by Kirk Alex
“My life’s work so far. Adds up to fourteen, not counting Slim and Big Bertha. Big Bertha Lenier should count as two. That would bring it to sixteen. Plus the transient, or so he claimed he was, in the graveyard.” He paused, mulling it over in his head.
“Granted, my numbers aren’t as impressive as some serial killers’, even if you included the ones in the basement, or even the ones I did in Amsterdam while on furlough during my army stint over there. I was stationed in Germany. Kaiserslautern. Sliced and diced a couple of bitches in Brussels, too; a baker’s wife in Nice, France, and her twelve-year-old daughter. I never believed in the devil, Satanism, but left pentagrams near the sites; carved 666s into the bodies, to throw off the bumbling Euro gendarme.” It was a sigh tinged with regret, when he stated: “I can’t match Petiot or Herman Mudgett when it comes to sheer numbers. Then, too, it’s nearly impossible to nail down the accuracy of some of these stats. Henry Lee Lucas? He’s a liar. He never killed as many as he claimed. Nowhere near. Eddie Gein? The sissy mama’s boy? Got him beat, easy. Zero competition there. Although fat boy Gacy, the homo shit-packer’s got a higher body count than me—or so it seems. I’d be pushing it if I claimed my numbers exceeded his. Problem is, you never know what to believe with Fatso the Jester. Lot of these losers have a habit of bending the truth in order to suit their agenda—and they all have an agenda. So then, did Pogo kill under forty, or was it more than that? If so, how many more? Filthy queer was a born liar. Manson’s another pole-smoking, white trash runt who has a tough time telling the truth.” He pondered on it in silence for a moment. “Like I said: my numbers may not be all that impressive. I’m doing what I can to improve my stats—then again, it’s not always about quantity with me, but the quality of the kills, quality of torture—and I believe I tortured quite a few of my victims to the best of my ability.” He stopped. Thought about it. “Quality of Torture. QOT. That’s what it should be about, first and foremost. What the primary objective has always been, as it should be. Because no matter how many one kills—one can never kill enough. World is full of peeps, cretins, and more on the way; always more assholes on the way. So long as they continue to copulate and propagate. You can never stamp out enough.”
It was here that he genuinely wondered if his body count may have been off. The numbers had a way of bouncing around in his head. Some days the figure was higher and appeared favorable, other days he doubted that figure and felt mildly depressed and let down because he was convinced the number was probably less than what he believed it to be—or wanted to believe it was.
He would never admit the following to anyone else, but unless he wrote the number of kills down somewhere, kept an accurate tally, or had photographic evidence, his tally was hardly accurate.
Well, it wasn’t easy. The only true reason to keep track of the numbers was to rate his own progress against all those pretenders out there who considered themselves to be in his league, but were far from it. Most were nowhere near in his class.
“We have a few buried here and there on the premises, as mentioned. You and your pals had an encounter with some of them, Pearleen.” He just about grinned. Felt like it. “It’s possible I got Gacy beat after all. Can’t say I surpassed some of the others, some of the krauts—and that one guy down in Columbia.”
His mind drifted off somewhere. Perhaps regret weighing him down after all. Disappointment. That was the worst of it.
“I should be happier about the achievements. Always find myself wishing I had photos of the other kills. . . . Regret is a bitch. Kind of partial to the Before and After shots.”
He did not bother to mention that the women in the “Before” phase of the Before and After spreads, very often, were made up to resemble his long dead whore mother. Why bring it up? No reason. Couldn’t be sure of it himself even. In denial? Was that it? What did it matter—to them? Him? Or anyone else?
Pearleen felt an urge to throw up, and she was thanking God to herself when it didn’t happen. Olivia, on the other hand, continued to have a much tougher time of it. Tears streamed freely, and Pearleen knew that the girl was the luckiest person alive at the moment because the soap suds and water did not make it too evident, or if it was noticeable, Biggs—caught up in his twisted fantasies—did not react to it this time.
