Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “SHOW YOURSELF, ASSHOLE! ONE-ON-ONE! LET’S GO, CECIL! ARE YOU MAN ENOUGH?”

  “I suggest you move away from the door.”

  Roscoe had no choice but to step aside. Waited. He did not know what he would do once Biggs entered. Jump him? Did he have enough energy left to do it?

  A loud blast followed that did a fair amount of damage near the knob. A second blast superseded the first and made it possible for Biggs and his cohorts to easily kick the door in.

  At this point Marty Roscoe hardly possessed enough stamina to remain on his feet, let alone think about overpowering anyone. Last stand? There would be no last stand, not in his feeble state.

  He felt himself keel over—not unlike that mattress he had propped against the door a moment ago—slide down to the cement to end up on his side, staring up at the freaky retards and their demented, gloating leader Brother Trusty hovering above him.

  CHAPTER 561

  Biggs aimed his flashlight at the leaning mattresses in the corner and who was inside the rinky-dink cocoon, then back down at her blood-smeared, helpless male counterpart at his feet.

  “All right now: I’ll be needing a hand over here to help take this ‘infidel’ to the Fun Room.”

  A couple of geeks lifted a shoulder. Marvin picked up Roscoe’s legs. They took a step. Suddenly, with a loud scowl that usurped what fortitude remained, Marty Roscoe kicked up with his foot, hitting Biggs in the mouth hard enough to send him reeling.

  Biggs’s lower lip was bleeding.

  “Hold it. Let him go, Free Ride. Drop his other foot. That’s right: let his foot go.”

  Marvin did so.

  “Step back. Out of the way.”

  Marvin was quick to oblige. Biggs raised the business end of the .357 in his fist to about Roscoe’s right knee. Held it steady.

  “Some people never learn. . . . Play with fire . . . get burned. . . . The worst thing you could have called me was faggot, and to accuse me of being crazy.”

  “You’re homo, Clown. Crazy, mixed-up homo. . . . Can’t fool me.”

  “You’re wrong, trailer trash. All my life all I ever went for was pussy, strictly pussy. Oh, there was a degenerate geezer or two in some of those rest homes and skid row dives over the years Charlotte Yvonne dragged me to who tried to turn me out, some of the old lady’s insane fuck johns, not to mention J.J., but that does not make me queer—”

  “I got news for you. Any minute now you’re gonna have a bunch of people and law bustin’ your door in. That’s what Perez is doing right now: gettin’ help. If I was you I’d be thinking of a way to save my ass.”

  Biggs re-aimed the Magnum at Roscoe’s knee and fired a shot, and watched the big man fly back with the impact of the bullet, screaming and gripping at near the region to dull the pain, only there was no way to dull anything.

  “I suggest next time you call somebody a faggot, you make sure that individual is not bothered by it, is not offended by it, and is in fact a sissy who won’t retaliate. That’s what I suggest to you, redneck trash.”

  Biggs walked over. Aimed the Magnum at Roscoe’s other knee. Fired a shot. Missed. Fired two more times and the bullets practically separated the lower part of Roscoe’s leg from the rest of it. If not literally, it was damned near close.

  CHAPTER 562

  Roscoe wailed with everything that he had in him. Petunia cried out for his anguish as well as hers. Biggs unplugged his ears. Instructed the others to move in and chop her up, finish her off.

  They were told to pick up the redneck and carry him to the Workshop-cum-Fun Room, where Biggs proceeded to tie a series of rags around Roscoe’s knees to prevent further loss of blood.

  “Gotta keep him alive a while longer.”

  Roscoe’s wrists were fastened to corners of the butcher’s block/workbench with leather straps. The same was done to his ankles at the other end. His waist was strapped down as well, so was his chest. Movement was limited at best.

  “Good things come to those who wait. I have waited, I have been patient.”

  He reached inside a jacket pocket. Produced a mini cassette recorder/player. Hit the play button. Cranked up the volume. Music was already blaring from speakers connected to his home stereo system. It was noisy and Biggs wanted it this way. He positioned the portable cassette player close enough to Roscoe’s head, wanting him to hear every bit of it.

  “You are a bitch,” were the opening words made by the unmistakable voice of one Marty Roscoe. Drunk, to be sure, the voice a bit deeper, to be sure—but it was Roscoe nonetheless. There was no mistaking it. The worthless billy piece of sewage from Flat Rock, Arkansas.

