Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  “No. . . . Homie Snagglepuss. . . . Don’t go, don’t die on me. . . . Don’t die on me, mofo. Snagglepuss!”

  The rat was frothing at the mouth. Appeared to be gasping, convulsing. It was not long before it rolled over the rest of the way. On its back. Legs sticking out. Rigid. MC Snagglepuss was dead. Marvin kept shaking his head. Distraught, so distraught.

  “Come on. It’s a rat.”

  “Yeah?” Marvin spun in his direction. “Sergeant Steele don’t be nothin’ but a fuckin’ dog! Parfrey don’t be nothin’ but a nasty mothafuckin’ pig! Messed yo head up when he was chill! An’ that clown? Trusty Lusty? Fuck him, too!”

  “I don’t give a crap about any of that anymore. Makes no difference. Don’t get attached. That’s my way. No attachments, no loss.”

  Marvin rubbed his eyes.

  “Raised them from the time they was tiny.”

  “Bullshit. Bought them for you from a pet store to keep you from bitching.”

  “You a lie. You bought ’em to see them hoe’ freak, is what it is. You get wood seein’ the hoe’ freak. An’ you bought them three. Had Snagglepuss long before I come here.”

  “Point is: The three that were purchased were purchased with my hard-earned money. I’m the one who should be shedding tears.”

  “You would if you could. You can’t—’cause you the only one you give a fuck about.”

  “We’ll get you a couple of ferrets. Already said I would. What you originally wanted, isn’t it?”

  Marvin returned the dead rodent to its cage where its other pal lay.

  “You ain’t gonna do it. Same reason you didn’t get ’em back then: coin. Ferret’ cost coin.”

  “And they’re meat-eaters. Carnivores. We have enough meat-eaters around here as it is. That was the reason I kept putting it off.”

  “Yo, you know you ain’t gonna buy no ferret’ this time, neither! You a fuckin’ lie, Trusty! What it is!”

  “Your sentimentality is touching. Might buy the ferrets just so I won’t have to put up with anymore of this sappy horse shit.”

  Marvin picked up his cage and left the room.

  Biggs shrugged. Shook his head. He was standing directly over Roscoe’s head. Aimed the jackhammer bit over it. Had an adjustment to make. Moved Roscoe’s head so that his left ear was up. Biggs got the jackhammer going. Lowered it down against the redneck’s ear. Let it go down further and watched Roscoe kick with his busted, bleeding limbs, watched him continue to make sounds, muted howls, as the bit hammered down inside his ear, and sank deeper and deeper into it and more blood appeared as the jackhammer punched globs of something or other out the other end.

  Cecil lifted the jackhammer. Adjusted the head with his left foot so that the eyeless sockets stared straight up. Guided the jackhammer over the center of Roscoe’s forehead and pressed down against it. Bits of bone, clumps of scalp, and further globs of brain matter and blood sprayed the room, even covering Biggs’s goggles—but he continued to work it until Roscoe finally ceased to move at all.

  Biggs released the trigger. Pulled on the cord that disconnected the jackhammer. He lowered the jackhammer beside the dead redneck, climbed down from the workbench and leaned against it to rest up. Pulled his gloves off. Hands were sore. He checked for blisters. Found none. Exhausted, he was. Enough drilling for one day. He needed another Hawaiian Punch. On the rocks this time.

  CHAPTER 567

  There was commotion outside and it was certainly audible. A small, albeit vociferous mob had gathered at Biggs’s front door and they wanted in.

  Biggs’s response to the chaos was to give himself a haircut. Why not? He’d taken a white sheet and draped it about his upper body, made certain it was particularly nice and snug at the neck, a la barber shop style, so that no stray hairs got past to end up anywhere near or on his torso and resulted in itching and general discomfort that he had no use for at this point in his life.

  Under the sheet he wore a wifebeater, a Kevlar vest over that. He had positioned himself in front of the adjustable angle mirror that was on a chrome stand with casters; he also held a round shaving mirror in his hand near the back of his head in order to get a better grasp of that thinning area back there.

