by Greg Barth
He flipped up the back of my skirt.
“Oh, son of a bitch, boys would you look at this. Now that’s what I call a fucking thigh gap. When it comes to ass, this here’s a work of art. It’s like that natural selection shit, you know? Think of it, Corbin. All these generations of sister fuckers and daughter fuckers? They had a thing for the thigh gap. Probably something to do with riding horses or some shit way back then. And they’ve fucking perfected the goddamn thigh gap on this bitch right here.”
“It’s pretty damned nice, boss,” Vegas said.
“Nice? You think this here’s nice? Boy, you’re just too young to appreciate what you’re seeing here. This here is like the apex of all evolution. This ass? It’s the culmination of all the natural section that’s gone before for like a million fucking years. I got that shit all wrong. This girl’s all white. This is like some fine, prime, Klan ass or something.”
“That good, huh?” Vegas said.
“It’s this ass right here that Abe Lincoln had the boys in blue march down from the north with their rifles to kill us over. They wanted some of this shit right here all for themselves.”
My panties were ripped from me.
“Get this shit on film.”
His hands on me, squeezing. The sharp pain of a finger entering my ass.
I winced. “You’re hurting me.”
“Yeah, that’s some good stuff right there.”
A hard smack.
“Hey, Corbin. I bet you that chink you’ve got back there’s got a good ass on her too. Think of it. Same fuckin’ principle. Them baby eaters over in China, they cooked up the little girls. I bet you the ones they kept had the best asses on them.”
“Just don’t burn my face,” I said through my tears.
“That’s how you know a girl loves you, boys,” Ira said. He poked and prodded at me. He rubbed his fingers along my pussy, poked at my ass with his thumb.
“Figures. She’s a cold one.”
I heard him spit. Warm saliva ran down the crack of my ass to more intimate places.
He unzipped. Something warm, soft, and flaccid pressed against me. He rubbed it against my backside. The velvety softness stiffened and grew hard.
Vegas relaxed his grip on my hair. The dark, hot grease was right in front of my eyes. A tear slipped out, dripped down, splashed in the hot oil. Bubbles. A sizzling sound. The metal under my tummy was burning into me.
Ira did a lot of spitting. Then he was shoving himself into me. “Get that phone around here. Get this in the shot.”
His first thrust was long and slow.
“Like fucking sandpaper,” he said. He kept pulling himself out of me, spitting, then shoving it back in.
As his thrusts grew more forceful, my face bobbed closer to the grease.
“Please….Vegas. You’re going to burn me.”
“Oh, not yet. Not yet,” Ira said. “I don’t want her moving all around until I’m ready.”
He picked up the rhythm of his thrusts for a bit, then pulled out, spit some more, and went back in. It went on like that for an eternity.
I had no idea what hell Chris was going through, but I hoped she wasn’t suffering like I was.
Ira’s hands gripped my hips harder. His thrusts came faster and faster.
“Okay, okay, okay,” Ira said in time with his thrusts. “Vegas, man, here’s what we’re gonna do. When I say ‘now’ you’re gonna shove her face down in the oil. Got it?”
Vegas’s grip tightened in my hair. “Yeah, boss.”
“But don’t miss the shot. Make sure you got the phone held right at the same time.”
“I got it, boss.”
“No,” I said. “Please.”
“Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. Oh fuck yeah,” Ira said.
“Aaaah. Pleeeaase.”
“Mmm. Gettin’ close. Yeah. Gettin’ so, so, so close.”
“Aaaahhhhhhh—hhaaaaa—aaaah. Noooooo.”
His thrusts picked up speed. His grip on my hips tightened.
I opened my eyes. I looked at the hot grease in front of me.
I was going to die a horrible death. Ira’s hairy pelvis slapping against my ass. Hot, black grease in front of me. Scalding metal under my tummy.
“Oh yeah, oh yeah, oooooh yeah,” Ira said.
I was going to die.
“I’m gonna give you a countdown,” Ira said.
Hell couldn’t hurt worse than what was going to happen to me.
“Five. Mmmm. Mmmmm.”