  The recording went on.

  “Huh?”

  “You heard: you and that fruit Marvin. Coupla fags. Tutti and Fruity. Coupla bitches.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “I know what I’m talking about. Nigger-lovin’ faggot is what you are.”

  Biggs’s zinger followed: “Your mama must have been gang-banged by a pack of rabid mongrels to have engendered a white trash imbecile like you.”

  Clicking off at the other end was the best Roscoe was able to counter with. Biggs had had the recording looped, so that it played continually. Yep. Nonstop.

  “I have waited, I have been patient,” Cecil Biggs said once more, savoring each word as it left his lips. “I am being rewarded.”

  He got into a pair of latex gloves. Had Marvin do the same. MC Snagglepuss was transferred to the rectangular cage. The bishop and his right-hand man cut Roscoe’s trousers down along his fly, strapped the cage to his crotch, and pulled his limp pecker and scrotum up through wires in the bottom of it. At the other end they had the rat Marvin called MC Dizzy in a separate cage. Stuck it over Roscoe’s noggin. Sealed off the bottom by duct taping it to his neck, hence preventing the creature from wandering off (should it feel like it at some point). Crushed ice was dumped on Marty Roscoe’s face. When he came to, opened his eyes, he realized he had a foot-long rat nibbling at his nostrils. Fear and panic followed. Screams/howls underscored.

  CHAPTER 563

  Biggs yanked the latex gloves off and tossed them off to the side. He had that mirror on casters set up so that Roscoe could either see what was happening to him at the other end by looking in the mirror that had been positioned to the right of his feet, or, if so inclined, simply lift his head some and look down.

  He twisted about with what strength remained, for what good it did him. Slack was limited. Leather straps were taut. There was nowhere to go, no way to shake the beasts off.

  MC Snagglepuss had begun to chew on the foreskin of his uncircumcised pecker. Roscoe did his fiercest best to move his hips. Managed mere inches in either direction: his left, then his right. The determined rat stayed with the task, working away at the foreskin, chewing it up, bit by bit, piece by piece, then gradually began to bite into the slick and soft head of his cock—and spitting most of the flesh out again. The howling increased, while Biggs stood there eating a Butterfinger candy bar. He offered one to Marvin, who accepted, even though he had to be reminded to take his gloves off first.

  “Is this the best, or what? Look at him, screaming like a bitch. Who’s the fag now, Romeo? Mr. Prince Charming, who’s the faggot now? Like leaving turds on my stoop? Huh, boy? What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? Better yet, excuse me, you have a very hungry rat there about to get at your tongue, and then, hopefully your eyeballs; will eat your eyeballs, your nose, lips. . . .”

  “Never did like this racist cracker. Fruit Loop-eatin’ Ku Klux Klan mothafuckah.”

  “You said it. Only I doubt even the Klan would want anything to do with an idiot like this.”

  “Ain’t we forgot somethin’, Brotha Trusty?”

  “Why don’t you enlighten me.”

  “Don’t he get a last meal? Death Row mothafuckahs always be gettin’ somethin’ last to eat.”

  “My slip-up,” said Biggs remorsefully. Said to Roscoe: “What’s your pleasure?” Roscoe was unable to s
peak, or simply refused to. He was being obstinate, it seemed.

  “He’s not responding.”

  “Don’t matter. I know what he like’.”

  Marvin dug around inside his shirt pocket and came up with a single Fruit Loop. Held it up. “Ain’t but one. Found it in the backyard.”

  Biggs sanctioned the gesture with a nod and wave of his hand. Muck pinched the Fruit Loop between thumb and index finger of his good hand and held it against an opening in the wire cage, directly over the captive’s jaw. . . . Let go of it and watched it land inside the preoccupied man’s mouth.

  “You happy?”

  “I ain’t. He the one could be. Was all the time eatin’ Fruit Loop’.”

  “Made your point.”

  Marvin R. Muck picked up the Polaroid.

  “I know you be wantin’ a pichure of this.”

  “Got that right. Go ahead: take a couple. And then I’ll take a couple.”

  Cecil finished off the candy bar. Wiped his fingers against his trousers. Stuck a folded blood-stained towel under Roscoe’s head to prevent regurgitation.

