got no respect for him. Claims our dogs chewed up his cat. When I tried to join up he tells me they’re full up, ain’t taking no new members. What a crock. A Lhasa apso and a Boston terrier ain’t tough enough to kill no alley cat. It’s just an excuse he uses to keep me out.”

  “I wouldn’t know. Ain’t seen a sign of the Ripper since my operation—or of that dog he had. Could be your answer to the odor problem. Got ’em layin’ around somewhere. Never bothered to bury ’em. Heard of stranger things.”

  “No disrespect meant, Harold, I think what it comes down to I ain’t got the right paint job to set foot inside.”

  “You sayin’ you got to be black?”

  “Muck’s colored, ain’t he? So’s Peaches LaBelle. Probably Biggs got some negro blood, else why would he be runnin’ with all them colored and showin’ off that Cadillac all the time?”

  “Maan, I don’t get you.”

  “Ain’t nothing to get, really. Me and my wife, we ain’t prejudiced. Just figured it would be easier for you and Fay to talk to Biggs and them.”

  Harold Crust looked at the other man. Ran a handkerchief across his forehead and neck. He blew his nose. Wiped back and forth a couple of times, and jammed the handkerchief into his hip pocket.

  “I suppose somebody should find out what’s going on over there in that man’s place. Somebody’s got to put an end to all that racket; put a stop to Marvin playin’ with firecrackers. Them firecrackers can burn a place down, easy. Don’t even want to think about it.”

  “Firecrackers?”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Either that, or they’re shooting off guns.”

  “Might be. Can’t say. Whatever it is, it can’t go on.”

  “Thanks, Harold. I’m beholden.”

  “Before you take off, let me ask you somethin’ about somethin’ else.”

  “What else?”

  “Now, I know you like your beer—but how in hell you get them big arms eatin’ Fruit Loops all the time?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Don’t mean to pry. If you’d rather not say, that’s fine. Your business. Only reason I ask is because I used to have me some powerful legs, strong legs; shoulders, too. Was strong up in here. Was tellin’ Fay the other day. Then, all of a sudden, seems it happened overnight: my weight an’ all that muscle seemed to shift down to my belly. All my damned weight settled in my midsection. I thought you might have a suggestion or two as to how I might build up my shoulders some. Could be hopeless. Since my surgery an’ my age. All that fast livin’.”

  “I take little blue pills.”

  “Little blue pills?”

  “Little blue pills. D-Balls. It ain’t the Fruit Loops; it’s the pills. If you want, I can get you some. Know stuntmen who use them to build themselves up. Take some hard falls. The only way they can keep from ending up in a wheelchair, crippled.”

  “No, thanks, Marty. My doctor would kill me if he found out.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know.”

  Marty was back in the saddle.

  As Petunia Roscoe’s husband wobbled off on his heavily weighted down bicycle, the shoeshine man noticed a paperback entitled The Coming Race War In America sticking out of his back pocket.

  If he ain’t racist, and I ain’t sayin’ he necessarily is, thought Harold, what’s he doing carrying that kind of reading material around? Why would any decent man be interested in that kind of vile shit?

  CHAPTER 247

  That same day, in a basement several miles south of the shoeshine stand, Cecil Omar Biggs was pursuing his favorite pastime. He was somewhat amazed that Stella Martel had lasted as long and as well as she had with such a badly wounded leg and hole in her back from the meat hook.

  Biggs had his gear on: Parfrey pig mask, with goggles over the eyes. Yellow slicker. Heavily stained and soiled bib apron over that. Leather work gloves on his hands, knee-high rubber boots on his feet. Durable. Warehouse type for manual labor. Certainly suitable for the task ahead.

  He was in the Fun Room with Marvin, while the readily-willing and available Pinko Punisher was assigned to stand outside the door and wait to be alerted to employ the hose that they had connected to the spout out there by the pit as needed. The shower head that was part of the old style tub functioned well enough, to be sure, Biggs supposed. However, as a precautionary measure, it was decided that it would not be used in this case. There was that risk that it might get in Trusty’s way and hamper his concentration and detract from the way he liked to conduct a demanding scenario such as this one was—especially when a Black & Decker was involved.

