“What’s this shit about ‘legitimate’ & ‘religious,’ man, we’re talkin’ mainline wackos here, & everybody knows that.”
“Beg to disagree with you, C.C., but ‘mainstream’ Satanism is a bona fide religion & quite possibly far less dangerous per se than a good many of your fringe-oid fundamentalists, as much as it kills me to admit it! Hell, there’s members of our own armed forces, officers & chaplains even, that are ‘card-carrying’ members…”
“You expect me to buy that crap?”
“Well, the FBI didn’t either—one of the many real reasons that they ended up canning my ass. Particularly after I came out in public & stated it in Satan and Serial Violence…”
“Frank, are you losin’ it? Everybody knows those dudes are into some mighty badass shit—”
“Nope. Sure, there’ve been a few lost souls who’ve found their way to infamy. But certainly no more on a per capita basis than any other religion that espouses a potentially extreme ideology. They’ve done one Helluvalot less Evil in the world for all their rhetoric than your average garden-variety tele-evangelist! In fact, at one point, Dr. LaVey himself supplied us with the name of a potential suspect, a First Church of Satan affiliate—but it was just another washout in the end…”
“Let’s drop it, man. I just can’t buy what you’re hittin’ me with.”
“Look, let’s just say for now that you’re an ass if you believe that Geraldo Rivera tabloid-TV shit they were tryin’ to boost ratings with a number of years back. It was a circus. Okay?”
“So, after the fifty dollar soapbox for pro-HELL, what say we wolf down this chow that’s finally coming, & hit the bloodhound trail?”
[ 45 ]
“HHHeyyy! Bro—! Feast yo EYES on wh’dwegot us he-uh—”
The four black punks are closing in on her fast, sure of themselves, sure that they can take her down with only minimal resistance… “Hhhmmmmm—looks lok sum hoochiecoochie white-ass TRIM!”
Julie does another quickscan of the shadow-black alleyway, assessing her chances, weighing her alternatives, sizing up the potential strengths & weaknesses of her opposition, trying desperately to gauge what tactical actions hardcore experience has taught her may yield the greatest possible odds in favor of SURVIVAL—
(this all sequenced in the split-second of an eye-blink—subconscious, streetwise, practiced in the ways of swift DEATH)
“Yeah, Yeah. H—HHhheyyy, Lit’l Mom-ma! Yo wanna PAR-ty…?”
(but this time, Julie knows the fear of the hunted, rather than the blood-thrill of the hunter)
Cold sweat trickles down the taut ridge of Julie’s spine, trickles down the smoothly rounded dome of her forehead causing the silky, dark fronds of her short bangs to cling to her throbbing temples, trickles down her cheeks & chin & neck, down between the budding mounds of her still-girlish breasts, down the curve of her belly, the droplets gathering in the dimple of her navel, swelling & trickling further down the tapering “V”-shaped outjut of her mons veneris, matting the sparsely curling pubic hairs, dripping into the already moist crevice of her sex, the soft, trembling flesh of inner thighs, mingling with the fear sweat trickling the ripe melon-globes of her so-perfectly rounded buttocks…
But with fear can come the numbing paralysis of the wounded prey, & Julie wills herself down down down past this layer of psychological stunning to trigger the rush of adrenaline from the primal, feral darkness within her that is the lair of the hunting BEAST—
Julie is forced to spend precious seconds fumbling in the paper sack, but she retrieves the objects that her instincts guide her to—
The cardboard-backed blister pack of razor blades, that she quickly rips open, tossing the remnants of torn packaging as inconspicuously as possible, slipping the plastic slide-casing that sheathes the blades into the tight slit of her pocket—
& the packet of sewing needles, which she fingers carefully assuring herself of the positioning of the sharp, bristling ends, she chokes off an involuntary ouch of pain when her skin is snagged & pricked on one tiny spear, drawing a droplet of blood, but she succeeds in tearing back the thin cardboard flap, exposing the rigid quills of metal…
All the while feigning retreat from the larger grouping of her stalkers, Julie sidles ever closer to the lone black “gangbanger” who stands spread-legged in the center of the alley, blocking her avenue of possible escape. She keeps the paper sack grasped tightly in her left hand, cupping the vicious surprise she clutches in her right, palm-downward, feigning a loosely outreaching posture of mock-helpless terror.