  “What kind you want?”

  “Get a close-up of his face. Then get me a long shot, full view with both rats in it. Want to be able to see Snaggletooth chew his dick up at the other end, and want to be able to see Dizzy destroying the redneck’s eyeballs.”

  CHAPTER 564

  Marvin clicked away. Placed the pics on a shelf below to dry. Handed the blue Polaroid Impulse camera to Biggs, who took four additional shots, while Roscoe screamed, pleading for his nightmare to stop. “PETUNIA! MY GOD, PETUNIA!”

  Biggs lowered the camera. Waited for the pictures to develop. Was impressed with what he was seeing. “Yeah. Turned out pretty good.”

  He pulled out two more candy bars. Handed one to Marvin. “I’m not supposed to be consuming this much junk while on medication. Rots your teeth a lot quicker. What the hell—this is a special occasion.”

  “Damn, home’. You be generous.”

  Biggs took a bite of his Butterfinger.

  “Why not? It’s not every day something this good happens.”

  Snagglepuss was working away. Roscoe’s groin was a stub by now. A commingling of blood and semen flowed, the rat unable to get enough.

  “MC Snagglepuss gonna get a big belly again.”

  “Let him. He’s feasting. Let him get his fill.”

  MC Dizzy had been busy enough himself at the other end. Had devoured Roscoe’s right eyeball and was presently in pause mode to rest up for awhile. He began to chew away at the left eyeball soon enough. His fangs dug in deep.

  Marty Roscoe’s howling and twisting of the head did him little good. Blood bubbled up out of the right eye socket. Same began to happen in this current one. Roscoe was freaking, a man gone mad: raging, slobbering, making all the noise he was capable. And then he began moving his jaws, opening wide and clamping down, hard, loud, in an effort to intimidate the rat. It worked for a while. Too little, too late. At one point Marvin did wince when Roscoe managed to gnash his teeth, clamp them down on MC Dizzy’s tail and bite it in half. The rat made a loud shriek, paused to collect itself, regroup, then proceeded to finish off the eye, devouring just about all of it and did not stop there. Dug into the frontal lobe, clawing at the brain, deep enough inside his skull.

  Roscoe’s eyes were gone, the sockets nothing more than hollowed out holes in his face. Roscoe spit the tail out. The rat spun around, nibbled at his nostrils. Chewed them off rapidly. Blood appeared there as well. The creature lost its footing for a split second, a hind leg slipped, slid near the redneck’s mouth and Roscoe did not waste time chomping down on it, breaking the leg, more than likely.

  This immobilized the rat, left it disorientated for the time being.

  Marvin could be heard cursing now. “Kill the mofo. Look what he done to homie Dizz.”

  Biggs was grinning. “The show was worth it. I’ll buy you some more, Free Base. Maybe a couple of ferrets this time. You wanted ferrets anyway. Maybe I’ll spring for ferrets. Don’t sweat it.”

  “Yeah, but that be MC Dizzy, man. They be my homie. Had ’em all this time.”

  Miraculously enough, MC Dizzy regained his composure. Decided he wanted to get back at Roscoe, crippled limb or not. Was back chewing on his nose, and would take the occasional nip of the upper lip. One, two, three bites, then retreat. Drawing blood. Plenty of it covered Roscoe’s face: from where his eyes used to be, from where he once had a nose. And now his mouth.

  “YOU MOTHERFUCKER!” shouted Roscoe. “YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE! YOU FUCK! GODDAMN YOU!”

  The more fuss Roscoe made, the better Biggs and Marvin liked it.

  “Yo. Could be you right, Cecil. Could be worth it. Only don’t want nothing serious to happen to MC Snagglepuss. He be my Number One. My original homie.”

  While MC Dizzy had found a safe place to lay low under Roscoe’s chin, to rest up, catch his breath, at the other end MC Snagglepuss had devoured nearly seventy percent of the head of Roscoe’s groin and left it looking bloody and about the size of a chewed up radish. The rat had begun working away at the nutsack, got inside with its razor sharp fangs and had begun to tear into Roscoe’s single testicle.

  “Lookit that. Man don’t even have two balls like everyone else. Had nerve to call me a faggot.” Biggs took another bite of his candy bar. He was grinning. “Hey, billy a-hole, who’s the faggot now? Who’s the queer, cocksucker? Who’s the punk, bitch? Who’s the pussy-whipped racist fuck? Eh, fat boy? Don’t hear you saying shit now, do I?”

