Death Sucks

by Andrew Mallen

  “My, my,” Jones walked toward her as she trembled. “Will you ever cease to amaze us?”

  He clapped and the class joined in, some by choice, the rest by invisible command. “Two kills for the lovely Ms. Haneef, two idiots who thought they would have an easy go of it because she is without a cock.”

  Haneef raised her eyes to meet his.

  “You will tonight love,” Jones replied to her unspoken words.

  Haneef closed her eyes tightly and shivered.

  “Save it, Allah will not help you,” Jones growled, Haneef’s thoughts were clearly pissing him off.

  Don’t be stupid, stay on his good side.

  “Excellent advice, Mr. Grant,” Jones answered his silent coaching. “But she is, stupid I mean. If she wasn’t, she’d still be herding goats and hiding from drones up in that litter box she called home.”

  The floor spewed out another body snatcher who did his job quickly and quietly while Bobby waited nervously for punishment that never came.

  “Such excitement! Such entertainment! Such unexpected skill and tenacity! We now have two Reapers! Who will be the third?” Jones cried into his microphone. “This event will raise the bar ladies and gentlemen, and my cock if I had one!”

  Jones laughed so hard he nearly fell from the stage, he laughed alone. “A three-way catfight! A bitch brawl to end all bitch brawls! Ladies, come on down!”

  *

  One by one, they climbed on stage to stand and turned to face those who would witness at least two of their deaths. Jones stood smiling between them.

  “All the way from Warsaw Poland, this stout specimen loves her sausage, although too much goes in her mouth and not enough in her cunt. A school bus driver by trade, she decided to change careers but resorted to the most unusual method of resignation. After making sure to lock the doors, she set her chariot ablaze along with the twenty-four children trapped inside. At nearly two hundred and fifty pounds, standing five foot one, the portly, the ugly, the deadly, Vera ‘The Torch’ Dulvic!”

  What the fuck is up with all the kid killers? Am I a fucking kid killer? Please, oh God, please, not kids, anything but kids.

  Applause erupted and Jones danced to the rhythm.

  “This next lovely is a professional of the Parisian night who poisoned nineteen of her customers before accidentally sipping her own toxic brew. Sexy, even after nearly thirty hard years of sucking cock, at five foot eight inches and one hundred and thirty-five pounds, Delphine ‘The Poison Whore’ Volte!”

  At least she didn’t kill kids.

  The audience clapped. Jones made sure of it.

  “And now, dare I say, the favorite? Hailing all the way from Saint Petersburg, Russia by way of Brooklyn, New York, this five foot eight inch Russian hard case weighs in at one hundred thirty pounds of ice and attitude. We know she’s the boss, we know she’s merciless and we know she’s a bitch, ladies and gents, Elena ‘The Ice Queen’ Rachkovsky!”

  Forced applause cheered the trio of murderers. Jones joined in, circling them, skipping like the madman he was. Stopping suddenly, giggling like a schoolgirl after her first kiss, he turned to the few remaining bystanders. “I’ve come up with a bit of brilliance. The title is wrong, all wrong! This contest shall be called…ready for it…the good, the bad and the ugly!” Jones roared, his laughter stifling his words.

  Bobby, Haneef, Indiwongga, Van Holt, Kjeld and Ortero clapped enthusiastically, they had no choice.

  “Very good, thank you, I’m rather proud of that one. Now on to the task at hand. Ladies at the ready! Weapons!”

  Three scythe’s floated down, each to she who’d hardened the blade with her blood.

  “Kill or be killed!”

  Dulvic tensed, hugging her scythe, as if she was trying to hide behind it. Volte stalked toward her, her eyes on the Russian.

  I wouldn’t turn my back on that bitch either.

  Dulvic’s eyes darted between the hooker and the mob queen as if watching the world’s fastest tennis game.

  Her heart will explode if they don’t kill her quick.

  Volte attacked, lashing out at Dulvic as Rachkovsky watched, as silent and patient as the predator she was. Dulvic managed to block Volte strike but lost her scythe. It clattered across the stage, sliding to a stop a good ten paces from the women. Jones shook his head in disappointment. Dulvic lunged toward it, fat jiggling and tits flapping, her modesty replaced by desperation. Volte swung again as she tracked her, burying her blade in the small of Dulvic’s wide back. The bus driver howled as she sprawled, her loose flesh slapped the stage and gathered at her waist as she skidded to a stop. Volte stood over her, her hands still on her scythe, her face drawn with remorse, unaware of the predator approaching in silence.