CHAPTER 363
Peachy saw an opportunity to probe his psyche for a bit. There was a photo or two that she caught sight of out of the corner of her eye. Young boy, possibly Cecil, standing between what appeared to be a black dog and a huge, boar-like pig. The boy appeared to be smiling. Yes, had a big, toothy grin on his young face. One arm around the dog’s neck, the other about the hog’s. There was a male, age undetermined, on account he was in circus clown makeup in back of them. Man was in a wheelchair. Clown looked evil; pure evil. Sadistic. With demon-like jaw and teeth. Made her shudder. What did it mean to their warden? She’d witnessed him in both: Trusty makeup and Parfrey pig mask. She wanted to hear more; better yet she was intent on him clarifying what it meant to him.
She wondered if she had the nerve to ask about it. What would the consequences be? How heavy the toll? Only if she didn’t, how would she ever get inside, get close enough to figure out what made the sicko tick?
“That you, Cecil? As a boy? Looks like you.”
“Used to be me.”
“You’re a dog person, I take it?”
“Actually, I favor pigs. This particular pig, in fact. Smartest animal I ever knew. Parfrey was smarter than the average human, for sure. Average human has the brains of a chipmunk.”
“The man in the clown makeup—he family? Or is that too personal?”
He looked at her. It was never easy for him to go there; never wanted to. Why was the bitch asking? What did she hope to gain?
“What’s up with the 3rd degree? Looking for a soft spot? Achille’s heel?”
Pearl reminded herself she needed to be extra cautious here. Although whatever comes out of your mouth next had better be stated without fear; had better be genuine. Every damned syllable had better be authentic. Should you fail with it, so be it. Even a twisted serial killer like this had to have some small part of him way down there that was human. Just had to be. And this was the part she needed, felt it was required to reach—if she stood any chance at all of surviving this nightmarish ordeal she was trapped in.
“Don’t mean to pry, lover. It’s just that you got several pictures there in your album of the man and the pets. Seems they meant a lot to you at the time pictures were taken. Figured they wouldn’t be there among your collection if they didn’t matter.”
“Oh, they matter. To no one else but me.”
Peach got quiet. Tried to add up what it was she had, and what the point had been of what they’d just discussed? She get any closer to getting to know what made the loon tick? And would she be able to use it later to save this young girl and herself?
Didn’t know. She didn’t know. You got to stop talking for a while. Let him be with his memories and twisted thoughts. Could be one wrong move, one wrong word—and your throat gets slashed.
What was he doing now? Looking at what? She pretended not to be paying attention. Can’t be nosy. Interested? Yes. Nosy? Never.
He pointed out shots of that woman’s body discovered in Lopez Canyon.
“She was on tv. Coroner’s people carried her away on a stretcher. Should have brought her head back here, boiled it in water to strip the flesh off, painted it with gray paint. That’s when they look like props used in biology class.”
He took a minute, relishing memories of what he’d done to her and with her.
“Well, you live with your regrets. We all have regrets. My biggest regret is that I waited too long to go all out and put my plan into action . . . and make my fantasies come true.” He gazed at the Polaroids. “Yes, I did a few here and there when I was younger, but not enough. There was the fear of getting caught. Only now—that fear is no longer there, because that’s when you get snagged, by being afrai
d of being found out.”
He shook his head. It ate him up. “Think of all the fucking I missed out on, all the fun. Hookers cost money. Always had to watch the budget, you know. . . . I masturbated then more than I do now, but it’s not the same; it’s never the same. . . . The taste of fresh blood. . . . When you can smell their fear. . . . There’s nothing like it.”
He looked up, practically snapping out of it. “I waited too long, and now I’m trying to make up for lost time. . . . I used to be intimidated by women, like Rudy Perez. Afraid they would always say no—and usually did. Most of them said no—except the nuts and sluts, except the money-grubbing, money-hungry sluts you had to pay for your loving and fucking—not that I think either of you is any different deep down from all those filthy Sunset Strip whores. You’re all the same. Put your feelers out, determine the man’s weakness, and move in for the jugular, move in for the kill. That’s how it is.”
