by Kirk Alex
“I like my pussy hair dark and thick. . . .”
He knelt. Sniffed around down there for a bit. The odor of urine was easy to detect. He licked her anyway. Rose. Had his left hand back around her throat.
“Nothing like the smell of fresh pee-hole. . . .”
He eased himself inside. Heard her wince.
“Well, there goes Rudy’s precious virgin. He waited too long, didn’t he? Just another whore now, like I always knew you to be. You’re all a bunch of whores; women are whores. My mother told me so.”
He drove his member in and proceeded to stroke.
“Tell me you love me.”
She said the words.
“Make me believe it.”
“I love you.”
“Think I’m playing around? Huh, girly? Think I’m playing? Say you love me.”
He continued to choke her, making it difficult for her to breathe, let alone speak.
“I love you.”
He looked down to see and feel some of the blood from her vagina on his cock. Liked it that much more, as it provided the needed lubricant and made his groin that much more sensitive and the whole act that much greater.
“Do you love me?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me that you love me, Agenda Marie.”
“I do. I love you.”
“Lying cunt.”
He gave her about twenty good strokes. Continued to choke the bitch, applying pressure. He released her neck a split second prior to exploding and shoved a couple of fingers of each hand inside the corners of her mouth while bracing his thumbs against the back of her head. He stretched her cheeks out this way to the fullest possible extent without causing tearing; he wanted every one of her orifices in working condition for future use.
He blasted inside her cunt.
After a moment, he withdrew. Zipped his fly.
“That’s only the beginning.”
She was shoved in the direction of the cargo van.
CHAPTER 348
He dug up a ball gag and stuffed it in her mouth. Saw to it that the leather strap was good and tight against the back of her neck. He unlocked the toolbox and dug up leg irons and secured them to her ankles, then ran a chain from the leg irons to the cuffs.
“Let’s see you wander off now, Pearly-Girlie. Let’s see you try to cross me now, Agenda Marie.”
He picked up the laundry bag she had crawled out of. Got her feet into it. Yanked up on the bag and kept yanking, until he had it pulled up over her shoulders and gradually her head, and tied it off.
He could hear Marvin struggling down in the grave, cursing up a storm. Biggs walked over close enough to the hole to be able to peer down and see what was going on.
Big Bertha Lenier had those powerful thighs locked around Muck’s neck and she was not about to let go. Her eyes were swollen shut, the bleeding, dirty face had no expression (that he could tell), did not reveal in any way that she was even alive, but she must have been. Some people were harder to kill than others, he supposed. And she had those thunder thighs locked around Marvin’s scrawny neck and she was squeezing the shit out of him.
Biggs walked back to the van. Noticed the dead drifter’s huaraches where he had tossed them there on the ground. Wondered if they would even fit Mr. Fimple. Mr. Fimple had a larger foot size than eleven, he was pretty sure. If the huaraches had been regular shoes they wouldn’t have fit at all, but as sandals . . . Probably acceptable. He flipped them inside the van.
He dug up a pair of long nose pliers to pry the gold out of Vester Jessup’s jaw with. Did that. Dropped the teeth into a Zip- loc baggy. Relieved the dead man of his rings and had them join the choppers inside the baggy. He reached for the black medical satchel and stashed the baggy under the false bottom. He selected a pair of pruning shears he figured Muck might need soon enough, and tossed them into the satchel. Faced the unavoidable that he so dreaded: there was the matter of the body to be dealt with. By measures, he shoved, rolled, and dragged it out of there until it cleared the Econoline’s bed and dropped to the ground with a not inconsiderable thud.
Nothing left for him to do but wait for Base to take care of Bertha, or would it be the other way around? That was a toss-up right there.
Biggs sat on the rear bumper, cracked the top on a can of Hawaiian Punch, 100 percent vitamin C, so they claimed, and questioned whether it would be worth taking the loaded milk crates and risk staining the van’s interior with dripping whiskey and wine from all the empties? Fact was hard liquor fumes never failed to make him nauseous. Didn’t seem worth the trouble. He hated leaving all them empties behind. Had another pull. Hawaiian Punch suited him just fine.