  Watch you back French.

  Rachkovsky had all the time she needed, Volte was unaware of everything except the impaled woman at her feet and the weapon that connected them. Rachkovsky hefted her scythe, turned the blade, and struck. Wood struck bone, pulverizing it. The deadly blade quivered as if in anticipation of what came next, it didn’t wait long. Volte’s knees unhinged and her eyes rolled over white as she slumped to her knees. Her head pitched and rolled form her neck. The hollow thud of impact and the sharp crack of fractured bone filled the room. Rachkovsky measured, adjusted her grip and struck again, hacking Dulvic’s head from her neck, finishing what Volte started. She turned to face Jones, her usual mask of indifference firmly in place.

  “I must say, that was very disappointing,” Jones groaned, examining the carnage. “Not your efforts my dear, that was an exquisite display of tact and skill, but for fuck’s sake you could’ve prolonged it a bit.”

  Rachkovsky nodded, knowing not to apologize. “Your winner and Reaper number three, Ms. Rachkovsky…blah, blah, fucking blah.” Jones kicked Volte’s head in disgust, his mood plummeting.

  Rachkovsky sensed it, lowered her head and scurried to the stairs before the lunatic decided harsh words and juvenile tantrums weren’t enough to convey his disappointment.

  “This is supposed to be fun you lot! Doesn’t a one of you pathetic gobs of shit know how to kill with a little style, a little flash, a little flair? Let’s see some debauchery, some savagery, some entertainment! Yeah?”

  Silence.

  “Yeah?” Jones roared again.

  “Yeah!” Indiwongga shouted.

  “Yeah!” Kjeld and Van Holt joined in.

  “That’s more like it! Come on boys, let’s show these bitches how it’s done!” Jones cried, his excitement growing, fed by the forced battle cries.

  *

  “Mr. Ortero, Mr. Van Holt, come on down! Since this is the first main event of the evening I feel obliged to give you a little background on our fighters. We’ve all seen Mr. Van Holt’s somewhat compromising end and his rear end.” He burst into taunting laughter, Van Holt grimaced but held his tongue. “Before he was so tenderly delivered to our door, he was a murderer, slaughtering eleven women, four children and twenty-six men of color in the name of his race. A modern-day crusader if you will, but one little fact that I would be remiss in neglecting to disclose, he never did it alone. Our big man here needed to be surrounded by like-minded cowards to find his balls. Isn’t that right Mr. Van Holt?”

  “Fuck you,” Van Holt growled from where he now stood beside him.

  “Maybe later, if you’re still with us,” Jones whispered with a devious wink. “Good money says I won’t have the pleasure I’m afraid.”

  “Fuck you,” Van Holt grumbled but shrunk under Jones’s glare.

  “Mr. Ortero, our Argentinian cowboy, lived alone since the tender age of ten, traipsing back and forth across the high plains of his homelands, herding his cattle and killing anyone unlucky enough to cross his path. The lure of the barren landscape he called home provided a bounty of foolhardy tourists, extreme hikers and nature lovers from all over the world. Initially it was for the thrill and the sex, but Mr. Ortero discovered something fabulous. He discovered that humans are
delicious! How much beef can you man eat, am I right? Mr. Ortero became a man eater, and for nearly twenty years feasted on the new age idiots and tree huggers until the number of missing foreigners became too much to ignore. Fifty-seven men and women died at his hand before the Federales caught up with him. He died as he lived, a wild man, killed while attacking a squad of heavily armed soldiers with only his knife. Bravo Mr. Ortero! Bravo!” Jones applauded as did his dwindling audience. “Riddle me this, I only ask because of your unique experience, does any race taste particularly delectable?”

  Ortero stared at Jones in silence.

  Jones sighed and continued, “Let me rephrase, I’ve forgotten you’re not much of a wordsmith. Who tastes better, the English, the French, Italians, Germans, Canadians, not the Yanks, please tell me it’s not the Yanks?”

