Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “You done blubbering?”

  “Done as that ho there. Coulda had a stable of my own; wiff all of them curb crawler’ wiff pocket’ full of Benjamins waitin’ to give it to some ho.”

  “Stop dreaming, and pick up the baseball bat.”

  “I ain’t killin’ no dog’, me. I done enough ’round here: diggin’ grave and liftin’ suitcase’. You want this Peach bitch to be a member? Let her do it. Let her beat the damn dog’.”

  “Nobody asked you to beat any dogs. Hand the Louisville Slugger to our friend Pearleen.”

  Marvin did that. Stayed pissed. “On account of you I damn near come close to killin’ that ho wiff the tight pussy. Yo fault, bitch. You do the dog’.”

  Pearleen Bell held the ball bat in her hands.

  “You talk a good game, sister. Now let’s see what you’re made of.”

  “What do you want done?”

  “Those pesky Roscoe mutts cause me more trouble than the hemorrhoids and back combined. I want them out of my life. Hit a couple of grand slams off their skulls.”

  “Let me get this straight: You want me to beat them to death? Is that what you want, Cecil?”

  “You heard what the man said, bitch. See you do it.”

  “Want to make sure that’s what you want, Cecil.”

  “Knock them out. Do it now.”

  Pearleen nodded just then. Positioned herself over the two animals who were busy devouring the meat before them to bother with anything else that was going on. It had been the strong aroma of flesh and blood that had driven them practically insane all this time and now that they had it they were enraptured.

  CHAPTER 497

  He had been satisfied—more or less—with the way she had handled the situation with the annoying mutts and Biggs had decided to take her up to the attic to see if there might be something in the piles of women’s clothing that might fit her. Olivia had expired on her own. Loss of blood the culprit. The way Cecil saw it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Another slit no longer among the breathing. Welcome to Life 101. What were you going to do?

  Finding something suitable for Peach to wear was not going to be easy. He had other clothes, more clothes, in that closet in the basement next to the Mattress Room, plus other items such as bras, panties, garter belts, and hosiery in that dresser below the crawl space, of course. Say they failed to find what was needed here, they could always go downstairs. Some might need a wash. Easy enough to do. For the time being, though, they would remain in the attic, the attic provided something the basement couldn’t: bird’s eye view of the Roscoe residence.

  Biggs sifted through dresses, skirts, blouses, brassieres, pantyhose, while Pearleen, having recovered a good degree from her earlier fainting episode, sat in a rattan rocking chair leafing through one of Cecil’s old family albums. She did not have a stitch of clothing on.

  Biggs alternated between going through the clothes to standing at the window to peer through his binoculars at Marty and Petunia’s dwelling below.

  The residents were out. He had to be patient. They would appear eventually. It was going to be a nice show. Plenty of emotional highlights. He couldn’t wait to see “Pet” break down and go ballistic. He lowered the binoculars. Returned to the quest. Pearleen was unusually top-heavy and he doubted any of the items would fit her. Was about to say fuck it, and give up on what was available here until he thought to go through the large U-Haul cardboard box he kept some of the older brown robes in.

  He fished one out. Parts of it were moth-eaten, but the hoodie was intact; in fact, the robe would do. It was suitable. He tossed it at her.

  “Try it on for size.”

  Biggs watched her stand up and get into the robe. He could never get over that body. Yeah, she might have faked him out earlier; he couldn’t be sure. It didn’t matter. He would take care of her later. Besides, she was about the best cunt he’d had in the place, maybe even better than that Duarte cunt. It was a tough call, that one. It bothered him, he had to admit, not having had to deal with her, but having been pressed into doing it so soon, way sooner than he had planned. Stupid bitch had to cause him problems. Well, too bad. That’s what happened when they acted up. Now she was out of the picture.

  Pearleen had the robe on and sat back down. She was looking at the photos. He didn’t give a damn if she went through that ancient photo album (so long as she didn’t ask too many questions). It was history, and history was something you could do nothing about. It happened; it was there. Learn from it. Move forward.

  He was back facing the window. Binoculars aimed at the front porch of the house next door.