My flesh would fry from my skull.
“Oh yeah. Oh guh…god. Four. Four.”
My eyes would boil in their sockets.
Ira’s hands jerked my ass back against him.
“So close,” he said. “Three.”
I knew what I’d do. I resolved myself to it. I’d inhale the hot grease deep into me with one massive breath, frying my esophagus, my lungs. I’d embrace death and welcome it as quickly as possible, breathe the molten fire into my body. Ira’s orgasm would be in time with the writhing of my death throes. Just as he wanted it.
I would lose.
He would win.
Chris would be left to the dogs.
Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.
“Two,” Ira said. I felt his thighs stiffen against me.
I emptied my mind. I emptied my lungs of air.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck, ooooohhhhh fuuuuu—”
The void of the black hell in front of me consumed my entire world.
I tried to find peace, but I didn’t. I was terrified, and I was fucking mad.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…I’m gonna…I’m almost…”
Agony. Death. Now.
PONK!
Ira moaned.
A flurry of small grease bubbles in front of my eyes.
Ira screamed.
Something bubbled up through the sizzling grease. Cylindrical. Metallic. .45 ACP stamped in a brass arc along the rim. But there was no little dimple from where the firing pin struck.
A bullet casing.
Ira’s scream grew long, loud. A horrific, savage cry.
The sound of water running somewhere nearby.
“What the fuck, man?” Vegas said.
“Ah, fuck! Goddamn!” Ira screamed.
His cock was free of me. Something splattered against the back of my leg.
Vegas relaxed his grip. The hot grease was not as close to my nose.
A french-fry and a shell casing floated in front of my face.
PONK!
Another flurry of bubbles like a fart in the bathtub. Another shell casing rose into view.
Ira’s screams hurt my eardrums.
The level of grease lowered.
It came to me in that moment what must have happened. Timmy had dropped his automatic pistol into the fryer when I shoved his hand in. The gun had settled to the bottom of the fry vat. Down next to where the gas flame heated the grease under the pan. The metal of the pistol absorbed the heat in a more concentrated way than the grease would. Over time, the heat had cooked off the round in the chamber. Then the next…
Vegas’s grip on my hair loosened. I raised myself up erect.
“Boss?” Vegas said. Then, “Boss!”
I heard and felt Vegas’s feet slipping on the grease-covered tile. Then he fell backward hard, his head cracking against the floor.
My feet touched ground. I strained my stomach muscles, lifted my face out of the fryer. I turned, hands still tied behind me, and saw a new scene before me. I wasn’t convinced I hadn’t gone to hell.
Ira Blake, bleeding leg, dripping cock. His jeans soaked in hot, scalding grease.
Vegas, on the floor, eyes closed.
Corbin, my pistol in hand.
Chris, rising from her face-down position on the stainless-steel table.
Two holes in the fryer pouring hot grease out onto the red-tile floor, blackened grout steering the slickness in right angles across the surface.
Ira, reaching down either to his dick to maintain his cli
max or to his leg to stanch the bleeding, I couldn’t tell. He stepped forward and slipped on the puddle of grease—went down hard on his ass.
Corbin backed off of Chris.
Chris stood erect, grabbed the knife on the table by the cabbages, turned to Corbin and plunged the blade deep into his fat gut.
Corbin, out of reflex, fired the pistol aimlessly in my direction. Missed. Chris pounded the blade into him yet again.
“Cut me loose, Chris,” I said. “Cut me loose.”
Instead, Chris reached down and grabbed Corbin by his balls. She pulled the blade from his gut and started carving at his cock with it.
I stepped forward and stomped down hard on Vegas’s nose.
Corbin screamed. He fired my pistol yet again. This time the shot was aimed downward and the bullet hit Vegas in the gut.
Chris pulled free from Corbin, a bloody knife in one fist and a lump of red flesh in the other.
Corbin screamed, both hands going to his bloody crotch. He still held my revolver, but he’d long forgotten about it.