  “Skinny women,” Ortero replied after a few seconds of brooding.

  “Jolly good! Jolly good! Closest to the bone, sweeter is the meat. That’s a line from a song I believe.”

  Ortero stared, his eyes hooded beneath leathered brows.

  “Any of these skinny women make that gruesome mouth of yours water more than others?” Jones asked, enthralled.

  “I think...French,” Ortero replied with a shrug.

  “Of course! You are what you eat and all that, champions of cuisine the frogs, masters at the craft, no wonder.” Jones clapped and smiled at the gaucho.

  Ortero returned the gesture.

  That busted grilled must’ve made it pretty hard for the sick bastard to chow down on those poor people.

  “Thank you Mr. Ortero. I know this fight was to be called second chances, but it seems a poor fit considering this new information. I’ve decided to call it ‘The Man Eater versus The Cock Sucker’!” Jones bellowed and turned to Van Holt, his hatred as apparent as his love of taunting the man.

  Van Holt shook his head and bared his teeth, an empty gesture and everyone knew it.

  “Let me guess…” Jones stammered, almost choking on his cackling. “Fuck me?”

  Bobby snickered. Haneef lowered her head. Kjeld belted out a deep, loud howl of laughter. As sick as it was, seeing such an asshole getting what he deserved was actually quite enjoyable. “Audience participation, unforced audience participation!” Jones cried, clapping at the crowd. “Good show! Good show!”

  Indiwongga stomped on the floor, his own primitive form of praise, Rachkovsky didn’t move, she didn’t even blink.

  “Let’s get on with it, shall we?” Jones said once he regained his fickle composure. “Weapons!”

  The fighters were armed.

  “Irwin ‘The Cum-Catcher’ Van Holt versus Riccardo ‘The Cannibal’ Ortero!” Jones looked from one to the other with great expectation. “Kill or be killed!”

  Van Holt, determined to prove himself, rushed Ortero and began raining down powerful strikes, forcing Ortero backward. Ortero was smaller and older, Van Holt’s raw power appeared too much for him to withstand for very long. Van Holt was screaming, pushing forward despite his fear. Ortero let him, deflecting the big man’s shots, defending himself as best as he could while he waited for an opening. Van Holt kept pushing, driving his scythe down, over and over again. Ortero struggled but as Van Holt’s energy faded, as the barrage slowed, Ortero struck.

  Faking another block he instead sidestepped the falling blade at the last moment, leaving it to bounce off the stage floor. Swinging his own weapon for the first time, he sliced Van Holt’s thigh to the bone as he dashed passed the big man. Van Holt howled and stumbled but stayed on his feet. Ortero could’ve finished him as the racist turned clumsily to face him but did not. It wasn’t Jones’s warning, although that no doubt played a small part in his tactics. Ortero wanted to hear Van Holt scream, he missed making people scream.

  “You sneaky, filthy wet back! Come on!” Van Holt roared.

  Ortero smiled but said nothing.

  “Who’s your dentist, Helen Fucking Keller?” Van Holt was stalling while he got his wind back.

  “Your mother,” Ortero replied.

  Bobby burst out laughing, he had to. Hearing the cannibal cowboy use such a schoolyard insult, and use it so well, tickled him so hard he was powerless against it.

  “Fuck you!” Van Holt roared.

  Bobby laughed even harder, he wasn’t alone.

  Van Holt stumbled toward Ortero, swinging across his body, trying to catch Ortero from the side. The gaucho stepped out of range and once Van Holt’s blade passed, he darted in and used the butt of his staff to ram Van Holt in the gut. Van Holt staggered across the stage, bent over by the blow. Ortero followed. Van Holt turned as Ortero lashed out with the bladeless end of his weapon yet again, this time connecting with his face, shattering his teeth, lips and nose with a wet crunch. The big man backpedaled, arms windmilling comically, before finally crashing to the floor on his back.

  “Now you need dentist,” Ortero pointed at the floundering racist with his scythe.

  Bobby burst into unchecked laughter, Kjeld was Indiwongga did howled along with him. Haneef kept the eyes down, whether to hide her disgust or her smile, only she knew. Even Rachkovsky smirked at the Argentinian’s unexpected humor.