CHAPTER 349
Down in the earth, the deacon struggled, cursed some more, hammered away with his pliers and drove them into the woman’s right eye. Did the same to the other. Drove the pliers in there. Both eyes were mush. Something like Dione’s eye that night she got it in the Casbah parking lot.
Although Bertha’s grip had loosened a great deal, the weight alone of her legs was still enough for poor Marvin Muck to cope with. He found it impossible to get out of there. He reached for and got hold of the pickaxe and drove it through the center of the woman’s head. Swung away until he had her skull parted down the middle that way, split open right down the middle.
He pried her legs off of him. Took a moment to recover, then crawled up out of the grave and rolled over on his back, eyes shut tight, sucking in fresh air that he needed so much.
When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that Cecil had his butt parked on the back bumper of the Meat Wagon and had him a grin on his face. Dude was drinkin’ that muthafuckin’ cat piss called Hawaiian Punch and actin’ like somethin’ be funny.
“Where was you, man?” Marvin sat up. “The snapper don’t be dead. Damn near choked me to death.”
“That was a good idea you had, to take the sandals back for Norbert. He’s always cutting his feet, stepping on nails, broken glass. Goes through Band-Aids like there’s no tomorrow.”
“I don’t be givin’ a fuck about none of that, me. You heard what I said? Ho don’t be dead. Couldn’t get no fresh air for a long time.”
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“How could I? Ho was chokin’ me. Had her fat hand’ an’ then them fat legs ’round my neck. Ho was squeezin’ my neck. Had that jumbo-size, junkyard ass up in my face, too. Couldn’t get no air.”
“Yeah? What are you complaining about? You said you wanted to stick your tongue in her culo.”
“No way. Not like that, man. I don’t be eatin’ no turd, me.”
“Where’s the gold?”
Marvin cursed under his breath.
“Where is it?”
“Dropped it. Ho caused me to drop it.”
“Find it.”
Biggs tossed him the Maglite.
“Easy for you to be sayin’.”
CHAPTER 350
Marvin slid back down into the hole. It took him a while to locate what it was he needed to locate. Tossed the blood and mud-encrusted gold teeth up to the bishop. The procedure was the same he used with Slim’s choppers: Cecil dropped the teeth inside a baggy, then hid the baggy away inside the false bottom in the medical satchel.
“Where’s the rest?”
“What rest?”
“Her fingers.”
“Her fingers?”
Marvin didn’t wait for Biggs to respond. Went over both of the dead woman’s hands. Bertha had been partial to rings. Had a couple on each hand. Marvin had trouble getting any of them off. Fingers were swollen.
“Ain’t no use. Don’t even be worf it.”
“Oh, it’s ‘worf’ it. Trusty Lusty’s Bordello of Fear is about to be shut down indefinitely by the asshole judge reviewing the claims against me and my business. I’m about to kiss a major source of income bye-bye. It’s ‘worf ‘ it to me.”
Biggs tossed down the pruning shears that flew past Muck’s head by mere inches. Ma
rvin glared/stared. Shook his head.
“Use those. I want the rings. They’re worth money. That’s how Vester got his pussy. A real sucker. Only suckers pay for it.”
“You pay enough your own damn self.”
“Not lately.”
“What am I suppose’ to do wiff these trimmin’ shear’?”
“We’re wasting time.”
“Already done enough to the ho. Now I’m suppose’ to cut them finger’ off?”
“Gimme the Maglite.”
Marvin did that, and Cecil shone it on the body. The deacon, at last, picked up the shears and proceeded to sever the necessary limbs—all the while wincing and keeping his eyes shut tight and his head turned away. Ho was too hard to look at like this. What was bein’ done to her was over the line—even for him. Whole idea of it made rape look like a Disneyland fun ride, thought Muck. Gettin’ trim was always a good thang. No matter what. On the other hand, doin this’ to a ho, any ho, no matter that the ho be like a whale, was goin’ too far. No shit. Way too far.
