Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  Leave them on. Check the mail and the cars. See how your “faithful staff” is doing, what they’re up to.

  He was back at the dresser. Stood in front of the large mirror. Held a pocket mirror against the back of his head, over the area where he suspected his hair to be thinning. Hair was thinning and he didn’t care for it. You wanted to hold on to your hair no matter how old you happened to be, no matter that Father Time dictated, usually, otherwise.

  Years before he had gone in for a tat in the crown region and had promised to himself that if it ever became so visible that you could actually make out what it was that he would go back to shaving his head; he would cut all his hair off and shave his skull.

  Shaving your scalp had its drawbacks, it revealed the crater that made up part of your forehead, but it also made it possible to conceal one’s true age. Twats couldn’t tell how old you were if there weren’t any tell-tale gray hairs to give your true age away.

  There was a white ball cap, stained with sweat and a degree of general grime, with black script across the front that stated:

  GOD’S #l

  He put it on. Picked up the foot-long, heavy aircraft aluminum black Maglite. Unlocked the door. Stuck his head out. Hallway was quiet enough.

  No doubt about it, he felt put upon by these “self-imposed” precautionary measures, because the house was owned by him, a house that he had turned into the United Christian Church of Re-Newed Hope a few years back; he also knew well enough, with the sort of erratic board members and staff he had on his hands, it made sense to be cautious.

  CHAPTER 10

  Biggs listened. Shone his Maglite up and down the dark hallway. Did not see anyone lurking about, which was good, since they were all supposed to be in the basement safely tucked away for the time being—only the stench of excreta was stronger than usual.

  Biggs directed the Maglite at the floor a yard to his left, and saw the pile, a puddle of urine, and it did not make him feel good. Hadn’t these screwballs learned anything by now? How many times had he said to them that they ought to be using the john in the basement or the honey buckets that he provided them with? That they were ruining his property by crapping all over his hardwood floors this way?

  He’d been patient with them, but things were just getting out of hand lately. Didn’t matter that he’d been protective of the whole lot, had wanted them to have a place where they could shower, have a bed to sleep in and buckets to crap in the times he was out or unavailable; given them the roof over their heads; was able to relate to them in ways that others, out there, could not and did not wish to relate.

  Was this his reward now? Having to pick up their waste after them? Did it not matter to them that they were an integral component of the picture and that a certain responsibility came with it? Responsibility to the church as well as to the Bishop of said church? Someone who provided shelter as well as made survival possible?

  The stench was too much. Far worse than the norm.

  “I got you out of the institutions, goddamn it! Got you off bus benches and sidewalks! Gave you a place to live, fed you! The least you can do is shit in the honey buckets and not on my floor!”

  The more he thought about it, the angrier he became. What was it going to take to get them to abide? “The next one shits on this floor is going to have his asshole sealed tight with a fucking blowtorch! You think I’m kidding? Try me. Just try me.”

  Biggs reached back inside his dresser drawer for a couple of chain leashes with carabiners. Changed his mind. He would go with what he had downstairs instead. Should be able to dig up one or two in the cabinet in the Fun Room.

  Rummaged around through old locks, keys, candles, flashlight batteries, extension cords, in search of the tape measure. Found it. Grabbed a pencil, small notepad. Jammed them in his shirt pocket.

  CHAPTER 11

  He locked his bedroom behind him and walked toward the front. Flipped the switch for the overhead light. Checked his entrance. Door seemed in good shape. The other door in the foyer there, on his right, that led to the second floor and the Prayer Hall, hadn’t been tampered with, either. He was relieved. Door was a bit loose maybe, but the lock held. Tested the living room door across from it. Solid. Hadn’t been tampered with.

  He walked back down the hallway, watching where he stepped. Paused at a door past his own, same side of the hallway. Pounded on it. In a moment the door opened, and a sleepy-eyed light-skinned African-American appeared, holding a larger-than-average black rat against his chest. The rat, one of four that Marvin cared for, had been “tagged” MC Snagglepuss by him and was gnawing on a dog biscuit.