Chris came around from the table, bloody, naked. She held the lump of flesh over the vat fryer. She opened her hand and let it fall into the oil. A pop and sizzle as Corbin’s cock was rendered by the grease.
I leaned forward and vomited, splattering my sneakers with the sour contents of my stomach.
Ira held his shin, his face a grimace of pain. He’d taken at least one bullet, maybe two, fired from Timmy’s automatic at the bottom of the fryer, to his shin.
Vegas was down. Corbin was incapacitated. My hands were tied behind my back.
Christine Friday, naked, bloody, twice-raped, crimson knife in hand, stood above all.
“Cut me loose,” I said. “Chris, cut me loose.”
Slick, hot grease, pooling now on the floor, defined the gulf between her and Ira Blake. Chris extended an index finger toward him. “Come here,” she said. “Now!”
Ira cast an eye back at his son, Corbin. “Fuck…fuck…goddamn, no,” he said. He shook his head with vigor. “Jesus…fucking Jesus, jesus, jesus, fuck no!” He scooted backward, one hand clamped on his bleeding, bullet-riddled shin, the other placing a protective barrier between him and Chris. “You motherfucking chow-mein, chink-ass, lemon-head, gook-cunt, bitch! Stay the FUCK away from me!”
The gulf of hot grease between us widened.
Ira rose to his feet and—in spite of his injured leg and unzipped jeans—bolted toward the bar and dining room. “You stay the fuck away from me!” The sound of him crashing into the door. Cursing. Wrestling with the lock. The chime above the door dinged as he made his way out.
I wanted my hands free. I wanted my .38 back from Corbin.
I retched. Dry-heaved. When I could speak again, I said. “Chris. The pistol. The pistol. Cut me loose!”
She looked at me, then looked back at Corbin.
Corbin’s face was pale. Both hands cupped his crimson-soaked crotch. He’d passed out.
Chris went to him, knelt down, jammed the knife into his eye. Leaving the blade there, she took the blood-soaked pistol from his hand and brought it to me. Her thin, pale hands were red and dripping. She held the Smith and Wesson out to me, cupped in both hands.
The look on her face scared me.
“The knife, baby. The knife. Cut me loose.”
She hesitated, untangling what I said. My words broke through the shock at last. She nodded, placed the pistol on the table, slipped the knife from Corbin’s skull, and cut my hands free.
I looked at the horror in front of me. Vomit and blood on the floor. Two dead men. Grease still poured from the fryer. A naked, bruised, and bloodied woman standing in front of me.
Vegas held something in his dead hand. It was Timmy’s camouflage phone. Chris’s rape—my rape—god only knew what other hellish films were on that thing.
I rushed over and slipped it from his lifeless grip.
There was a loud pop as another round cooked off from Timmy’s automatic in the fry vat. The bullet pinged against one leg of the stainless steel table. If we stayed there, we’d likely be hit by a ricochet as the rest of the rounds in the clip cooked off.
“Chris, Chris! We’ve got to get out of here!”
I grabbed my .38, stuck it in my waistband, took Chris by the hand and led her naked out the back door into the unforgiving sunlight.
SIXTEEN
I LED THE way, my pistol ready. No sign of Ira Blake in the parking lot.
I put Chris in the back seat of the car. She leaned over on her side and curled up. I grabbed my jacket from the trunk and let her cover herself with it as best she could.
No sign of Ira on the way back to the highway. No cars at all.
We rode in silence, both of us in shock. I stopped at a pharmacy on the way back to the motel. “Chris, stay still. Just rest. I’ll be right back. I’ll get you something nice, okay?”
She didn’t respond.
Inside the store, I went into the women’s room and washed my face, made myself look as presentable as possible. I grabbed a shopping cart and went through the store grabbing things at random—bottle of aspirin, ibuprofen, a neck brace, a morning after pill, four pack of douche. I went up the candy aisle, tried to find some vegan chocolate, and settled for something labeled as dairy free. I picked up a couple of bottles of chardonnay, a corkscrew, and a pack of cigarettes.
I started for the checkout counter, went through a mental list of things in my head, then turned back, grabbed a blanket, a large bottle of bubble bath, a six pack of beer, and another four pack of douche.