  Stella had been
secured to the specialized copper bathtub: arms hanging over either rim and fastened at the wrist to the tub’s claw feet with nylon rope restraints; her legs, at the other end, bent at the knee, hung over either side and were tied at the ankle with the same type of rope to the tub’s other feet, so that her body hung over the bathtub in a particular way: not entirely taut, but taut enough: swaying, but nowhere near the bottom.

  Pearleen Bell was also in the room. Cecil wouldn’t have wanted her to miss out on any of it. He’d had her secured to the torture board that hung from the wall to the left of the metal cabinet: wrists at either end at the top, ankles at either corner at the bottom. He hadn’t bothered to gag her this time. Let’s see how she takes it.

  CHAPTER 248

  Biggs gave each Stanley glove a tug in turn, and held out for the Black & Decker. Marvin handed the chainsaw to him. Noticed Bishop’s eyes was already fillin’ up wiff blood, turnin’ a deep red. They gonna be glowin’ pretty soon, too, like two round chunk’ of hot coal’ right in his skull. It was times like this the mothafuckah give him chills. No shit. Up and down his spine.

  Bishop yanked on the starter handle with his left hand, while the index finger of his right hand applied pressure to the accelerator control. Gray exhaust billowed. He watched the blade spin, the noise music to his ears. He only wished Stella hadn’t been so out of it. She might not be able to feel enough pain at this stage, might not twist and jerk around and put on a good enough show if she were as weak as she appeared. This was a concern.

  “Get some water on her face.”

  Bishop adjusted the snout and goggles. Slightly off initially; both were. Marvin opened the door to let the Commie scumbag in and ordered him to spray the ho on the face. The in denial, slobbering Pinko a-hole was way too eager to oblige, as far as Marvin was concerned. Waited for him a minute or so, saw that the ho got her enough water to nearly drown, then told the Russian, or wherever the fuck he was from, to get back out there—and not to come back until he was called.

  “Of course, Tovarich,” said Ionesco.

  “You call me that again, mothafuckah, and I’ll kick you so hard in yo nutsack your cracked balls gonna pop right outta yo America-hatin’ mouth.”

  Muck readily slammed the door shut in the red creepo’s face as he exited the room. The naked victim’s eyes were open now and they were looking up at her masked executioner with the wide tongue dangling from between crud-encrusted fangs and crimson eyes that glowed from inside the scuffed lenses of his goggles.

  “Don’t . . .”

  “What was that?”

  Her head moved. She was trying to say she did not want to go bye-bye. Hell, they all went through it. Pretty much said the same thing.

  “How about a little more life? Put a little zip into it. Come on, Stella. You can do it.”

  “Please help me. . . . Daddy. . . .” Her eyes closed. She seemed to go out. Giving up. Resigned to it.

  “WAKE UP, BITCH. Come on. Wake up. More water. MORE WATER, I SAID. My erection’s going down again. The cunt refuses to stay awake long enough.”

  “Yeah? Yo eyes be red; that means yo dick should be up, don’t it?”

  Biggs did a double-take: You’re talking shit at a time like this?

  Ionesco was permitted to rush back in with the hose and spray her considerably. Then Muck told him to get his fat ass back out there again.

  “Give her a whiff of the smelling salts.”

  Marvin waved his hands. Didn’t have it on him. Biggs took his right hand off the handle, pulled his glove off and reached inside the apron pouch. He uncapped the tube. Passed it under the victim’s nose. She showed some life. That’s it, Biggs thought. Got his glove back on. Gripped the chainsaw handle.

  “I didn’t want to have to kill you this soon. What choice did I have? What was I supposed to do? I can’t let a quack come in here.” Biggs looked at Marvin, who was fiddling with the Polaroid camera. “You taking pictures of this? I better at least get one great one worth framing. I want some good shots for the collection. This is what we base the exhibits at the Bordello on, the real McCoy.”

  “Why you tellin’ me? I know, man.”

  “Because your composition is always off, that’s why. You don’t have a good eye; never did. You like to act like you’re fucking Fellini, but you haven’t got a clue. That’s why.”

  “Hey, man, how about if you mention just once somethin’ Marvin Muck be good at, Hoss? Like to talk about me bein’ negative.”

  Biggs ignored him. “I’d like to be able to relive this later on. Should be able to get some good ones.”

