Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  He had Marvin hold the hefty jackhammer up to him. Having presently positioned himself atop the stacked, oblong crates, Trusty was ready, willing, and able to carry out the task at hand. He was properly attired: hard hat, goggles, rubber boots, and apron; yellow slicker and black rubber gloves that covered his arms to the elbow—and he was grinning now as he steadied that powerful jackhammer above the top of Harold’s coffin. He stood over it, deducing where his spineless neighbor’s face might be.

  It took all the strength in his body as he drove that bit down through the wood, penetrating, and then subsequently circling to increase the circumference.

  Splinters, large and small, flew about the Workshop. Biggs held on. Kept the drill going. Saw to it that the hole in the coffin lid was large enough to make out the dude’s face down there, and then Cecil applied more pressure and he could see that bit go down and repeatedly punch his nose in, tear it apart. Nose was history. There was nothing there now but a cavity flooded with blood, and Harold’s howls practically being cancelled out by the ruckus caused by the jackhammer.

  Biggs could see him twisting around down there, in agony, belching up blood, gagging on it, and he found it encouraging. Some killers would have you believe that they didn’t find any particular satisfaction in it. Well, they lied. Killing was better than sex. Sure, sex rated a close second, but slaughter topped it, pretty much. Slaughter lasted a lot longer, as did the resulting adrenaline rush.

  Biggs repositioned the drill bit so that it hovered right about where the old shoeshine gent’s chest ought to be. Lowered the bit, and proceeded to hammer away at the coffin lid. The wood gave. Fractured. Splinters flew as before, and, as before, the clown circled with the jackhammer, moved the bit about to enlarge the diameter until it was the size of a saucer.

  Harold continued to cough and gasp; chest heaving. His moans and cries were no match for the din the jackhammer generated.

  Well, Biggs knew where the man’s heart was, and he didn’t want that just yet. You drilled a hole through the heart and the blood would no longer continue to pump—and he wanted it to pump on forever.

  Where was the middle-aged asshole’s pacemaker? Where was it? To the left of his heart somewhere? These things weren’t much larger than a man’s wristwatch. To the left of the heart. Wanted to get to it, and destroy the battery inside. Things had a way of exploding when they ended up in the furnace and did damage inside. He couldn’t take that risk.

  There it was: a lump, under the skin. Bit tore at the shirt over it that was in the way. He was able to tear at that section of the shirt. Saw the lump the pacemaker was responsible for, and he pushed the drill bit down. Punched a hole in Harold Crust’s chest.

  Blood shot out. Spattered. Rolled off the side, bubbling. Seeped out cracks in the bottom of his coffin and dripped down into buckets. Not that all of it did. Most did, but not quite all.

  He had Pearleen let go of the cord and re-adjust the buckets so that most of the blood was captured.

  She returned to her former position, taking the cord in both hands and making sure it did not get caught on anything: chair, butcher’s block, or coffins.

  “Keep a good eye on the buckets. I’d rather not lose any of the blood, if it can be helped. Keep an eye out for splinters. I’d rather not have them end up in the blood.”

  His eyes were back on the bit and what it was doing to Harold Crust. The blood bubbled. A sight to behold. Cocksucker was giving him a good one. Dying a righteous death. Biggs had wood. Son of a bitch. Harold screamed.

  “Lord, have mercy!”

  “Shit.” Biggs grinned. Where was his lord? Mercy? Never heard of it. “Couldn’t help himself to come down off that cross; how’s he supposed to help you, Harold? Come on. Where’s your common sense? Where’s the logic?”

  CHAPTER 549

  Fay Crust, from way down below, was heard to be making some noise, so was her precious Delonzo.

  Harold’s heart continued to pump crimson. Good thing Biggs had himself attired adequately for the task. Well, you did anything long enough, you went about preparing for it properly.

  Practice made perfect.

  Harold was gone. Looked like it.

  Biggs withdrew the bit. Held it. Jackhammer was heavy enough. His forearms were stiff and starting to hurt to the point he might need to rest up for a while. But he stood there, taking it in, his bloodshot eyes down there, watching all that deep red come up from the shoeshine man’s nose, mouth, and where his pacemaker used to be—and flow down, through the cracks in the plywood coffins, over the edge of the butcher’s block and into the buckets on the floor.