“OOOhhh, yeah, Sugah Tits, come t’ yo Lovuh Man—” the hulking baddboy says, waiting for her to come just in reach…
But, Julie, far from the fear-numbed victim she has played, dodges lithely as her assailant grabs for her, moving under his outstretched arms, then straight up, putting every ounce of her feline strength into one split-second jab into the youth’s exposed face, & connects— ramming the bristling row of bright, glittering metal thorns with that one desperate, perfect stroke, impaling both his eyeballs head-on, letting the cardboard slide & back & away, driving the needles all the way home… feeling the squish of fluids spurting from his multiply-punctured, ruptured orbs, like juice spritzing from a pair of very ripe, fork-jabbed white grapes…
The boy rears back in, tottering on his feet in the sudden shock of excrutiating blindness, clutching futilely at his ruined eyes. “OOOOOoooooHHHHHhhhhh! MMMMMUTHHHHHUUUUHHHHH FFFFFUUUCKKKKKUHHHHHhhhhh!” he screams in total, babbling terror—
Short lived.
—as the upthrust heel of Julie’s palm smashes upward, striking as she has seen Mal & her father do, to administer the executing stroke, as the impetus of motion is released in IMPACT, mashing the shattered upper lateral cartilage & septum that form the bridge of his nose, & the lower lateral & medial cartilages of the columella, ramming the nasal bone through the fragile floor of the brain cavity in a spurt of blood, terminating both olfactory senses & brain function almost instantaneously.
Julie recovers her balance as the youth crumples, falling backwards. Away from her.
This seventeen-year-old would-be rapist is coughing blood as his body jitterbugs, spasming to a silent swelling symphony in BLUE, his hands & feet tapping out some mambojive gris-gris rhythms on the pavement as he kicks it…
Julie scrambles for the looming promise of escape down the now-unguarded alley eastward, her high-heeled sandals slipping & sliding on the shifting layer of broken glass & refuse & assorted chunks of rubble, she teeters, one foot skewing out from beneath her, regains her balance, plunges headlong down the alleyway, gaining perhaps another sixteen? seventeen…? steps towards potential safety when her luck fails her, she trips over a bundle of oil-soaked rags…? a dead cat…? the remains of a rotted watermelon…? & pitches face-forward in the litter, skinning her knees & hands on asphalt, slicing them on brittle glass shards, rolling, saving her face from impact with the hard, pebbly tarmac, just inches from possible concussion & disfigurement…
She hears the rasp of zippers.
The groping touch of greedy hands upon her body, ripping off her halter top & short shorts, feeling & fondling her with clutching, painful eagerness, as the three remaining gangbangers take her down…
“—Dis fuckin’ cunt’s done wasted ou-uh brudthuh, man, dis cunt’s fuckin’ snuffed fuckin’ Clyde, man, I can’t fuckin’ beeeee-lieve dis fuckin’ goddamn jive shit, man!”
“Bitch, you gonna pay fo dat!” a voice growls from somewhere above her. “Yeah, Bitch, you gonna pay in blood—”
[ 46 ]
Conversation ceases when their orders arrive. & Frank digs into his usual farm boy breakfast: three eggs “over ’n easy,” a rasher of bacon, two slices of white toast, half a ruby grapefruit, & one coffee “black as my luck.” Picked that one up from Sanchez on my second(?), third(?) tour of lovely down home Mekong, but Sanchez always said it en Español—“negro con mi sweatie” or was it “sweetie” or some other bea
ner bullshit…?
(Frank doesn’t give a flyin’ “F” in any case…)
Just early mornin’ residue cloggin’ his brain cells, gotta flush it out, kinda like the body clockwork of a mental sitdown.
Frank digs the tines of his fork experimentally into the first pale white mound with its sunny-yellow center.