  Fact was, he was more perturbed by the hair loss than he was by what was going on out there. Attribute it to vanity. No man liked losing his hair. But you accepted the hair leaving you, just as you accepted everything else finally, along with your preordained demise—not that he intended for it to take place for another forty years.

  The hair loss in the back, up near the top, was such that the tat (with its related digits) was visible. It was possible his “shelf life” was dwindling down. Like it or not. The expiration date he had figured on for himself years before was upon him.

  “Every one of us comes with a built-in ‘egg timer,’” he reminded his image in the mirror.

  The reason for the tattoo had been to set himself apart from the rest. You rarely knew when your time was up until the actual moment of demise. Joe Citizen had no idea how or when the hammer would come down on his existence. By deciding on a date for his own “egress,” Biggs figured he gave himself an edge, a slight one, no doubt, still an edge, over the masses. Only the date he had settled on two decades before was a date he wondered if he felt comfortable with presently.

  CHAPTER 568

  Having washed the clown makeup off his face, Marvin Muck had returned to the Fun Room with the cage in tow and had a hard time containing his apprehension. This new turn of events brewing on the front lawn was making him nervous and edgy, and he couldn’t believe Bigg’ was standing there messin’ wiff his do.

  Better to lose yo hair than to lose yo head, thought Marvin. Tell it to the mofo. Only the mofo be talkin’ to hisself.

  “Choice has to be made,” said Biggs to no one. “Yours to make.”

  He lowered the shaving mirror and picked up the scissors and proceeded to cut clumps of his hair.

  Muck noticed the tattoo.

  “When you get the tat done?”

  “Why’d you take the Trusty makeup off?”

  “Makeup make my face itch and burn’ my eye’, that be why.”

  “And because you’d rather not be mistaken for me.”

  “Ain’t said when you get the tat done.”

  “Two decades ago. Why?”

  Marvin asked what it was.

  “Bar code.”

  “Bar code?”

  “You don’t know what a bar code is?”

  “I know a ‘bar code’.”

  Marvin asked about the numbers directly below it.

  “DOB.”

  “DOB?”

  “Date of birth.”

  “What about them number’ below?”

  “DOD.”

  “DOD?”

  “Expiration date. Date of death.”

  Muck realized he had the year right, even the month. Day was off by a couple of weeks. Still, it was close enough. Too close.

  “How you know two decade ago that this be the month and year society be steppin’ on yo dick?”

  “Didn’t.”

  “Boo-shit you had the tat put on there twenty year’ ago.”

  Biggs didn’t think it was worth responding to.

  “Just a random number I came up with. Never thought or expected to live this long. Never wanted to—back then. Seems to me some people are determined to make my prediction come true. I find it annoying.”

  “You annoyed? That be it? You annoyed? All of them peep’ pissed off and wantin’ to tear you a new asshole—and you annoyed?”

  “Should have made it 2028 instead.”

  “Make no difference. Them fool’ out there ain’t gonna let you live to see no 2028.”

  “I have unfinished business. Things to do yet. Plans.”

  “Aks them mothafuckah what they thank of yo plan. It don’t be lookin’ good for you or for me, neither, Brotha.”

  Marvin was nearly beside himself. Cecil’s unruffled de
meanor only made it worse.

  “What chu gonna do? Change the tat from 1988 to 2028? You thank that gonna stop them peep’ from smokin’ yo ass for what you been doin’ in here all this time? Killin’ hoe’ an’ shit? You think them dude’ gonna take a look at yo tat and that gonna make ’em go: Wait. We can’t chill this nasty mothafuckah, not yet. We gonna let him put more bitches on ice until 2028—’cause Bigg’ say he got him a plan to keep killin’ peep’ until he turn eighty-five?”

  “Never know. Crazier things than that have happened.” In a calm enough tone, Biggs added: “What are you in a panic about now?”

  He dropped the scissors for the hair clipper. The whirring blade wouldn’t cut through properly at first. He adjusted the screw on the side with a flat screwdriver and all was fine. This time it hummed beautifully and he cut through his hair with ease.

  “You ain’t heard that? They be all around.”

  Biggs said nothing. With the clippers, he had been able to cut enough hair to within one eighth of an inch of his scalp, and figured he’d have to shave the rest—if he wanted it all off. Face could have used a shave anyway.