  “See me tryin’,” said Marvin. “Can’t do mo’ better than that.” And did as instructed. Clicked off Polaroids of the action from various angles. He didn’t much care for what was going on at this point, but did what he had to do. It was a waste of good trim, that’s all. Ho be put on ice so Parfrey could get his dick up. Dude always be havin’ trouble wiff his dick that way. Gotta see blood; gotta cut ’em up. Me, I ain’t never had me that kinda problem. Wiff me it be the other way ’round. Can’t keep my mofo dick down, no matter what. That be the thang I be good at right there. Only a dude like that ain’t never gonna say it. Jealous, is what. Sho nuff. Fuck him; fuck ’em all. Everybody.

  CHAPTER 249

  Stella Martel was in and out of it, even after having been exposed to the smelling salts. It was a bitch. The bitch was being—what else? A bitch.

  Cecil eyed Pearleen from time to time, wanting to determine how she was handling it. If she freaked, and started sobbing, like the time Lana’s ass got chewed up by the rat, then perhaps there was no hope for her—and there never would be.

  If they couldn’t take what he was about, couldn’t relate—or refused to understand . . . they weren’t worth keeping around any longer than the rest of those worthless cunts.

  Well, she looked on. Wasn’t turning away, like she did before. There was moisture around the eyes. Couldn’t tell what it meant exactly. Peering out through the eyeholes in the mask itself, and then the goggle lenses made it difficult to determine if it was perspiration . . . or something like tears.

  She went out from time to time. Faded in and out, not unlike Stella. Although, for the most part, Pearly Girlie Pearleen seemed to show promise. She was handling it so far. Bearing up. Showed promise. Wait until we get into the thick of things here, thought Biggs. Wait until the plasma begins to spray.

  On the other hand, the McVictim was not doing as well. Can’t let the hen-pecker short-change me this way.

  He lowered the blade against Stella’s right thigh, above the knee. Pushed it in. Blood appeared. More pressure was added. Stella showed life. Not much. There were signs. The will to live making a comeback, Biggs noted. Yeah. Good.

  See what happens when they’re at your mercy? See how they behave? Spineless cunt. All the same. Dog shit. Look at her.

  Had nerve to go prowling around in his cribby, his sanctuary. Bad-mouthed him behind his back every chance she got. Schemer. No different from Agenda Marie. Users. Abusers.

  “Come on, ballbuster. I hate your guts. Hate every one of you fucking pole crawlers. Die, cunt.”

  The blade cut through flesh and bone. The leg dropped off, landing in the puddle of fresh as well as not-so-fresh blood. Stella shook her head. Screaming now.

  “Go ahead. Scream your head off. Scream the way I screamed when I was being beaten by the bitch and her hick for wetting the bed. Day after day, week after week. Scream the way they made me scream.”

  He stood, waited, watched. Take it for all it’s worth. They put out, all of them—as long as the price was right, just like Charlotte Yvonne. Little nothing whores. Scum-sucking bimbos.

  The screams subsided to whimpers. . . . Biggs ran the blade up and down her belly vertically. Watched all that precious bright red gush out. He placed the blade against the other thigh, same way, above the knee. He sliced through bone. Witnessed more flailing, frothy blood gushing from her mouth, then she went out with a final
roar. Too bad.

  Ordinarily the blood would have been more abundant. You had to take into account what she lost in the tunnel, and then the cooler, hanging on the hook.

  He glanced at the high yellow. Pearleen had fainted. Couldn’t take it after all. Weak. Ballbuster was weak. Hanging there on the board like a limp human sack of flesh. What the fuck?

  CHAPTER 250

  Biggs stopped the chainsaw. Yanked the goggles off, then the Parfrey pig mask, Stanley gloves, and reached for his chalice. He dipped the chalice into the blood. Drank it down. Ionesco, who had been pacing impatiently outside the door with his jaw hanging and mouth salivating, had been allowed to enter by the bishop, as well as granted permission to stick around as compensation for helping out.

  “Get your own.” It was directed at the Commie, as well as Cecil’s primary water carrier. The Rumanian did not need to be reminded a second time. Grabbed a Styrofoam cup. In fact, dipped it twice. Liked it. Smacked his lips.

  “America good?”

  “Ja ja, sir. America very good.”

  The deacon passed. Was busy spreading Polaroids on a small, flimsy metal folding table.

  “I’m watching you, Base. I got my bloodshot eyes on you, Sam the Sham.”

  “Got me a bellyache all of the sudden. Some other time.”

  “You’re either in, or you’re out, ‘Free Base.’ Get me? No in-between.”