The four stainless spears—how long are they(?) maybe one-&-three-quarters inches(?) maybe two(?) Frank muses somewhere within the data-packed center of his cerebellum—stab through the crust sprinklings of salt & pepper, gouging deep into the yolk.
Frank’s trained perceptions hear the sssqqquuuiiissshhh as the runny yellow goo splatters outwards via the point of entry…
[ 47 ]
Truman Gilmore comes to on a bed in some strange motel room, at last breaking through the narcotic veil of Demerol, breaking through into a WORLD OF PAIN…
His right wrist is still handcuffed. The other manacle secured to the head of the metal bedframe via a length of chain looped through the closed bands of curved steel & padlocked through the third link before each end. He is facing towards the far wall at first, but, attracted by the noise from the television & the other, far more peculiar sounds, he rolls over onto his left side, allowing him to see the remainder of the room:
Truman Gilmore is shocked & appalled, yet perversely fascinated by the obscene act of obviously forced fellatio taking place between the wiry, ferret-faced man with the shoulder-length, dirty-blonde hair & scraggly Vandyke beard, & the young, innocent-looking girl chained to the foot of the other twin bed…
Heather hears the man called “Mal” rummaging around the room. But she doesn’t see what it is he’s doing. Her eyes are tightly closed, as if in some way this may serve to block out the terror, the utter degradation, she has been forced to endure by this pair of demented perverts who hold her in total domination…
Instead, her inner eye replays the terrible act of betrayal by the young girl & her “relatives.” Where is the girl now…? Heather wonders… & the horrible, slobbering, animal act that this filthy deviate, “Snuff,” is forcing her to perform on him brings back a flood of bitter memories, & a fresh flow of hot, briny tears:
…Her own stepfather, the stern, Fundamentalist Baptist farmer with the always-ready belt or hairbrush & the obsessive lust for Fire-&-Brimstone preaching, who had exposed his uncontrollable, far-darker impulses a year ago last May, when he’d returned from the field much earlier than expected, & “caught her with her panties down”—
Her mother had been off at some church women’s function. So she & her best friend, Maisey Evans, had ditched school after lunch, heading back to Heather’s house in leiu of attending classes. They were supposed to meet her two stepbrothers, Mark & Matthew, there, along with three of their buddies—all older than the girls & a couple of them were these really totally rad hunks, both seniors, & like sooohhh mature & all the other girls they knew would just be sooohhh jealous… Big plans of some grownup-type partying, drinking some beers with the boys & maybe even an afternoon of wild, uninterrupted hot’n’heavy making out & yeah, maybe even going “alltheway,” but she kind of doubted that she really would ‘cause she’d only “done it” a couple of times, & it wasn’t really all that great ’cause the guys’d just barely stuck it in & started slippin’n’slidin’ with a few fast strokes when they’d started breathin’ hard & moanin’, & then they’d just cum & gone & it was alloverwith before she’d even gotten started… & she was still really nervous & she was still pretty worried about those diseases & all you heard about & like makin’ a baby & all… But, jeeezzzusss, Maisey was such a little slut sometimes, even if she did love her, & Maisey just talked about screwing like constantly but she liked to say “fucking” ’cause it sounded so deliciously wicked & sinful & sexy she thought, & she was so weird ’cause she was always tryin’ to get Heather to like “do it” with some guy she’d just met or tryin’ to talk her into swapping with some boyfriend of hers who’d confided how he had a hardon for Heather… & Maisey had actually kidded her on the way there how as far as she was concerned, she’d be ready & willing to “put out” for all five of those virile young high school studs, if Heather didn’t mind her fuckin’ with her brothers… Yeah, big talk. & wishful thinking…
But it all went wrong. They weren’t there ten minutes when the guys all started acting really strange, whispering to each other & smirking & chuckling real nasty like they were telling dirty jokes…
Heather had been tricked. Maisey had already been fucking for Matthew & Mark, & the whole thing had been a setup from word one—she’d lied & told them what a whore their almost-virgin step-sister was, & she’d helped them plan her “seduction.”