  CHAPTER 569

  Biggs applied shaving cream to his face and scalp. Picked up the razor and ran it over the top of his head and above the neck. The back of the neck was not all that simple to get to, neither were the areas behind the ears.

  He dipped the razor into the bowl of water, and returned to the back of the head.

  Well, that part of his skull he wouldn’t be able to do justice without using the small hand mirror, adjusting it just so, and even then it was no easy task. He did his best, having to go over certain hard-to-get-to places about a dozen times or so. He twisted his head this way and that. Stayed with it. Whenever his arms got tired, he’d return to the jawline, then attack the skull anew. He wanted it as smooth as a cue ball. All over: above the forehead, top, back, around the ears. Didn’t want any tiny hairs sticking out anywhere.

  “What chu gonna do?”

  “About what?”

  “Them fool’. Out there.”

  “Sounds like Armageddon,” said Biggs in a flat monotone.

  “Thought you didn’t believe none of that.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Why bring it up, then?” Suddenly it dawned on Muck. “You be wantin’ for it to happen. Why you don’t give diddly. Be like suicide, don’t it? You be sayin’ you don’t want to be goin’ down, only could be you do. Yo. That be it. Only I ain’t goin’ down wiff you, me.”

  Biggs paused. Looked at him.

  “I have a hankering for Hawaiian Punch. On the rocks this time. How about you? Seeing as to how you’re in mourning.” He detached the key from the carabiner on his belt. “Grab us a couple of cans out of the walk-in.”

  “Fuck that. We got to use the tunnel. That be the onliest key I want. We best start thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ the hell out, Brother. This ain’t no game. Time be runnin’ out.”

  Biggs re-attached the cooler key, and resumed shaving. Marvin put the cage down. Man wasn’t listening to him.

  “Where’s the ‘LaBelle of the Ball’ cunt hiding?”

  “What do we care about her, man? We got to get on out of here, Brotha. Gimme the key to the tunnel. We got to blow this bug bin.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “What’s the rush? That what you be sayin’? You don’t hear them mofo out there hungry for blood? They be wantin’ blood. Always said blood don’t bother me, long as it don’t be none a mine. I be wantin’ to keep it that way, too. Ain’t my blood gonna get spill’; no way.”

  “I’ve got unfinished business with her. . . .”

  “I don’t feel I should be goin’ in that damn tunnel by myself, on account you got all them trap’ in there, hear? Ain’t a good idea for me to be goin’ by myself—”

  “My cadre of psychos, my Sonderkommandos are prepared to lay down their lives for the cause. You should know that by now.”

  “Say what? Them psycho ain’t no commando. Don’t even come close. The onliest ’cause’ I be innerested in be my cause. This one: me. Gettin’ out. Now.”

  Biggs turned to look at him. It was slow and deliberate. Held the stare. “Want the keys to the tunnel, ‘Youngblood’? That what you want?” And he began to detach the smaller ring the tunnel keys were on from the larger one. He hooked the larger ring of keys back on to the carabiner, while allowing the keys to the tunnel to dangle enticingly from the index finger of his right hand.

  “There they are, boy. Take them. . . .”

  Marvin did not move. Wiped sweat from around his mouth with the back of his hand. Biggs grinned.

  “Yellow through and through. Do you know what happens to you when you’re yellow in this world? You get crapped on.” Then Biggs said: “You’re yella, aren’t you, Judas?”

  “Hell you be talkin’ about?”

  “Whatever made me think you were good enough to be my deacon? My right-hand man? Whatever made me think that?”

  “Who care’ about that now? You don’t trust me nohow. I want the key to the tunnel. I want out of here, me. We fucked if we stay. You can keep your church if you want, all them stiff’ and blood and picture album’; all of it: gold chopper’, ring’, watch’, vagina’. Me? Want out.”

  Biggs gripped him by the collar. Wound it tightly about the other man’s neck, and then rammed his head against the steel cabinet. Did it again. Hammered him in the jaw with his right elbow. Blood flowed from Marvin’s nose and mouth.

  “Double-crossing, two-bit Judas.”