  Roscoe kept up with his cries. Hoarse by now, to be sure, but he kept at it. Sounded like he may have been whimpering at this point.

  “Got something to moan about, Romeo. You got no dick left, not much of one.”

  Homie Snagglepuss decided he didn’t want the testicle, and retreated to give pause, rest up, although he continued to grind his teeth, as rats were known to do.

  “That be it. Get your rest, homie. You done good, done plenty. Yo.”

  At the other end, Homie Dizzy was ready for round two. Moved up cautiously toward Roscoe’s mouth, took a quick nibble at his lower lip, retreated, then tried for a second go. Succeeded, then backed off again.

  Roscoe seemed spent. Practically out of it. His mouth no longer moved. Cries were down to nothing audible. The rat took notice, gave it courage it needed to attack anew, with confidence, and worked away first at one corner of Roscoe’s mouth, the left, then ducked down, came up and chewed on the right corner and upper lip. It was about this time that Roscoe’s mouth began to open slowly, ever-so-slowly, until it was wide open—with the oblivious rat too preoccupied to care or bother with the implicit threat. In fact, found the move encouraging. Ducked its head inside the mouth periodically, as if to look around, seeking softer flesh beyond the teeth. Alas, it stuck its head in there once too often. Roscoe jerked his chin, the rat slipped, losing its balance, as a good deal of its head seemed to be inside—and then the redneck’s jaw came down like a steel vice over the creature’s neck.

  CHAPTER 565

  Marvin Ritalin Muck was beside himself when he saw what was being done to MC Dizzy. His furry pal was in a bind. It was a life and death situation. He stood there, quaking, a desperate man on the verge of freaking.

  The rat wiggled its hind end and legs in desperation, fighting for its very existence.

  “You mothafuckah. Let him go. Let him go, Roscoe! He gonna kill MC Dizzy, Cecil! My boy need’ help! My boy! My homie! Nooo!”

  He worked the cage off Roscoe’s face. Yanked at the duct tape on his neck, stripping it away. Had his hands about the rat’s mid-section. Had to use caution here, from fear that it would get its head torn off. Could not get anywhere; Marty Roscoe was not about to release his hold. Marvin attempted to pry his jaw open. Was not successful. Sheer desperation overtook him when he reached for the claw hammer and began to whack away at the top of Roscoe’s skull with it.

  It took three or four good blows to cave the fo
rehead in and the jaw loosened. Marvin withdrew his four-legged pal from the comatose man’s jaw. Only it was too late. MC Dizzy’s body was limp, the neck broken, head hanging over the side.

  Tears flowed from Marvin’s eyes. He clutched the dead animal to his bosom, weeping. Staggered back to a corner, lost in grief.

  CHAPTER 566

  Biggs shook his head. Much ado about nothing. Crybaby dropping tears over a dead scavenger.

  He looked at Roscoe. Was he deceased? Could be. Couldn’t tell. Blood continued to bubble up from both eye sockets and mouth. Then he noticed the fingers of the billy’s left hand move some; there was movement. The redneck was choking on blood trapped in his throat. Some life remained; enough life left to encourage Biggs to climb up on the workbench. This called for leather gloves. He slipped them on.

  “Drop the rat and hand me the jackhammer.”

  Marvin had to be told again. He looked up. Nodded his head. Placed his dead friend inside the cage on the floor. Struggled to lift the forty-two-pound jackhammer with the stenciled CITY OF LOS ANGELES legend on the side. Handed it to Biggs, who waited for him to plug the cord in. Muck stood there, overcome with sorrow and grief. Finally had to be reminded. The jackhammer was plugged in. Marvin let out a cry at this point, the cause being something that had happened down at Roscoe’s groin region.

  Biggs turned his head to take a look. Snagglepuss was on his side, quavering.

  “Stroke. Probably.”

  “Ate too much.”

  “It’s old age. He’s about two years old, isn’t he?”

  “Two year’, eight month’ and three week’.”

  Marvin was in tears, urging his favorite rat to get up. He reached inside the wire contraption. Rubbed the back of his pet’s head, to no avail. Marvin swallowed hard.