Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  His eyes were on a yellowed-by-age newspaper clipping on the mirror above the stuffed animal, having to do with someone he’d been involved with once, a certain Puerto Rican porn whore who’d gone by Mistress Payne, aka Mona Pleeze, aka Mona Payne, the professional disciplinarian he’d got his hands on back in 1978 and held captive in a homemade coffin for ten days—not ten months or ten years, but ten days—and for that they’d made him do five years in Atascadero, forensic institution for the criminally insane. Misguided fuckers.

  He’d spent good money on the bitch, plied her with expensive drugs, bought her clothes and trinkets. He’d only been trying to get his money’s worth. Besides, how else was he supposed to keep her from running off? He’d only kept her in the oblong box because he hadn’t been able to trust her. Trust took time. She’d finally been able to con him into believing she was on his side. Took her with him to the Glendale Galleria to buy ice cream cones, and the whore had slipped away and fingered him. Told a bunch of lies about him. Half-truths. Shit she made up because he’d turned the tables on the dominatrix. She was the one who was supposed to be meting out the pain; the emasculating cunt made her living this way, and when he turned all that around she didn’t like it—and fingered him to the enemy.

  Let it go. Fact is, you got caught. She flapped her jaw. Ratted you out. Dead bondage queens tell no tales. Your mistake was you didn’t shut her up when you had the chance.

  There were some other clipped out articles on missing women (and a few men) throughout Southern California the police suspected the same perp (or perps) were behind, but were not certain. Didn’t have enough “to go on.” As soon as they had more “to go on” they were sure to release it to the media. It was all in Biggs’s collection of old newspaper clippings from the Herald Examiner to the LA Weekly, the LA Times, the Daily News, the Orange County Register; even a Spanish language paper or two.

  It didn’t concern him; this was nothing more than a way to pass the time, keep up with what was going on in this hopeless life and world he was stuck in.

  There were boxes of stale doughnuts on both end tables, additional paperbacks that specialized in bondage and torture scenarios; some dealt with bestiality: bitches being fucked by Great Danes; bitches caressing horse penises. What a society. Whores were the gutter.

  There were Twinkie and Ding Dong wrappers strewn about the room; candy bar wrappers: Three Musketeers and Butterfinger.

  In the closet, on the other side of the room, to the right of the mini fridge that sat to the right of the dresser, with the sliding door open, and in full view on the floor were U-Haul cardboard boxes full of handcuffs, leg irons, bottles of chloroform, dildos and rubber vaginas, vibrators, a gas mask or two, ankle holsters, shoulder rigs. Up on the shelf, shotgun mics and headsets, boxes of cartridges for a variety of handguns in his collection, among which was a .357 Magnum Colt “Python” that he liked to keep under the pillow while he slept, insomnia notwithstanding. That reminded him. Checked under the pillow to make certain it was there, that he hadn’t misplaced it.

  Mag was there. Where else would it be? Held it, while being drawn to and unable to ignore the framed wedding photo next to the lamp on the end table on his side of the bed, a wedding that had not taken place that long ago after all, no more than two years ago, in the Philippines, to a twenty-four-year-old Filipino nurse named Tillie Marie who had wanted out of the marriage out of the blue. Had hired a Beverly Hills Jew lawyer to file a civil suit against him for mental anguish, of all things. Mental anguish. Irreconcilable differences. After all he’d done for her. Had wanted and gotten her divorce, had wanted and gotten her alimony. All the money he’d spent on her during the courting phase, not only on her, but her entire family; not only prior to the wedding, but close to two years that they’d spent corresponding, all that money spent on Candygrams and postage, endless stream of Hallmark cards for every known occasion invented by man, not to mention the thousands spent on plane fare: round-trip for him, one-way for her. The wedding itself, that had taken place in the Philippines and cost so much it pained him to even think about it. It was due to his innate generosity that she was able to move to the States, where she had always wanted to live.