  “Clean it up, Free Ride.”

  Biggs entered the john across the way. Marvin R. Muck remained in the doorway. Took a quick whiff of the stale, odiferous air, and knew what the problem was and it did not make him happy, neither was he thrilled at the way Cecil had taken a cool street name like “Free Base” and turned it into something as lame-ass as “Free Ride.” But he put up wiff it. Tolerated it. For the time being. There was other things about the “gig” he wasn’t crazy about either, but the pluses, there was enough pluses that made up for it, fringe benefit’, that made him want to keep hangin’ around a while longer.

  Beat livin’ in condemn’ buildins in Hollyweird, beat diggin’ around in dumpster’ in back of Fatburger and Wendy’ and Von’ supermarket; beat muggin’ old bitches and blind beggas in wheelchair for chump change.

  Yo. Had to beat the street’, the wet mothafuckin’ street’ when it be rainin’ in LA like a mothafuckah, an’ be cold in the winter time, too. Yeah. Most of the time. This don’t be one of them time, though. When you had to pick up after the geek’. Prob’ly it was Mr. Pimple took him that major dump on Brotha Trusty’s floor.

  Marvin was another one who had a bughouse or two in his past, another one who had done his share of time in bullpens and jail cells, orphanages and foster homes.

  Although merely in his twenties, the teeth were already tobacco stained. The naturally curly hair was light brown, with the exception of the layer across the very top that was as close to platinum as he was able to make it with a do-it-yourself hair-bleaching kit. A couple of old scars, knife wounds, more-than-likely, crisscrossed below the lower lip. The left earlobe had been gnawed off by rodents in Seattle, Oregon, and Hollywood motel rooms many years before while left unattended night after night by his crack-addicted, street-walker mother. Part of his upper lip, the area surrounding the nostrils, contained visible discoloration, reminders of the botched cosmetic surgery and the attempted reconstruction to repair that part of the nose and section of upper lip. Primarily explained Marvin’s strong love and respect for the creatures. This had been the only way he could think of of overcoming his tremendous fear of them. Love ’em. Make ’em yo friend. Can’t beat ’em? Make ’em yo pet.

  The scars not only left him self-conscious, but made it that much tougher to pull in the hot hoz, the kind of Grande culo bitches that made his meat hard. Not impossible, just tougher, in that he had to run a better game on ’em to get that booty.

  As bothersome as the facial flaws were, they did not draw half as much negative attention as the eyes, if one got a good, close look at the eyes, if that were at all possible, because Marvin R. Muck, aka Free Base, very often wore tinted sunglasses to conceal his eyeballs for this very reason. Wearing the rose-tinted shades, day or night, was the only way he had of concealing from the world the weird and off-putting thoughts and ideas that were usually spinning around in his head, thoughts and fantasies that he had no control over and did not understand, thoughts and notions that, very often, confused and unsettled even him.

  But the bishop had made him “deacon” fourteen months ago and Marvin and his pet rat had a roof over their heads these days and that’s what mattered, that’s all that mattered—for the time being.

  Sure, the mofo had promised to buy him some ferret’. Marvin had wanted a couple of ferrets. No problem. Move in. What Bigg’ said. Help me out a
round the church. I’ll get you what you want. All the coke you can huff. All the pussy you can bang. Free rent and grub. You get to ride around in a pimp mobile and pick up cunt.

  Sounded good, thought Marvin. Only the mothafuckah bought him three rat’ instead of the ferret’ he wanted. Said ferret’ cost money. What Bigg’ said. Ferret’ eat meat. Said too many peep’ in the church was meat-eater’. Had him enough meat-eater’ as it was.

  And the “grub”? Grub be Mulligan stew, most of the time. Fuckin’ cook didn’t know how to cook. Jambalaya, they calls it. An’ tap water to wash it down wiff. Most of the time. Sometime’ Bigg’ give him a candy bar for dessert. Sometime. Or else it was Twinkie’. Had him cases of Twinkie’ down there in the cooler. Twinkie’ and Ding Dong. Was tight wiff it, too.