  CHAPTER 498

  Pearleen turned a page. Paused to take a closer look at a photo of that large black dog she’d brought up before in the john that time. The image was faded and decades old.

  “That’s a mean-looking dog.”

  Biggs didn’t have to turn his head to know what she was talking about.

  “The Rottie? He was mean all right, only J.J. was a little meaner. . . .”

  “Looks like a Rottweiler.”

  “That’s what I said: He was a Rottie. Rescue dog. Steele was his name. Found him at the animal shelter Mr. Turnbull had taken me to one afternoon. The Rotty and I laid eyes on each other; all it took. My friend Mr. Turnbull provided the weekly allowance for the dog’s upkeep, but I raised him. Mr. Turnbull, Trusty, already had his hands full with his pet pig Parfrey. It was really more than he could handle. Fact is, I did most of it. Cleaned the pig, exercised him, fed him.” He cleared his throat then, looked in her direction: not exactly seeing her, instead “seeing” through her, as though she were not there at all.

  “Sgt. Brick Steele was a comic book hero, a World War II stogie-chomping badass grunt. Tough as nails.” He said nothing momentarily. “At the time I didn’t know it was all a bunch of crap, or maybe I did. As a helpless kid, having no control over what I was being put through . . . wished I was tough, invincible, like Sergeant Steele. . . . But I turned it around. I’m the one in charge; I control things . . . at least in my own little universe here. King of my own Castle. I’m the only god I know. Power to kill, or let them live.”

  His gaze shifted, taking him out of his reverie and landing him in the present.

  “Funny, the reason my stepfather let me keep the dog was to keep thieves from getting into his gun collection. Well, that; mainly it was the weekly bucks Mr. Turnbull let me have for the dog food. J.J. hated dogs. He was a dog catcher who hated dogs. Enjoyed abusing them. Would get stinking drunk and masturbate them. Taught me how. . . . Forced me to do it. . . . If I didn’t play along, I got my ass kicked real good.” His mind seemed to recede back into the only sanctuary he’d ever known. “Then later, few months later, the widower, Mr. Turnbull let me take Parfrey. He was having prostate issues and could no longer care for the animal, requested I take Parfrey for a while and give the hog all the love and support he needed, until he recovered. He was taking medicine for it and we were hoping the swelling would go down and he’d be his happy and healthy self again. And the thing that has always stayed with me all these years, even though he was in pain, especially when passing water through the catheter and that tube that the urine went down to where the plastic bag was attached to his leg, he was good-natured, pleasant. Get this shocker: his childhood had been just about—although not quite—as fucked up as mine, but he’d managed to overcome it, had been able to cope with his rage and was as sweet as could be; kind and sweet to everyone he met. Flora, his lady, had been the same way. He used to tell me to find myself a good woman when I got to be old enough. Said that was crucial to being happy. A good-hearted woman like Flora is about the best thing there is, lad.”

  CHAPTER 499

  Biggs found himself stopping once more. Clearly, the topic was difficult; always would be. This was some sensitive shit here.

  “Good woman? He was right; but these days? What’s out there is a bunch of warped slits like Charlotte; like Stella and Lana. Heartless porn bit
ches after one thing and one thing only: greenbacks and dope. And the ones not in porn, like Yolanda, are domineering shrews not worth the trouble.”

  She saw him shake his head and run the back of his hand across one eye, then the other. Was he wiping tears? Couldn’t tell from where she sat.

  “The irony is, I used to be like him, smiled a lot; before the pummeling at home got to me and my existence became one of abject fear and loathing—with the exception being when I was around the widower and his pet.” He was pausing, looking back at the images that floated around in his mind’s eye, or so she thought. “Mr. Turnbull knew that I would, of course, be good to the hog that we both loved.”

  “How did they find each other, Cecil? What had made him decide on a hog for a pet?”

  “What’s the point?”

  “Upkeep is expensive for a pet like this. They eat a lot.”

  “What the fuck is the point?”

  She had no answer.