  He knew the geeks were on the other side of the cell door, had gathered there in anticipation, itching to get in and have their taste of it. Geeks were hungrier for blood than he ever had been. Blood and flesh, raw human flesh. He consumed it for nutrients; they craved it to quench and feed their addiction for it. Biggs had drawn the curtain over the meshed glass Judas window in the door to prevent them from being able to peek through, thus increasing their immeasurable lust for the red stuff.

  He looked down at himself. Enough of the blood had got on his rubber apron, yellow slicker, even his neck and chin. Some had sprayed his goggles. What could you do?

  Biggs had Pearleen Bell pull the cord out of the outlet in the wall. Lowered the jackhammer down to her and had her lay it on the floor. He was going to have to have the goggles wiped clean before forging on.

  CHAPTER 550

  He climbed down from the workbench-cum-butcher’s block. Sat in the folding chair.

  “Take the goggles off. Wash the lenses in the tub.”

  She did. And could not help but notice how bright red his eyeballs were and glowing. They glowed, as if demon eyes. Possessed. To the point they nearly petrified and paralyzed her. And would have, easily, if she had not made the greatest effort to ignore how and what she felt. She rinsed the goggles off under the spout in the crud-encrusted copper tub. The cat was heard from again. She looked at him, but said nothing.

  He picked up the stereo remote and pressed a button. Gospel music had taken over the crappy disco. Mrs. Crust could still be heard sobbing in her coffin, pleading to her Lord to come help her, pleading for His Divine guidance so that she would go to Him.

  That was sweet of her, Biggs thought. A decent, religious lady. A believer to the very end. It was nice, indeed, to have something to believe in in this world, something to have that kind of faith in. It was. It was terrific.

  Only that was something he, personally, wouldn’t know anything about these days, did not wish to bother with. He believed what his own mind directed him to do; he believed in satiating his cravings: getting his rocks off, eating his Ding Dongs and Twinkies, Three Musketeers candy bars, Hawaiian Punch—and drinking a mug of fresh blood now and then. So maybe he was not a total lost cause, Biggs thought, as he rested in the metal folding chair.

  He took the hard hat off. Handed it to her to affix the goggles to. Dabbed his forehead and under the chin with a hand towel. Had her hold the shaving mirror in front of his face. Red in his eyes was fading, going down. By degrees, just as it would fade back in once he resumed the job at hand.

  He gripped the woody inside his trousers. Woody wouldn’t go away. Why would it? He had her lean her head and upper body toward the butcher’s block, her rear end facing him. Told her to hike the robe up to above her waist so that her wondrous buttocks were exposed. He had her lean her head and shoulders forward some more and spread the cheeks of her ass. The brown butt crack was there, the cunt below. Ready for the taking. He wouldn’t fuck her now. There was work to do. Couldn’t resist entirely, though—and leaned in and pressed his face into her butt crack. Inhaled deep whiffs of her. Lifted his head up for air and to exhale, then repeated the process.

  He sat back. Wiped his face some more, and had her take a mug from inside the steel cabinet and dunk it in one of the buckets. There was about half of a mug of blood in it and she handed it to him. Biggs drank some o
f it.

  He handed it back to her.

  “Finish it.”

  She did, and came real close to losing her lunch. Or did it look that way? Maybe not. She was handling it. Muck was wrong about her. LaBelle of the Ball was managing. Furthermore, if it turned out that he, Biggs, had misjudged her, he’d fix her like all the rest. She’d end up in one of his large kettles as fricassee or jambalaya and served to homeless down near Little Tokyo.

  There was no ignoring that he had gagged a bit himself. It happened. Like broccoli, the theory behind it anyway: you didn’t ingest it because you were wild about the taste, you consumed it for the nutrients. It came down to nutrients.

  CHAPTER 551

  He had her lower the robe, and could not keep his mind off that cunt and asshole. There was no way not to when she was around. Even when she was not around it was difficult not to think about her.