  This is what went through Marvin Muck’s mind presently as he stood there, rubbing sleep from his eyes. What the dream had mostly been about: ferret’. Fuck the ferret’, thought Marvin. Do what the dude tell’ you, he reminded himself, or you and Snagglepuss and the rest of your pet homie end up right back in that shootin’ gallery on Yucca, maybe a return visit to the bughouse, maybe for good next time. I hope not.

  His nose dripped and he was desperate for a snort of blow. Cecil coulda let him have some, instead there was a yellow bucket on wheels with a mop in it that he kicked out of the crapper and into the hallway.

  Tossed Marvin a pair of generic, powder-free/latex-free synthetic white gloves.

  “How about if you put the fucking beast down and get with it?”

  Marvin returned Snagglepuss to his cage and stepped back out. Dragged the mop and bucket toward the stench.

  Biggs handed him a dust pan and a broom. Marvin swept up what he was able. Dumped it in the john. Flushed it away.

  “Buncha boo-shit.”

  Biggs was back in the closet. Reached down for a one-half-gallon jug of Skaggs Alpha Beta Lemon Ammonia.

  “Here.” Tossed it to him. “Pour enough in the water. Get it good, Marvin. This is supposed to be a House of Worship.”

  Years ago, in reform school, where he’d had his share of chores and working the mop, Marvin had tattooed the epithet FUCK U across his right palm, and now he was giving Biggs a perfunctory salute with this hand behind his back. He did not like cleaning up after staff and members of the board any better than he did years before in juvie; did not like cleaning up after them “fuckin’ tard’,” but there he was, doing it, mopping someone else’s floor again.

  Remember the street’. You be doin’ the deacon’ job, Brotha Marvin. If you want to keep livin’ here wiff Brotha Bigg’ you gonna havta keep cleanin’ up and bein’ the flunky an’ gofer.

  CHAPTER 12

  Biggs withdrew his Magnum and went in search of the guilty board member who had dared take not only a dump, but a major one, in his hallway.

  Biggs figured it was Norbert Fimple, the big, greasy slob who could never get enough to eat and was always breaking into the walk-in cooler in the basement or else it was the kitchen and busting the locks off cupboards and eating up provisions.

  Cecil took several steps down toward the rear where the kitchen was located to discover that the kitchen door, on his right, had been left ajar. The lock and part of the jamb damaged. He walked in.

  Mr. Fimple was nowhere to be found. On the other hand, what he discovered in the fat fool’s stead, was at least one of the chickens he’d left behind. Probably hadn’t been able to get his hands on it. The hen was on the kitchen counter, picking at remnants of ground up meat in and around the grinder and the hopper itself.

  There were chicken feathers on the dining table and the floor. The cage was still up there, hanging from a hook in the ceiling. The way Biggs had it rigged, there was a rope strung along the ceiling via steel hooks, to the wall of pennies at the far side, where the long end was tied to an eyebolt in the wall, above the kitchen counter, but below the cupboard.

  Instead of untying the rope, and simply lowering the cage in order to get at the hens inside, there had been two, he hadn’t had the sense to do that, Fimple had climbed up on the table and pulled off the crime in his habitually clumsy and confounding manner. Hadn’t even bothered to turn the light off, either.

  CHAPTER 13

  It bothered Biggs. Bothered him considerably. One whole chicken snatched. Probably destroyed. Wasted. At least both refrigerators looked to be in good shape, the locks intact, as were the locks on the cupboards. He stepped beyond the barber’s chair. Tested the lid on the white, five-foot-long freezer on the floor that sat against the wall of pennies. Locked. Lid hadn’t been tampered with.