Maisey feigned surprise & futile struggles when the boys grabbed them & tore their clothes off & groped & fondled them all over & slapped their bottoms & pinched & bit & kissed their privates…
Two of their buddies held Heather down while Maisey & the other boy watched as Heather’s own step-brothers took turns screwin’ “Sweet Lil’ Sis.”
They flipped a coin. & Matthew got first crack…
After their little “sex-circus” they planned to gangfuck Maisey.
But their plans came to an abrupt end when their stepfather stormed into the room & caught his boys having “knowledge of her” in a very biblical, carnal sense… Her younger “brother,” sixteen-year-old Mark, was lying atop Heather’s belly, furiously pumping out his climax, Pops charged in & pulled them apart as if separating a pair of shamelessly rutting dogs…
He whipped the five boys savagely with the buckle end of his belt, then chased them from the house, returning to deal with Heather & Maisey in a brutal bout of spanking before forcing both girls to submit to his raging sexual advances, spouting Hellfire-&-Damnation at them while he raped them repeatedly…this would soon become commonplace in Heather’s life.
The extent of this trauma on Heather Rylie, no one will ever know, but the intolerable nature of her situation certainly brought about radical changes in her personality…
[ 48 ]
Truman Gilmore stares at the depraved act of oral rape with unwelcome fascination & arousal. The shallow albeit painful wounds of his groin fail to chastise him to impotence. His penis stiffens, pressing excruciatingly against the fabric of his boxer shorts & trousers. He wants desperately to look away, but the serpent slithering sinfully into the young blonde’s mouth mesmerizes him…
As, indeed, that bestial act of incestuous rape unleashed for Heather a personal Hell of continued torments, so the events of that afternoon unleashed a very different Hell for its perpetrator, as if some long-bottled demon of lust, its perversity fermenting into ever more dangerously intoxicating potency, had at last found itself uncorked, spewing forth its foaming vileness …
Heather’s mother sensed but did not understand that her husband had undergone some terrible dark transformation. Instead of attempting to learn of its genesis, she simply burrowed deeper into veritable orgies of self-deprecating despair & futile prayer…
The limits of Heather’s own deceptively pink-&-frilly, girlish bedroom, her mother’s conjugal bed, &, particularly, the woodshed & the barn & stables became the boundaries of her Hell…
At first her stepfather had been content with stripping her naked & whipping her for her “seductions,” blaming her as a “Jezebel” for tempting the weakness of his all-too-mortal flesh into the ways of wickedness, then indulging those selfsame lusts by forcing the helpless girl to grant him the unrestricted access of her brutally battered vagina for the assuaging of his “demonic” appetites…
Increasingly more irrational in his obsessions, her stepfather told Heather that he had “seen the Mark of Jezebel upon her since the day that I entered into marriage with your mother— I have known you as a whore & temptress since you came beneath my roof, at the age of six…” No one who knew would have argued that her stepfather was a VERY SICK man. A child molester & rapist. A betrayer of his responsibilities as he
r adoptive father. But her shame & her abuse were the “special secret” that they shared. At least at first …
The man soon progressed to even more immoral practices—teaching his stepdaughter to perform fellatio upon him, using his Hell-&-Brimstone-shouting mouth & tongue to perform cunnilingus on the helpless fourteen-year-old girl. He forced her to masturbate herself while he watched. &, in turn, he taught her to “jack him off,” performing for him the secret, shameful act that he admitted to long indulging in, as he had fantasized of her sexually since she was a very young child…
The man was tormented constantly by the image seared into his lurid memories—the sight of his younger son screwing Heather like some young bitch in heat. It wasn’t long before he began forcing the girl & her two brothers to have intercourse or engage in bouts of mutual masturbation or oral sex while he watched, lewdly fondling himself until he spurted his filthy semen onto their writhing, sweating bodies, or he threw himself upon his stepdaughter’s belly & fucked her long & brutally. Neither were her brothers spared from this indignity—he forced them to engage in homosexual acts with him & one another while Heather was made to serve as spectator…
But the living Hell that Heather Rylie has been forced to suffer in the past is NOTHING compared to the screaming Blue Hell of torment that her helpless mind & body will be subjected to tonight…
Duet for the Devil Page 11