  “Come,” Ortero beckoned to Van Holt with the curl of a finger.

  Van Holt spit blood and teeth, his eyes burned with hatred, leaving no room for the fear that usually lived there. Rising awkwardly, limping badly, he went, his scythe in a two-handed grip in front of his chest. “Let’s go spic-o!” he sneered through bloodied bubbles.

  Ortero eased toward him, his scythe held to match Van Holt’s.

  Van Holt struck with a quick combination, blade, staff, blade. Ortero blocked each one, pushing Van Holt’s blade down after the last, then striking quickly, whacking Van Holt on the side of his big head with a solid thud. Van Holt stumbled, roared in frustration and charged, his training forgotten.

  Ortero easily dodged the first big looping swipe from above, drove the point of his scythe into Van Holt’s shoulder, twisted it, turned and ripped it free, a plume of blood in its wake. Van Holt spun, off balance and vulnerable. Moving quickly, Ortero stepped behind him, upended his scythe, slipped the curve between the big man’s legs and pulled the blade up into his crotch, lifting with his knees, his arms and shoulders bulging with the effort. Van Holt howled, dropping his scythe. Whimpering, his eyes brimming with misery, he fumbled and pawed at the wicked steel protruding from his pelvis like a blackened, blood-soaked cock.

  Ortero bent his knees, lowered his grip, and wrenched upward once again. Van Holt roared. The robed ring announcer cheered and danced a wild jig beside the gruesome scene.

  Bobby wasn’t laughing anymore. None of those watching were. It had gone bad and gone bad quickly.

  Ortero heaved upward again, the blade cut almost to the top of Van Holt’s ass crack, his junk nothing more than a ragged entanglement of gore. Van Holt cried, the bones of his fingers poked through tattered skin, his palms flayed by his useless efforts at arresting the blade. He looked like a little kid holding back a big piss, kneading the mess between his legs as if he could. Jones loved every second.

  Finish him already. Nobody deserves that shit.

  Jones shot Bobby a deadly look. Bobby nodded and shut his mind up.

  White wall. White wall. White wall.

  After what seemed like a very long time, Ortero’s arms finally gave out and he let his scythe drop. The blade fell from between Van Holt’s trembling, blood soaked thighs, and he collapsed at once into the widening puddle of blood. His tattered hands cradled the dangling remains of his manhood as he curled up on the floor, lost to the pain and to defeat. Ortero walked to stand beside him, raising his scythe for the final blow, even he seemed to have lost his taste for the torture.

  “Wait!” Jones commanded.

  Bobby closes eyes, this wasn’t good.

  “Mr. Van Holt expressed a great interest in fucking me if I’m not mistaken. Alas, I have no cock but since it was, in essence, his last request, I
feel obligated to see it fulfilled.”

  “No,” Van Holt moaned.

  “No worries old chap, it’s the least I can do. Let’s see, Mr. Indiwongga is blessed with quite the appendage. Black too, your favorite color. Mr. Indiwongga would you be so kind as to come up here and give Mr. Van Holt what he’s been asking for?”

  “Not a man’s man, if you reckon,” Indiwongga replied, the first sign of fear lifted his bushy brows.

  “I reckon but I must insist. Besides, try everything once, how else will you know for sure?”

  Indiwongga closes eyes then meandered to the stage.

  “That worm won’t do,” Jones explained as he watched Indiwongga’s cock dangle, pointed and Indiwongga’s prick obeyed at once.

  “For fuck’s sake Mr. Jones…” Indiwongga tried to protest.

  “Now, now Mr. Indiwongga, don’t be a fool.” Jones’s voice held none of the merriment it had a moment earlier.

  Indiwongga bowed and approached. Van Holt squirmed and cried for mercy. Indiwongga was lost, unsure of how commit the horrific act. “He’s got no ass left, you idiot! Fuck his face, his face!”

  Indiwongga heard Jones’s anger and knew he had no choice. It was torture or be tortured, fuck or get fucked.

  This is way beyond fucked up. Do unto others or have some seriously sick shit done unto you, that’s the name of the game and its one seriously twisted fucking game.

  Indiwongga dropped to his knees and grabbed Van Holt by both ears.