  “You’ll be one of us yet. In spite of Marvin’s objections.” She’d done all right at the way she’d handled Roscoe. “The thing that bothered me was the whispering. I gave you implicit instructions I better hear every single word that came out of your mouth.”

  “I wasn’t whispering, Cecil. Just hurting from hanging that way, and didn’t hardly have enough strength to speak up.”

  “Don’t ever try to bullshit me, sister. Because it’ll be the last time you ever attempt to con anybody.”

  She said nothing.

  “See what’s happened to them?” He indicated the Crusts. She nodded. “You could easily end up the same way—should you ever cross me. I like fucking you, enjoy seeing you guzzle sperm—only that won’t help you any if I ever come to realize you’ve been talking shit behind my back.”

  “I’m here. I’m helping, doing what I can. We’ll find some more bitches, hot ones, to bring in and turn into your very own sex slaves. You said you were interested in increasing your body count, didn’t you?”

  Biggs said nothing. Scrutinized her eyes for any telltale signs that she were less than genuine.

  There were priorities to be dealt with. The obscene phone caller was at his mercy; hiding out in another part of the basement, waiting, waiting, praying . . . doomed to die.

  The Dragon Lady was toast, and her hen-pecked, pussy-whipped, redneck of a hubby was due, way over-due.

  He gripped his groin. Throbbing. There it was: not unlike in a scene out of some cheap porno paperback. Cocks throbbed in porn fuck books. True. Well, it was also true that his very own joint was throbbing, pulsating; a load of sperm waiting to be unleashed.

  Not that it only had to do with Pearleen, that she was responsible for it. She was a great part of it, true enough, the jackhammer had had plenty to do with it. The work, the bloodbath; squashing, killing, people or animals, did it for him, and he never could figure out why. He only knew that it happened. Like tearing wings off flies as a youngster, or burning spiders, not to mention the biggest, grandest indicator of it having been the time his filthy slut mother having been done in. Urinating in public. There she was. And then seeing the car and truck plow into her.

  How or why? Didn’t know. All he knew is that it did it for him. Nine times out of ten. Ecstasy. Spiced it up. Run of the mill sex was no match for it. Didn’t come close. Did not come anywhere near giving him the adrenaline rush and thrill that he experienced when there was gore and torture involved; better yet even: death. Necrophilia.

  Fucking the dead was his way of living life to the fullest.

  The urge to jam turkey neck in Pearl’s tight, brown asshole would not go away; the urge and desire to shove his cock in her throat and unload would not be pushed aside.

  Was there time? Maybe after he finished up with Fay Crust.

  CHAPTER 552

  The emotion-packed gospel tunes may have had something to do with it, but Fay Crust had settled down a great deal and sobbed quietly inside her coffin. She suspected that hysteria only made matters worse and was not the way to be.

  The Lord is great and will hear you just as well if you whisper to Him. He will hear your call, Fay. He knows. The Lord knows. The Lord is always there. Sees all. Knows all. That’s the Lord, Fay. That’s what your loving Lord Jesus Christ is about and here is where you prove your abiding devotion.

  He knows you require His help. He is aware that your pain is tearing at your mind, about to rip out your sanity.

  The coffin she was in began to shake. Biggs had climbed up on top and had that jackhammer going again. She could hear him instruct some woman there, the same woman she heard speak a moment ago. Sounded like that woman who danced for a living, that loose woman who went by Peaches LaBelle and undressed in front of strangers at the Casbah Hideaway. Then, too, something else added to the insanity of the whole thing: her cat. Delonzo. Had begun to claw at the wood there at his end. He was clawing and making cat noises. Screeching. Good Lord.

  “Delonzo. Come up here, sweetie. I want to hug you. I need to hug you, Delonzo.”

  The cat clawed and scratched at the wood, and soon began to scratch at Fay’s feet and ankles.

  CHAPTER 553

  Biggs was all set to get with it, finish off the current project. He had left the hard hat off this time. Had his goggles over his eyes, jackhammer in his hands.

