Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

“Me and my missus just might take you up on your offer, kind sir,” said Yaphet Pound, an African-American, who was a jack-of-many trades at the haunted house for Cecil before this disappointing last act. “Sho is kind of you, Mr. Biggs,” said Cheyenne Pound, the man’s lady.

  Marvin Muck felt it was his duty to chime in: “That jambalaya gonna make yo kids grow up to be big and strong; no shit, Contessa.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. Biggs. We are grateful for everything you have done for us and our family.”

  His employees walked off to their cars.

  “Fuck it,” said Biggs. “Might as well go and check in on the peelers.”

  “You sayin’ you be bothered what jus’ went down wiff the peeps, homes?”

  “Yes. Why wouldn’t I be? They’re hard working Americans; and not out there with a sign that says; give me your hard-earned cash so I can go out and buy my crack and rotgut”

  “Like them illegal trying to shake my boy Trusty down.”

  “Took the words out of my mouth.”

  “Did, didn’t I?”

  CHAPTER 38

  Autographed eight-by-ten glossies were nice to have of potential victims you wanted to have your fun with, but hardly equalled looking at the genuine article up close.

  It was another lower-middle income North Hollywood neighborhood no more than a couple of miles from Cecil’s own place that he and Marvin cruised later that night.

  Biggs made a slow turn into a poorly lighted alley, killed his headlights, and had the Cadillac crawling past overfilled trash cans and dumpsters, gutted sofas and easy chairs, rusted bicycle frames without wheels, unusable car doors, charred box springs, and mattresses. Biggs was in his sinister clown guise, while Muck wore—far from willingly—one of those repulsive pig masks that smelled as nasty as it looked.

  Fighting frustration as well as a need for a shot of nicotine, Marvin stuck an unlit cigarette in one of the pig nostrils.

  “You trying to be funny?”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to be nothin’, me. You the one be playin’ Trusty the Clown.”

  A single glare from Cecil O. was all it took for Muck to withdraw the cigarette from the pig nose and put it away.

  The Fleetwood Brougham crept along until Biggs recognized the graffiti on a garage door and stopped the car. He killed the engine and both got out. They walked past another garage. Went through a flimsy wooden gate that Marvin absentmindedly allowed to bang shut, not that the resulting sound had been all that loud (considering the Mexican music that could be heard playing on various radios and stereo systems: Los Lobos came from one source, as did Freddy Fender from somewhere else in the distance); it still did not sit right with the bishop, who froze up and gave the other man a look that warned him to be more careful.

  CHAPTER 39

  They walked down the gangway. Past scattered Frisbees, plastic, dairy product lids and containers, soda bottles and beer cans, toy trucks. Reached a three-story, salmon-tinted stucco residential building. The lights were on in most of the apartments on all three floors. The only floor Biggs and his flunky were interested in was the ground floor.

  They crept up to the window near the back. Ducked their heads. Moved up against the cracked stucco under the window sill and inched their noses up high enough to be able to peek in on Amazonian Pearleen Bell, whose autographed B&W eight-by-ten glossy likeness or two adorned rarified wall space in the bishop’s bedroom, as did many other pics he had cut out of various smut mags he had of her doing things with a vibrator or dildo: inserting one or the other in her luscious cunt, while inserting something into her even more luscious and sacred asshole. He had a video of her spreading soap suds across a Corvette windshield in a tight wet T that was nothing more than a strip of fabric across the front barely wide enough to conceal the thick, ripe nipples and jean cutoffs so brief they readily revealed snatches of moist cunt and glistening cunt hair and even allowed a treasured peek at that sweet spot known as “brown-eye.” Butt-hole. Ass and butt-hole to die for.

  She did these vids as Afrodesia DeLyte. Forty-four-inch tits packed into a 38 EE bra. Killer. Flat waist. Twenty-nine or thirty inches.