  Where would he look now? Had Mr. Fimple been able to break in upstairs through the door across the way from the kitchen? Into the Prayer Hall? He hoped not. Doubted Mr. Fimple would have been interested in going upstairs. Wasn’t any food left up there. No Kool-Aid or crackers. Made allowances during open house only. He doubted Norbert would have been interested in going upstairs. Behemoth had been after grub. Could never get enough. Would have really made Cecil’s blood boil if that had happened. This was supposed to be a church, was it not? The Prayer Hall with its tremendous cross and altar and neat rows of chairs and benches that made up the makeshift pews were supposed to be relatively clean and tidy, after all.

  Biggs checked the back door. It was locked. Checked the door opposite the kitchen that led to the flight of stairs to the second floor, that he allowed no one but himself access to, was also in sound condition. Locked. However, the basement door, back at the halfway point in the hallway, had been pushed open with such force (and left hanging haphazardly) that the lock had been punched out of the jamb, the bottom and middle hasps left dangling. This meant more work, more repairs. Mr. Fimple would have to be punished once again.

  Biggs lifted the door. Propped it against the wall on his left. He aimed his Maglite down at the darkness and stench that was the basement. Shifted the light around. Heard muted, rustling sounds, pecking sounds, like tiny feet running off. He aimed the light at the source. Spotted two, large, dripping wet rats scurry across the cement past the door in the floor to flee the intrusion that his Maglite represented.

  He did not like venturing into the abyss without proper lighting. The insomniacs had unpredictable ways about them. He had left the black-and-white tv set on for them in the Bunk Room, but the screen being of moderate size hardly gave off enough illumination.

  He stepped back. Flipped the light switch on the wall. Why he did this he had no idea, because the geeks had decimated the bare, forty-watt bulb that had hung from the ceiling above the stairs weeks ago. Probably Norbert. Once again. Ate pulverized glass. Drywall, too. Not to mention chicken. Raw. Norbert Fimple. Mr. Norbert Fimple.

  He flipped the switch again. Same results. What did you expect? Could have replaced it. Only he wasn’t about to keep wasting money that the fuckers, or rather, Norbert would only break again and probably consume.

  If that red night-light down there in the game area hadn’t been made of hard plastic he would have eaten that, too. Wouldn’t put it past him. Ate most anything. Living or dead. Had pounds of silverware in his belly, nuts and bolts. You could easily hear metal clanging when he walked. And now he was down there somewhere feasting on a live chicken, sucking its blood.

  Cecil’s only hope was that Mr. Fimple showed enough sense not to eat the feathers. He doubted it. If he ate the feathers, he might choke. More trouble. Something he had enough of.

  Lack of light was always a bitch. Well, he had the Maglite. The Maglite would have to do. He shone it at his feet to make sure he did not step on anything that would send him tumbling down the staircase.

  CHAPTER 14

  He descended with caution, all the while reminding himself if Norbert Fimple were to leap out at him he would simply have to blow his big ass away. Put him down. Drill a couple of rounds into his slobbering fat face and that would be the end of it. As much as he needed staff and board members for the sake of the church and its tax exemption status,
Norbert was beginning to annoy the hell out of him. Just not worth the trouble, that’s all. If he had to shoot him, and he was indeed prepared and willing, he could always replace him, not that Norbert Fimple had been all that impossible to handle, because he remained docile for the most part, never spoke or caused real trouble. About the only time he got out of line actually was when he craved food—which was more often than Biggs liked—and then he’d break out of the Geek Cell and go searching for grub, be it down there in the walk-in or upstairs in the kitchen refrigerators.

  Biggs reached the bottom. Paused there. Looked around. Basement had a way of being eerie, feeling eerie. He probed at nooks and crannies with the Maglite’s beam. He was 6’3”, lean, tough enough, and able to take care of himself. Was not afraid of much in this world. Nothing surprised him; not much fazed him anymore. Yet, he had to admit: coming down here, in his own basement, gave him chills at times, made him apprehensive. He didn’t like the feeling, didn’t like having to go below—not like this, not for reasons of this nature.