  He lowered the bit down into Harold’s coffin again. Let the bit work his chest some more, bust it open wider. He was rather pleased that the middle-aged guy had not entirely expired on him just yet. It was good news. Harold Crust seemed to be alive. Perhaps hanging on by a mere thread. His blood-drenched eyeballs shifted, his eyelids blinked and his lips moved—as blood continued to gush out of his mouth, as it did out of that other facial cavity where his nose used to be—but the shoeshine man was alive.

  How the hell could that be? Biggs was happy that he was, though. Had thought for sure he’d torn the guy’s pump apart, thought for sure he’d destroyed his pacemaker. And he had. He had. His heart must have kept right on going anyway. Miracles of modern day heart surgery.

  Well, he would take care of that right now. Lowered the jackhammer bit down into the heart, hammered away, and made certain, this time, that the heart had a hole in it the size of a softball.

  Let’s see you live through this, Mr. Crust. You wanted to stick your nose in my business. You and your wife both. Well now—here’s the price you must pay. There is a toll charge for every infraction we commit in this cesspool of a world we’re stuck in.

  He gripped the handles at the top and forced and pushed and circled that bit down there until the hole widened and spread and was the size of a Frisbee, practically.

  Biggs gave it one big heave and the jackhammer drilled right through the other side of Harold’s chest and continued on through the bottom of his coffin and dug into the top of his wife’s. Biggs could feel it. And it was a good feeling: one of accomplishment. Certainly one of progress.

  He could hear Fay praying to her Maker. Something was going on with Delonzo, too. Delonzo was shrieking, freaking. Quite a match for Fay Crust’s loud praying.

  “Dear God. Dear Jesus. Dear Sweet Jesus. My sweet Lord Jesus Christ. My Lord, help me! Help me, Lord! Dear Sweet Jesus, I’m scared! I’m scared. Tell me that it’s all right and I will go that way; I will accept the way of my Lord!”

  Biggs was applying force and pressure. He had stood atop Harold’s coffin and was doing what he could not to lose his footing and slip off the butcher’s block to end up on the cement floor below. He also had to keep an eye on the cord and see to it that Pearl prevented any entanglements.

  He glared at her. Gestured with his chin to give him more slack; he needed more slack. There was no reason for the cable to remain taut. No reason at all. What annoyed him was that the bitch had her eyes shut tight and her head partly turned away, as if about to faint, about to go out.

  Why? What was going on with her? Thought she’d be into this as much as he was. Goddamn twats. It was nearly impossible to find one that was like you, that was able to relate to your needs and desires, to all that you n
eeded to make life exciting and worth living.

  It was damned near impossible. Had Muck been right about her, after all?

  “Keep your eyes open. Be ready to catch me, cushion my fall, should I slip and lose my balance.”

  He glared at her. She finally nodded her head.

  CHAPTER 554

  Mrs. Harold Crust, inside the plywood box, had her own troubles.

  Delonzo had sprayed her feet and was going batshit crazy himself. Jumping back and forth down in that limited space where Fay’s feet were and was scratching at the wood and shrieking loud enough to nearly match the din caused by Biggs’s jackhammer. Blood was seeping down through the hole made by Biggs, blood that, no doubt, had once been part of her husband Harold, and it was seeping down from a hole in the top.

  The jackhammer was coming down to get her; Biggs was going to drill a hole in her chest. Looked that way. Had killed Harold, and now he was going to do the same to her.

  Why? Why in God’s name? They never done nothing to hurt the man; never caused him trouble. Only thing they done was to call the po-leece to let them know he was playing that music too loud. Them phone calls wasn’t done to cause nobody no harm. She had just wanted to be able to hear the television preacher, that’s all. Wasn’t done to hurt nobody, or cause nobody no pain.

  Even though the jackhammer seemed to be letting up, seemed to have stopped drilling down into her box, although still going, making all that noise—she had Delonzo to contend with. Delonzo was going crazy. Sure was. Delonzo. Rushed up to Fay Crust’s upper body and began clawing at her neck and face. Fay was the one screaming now, pleading for respite, a break, beseeching to be saved from her own cat who must have clearly gone insane.