  Ungrateful whore. User. Turd-World deceptive cunt. Not only was the alimony killing him psychologically (and otherwise), and the child support, among other things, but she’d had his young son by now and refused to let him see him, pretty much. Had custody. Controlled the situation. The rare visits he was allowed, at locations of her own choosing, she made it nearly impossible to spend quality time with him. He and the kid were never left alone to enjoy their moments together. Although she was never there with the kid, her many Filipino friends were, more like bodyguards, as far as he was concerned—so that it made it virtually impossible to bond with his own offspring, if indeed he was his. She claimed the kid was his, so did her lawyer, so did the court. Judge said he was the father. And you’re going to pay alimony, Mr. Biggs, as well as child support—and we’re going to give her, although she does not deserve it and has no right to lay claim, some of your hard-earned assets. Try to do something about it. Go ahead.

  California courts always ruled in the bitch’s favor. Don’t like it? Move to Saudi Arabia.

  Wouldn’t even tell him what she’d named him for the longest time, and he never would have found out anything if he hadn’t hired a private detective. “Send the money to her lawyer’s office,” he was told, “and she’ll get it. We’re not disclosing her whereabouts. Do not attempt to contact her.”

  The restraining order saw to that. He got the message.

  She had named the kid Honesto, of all things. Honesto Cipriano. Goddamn her. He could have taught the kid a thing or two about the “fair sex.” Not only were they all whores, but gold diggers on top. Scheming, conniving, manipulating opportunists.

  What right did she have to backstab him? All he’d done was slap her around a couple of times because she’d refused to participate in a ménage with hookers he’d brought home and paid good money for. There was no way any one cunt could ever satisfy his sexual needs, and the bitch needed to get used to it. All would have been fine, except she pulled a double cross, like Mona Payne, and ran off, got her divorce, and was now attempting to have the alimony “adjusted.” Inflation, they claimed. Mental anguish. Where? The only anguish he witnessed was the anguish she and her ambulance chaser lawyer put him through. This was what they were trying so hard to nail him to the cross on. He was Christ on the cross: modern-day version, not that he ever believed Christ had ever existed, but he certainly was the one being crucified monetarily and otherwise, by the slant-eyed shrew.

  And after all of it, the hell of it, he still missed her. Hadn’t expected to miss her, but did. More than that, though, he missed all the cash she had cost him and continued to cost him, and he never would get the chance to teach his young son about bitches, how to handle them, keep them under your thumb, beat them down, keep them way down. Always. Cunt had him. Honesto Cipriano is the name she gave him. It was the “Honesto” part that bothered him. Honesto. Named by a conniving slut who did not know the meaning of the word.

  Some of what they were going on about on the radio filtered through in the background, penetrated his thoughts and the malice he felt for Tillie Marie and what she’d put him through and continued to put him through.

  He picked up on a name. Pamela Alice Phelps. Had been forced to stop on a shoulder of the 101 north of Malibu late one night a month ago due to a flat tire, and not seen since.

  They broke for a commercial for Prep H. That reminded him: would have to pick up some.

  News was back on.

  “The search continues for eighteen-year-old Helen Irene Sanchez who was last seen five months ago in a Culver City shopping mall talking to two men in a tan panel truck.”

  There was something about a Woodland Hills school teacher named Connie Higgins. Missing since Friday night. Police were hoping someone would come forward with information that would
help in the investigation. There was a bit about a dead jogger found in Griffith Park that morning. Male. Mid thirties.

  “The body of a female in her twenties was also discovered nearby.”

  LAPD were receptive to clues and tips; any information that would help. Good luck, thought Biggs. Turned the radio off. Lowered the framed wedding photo that he was in with “Agenda” Marie. What her name should have been. User! She was a user, and he’d clearly been used.

  Well, he’d fucked the shit out of her cunt and asshole and mouth for a year and a half anyway. It had cost him plenty to be sure, but he did get some, got his share—and now she was out to get more. Was asking for more money. She was an RN. Pulled in a substantial salary. Enough to provide for the kid—but there she was, changed lawyers and suing to increase the child support and alimony, making a nuisance of herself, not unlike the cockroaches and rug beetles he was being invaded by.