When I got back to the car, I saw Chris hadn’t moved an inch. I put the stuff I’d bought in the trunk. I kept the blanket out and spread it over Chris.
I drove us back to the motel in silence.
Everything had gone horribly wrong. I’d made so many mistakes it was almost laughable. I wasn’t sure we’d be able to stop Bucky at this point, but I was determined to never underestimate any member of the Blake family ever again. They were the worst people I’d ever known, and I’ve known some real shitbirds.
I pulled in at the motel, parked close to our door, and helped Chris inside. Wrapped in my jacket and the blanket, she sat on the bed.
“I’ll be right back,” I said.
I grabbed the things from the trunk. On my way back in, I saw the morbidly obese motel clerk watching me through the office window. I stuck my tongue out at her. She drew the curtain closed.
I ran a hot bath, added soap until the bubbles spilled onto the floor. I threw a towel down to keep us from slipping, went back to the main room and opened a bottle of wine. I filled a water cup then opened the pills—poured out a couple of aspirin, ibuprofen, and the plan-b pill. I put the pills in Chris’s hand and gave her the cup of wine.
“What’s this?” she said, staring at the pills.
“Pain pills, baby. Your puss hurts?”
“No. Just my neck. My throat.”
“Take them.” I examined her neck. She was bruising where the electric cord had been pulled tight.
She tossed them back gently, winced as she leaned her head back. She drained the glass of wine in four gulps and handed the cup back to me.
“Let’s get you in the tub.” I walked her to the bathroom, pulled the blanket from her, and helped her ease into the hot bath.
I watched as the bubbles parted and the water turned pink from the blood on Chris’s hands and body.
I went back to the other room, got my cigarettes and the bottles of wine, and took them back into the bathroom.
I stripped and got in the opposite end of the tub.
We drank. I smoked. We didn’t say much. When the water cooled, I got out and grabbed a pack of douche. We cleaned ourselves, refilled the tub, and soaked longer.
I began to feel human again during the second bath. I was frustrated, pissed off, angry at myself, and worried about Chris’s well-being.
After the bath, I helped Chris put the neck brace on. I had no idea if it would b
e good to constrict her neck, but it would at least keep her from moving it.
We lay naked on the bed. I pulled a blanket up over us. I snuggled up against Chris’s back, put an arm around her.
“We need to go,” Chris said.
“No. A nap first.”
“I want to catch him,” she said.
“Catch who?”
“That vile man. I want to cut his tongue out.”
“Ira?”
“Yes.”
I knew how she felt, but there was more on my mind than revenge. “We’ve got to find Bucky first,” I said. “But don’t you worry. You’ll get your moment with Ira. I promise. We’ll come back for him.”
I pressed my face into her clean hair, kissed her shoulder, and fell asleep.
A couple of hours later I awoke to the sound of her crying softly. I hugged her tight. My own tears were slower in coming, but they came.
While I lay there next to Chris, wondering how I’d ever stop Bucky, I didn’t realize that I’d already made another deadly mistake.
SEVENTEEN
I CLEANED THE pistol as best I could without a proper cleaning kit. I reloaded the cylinder, replaced the spent shells, packed everything and loaded up the car before I checked us out of the motel.
The nosey lady in the office looked out her window at Chris sitting in the car waiting for me. The same clerk that checked us in early that morning. Figured she must own the place, live there, and was too cheap to hire any help.
Chris didn’t look so pretty any more. Her face was bruised black in places. The neck brace didn’t do much for her looks either.
“Paid for two nights, didn’t even stay one. That sure must have been some Bible study you girls were attending today. Looks like things got real rough,” the clerk said. “Y’all must go to one of them charismatic churches, huh?”
I wasn’t in a very good mood that afternoon. “Do I still look familiar to you, lady?” I said.
“Pardon?”
“You heard me. This morning you said I look like somebody you knew.”
“Yeah. I can’t place you. But when young women go and check into a motel in the morning and then leave that same night, I’m smart enough to know they ain’t up to no good.”