CHAPTER 351
Biggs reminded him to pick up his pace. Get it done. Marvin glanced up at him, cursed something or other to himself, collected the rings and handed them to the bishop, then the shears. Biggs dumped the rings and shears into the medical bag and unzipped his fly. Marvin knew enough at this point to scramble up and out of the hole in time to avoid getting whizzed on.
“Why that?”
“Payback. For releasing gas in my presence.”
“Make’ no difference to the ho. Ho be chill.”
Biggs zipped up when he was done. Gave Marvin a hand with Slim. The body was dragged to the grave. Rolled in. Muck kicked the white cotton pants in after him.
“Ain’t we forgot somethin’? We got one more, ain’t we? Unless you can’t find her. Do the ho be dead? That it? You gonna take her dead ass back to the cribby, play wiff her, then deep six her culo another time?”
“Refill the grave.”
“Refill the grave.”
Marvin went about it, while Cecil proceeded to distort their footprints and tire tracks with his shovel.
“Don’t tell me, then. Yo.”
Muck was practically done with his part of the task.
“She’s not dead. She was never dead.”
Marvin couldn’t move. Found it difficult to believe what he heard.
“No lie? Ho don’t be dead?”
“Five-oh can make casts of our footprints and tire tracks. They have to be destroyed. Get what I didn’t.”
“Could be it could rain again.”
“Did you hear what I just said? Make sure we don’t leave tire tracks that can be traced back to me.”
“What about mud on them wheel’ and bumper?”
“I’ll see to it later. Can’t do anything about that now, can I?”
Marvin went about taking care of business. No point leaving anything behind that the rollers could use against them.
Cecil tossed the pickaxe in the van, his shovel. Let Marvin know he was taking the van back to the gravel road and to eliminate the tracks to the best of his ability.
“Tell me again. You dun told me twiced already.”
Biggs drove the van to the road. Got out and waited at the rear door and watched as Marvin went about the process. Finished up. Walked to the back door and tossed his shovel in. There was no denying: Marvin felt stiff from the labor.
“Got me a good idea what it musta been like pickin’ cotton for no coin.”
“Sure you do, rapo. Bangin’ bitches whenever you want; free grub and drugs.”
“Rapo?” Marvin hustled his package. “Like to rape that beaner pussy, since you say she don’t be dead.”
“That’s what I said: not dead.”
“Yo. Was right, then. Was right, me. Fakin’ all this time. Ho was fakin’.”
Biggs let him gloat. Closed the door. Made certain it was locked, and climbed in the front. Marvin made it up on the passenger side. Did not, however, could not stay put very long. There was a bundle back there under some blankets and he needed to take a look.
He was out of his seat soon enough. Lifted the blankets. Peeked through the opening in the laundry bag.
“I be a son of a crack ho, me. No shit. Sure as I got a dick be damn near foot long, Messican pee-hole be alive as could be.”
Biggs turned the key in the ignition. Had the motor idling. Gave Marvin one of his patented, hard stares. Didn’t have to say a word.
“I know. Stay back wiff the trim. Keep my head down. Don’t be lookin’ out the windshield, neither.”
“You’re learning. It’s for your own protection.”
“Kiss my black ass, too.”
The Party Wagon was moving. Biggs took the gravel road out of the graveyard.
CHAPTER 352
Ace Ortiz and Felix Monk hadn’t dared move an inch until they were certain the van was, in fact, out of sight and the two cabrones had no intention of returning for anything for any reason. What they had just witnessed had left an impression on them both; more so on Felix, than the seasoned, hardcore junkie/glue huffing parolee Ace Ortiz. Then, too, there were other things on the ex-con’s mind that far outweighed having witnessed the murder of that wino and the dumping of the bodies in the grave and rape of Rudy Perez’s girlfriend.