  CHAPTER 9

  He crawled out of bed. Left side/Safe side. Where the arsenal was kept. A number of roaches hurried past his feet, scurrying away. Some seeking shelter behind the four-and-a-half-foot-high black file cabinet, or else behind the heavy-duty safe next to it. Safe was as high as the file cabinet and about as wide as a large kitchen refrigerator. This was where he kept his rifles, shotguns, additional handguns and ammo, and was damned near unmovable. The only way to get at the pests was to spray between the two, or directly behind. Some ran across the floor to hide behind the dresser.

  Where was the Black Flag? Looked about. Nowhere to be seen. Thought to check under the bed. Good place for it. Crouched to reach it. His back was at it again. The Pain. Like being jabbed with steel bristles across the tailbone region and above it. It froze him up every time. He’d sought medical attention for it, had taken Percodan and others. Nothing ever helped much. Doctors couldn’t tell him what brought it on, could not even begin to pinpoint the source of the pain, and had no idea what the solution was.

  One did suggest spine surgery, that Cecil was absolutely, adamantly against. He saw, with his own eyes, over the years, what this type of tricky operation did to people: left them hunched over, unable to walk straight, upright—ever. It was not for him.

  No, thank you.

  Some of the quacks had gone so far as to imply that it was (possibly) psychological. Psychological? Bullshit to that. As far as he was concerned, there was no mystery as to the initial cause: John Joseph hurling whiskey and beer bottles at him years ago, when he wasn’t busy flailing away at him with broom sticks (and/or just about anything he could get his hands on).

  What added to the confusion was that the pain dissipated on its own eventually. Always. It came and it went. Never knew when it would strike—or leave him. There were times when lifting anything (be it light or heavy, or simply sitting in a chair, if slouching) did it, or bending down to pick up something under his bed, triggered it; although, for the most part, there was no real rhyme or reason for it.

  He had his hand on the Black Flag canister, but did not dare move; the pain wouldn’t allow it. He straightened himself in slow gradations. Stood still. Waited. Winced. Clenched his teeth. Christ. It was gone by about eighty percent, and so were most of the pests.

  He sprayed behind the file cabinet, the safe. Behind the nightstands, and back of the dresser. Nothing he did, no matter how much he sprayed, kept them away forever. Even Boric acid allowed for nothing more than temporary respite. And to bring an exterminator in was out of the question.

  Canister was empty. He went at them with his bare feet, needing to crush as many as he was able. Gave him a feeling of superiority. It was not unlike killing flies and burning spiders as a kid; something like eliminating humans.

  Then it happened, as he knew it would: stubbed his big toe on the right foot. Cursed and cursed plenty. A large roach hurried up the wall. Biggs shook the canister, hoping there was enough pesticide left in it. No dice. Nothing but air, and it took a lot more to stop roaches.

  Pissed, he flung it, hard, at the wall. Canister promptly bounced back, as he suspected it might. Boomeranged against his mouth. Hurt bad enough. Day was starting out perfect. Omens everywhere. Of bad shit to come.

  “I love my life.”

  Biggs tasted blood inside his mouth. He looked in the dresser mirror. Clown in the fucked up makeup stared back. Lower lip was bleeding, or was it upper? Both? Goddamned Black Flag. He stared at the image that didn’t look away.

  “Wouldn’t you want to be me? Yes—you. Wouldn’t you like to be me?”

  Needed something to dab at the blood with. Grabbed a corner of the bed sheet. Dabbed away. Wiped more sweat from his forehead and neck with the sheet. He got his feet into the scuffed black leather shit-kickers, grabbed the carabiner with the key rings and countless keys, and walked to his door in his sweat-stained boxers. Reached for the shoulder holster hanging from a chair there. Strapped it on.

  Holstered the .357, and got into a plaid shirt over that. There was enough of a bulge where the gun was, but the shirt concealed it well enough. He dropped the pepper spray in the left shirt pocket. Looked around for his glasses.

