Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  LIFE IS SHORT,

  PLAY HARD

  Idiot couldn’t be counted on to do anything right. Biggs unlocked the metal frame and opened the Lexan window. He unlocked the metal tray in back where the letters were kept, and while replacing the L with an R, correcting the blunder, he fought a strong urge to make it SOCIETY IS A WHORE, KILL MORE.

  He swung the window back in place. Locked the frame, the tray in back. That’s when it caught his attention. Thought it was just a mite peculiar: a Kibbles ‘n Bits dog food bag. Sitting upright in front of his door. This was the type of dog food used by Roscoe and his bitch hog to feed their mutts. What was it doing there? Dog food sample? He doubted it. Leaned over to pick it up, instead froze in place upon seeing what was in it: a massive turd. Too large to have been made by any neighborhood dog he was familiar with—and large enough to have been excreted by a human—and the human who immediately came to mind was the same one who’d made the offensive phone call to him earlier: Marty Roscoe, the neighbor on his right, the one married to the loud and lumpy and repulsive beast named Petunia.

  They badgered him with obscene phone calls, were responsible for the gay smut the postal service continued to deliver to his residence by having put his name on some smut list—and were now leaving excrement on his doorstep.

  What did you expect? Lowlife was jealous; they all were. That was the point. Made Biggs feel good inside about that, gave him a certain satisfaction to rub it in and watch them turn green with envy. He had the means and ways, they had what was left: bitching and belching about how things were unfair and stacked against them—and retaliated the only way they knew how: by leaving “surprises” like this for him to discover and be disgusted by.

  Let them do their worst. You’re tough enough. Took years to rebuild your sense of self-worth. Years. Decades. And the battle wasn’t over yet.

  It was an ongoing, evolving aspect of his existence. Still, look where he had come from, the bottom, lower than the bottom, and look how far he had come.

  Any time life’s Sturm und Drang reared its ugly head, kicked him in the balls, did its best to tear him down, thoughts of the IRS and other clandestine government agencies, to disrupt his peace of mind, all he had to do was remind himself of all he had accomplished. Yes, there was still a lot more to do in order to get where he needed to be—but that was no reason to downplay, or even discount, the achievements.

  With thumb and index finger, he pinched the bag by one of the creases (somewhere at about the middle, at least away from both the top and bottom—to be on the safe side) and carried it this way, well out in front of him, to the backyard.

  Marvin Muck, the Fuck, not yet having picked up the trash that Flinger had knocked over, walked up, wondering what was up.

  Without responding, Biggs raised the bag above the pickets, turned it, ever-cautiously, upside down, so that what had been inside rolled out and landed on Roscoe’s side, the enemy’s turf. He then dropped the bag after it. Noticed Petunia Roscoe peeking at them through her screen door, and then turn away without saying a word, for a change.

  “How you know Finger Lickin’ ain’t the one?”

  “Why would he? Gave him a whole bag of Hershey’s Kisses last Halloween, not to mention a stack of paper money from the Civil War that absolutely has zero value. He doesn’t know that. He figures all he has to do is sit on it for a few years and he’s rich. No, it’s the same ‘intellectual’ who likes to make obscene phone calls.”

  “That be twiced this year, and the year don’t even be over. Redneck dude ain’t right to be doin’ that.”

  Biggs told him to let the trash go for the time being and follow him inside the garage and help him pick out the doors.

  There were many different types of doors to choose from in there. Some older than others, some stacked on the floor, still others propped against either wall.

  Cecil consulted his pocket notebook. Selected three that seemed like reasonable candidates. Measured them off to be certain, and had Marvin carry them inside the house.

  When he stepped back out, he had him refill the hole outside the basement window Roscoe’s dogs had been responsible for.

  “Roscoe ain’t right to be doin’ all that. Dude be as bad as Wilber. Wouldn’t be no surprise if it turn out he the one be Finger Lickin’ true daddy.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Yellow eye’. Both a them got ’em. Gotta be Marty, and not that other one: Fred Flinger of the Flyin’ Flinger Trapeze act that Wilmer always be talkin’ about.”