  Then you had the ass: thirty-eight inches, maybe forty. Depended. Didn’t matter. Woman weighed 154 pounds (give or take). To his liking. No skeletal skank here. Tits were full and round. Thick. No flab. Tits that sagged and were flabby repulsed him. She had double Es. Thirty-eight, double Es. Afrodesia DeLyte. Was better known to fans of her sizzling hot strip act as Peaches LaBelle. LaBelle of da Ball. Bitch had it. Shy one quarter of an inch, maybe two quarters of an inch, tops, of six feet. One-hundred-fifty-plus-pound fuck machine. Whore extraordinaire. Close enough to touch. Only no touching allowed.

  The pink T-shirt she had on could not in any way conceal the abundance of tit flesh, nor the flat waist that accentuated it.

  Some had it; some had way too much. He thought about plunging an ice pick into her neck so that blood sprayed him while he drilled her with his cock. Then, for the encore, spinning her around and spraying heavy scrotum nectar down her throat . . . and smashing her face and brains in with brass knucks for the coup de grace.

  What dreams were made of. About the extent of it. Stop wishing. Make it happen, instead.

  Rest of her was in black silk panties, black garter-belt, black fishnets and spike heels, as she sat at her sewing machine adding a finishing touch or two to a gold lamé cape that she planned on wearing at some point in her act.

  Gold lamé, thought Biggs, for a teasing high yellow cunt with golden skin. That glowed. She moved (or breathed) ever-so-slightly/lightly, and the awesome tits moved with her—every time. How was it possible? It happened. They were heavy evidently enough, but she seemed to be able to handle the poundage. Big and fuckable. He ached to bury his tongue and nose deep in her butt crack.

  He looked up at the wrought iron bars over the window. How tough would it be to get them off? Yank them off? Pry them off?—and how fast would they be able to do it—and jump in there before the bitch had a chance to start wailing and raising all kinds of hell and screaming rape?

  Forget it. Drop the crazy notion before they drop a straitjacket over your dented head and give you a one-way ride back to the House of Psychos.

  CHAPTER 40

  Biggs and Marvin did the only thing they could do: watched as the stripper paused to go over to the dresser where she had a turntable sitting on top. Flipped the record over. Al Green. So tired of being alone. . . She cranked up the volume. Reached inside her purse for a cocaine vial. Snorted. One nostril, then the other. Proceeded to return the vial to her purse and a small caliber pistol dropped out.

  Probably .25 auto, thought Cecil. Six round mag. One in the chamber. It was good to know. He filed it away. You expected a tough cunt like her to be packing. Keeping one in the chamber was not always the smartest thing to do. Give her the benefit of the doubt. Assume she had one in the chamber—to make it seven caps.

  Both men stared in awe as she bent over to pick the gun up off the carpet. Couldn’t quite reach it; her hangers nearly flopped right out of the top of her T and a good portion of her well-shaped behind hung out all over those bikini briefs.

  Marvin was transfixed. Only problem was: fuckin’ Parfrey pig mask got in the way wiff what he was tryin’ to get a better look at. Grabbed it from the bottom, and yanked back on it so that it sat up there on his forehead. Didn’t give a damn if Cecil liked it or not. Bitch had her some fine pussy a dude be willin’ to die for just to get him a taste.

  He ogled. Could not believe his eyes. As often as they had seen this crack ho—on stage and right here showin’ off half-naked in this cribby like she be doin’—an’ the time’ her and her crack-addict friend’ been to Bigg’ church, he found it hard to accept any hot ho could have a backyard like that.

  Ho like’ to pose, too. Bendin’ over like she do at that ugly nigga Fritz McCoy’ Casbah Hideaway. Yeah, thought Marvin, we seen Peach bend over and do a whole lot more. Reason they was actin’ like th
ey never seen it before was because the ho be able to do that to peeps.

  Peach ain’t got no rep for puttin’ out, got no rep for gettin’ down wiff them customer’ at her work. She know’ how to get they meat up when she be on stage, though; know’ how to take over and make every swingin’ dick in the place cry for pussy.