  “Slaughter house was shutting down. Mr.Turnbull went over with his realtor to take a look at the property, before buying it and turning it into a haunted house. Parfrey happened to be the last hog about to be slaughtered. My friend Truly Turnbull drew his wallet and bought him on the spot. Saved Parfrey’s life. Obviously, he wasn’t named that at the time; had no name, in fact. Was just a number. Another pig about to be put down. Consumed and excreted.”

  “Mr. Turnbull was quite a man. Rather special.”

  “Second to none, when it came to kindness. Second—to—none. Be kind was his motto. To everyone you meet. My goal was to be like him as a grown man, as an adult. Of course, we know how that pipe dream turned out. I try with the geeks, but that’s a far cry from the original intent. Having him taken from me, the Rotty, and then Parfrey, pretty much sealed my fate. Imagine being given a pork chop and then told you just consumed part of this pet that had been so near and dear to your heart. Parfrey had gone missing for days. J.J. claimed he’d taken off, then come Sunday he and Charlotte decide to throw a backyard barbecue with all their druggie trash hangers-on: homos, pedophiles, pimps, pushers and the lowest grade whores anywhere. It wasn’t until after I ate the pork chop that he decided to let me know it was Parfrey. He and his hangers-on had themselves a good laugh over it. I’m red-faced and retching and they’re in stitches. Of course the other reason I freaked: What was I going to tell Mr. Turnbull now? How would I explain it? I remember yelling back at my stepfather: You just killed the golden goose, shit-head! Killed Sgt. Steele and now Parfrey. Ain’t no reason for my friend Truly to give me money for them, is there? ‘If he finds out I’ll know you ratted me out, boy’—was my stepfather’s stupid comeback. ‘Ya hear? He finds out it’ll be on your head and yourn alone.’

  “I did tell my friend what had happened and got my ass kicked real good by J.J. Few days later—he and some of his punk pals broke into Mr. Turnbull’s place late one night and robbed him; beat and robbed him and left him to die. Set his house on fire to cover their tracks and left him to die like that. Mr. Turnbull’s neighbor phoned the fire department in time, but it was really too late. They got Mr. Turnbull out of there, but ultimately couldn’t save him. He died in his hospital bed a week later. Couldn’t recover from the assault and second-degree burns. That’s when I realized kindness was for chumps. Kindness was weakness. Going through life being caring and giving a damn got your ass deep-sixed. Even at that young age I realized I didn’t want any part of that shit. Knew I was beyond ‘being healed’ and didn’t want to be—because there was nothing to be healed from, no matter what the shrinks like to claim. These fuckers are quite laughable. Buncha wannabe Sigmund Freuds and Carl Jungs. What they are is certified losers; scammers. Quick-buck artists. Can’t do anything else. Can’t be a real doctor, so this is where they end up hiding out as shrinks to Hollywood neurotics and their obnoxious poodles; scamming society; pretending to be able to fix the unfixable. We know better. Nobody has been able to do that, and they never will.” He looked around. Up at the ceiling, who knew why, then back outside.

  CHAPTER 500

  She was frozen. Where to now? Say what? He was on the verge of snapping. Would he come after her? What also bothered her was that some of what he was saying she agreed with. How could this be? She needed to shove it aside. She was an animal lover herself, and it was true that some people were cruel to animals, had a cruel streak in general. But not all humans were this way. You could not paint all humans with this same brush. You just couldn’t. It was wrong to do so. He was off. Plain and simple. Off. Saying things and doing things to justify this warped take on life and people.

  “I always wanted to check out the Bordello of Fear. Never got around to it. Kept hearing about it. Was never certain where it was located.”

  “Temple City. Same location all these years. The only reason I ended up here in this neighborhood: fixer-upper was too good to pass up. Plan is to go back, find larger accommodations in the Temple City/El Monte/Arcadia area.”

  She nodded.

  “The ‘haunted house’ we got right here under this roof far exceeds the other, though, in that it’s the real McCoy. Absolutely. It’s not done to induce fear. We induce death here. The price of admission is your life.”

  Peach got quiet. Tried to add up what it was she had. She get any closer to solving what made the man tick? And would she be able to use it later to save herself?