He watched as Pearleen ran the sponge between Olivia’s legs.
“Have her stand up when you do that.”
Olivia immediately stood up.
“That’s it. She’s getting the idea, Cecil.”
“I like that. Spread your legs a little, Liv, and let Pearly run the sponge over your buttocks. Get her butt real good, Pearleen, because my name is not Norbert Fimple and I don’t eat shit. Some people eat shit; some of the Hollywood crowd. Albert Fish ate shit. That’s where I back off. I mean, I saw plenty of them loose cannons in the psycho wards eating their own shit, plenty of them did—drank piss, too.”
Biggs looked down at his groin. Stroked it with his right hand. “Look how hard, Pearleen.”
“Looking real good, Cecil. Can I have some?”
“Touch the head lightly. Don’t do anything more than that. I’m too excited as it is. Not that I have a fear of creaming or anything. I just want it to last when you rinse that soap off her. Tell you what: get in with her. That’s right, Pearleen. Get in the tub with her. Let her clean you off.”
CHAPTER 364
He stood there observing.
“Jesus Christ. How do you get a body like that? Both of you. If only I could have had something like either of you years ago. Christ. . . . Seems a shame to have to do away with you. Don’t you agree?”
The women said nothing as Olivia continued to rub the sponge across the high yellow’s upper back. Biggs was sitting back down now, his mind seemingly somewhere else.
“I don’t know, sometimes I just get carried away. I don’t always think killing is the answer. I agree with Marvin, some of them beauties are just too good to be ‘iced’ and should be kept around a little longer, gotten more use out of. Some of them shouldn’t be slaughtered right away. Just because a cunt’s been fucked doesn’t mean she suddenly has no worth at all, because—and I’ve discovered this to be true—once you’ve fucked a woman to your heart’s content and left her alone for a while, say a few days, a week, maybe two weeks, or months even—you can still go back and nail it again, because she can still look good to you. Just like some of those skin magazines I’ve got stored away in the attic, girlie magazines I bought years ago and initially got tired of—but I can go up there now and leaf through them and still be turned on.
“Something to think about. Why cut a bitch up right away? Why not hold onto you for a while? Only it’s like I said: I get carried away. Something happens to me and I can’t stop.”
Olivia’s eyes were welling all over again and this time Pearleen Bell caught her in time and turned her face away to keep Biggs from noticing.
“The minute I smell fear something goes off in my head, just clicks—and I have no control over it. I swear, it’s a bitch to control. I mean, forget controlling it, forget trying to stop it. I just go with it. Fear, sight of blood. I can feel the adrenaline start pumping, my cock starts getting hard and my eyes turn red, and then all I want to do is fuck—and kill, see more blood, and death—lick pussy and ass, watch them taste my cum, watch them swallow white hot nutsack juice while they’re bleeding to death. From then on it’s like a snowball rolling downhill, picking up speed, increasing in size as well as out of control . . . until it inevitably disintegrates—as it must.”
He paused.
“That’s what happens for the most part; that’s not to say that plenty of them don’t deserve exactly what they get. Nobody said it would be a bed of tulips. What the old man always used to say to the old lady after he’d gone on one of his drunken binges and kicked her ass real good, bloodied her face real good, because she’d been out there running around naked in traffic and not making money. ‘Shut up, bitch. Nobody promised you no tulip garden.’ he’d say.”
Biggs wiped himself. Stood up. Shed his remaining clothes.
“Anyone attempts any shit, tries to knee me in the balls—you’ll be sealing your fate. All the doors are fortified and I’m the only one who knows which key unlocks which lock. Also, you’d be destroying my trust in you. Trust matters. If I can’t trust you, you’re no good to me. Meaning: the consequences will be harsh. On the other hand, if you prove yourselves to be trustworthy, we might consider creating a place for you both on staff or board of directors. We’ll see. It would mean two additional mouths to feed—but it isn’t impossible.”
He stepped into the tub and had Pearleen Bell wash him down with the sponge.