  “I ain’t double-cross’ nobody. Just be tryin’ to save my black ass, Brother. Why you want to beat on me for no reason? I be the onliest friend you got. Can’t you see that? Open up yo’ eye’ for onced, Brother; open up them eye’. You be doin’ to me, Marvin, exactly what yo daddy done to you—and you don’t even be seein’ it. Why you got to beat on me, Cecil?”

  “Because I like it. If I want a friend I’ll get an inflatable doll. Get me, boy? I walk alone. Lone Wolf—and proud of it. Lone Wolf. The only way to travel. I don’t need anybody—and I certainly don’t need someone like you. Never did.”

  “If that be the way you want it—okay. I got no problem wiff it. Want to do me, cuz? If that make’ you happy—go on, then. Ain’t no point fightin’ yo’ ass. What be the point? Finally see it that way, me. Do it, Brotha, ’cause we ain’t gettin’ out of this graveyard alive, no way—”

  “There you go again. . . .”

  “You want the ho? She don’t be that hard to find. Look in the Furnace Room. You gonna off her, ain’t you? Go on, then—ice everybody. See how good that make you feel.”

  Biggs held him this way for a moment, then released his grip. He had Muck reach in the cabinet for the box that contained the Brother Trusty items: various sets of choppers, various partial masks, and plenty of makeup. Had him get with it. Muck went along. Not willingly.

  “I know what you be up to. Want them peep’ to thank I be Brotha Trusty.”

  “They won’t think you’re ‘Brotha Trusty’.”

  “Wanna bet?”

  “Brother Trusty’s skin is light—and he’s right.”

  “How they gonna know the color of my skin if my face and neck and arm’ be covered up?”

  “Doomsayers never fail to compound every situation; never fail to see the negative in every circumstance.”

  Muck was practically in tears, but he finished up.

  “About time.”

  Biggs yanked the sheet off. Wiped shaving cream, hair residue, and specks of blood from his scalp and neck, then proceeded to apply the Trusty Lusty makeup to his own features, and walked out of the room with Big Daddy.

  CHAPTER 570

  The noise outside continued to increase in volume. Biggs ignored it all as he approached the Furnace Room.

  He entered. Noticed Patience McDaniel seated in a far corner on his right, huddled, oblivious, staring at the floor. Why was she always staring? Didn’t she ever get tired o
f it?

  Pearleen Bell was sitting beside her with her arms about the other woman in a consoling way.

  Biggs stepped in. He wanted nothing to do with Patience. Sole intent was Pearleen Bell’s impending destruction. Something was amiss, though: a good deal of her makeup had been smeared off. He didn’t enjoy killing bitches as much whose makeup wasn’t exactly the way he liked it.

  Well, too bad. He would do her anyway.

  He had Pearleen stand up, then raised Big Daddy and held the still blade against her neck. Had a hand on the starter handle. About to pull it. His eyes had begun to turn red, the glow rising by degrees. He waited. Held the Stihl saw steady, his crimson eyes studying hers, while she stared back. Surprisingly, there was no fear there, only calmness; something calm and serene even. . . .

  He was taken aback by it.

  “Aren’t you afraid to die?”

  “No. Because you won’t harm me. . . .”

  “How do you figure?”

  “You gave me your word. . . .”

  “Yeah? When? I don’t recall. Even if I had, what good is the word of a schizophrenic?”

  “I have nothing to fear. . . .”

  He continued to bore into her eyes for any telltale signs that might give her away, then lowered the chainsaw. The glow in his own peepers had begun to fade by degrees until the red was all but gone.

  “Wouldn’t it make sense to call a truce and stop the bloodshed?”

  “You don’t get it. With the possible exception of Dione’s kid . . . I’m not sorry for any of it. I have no regrets. Spared the kid a life of misery and pain.”

  “That’s one way to look at it—only was it your choice to make? To take a child’s life?”

  “You weren’t there. I was in a tight spot, sort of like the one I’m in now. I don’t want to talk about it. It’s in the past. It happened, it’s over. Look, this is about something else: maybe you can put it all behind you, if you get out of this alive, and live some kind of normal life, something resembling a sane existence. . . .”