  “It’s Wilburn.”

  “What I said, ain’t it?”

  Biggs did not want to hear about the Flying Flingers, nor did he give a shit who Wilburn’s real daddy was. Instead reminded Marvin of a faux-pas of his own, for what good any of it did.

  “You misspelled ‘pray.’”

  “Say what?”

  “The sign. You fucked up my sign. Misspelled ‘pray.’”

  “Yo. I ain’t misspell’ nothin’. It look’ better that way.”

  “How about if I dock your allowance for deliberately misrepresenting my message?”

  “Allowance? I don’t get no allowance.”

  “Go clean yourself up. We’re taking a drive in the Caddy.”

  CHAPTER 33

  Biggs drove south on Lankershim Boulevard past auto repair shops, low-rent motels, out of work illegals from South of the Border in worn, slept-in clothing kicking back in the shade pulling on beers in brown paper sacks, past upholstery shops, weather-beaten taco stands, doughnut huts, a Mexican movie house marquee with the title of Jorge Rivero’s latest celluloid canker sore; muffler shops, a retirement home here and there, other greasy spoons.

  The streets were littered, terminal, the sun-bleached stucco bungalows having seen better days.

  “See all those bottom-feeders over there?”

  “Beaner’? I seen ’em. Wetback mofo.”

  “Makes me sick to look at them. They’ll ruin this country one day—completely. There won’t be much left of the American Dream at the rate these scavengers are nibbling away at it.”

  “They don’t be different from the ones tryin’ to squeeze my number one main homie for all the coin they can get.”

  “The ones I had working at the haunted house had papers; were above board. Had no idea they were wetbacks. Had to have someone to clean the latrines and mop my floors free of vomit and urine at some of the more effective exhibits.”

  “Fac’ is, ain’t never liked no mothafuckin’ beaner, me, ’cept bangin’ them beaner ho in they tight ass.”

  “Anyway, that would have been you, just like that: living like a cockroach among cockroaches—if I hadn’t decided to help you out.”

  “I ain’t never argued wiff it.”

  “Just don’t ever forget it, either.”

  “I don’t forget nothin’. Plan be to get a tricked-out hog of my own one of these day’, me.”

  Biggs looked at him. “How will you do that? By mugging old women like Betty Lou and her daughter Elizabeth?”

  “Was nothin’ but chump change I got that time.”

  “Exactly my point.”

  “Still gonna get me a pimp ride of my own, one of these day’.”

  “Try getting a driver’s license first.”

  “License? I can get it, me—if that be what I got to do.”

  “Why do I even bother?”

  Biggs turned right on Vanowen. When they reached Hazeltine Avenue he drove south to Ventura Boulevard, away from Beverly Glen.

  Marvin looked at the other man and could not figure out what was going on. They needed to go up Beverly Glen in order to get to the LA side.

  “I thought we was going to the VA?”

  “We are.”

  “I don’t be gettin’ it. You goin’ the long way through Hollywood?”

  Just then Biggs pulled into the nearest gas station on the north side of the street, cutting off traffic, and doubled back up Ventura Boulevard to Beverly Glen.r />
  “Just making sure we got the FBI tail ditched.”

  “FBI?”

  “That’s what I said. FBI.”

  “They been followin’ us? How you figure?”

  Biggs said nothing. Not only did he suspect the FBI and IRS to be on his ass, but Meth Mouth and his pissant buddy Felix might be interested in nailing down his routine in order to make a move on his property. Why help them? It paid to be cautious.

  He made a left on Beverly Glen Boulevard and took the Cadillac over the hill to the Los Angeles side. When they reached Wilshire, he turned right, taking it past Westwood Village. Got on the VA turn-off just beyond the San Diego Freeway. Stayed with it as it curved to the right.