  Didn’t know. She didn’t know. You’ve 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 turned to look in her direction briefly, saw that she was looking at a picture taken in front of the Temple City house: he with the Rotty; mother and the fuck-tard standing in back of them—and was back focusing on the Roscoe cribby below.

  “Where the fuck are they?”

  “It looks like a nice house. We never lived in a house. We always lived in rundown apartment buildings.”

  “Nice house? On the surface, sure. It was much nicer after I torched it. My way of getting back at J.J. for torching Mr. Turnbull’s place. But sure. Gone. Just as well: suitcase pimp, his whore . . . dog and hog. Sgt. Steele. Parfrey. That’s when things mattered, I guess . . . when I gave a damn about some things. . . .”

  “What happened to the dog?”

  He lowered the binoculars. Faced her. Said nothing for a long time.

  “Why bother? Why so inquisitive? What good does it do? Why probe all the time? You think if you pry deep enough it’ll change my mind about you being a scheming, self-centered cunt? I doubt you’re any different than the rest. We already cleared that mystery up, didn’t we? Didn’t we, girlie?—with the impressive hangers and golden culo.”

  “Can’t blame a girl for wanting to know what the man she’s interested in is about. It’s a way of comparing notes . . . a way to bond.”

  “Waste of time, if you ask me.” He studied her and said nothing for a while. “You’re trim. Piece of ass. The latest in a long line of cum receptacles. You saw how it ended for Liv Duarte. Will, no doubt, end the same way for you. Besides, it’s not a good thing to keep reliving the past, especially when there was very little that was pleasant about it.” He wanted to chuckle. Of course he couldn’t; never would. “Did I say ‘pleasant’? Yeah, it was pleasant. We had it all: house, picket fence—and dog. Your typical nuclear family.”

  “I don’t know. It seems like you had genuine feelings for the dog. I know you loved Parfrey. I just wondered . . .”

  CHAPTER 501

  He lowered his ass on a cushion in a chair there. The hemorrhoids weren’t easing up any. Didn’t seem to matter if he were standing or sitting, the pain and itch remained.

  Preparation H didn’t always help. He felt like scratching his butt. Didn’t dare. He glanced over at what Pearleen was looking at now: a relatively nice colo
r shot of Charlotte Yvonne dressed in tight skirt, heels. Hair all combed out. Even had a flower stuck in it, like Billie Holiday. Only difference: Billie favored gardenias, and not purple pansies—and a lot less “war paint.” Yes, there was a time his mother had looked hot enough to fuck.

  “You know something? Your mother was one attractive looking lady.”

  Biggs said nothing. Pearleen paused at another photo of an older woman, who resembled his mother a great deal, with middle finger raised to the camera.

  “Juicer Joe took the shot. The bird was for his benefit. Grandma hated his guts, especially when she saw the bruises and welts on my neck and arms. She was a tough old broad. Slapped his ass down on the hospital grounds. Orderlies jumped him before he could retaliate. That was the last time we visited Granny. It was after that trip when we got back to the house in Temple City we discovered that Sergeant Steele had eaten the beagle and the old man flipped his lid: grabbed the sledgehammer and bashed the Rottie’s skull in.”

  There was plenty of revulsion that went through her brought about by images created by Biggs’s words. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind that he was a sick asshole, one of the sickest, and yet, how else was he supposed to have turned out?

  She didn’t dare comment. Kept her thoughts to herself. He’s talking. Let him unburden himself.

  “We left town for the weekend to visit ‘Granny Gripp’—what the fuck always called her: Granny Gripp. Her name was Hermione, to him she was always: Wrinkled Old Bitch, Granny Gripp. My mother’s mother. Don’t think he had family, or if he did they wanted nothing to do with him. We drove out to Camarillo to the nut ward out there, didn’t make the trip that often, but we went out there only because Charlotte insisted we visit her mother.

  Grandma was a couple of fries short of a Happy Meal; not insane, mind you, merely slightly bent—and the dogs, the pack of them: the Rottweiler: Sgt. Steele, couple of mutts, and a beagle, were left without food. J.J. didn’t like to spend money on dog food.”