CHAPTER 365
Biggs provided Olivia with clothing. Just as ill-fitting as what the other captive had on, to be sure, but served the purpose. He did not want the geeks to see them without clothes on, also thought the temperature in the walk-in, where he wanted to take them, might be a bit much.
He handcuffed their wrists together, got dressed himself, and had them step into the hallway. He returned the photo album and the makeup case to his room. Retrieved the .357, pepper spray, knife. Locked up, and paused at Marvin’s door with the women. Knocked.
“Who that?”
“Who do you think, asshole? Take your dick out of your mouth for one second and get to the door.”
The door opened. Muck had one of his homely rats perched on his shoulder. His nearly foot-long schwantz hung from his open fly.
Biggs did not even want to know what the idiot had been up to. What was he trying to do? Train it to give him head? If so, he would learn the hard way: he’d get his joint chewed off.
“Put that thing away. We’re going downstairs.”
Marvin stood there, looking at him, as if to say: Which “thing?” Rat or my dick?
“Put the fucking sewer-dweller away, and zip up your pants.”
Marvin did as told. Attempted to (in his habitually clumsy way) by inadvertently yanking up on the zipper without shoving his groin completely inside first. Yelled out. Freed his caught member, then gingerly guided it inside his fly, and was able to zip up—all the way this time.
No one thought the incident remotely amusing, least of all Biggs. It was par for the course for the imbecile.
Biggs handed him the makeup case.
“What chu be wantin’ me to do wiff it?”
Biggs said nothing. Walked down to his room. Went in. A moment later he was back with that eyeless teddy bear.
Shoved it at the sidekick. Marvin Muck took in the goofy looking goddamned thing and had a pretty good idea what was coming up. It made him queasy in the belly. No shit. Cecil was at the basement door, unlocking it. Had the women step through. He turned his head back. Marvin remained at the door to his room, standing there like the brain-dead fool that he was.
“The fuck you waiting for?”
Marvin walked up.
“What up wiff the teddy bear? What chu be wantin’ wiff it?”
“What difference is it to you? Downstairs. Let’s go.”
Marvin stepped through the open door. Descended the stairs. Biggs locked the door back up after himself, and followed the others down.
CHAPTER 366
Some of the geeks were in the Bunk Room watching the small screen black-and-white television, or else they were
dozing in their bunks, or doing who knew what? Playing dominoes or filling in coloring books with crayons, etc., in the play area by the walk-in. Biggs had Marvin round up the rest and made sure they were all in the Bunk Room, and he had him lock the door.
While Marvin did that, Biggs was unlocking the padlock on the chain on the walk-in cooler entrance. Muck returned soon enough with the key he had been given.
“Get it done?”
“They in there. ’Cept one: Mildred. Old ho be in the crapper.”
Biggs shrugged. It was good enough. Didn’t care what Betty Lou’s batty adopted daughter saw if she happened to step out of the john and drifted over.
He unraveled the chain off the handle, opened the heavy steel door, and told the vics to step inside. He wanted Olivia to take a good, hard look at what was there, at the hanging bimbos on meat hooks, at the chests on the metal floor full of body parts and entrails, and up at the wire shelves with the eyeless human skulls, devoid of brains and scalps.
As expected, Olivia began to gag, as did Pearleen Bell; even if the latter appeared to be tougher and resilient, struggled/fought, not to make as big a scene as the younger woman and did what she could to help Olivia out.
The part-time waitress, wannabe-coed, was bent over and puking onto the floor of the walk-in. Vomit, along with some blood, poured out of her to join the rest of the offensive refuse.
The exotic dancer held the other girl up. Biggs and Marvin stood there and found it amusing enough.
“This is what happens to little girls who disappoint me, not that either of you is little by any means.” Biggs paused. Took his time. “See to it, Pearleen, that she understands. The only reason she’s not on a hook right now is because I’m interested in her. Took a long time to get my hands on her. Damned near took her life, too, unintentional or not, so she really doesn’t have to worry too much about ending up like that just yet, so long as she learns and yearns to please.”