  It would have spared him a lot of driving time if he were to allow himself to get transferred to the Valley VA, only he did not wish to go through the hassle of having to get “re-acquainted” with a new “shrink,” nor did he want to risk running into Roscoe and other veterans who lived in his neighborhood who might get wind that he was still on meds these days. The less they knew and suspected, the better off he was.

  CHAPTER 34

  It was another sunny, smoggy day in West Los Angeles and the manicured VA Hospital grounds had the appearance of a lush country club initially, but then all that seemed to change drastically as they got closer and closer to the buildings that much too much resembled barren army barracks: gray, lifeless; it all became clinical and foreboding, not unlike the grounds of a mental institution, which in fact, a good deal of it was.

  Passing the barracks-type building, they neared larger three- and four-story edifices, all gray and depressing.

  As far as Biggs was concerned, he wanted no part of it. And yet, he had gone this far. . . . He needed the medication.

  He pulled the Cadillac into the parking lot and sat there, watched doctors and nurses, “attendants” all in white coats, walking about—from one hospital wing to another, from their parked cars in the lot to one of three hospital wings.

  He hated the smell of the place (recalled all too well what it represented to him), not that this particular hospital smelled any different from all the others. It made him feel edgy to be around so many cripples and crazies. Being around nurses and doctors (shams, every single one of them), he hated it as much as he hated the rest of it. Made him wonder how he ever ended up as a practical nurse—not that he should have been wondering about any of it.

  Not many options had been available to begin with. Had originally been interested in being an MP—and they had turned him down. Military Police? Sorry, they’d said. Not for you. Made him a medic instead. He had gone along with it because he felt it was something he’d be able to do on the outside, once he got out. And the Bordello of Fear? Yes, it had been there for him all along, waiting for him to re-open and make it work. Only he had no real idea that he’d be able to turn it into a successful money-making venture again—as the original owners had. Now that it was, for years had been, certain nefarious forces were out to undermine and destroy all the hard work that had gone into it.

  Your take on the hospital and grounds has zippo value these days. You’re here, and you need to get out of the car. Only he sat, staring at the main entrance.

  “What be the matter, home’?”

  “Nothing.”

  Biggs withdrew the .357 Magnum from the shoulder holster to make sure that it was loaded. He stuck the Magnum in his right jacket pocket. Biggs liked having it there whenever he visited the VA. It allowed for more immediate access in time of need. One had no way of knowing when an emergency might come knocking. All he had to do was keep his hand in his pocket, fingers wrapped around the Magnum butt. That was it. He felt safer this way.

  I won’t fuck with them, so long as they don’t fuck with me.

  A long-haired ’Nam vet wearing a faded fatigue jacket hobbled out of the main entrance with a cane. Swung at some people with it. Shouted obscenities. He made it to the cab parked at the curb and the cabbie who had hopped out and was opening the passenger side door for him. Instead of getting in, the pissed off vet raised that cane and began to beat the cab driver with it, missing half the time. The vet hit the door and the roof of the taxi once too often, breaking his cane in half as a result. But that didn’t stop him. The cabbie was on the ground with his hands defensively over his head and did what he could to roll out of harm’s way. Pretty soon three orderlies were running out and were all over the long-haired guy in the fatigue jacket. They had him down on the sidewalk and kept him there.

  A fourth orderly, carrying a straitjacket, quickly joined them. They worked on the kicking, raging vet. Got his army jacket off and eventually slipped the restraining canvas garment on him. Strapped him in, nice and snug, and literally carried him back inside the hospital.

  Biggs sat there watching. Recalled the way they had done the same to him years before. But he’d had it coming, had fucked up. Hadn’t always been smart enough back then to keep his mouth shut, to control his behavior in front of these assholes and others up at Atascadero like them. Initially, that is, and they had thrown him in with the lunatics, the screamers, the lost causes, the hopeless mental defectives so often and for such uncalled-for and painfully long stretches that he didn’t want to even think about it.