Ace Ortiz had followed Biggs to the storage shed, had made sure that his buddy Felix had stayed put and kept an eye on Marvin, and now Ortiz was eager to get back to that storage shed and get his hands on what was under the floor.
He rose slowly and walked through the weeds toward the grave the three bodies had been dumped in moments ago.
Felix was right behind him. “What now? What do we do now?”
Ace said nothing. Desperate to think of a good reason to move off on his own and check out the bishop’s hiding place.
“We gotta dig this grave up, Ace. Somebody could still be alive.”
“Good luck.”
“Bertha could still be alive. She put up a pretty good fight. You shoulda heard it, man.”
“What’re you gonna dig with, genius? Your hands?”
Felix Monk looked around. Searched through the weeds. Found a large coffee can someone had discarded. Further on he found a plank. He hurried back to the grave and started digging up the loose dirt.
“You’re all right, you know that, Felix? You’re okay.”
Felix kept his head down and stayed with the digging. He did not make as much progress as he would have made with a shovel or pick, but it was fine with him because he was obviously getting somewhere.
Felix felt that he had to keep at it. Slim Jessup or Bertha or maybe even that poor bastard with the pocket watch could still be alive down there. He didn’t know what to expect, just thought people didn’t always die right away when they got popped and dumped in a grave like that.
Meth Mouth wasn’t helping.
“You just gonna stand there, Ace?”
“No, man. I gotta go take a shit, then I’ll be right back to give you a hand.”
“What the fuck am I doing hanging with an asshole like you?”
“Watch it.”
“Asshole. You saw them psychos drop three bodies down there.”
“Yeah! Right! Three dead ones! I said I gotta make a drop of my own. I can’t be diggin’ if I gotta go squeeze one out, now can I?” And Ace hurried off in the direction of Biggs’s hiding place. Felix kept digging, doing his best.
CHAPTER 353
Ace Ortiz was inside the storage shed. Removed the section of floor and dragged the “suitcase” out. Hasp had a lock dangling from it. Couldn’t yank it off with his bare hands. Considered playing it safe, playing it smart, by unscrewing the four screws on the one side with the tip of his switchblade—for a brief moment. The time it would have taken, even if it did work, the tediousness of the notion and his increasing anxiousness had him toss the idea aside for a more practical one: he dug up an old rod and pried the hasp off. He lifted the lid and could not b
elieve his single eye.
He stuffed the money (thousand dollars in twenties and fifties) in his socks, got his hands on the cocaine, crack, Ex, weed (about four hundred dollars worth), stuffed that in his jacket. Saw the mayonnaise jar full of gold crowns, gold teeth, caps, some rings and earrings, and dumped that in his pockets. Took what other things he could squeeze in his available shirt and pants pockets.
There were guns, a .32 pistol that he favored right off. And ammo. He’d be able to sell some of these guns for sure, only there was no way that he could take it all with to his car to hide—and still return to the graveyard without making Felix suspicious that something was up.
The only way was to leave more than he wanted to. Would have to come back out another time by himself. ‘Sides, he had enough to tide him over for a few days, so long as he didn’t get crazy with the spending. Make it last. Keep the monkey under control. Never been good at it. Had to admit that much. Now was the time to start.
He knew it was a clumsy effort at best, but this time made every attempt to screw the screws back into the original holes of the metal suitcase. Managed somehow. What difference did it make anyway? He was coming back for more, for the rest of it. All he had to do was make it back before Biggs decided to revisit the shack.
He returned the suitcase to its hiding place the way he’d found it. Replaced the section of flooring. Did likewise with everything else, and went down to rejoin Felix and give him a hand. Sort of. Pretend like he gave a damn.
CHAPTER 354
“Find anything?”
“Told you: had to take a dump. Got the Aztec Two-Step.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The Aztec Two-Step, loco. Only cure for it is the Aztec Three-Step: double-shot of whiskey. And since we ain’t got no whiskey, that I know of, still got the fuckin’ Aztec Two-Step.”