  There was a stack of books on the night stand that he’d browsed through the night before in hopes that it would help induce sleep. Even after putting in a long and exhausting night at the Bordello of Fear, he still had not been able to fall asleep right away. Worried. The pending lawsuit. Fear of being shut down. Mr. Turnbull, who had willed him the business, might be turning in his grave right now at the clumsy way he had handled the situation with Greta and the Mexican illegals he’d had working for him and who were now doing everything they could to shake him down for a frighteningly substantial chunk of change. This was how they repaid him for showing compassion by hiring them in the first place. Never mind that they’d had papers, forged documents, no doubt, all of it: bogus social security cards, counterfeit license and IDs. Fuck it. I’ll deal with them later. It’s an issue I’ll have to resolve in my own time and manner. But not now. Not now. It was Halloween. The biggest night of the year for the haunted house business—if he was still in business. Temple City honchos had been threatening to shut him down unless he resolved the complaints against the Bordello. Never mind that the so-called complaints were blatant attempts to squeeze him for cash. What did it matter to them? It didn’t.

  He’d drive out there tonight and find out if the Bordello, his golden goose, was still there for him. Maybe stop by where the peelers lived and do his Peeping Tom bit with Marvin, then maybe check in on Liv Duarte, prick-teaser extraordinaire, before moving on to the Casbah for the special Halloween show the Cabaret owner had been promising his loyal customers for more than a month now. Fear and Pussy; had a nice sound to it.

  His eyes were on the stack of books, the one on top in particular. The Devil’s Dictionary had given him a mild chuckle or two. The others hadn’t done much for him: a couple by economists Milton Friedman and Henry Hazlitt, a tome on the Nazi bag of excreta named Hitler by John Toland.

  The thing that he resented about “Uncle Adolf” and his kind was that he’d never be in their league. You’d have to have a real military to make slaughter on that mass scale possible, because without it you were nothing more than an amateur, Boy Scout. The thing that he found puzzling and disagreed with the little man was this single-minded determination to go after primarily the Jews.

  He didn’t get it. Why not go after all of them: Chinese, Japanese, blacks, Hispanics, whites, Ruskies, Filipinos, Slavs, Mohammedans, Agnostics, Atheists, strippers, whores (same thing), virgins, shopkeepers, politicians, actors, moviemakers, factory workers, janitors, teachers, lawyers, preachers, butchers and bus drivers, models and call girls (same thing), joggers and tennis players, rollerbladers and cyclists, soccer players and junkies; the rich, the poor, the bright and the low-brow?

  Why not go after everyone?

  Why discriminate? Why make the Semite your principle target? The Semites only made up a small portion of the picture anyway. How relevant is that?


  But the old boy, Schicklgruber, had made his bed and was lying in it. Illiterate cocksucker had dug his own grave and was dozing in it and so were most of his pissant followers. Once they were “relieved” of their “armor,” the pathetic punk pussies were left standing there shitting in their SS and Wehrmacht and Luftwaffe panties like a certain junkie he knew of who liked to hover around his property and case his domicile, a junkie they called “Ace,” other times called “Glassy” for that blue marble of an eye in his socket where a real one used to be, and his equally worthless buddy Felix Monk. The only reason he thought of them at all was because his cars were on his mind. You couldn’t think of one without the other. They went hand-in-hand like sex and violence, like bitches and pain, like Romeo and Juliet.

  His glasses lay on top of the Bierce book. Held them up against the desk lamp. Glasses were dirty. Lenses dust-covered with prints and smudges.

  He wiped the lenses with a shirttail. Put the glasses on. The tinted bifocals were nothing more than reading glasses. Upper sixty percent of the lenses was plain glass and were lightly tinted, the lower were prescription. Although he wore them at all times, he didn’t have to, and did so because they were stylish and enhanced his appearance—to the extent it was possible with that damned dented forehead. He wore them—even when he didn’t have to. If he didn’t, they got misplaced. By leaving the glasses on his face he knew where they were and wouldn’t have to look for them the times he needed them. The bigger plus yet: it was far easier to tell people that you had to deal with whatever you felt like telling them, whatever far-fetched, fabricated tale you felt like weaving when they couldn’t quite read your eyes. Sometimes they could, but for that they’d have to be close in, too close, as well as indoors—because the tint lifted considerably when the glasses were worn indoors.