  Christ, he didn’t want any part of what had just gone down. Keep your cool when you walk in there, he said to himself. Control is the key. Control. Don’t attack anyone if you can help it. Don’t shoot up the place unless absolutely necessary. Even if they start in on the innuendoes, the slick, sly accusations. Let it slide right off your back, Cecil. Like water off a duck’s ass.

  That’s the ticket.

  And then he thought about getting out of there, driving off and forgetting about getting the meds that he needed.

  “Yo, Bishop. How about leavin’ the sounds on for me while I be sittin’ here waitin’, Brother?”

  “Drains the battery.”

  Biggs got out, taking the car keys with him.

  “No, it don’t.”

  “What’s the matter with using your transistor radio?”

  “Battery get’ run down.”

  “They’re rechargeable.”

  “Why come everything got to go your way all the time, man? Why you always got to be the one in control?”

  “My money pays for everything.”

  “Why I got to get me some of my own, then. Shit.”

  Marvin reached down for the Radio Shack portable under the seat. Tuned it to something by a rap group. Reception was tinny. It would have to do.

  Biggs pocketed the Caddy keys and took that long, slow walk to the hospital entrance, while keeping his right hand inside the fatigue jacket, fingers tightly wound around the gun butt.

  CHAPTER 35

  He’d only been made to wait twenty minutes this time and was shown to a small room by a young guy in a white frock.

  Another Freud idolizer, Biggs concluded, a student of psychology.

  They kept giving him these young punks who knew nothing about humans, the human psyche and what made it tick. They gave him these snot-nosed, wet-behind-the-ears know-nothing twerps (male as well as female) who always put him through it by asking the same dumb questions every time and nodded their heads to his pat answers—as if any of it was supposed to amount to anything.

  This future Sig Freud had a thick, light brown mustache, dark hair cut short and parted on the side, baby blue eyes that had never known much pain or probably never even been laid or had any inkling how to masturbate for max effect or done anything of any significance.

  And they put him through it every time; and he put up with it because he needed the Elavil. Biggs recognized the guy’s voice now as he spoke. He’d had him before.

  “I’ll be right with you, Mr. Biggs. Have a seat.”

  The psychology student left the room. Biggs loosened the grip on his gun. That’s okay, he thought. It felt better being alone. Then he wondered where the buzzing was coming from. Inside his head, or somewhere el
se?

  Turned.

  Looked at the huge window on his right. Big fly was against the glass, buzzing around. Ascended to the top of the pane, and dove back down again.

  Biggs focused in on it. See, proves you can’t escape your destiny, your fate. Right there. You dream about them, you think about them; you hear that buzzing all the time and take it with you no matter where you go. Right there. The goddamn flies and jackhammer noise. Why don’t these geniuses have something for that? For these flies? Why don’t they come up with something that would help me shake the flies?

  He got up from the couch and his back seemed to cramp on him. Easy does it, Cecil. Easy does it. He waited. Moved slowly. Rose to his feet and the pain seemed to leave him.

  He walked over to the window looking up at the goddamn fly and he wanted to get his hands on it and pull its fucking wings off, catch that ugly, filthy fly and tear its wings off and put it on its back and watch it go crazy, watch it kick desperately with its legs, fight its fate, a fly’s fate.

  But he couldn’t reach it. He was on his toes. Six feet three inches tall, and it was not enough to reach the goddamned fly. Just as he looked around the room for something to pick up and swat the insect with, young Sigmund Freud returned.

  Biggs sat back down, the only thing left for him to do—that would not have resulted in dire consequences. He knew it. Knew it well.

  Freudy was trying to be pleasant and he was smiling. Everything was just fine with Sigmund. No problems, no worries. The world was a swell place. Perhaps not perfect, but that was all right, because Sig Freud was part of the new breed and he and others like him would cure all that ailed.

  He held a piece of paper in his hands. The Elavil subscription, no doubt.