  Some of them bitches, too, be hot for that high yellow booty.

  Biggs rubbed himself. Wanted her. Felt like rushing in there with his Magnum and smacking her in the face with it to make her docile and then taking her right there on the carpet and having some fun. Maybe slitting her throat afterwards, instead of plunging an ice pick in her. Better yet, slitting her throat while he fucked her and seeing the blood spurt. But he would have to wait. Bide his time. And it would happen.

  You don’t want to end up back in the loony bin with all those loonies in there, because then you will never get anywhere at all, because then it will simply be beyond your reach. This way there’s hope at least, but you have to work things out first. And it will pay off for you. Then, too, he risked losing the haunted house for good if he got taken away again. Had a management company run it last time he was gone. Assholes charged high rates and skimmed off the top, every time. Burned him good. Took advantage. Not much he could do about it. Did he want to go through that again? No, he did not want to go through that again.

  CHAPTER 41

  He nudged Marvin in the ribs to pull the mask back down, and they moved over to the next window and Pearleen Bell’s roommate Lana “Da Bottom” Sepulveda, another stripper who worked the same club. Lana Da Bottom was the same age, a long-haired Mexican-American dusky diva. She was five foot eight, and although her bosom was not as impressive as Pearleen’s, she had plenty that men were always lusting after; and she had all the rest: flat stomach and curvy hips, a firm, well-shaped culo. Lana was known as “Da Bottom” for a reason, and she had great legs, muscular, dancer’s legs.

  It had been months since the girls (along with Stella, whose room was to the right of this one) had performed their private little dance routine at his house, months. Too long.

  They were way overdue for another visit, Cecil thought, as he and Muck peered through the stripper’s curtains while she sat on the edge of her bed in a white terrycloth bathrobe that barely concealed her glorious thighs and muff as she applied blood-red polish to her toenails.

  A couple engaged in flagrante in the room next to this one could clearly be heard not only by Lana Da Bottom, who did not react in any noticeable way to it presently, but by the bishop and his deacon—and so drawn, they moved on to that window sill.

  Had to be henna-haired Stella Martel, known in porn circles and the strip club circuit as Stunning Stella Storm; sure, why not?—who changed her hair color from week to week, it seemed. Last time they saw her parading her snapper on McCoy’s stage and humping the brass pole, her hair had been reddish-brown, week before that it was vagina pink, two weeks prior to that it had been electric blue. So who knew what it was lately—furthermore, who gave a damn, so long as they glimpsed that body. Only there didn’t seem to be any chance there, because Stella was under the sheet (for the most part) with some guy; and she was screaming, moaning, tossing that same reddish-brown head of hair from side to side in an almost exaggerated way, evidently due to what the asshole down there between her thighs was doing to her with his able tongue.

  The peepers watched with bated breath. Didn’t matter to them if she were acting it or not, didn’t matter if the jerk-off with her was just another john and paying for his pussy. Instead, what bothered them, what was frustrating as hell for them was that they could not see enough of what was exactly taking place.

  Was all the gasping and writhing on Stella’s part nothing more than practiced fakery? Probably—not that it mattered, because it worked away on them, got to them; it was too much to bear. Bitch was a convincing faker; they all were. Practice made perfect.

  The Peeping Toms returned to Da Bottom’s window in time to see her react to the hot sex going on in Stella’s room by grabbing a foot-long vibrator from her dresser drawer, plopping back on her bed and gradually guiding it down toward the dark patch of hair between her thighs.

  There was no mistaking the steady hum made by the vibrator, in spite of the noise coming from Stella’s place, as the brunette seemed to hold it against the roof of her cunt. Problem was, most of this could only be guessed at by the peeping duo, as quite a bit of the action was blocked by Lana’s thigh, as she had her leg bent in an upside down V. Still, it was clearly obvious what had taken place next: they knew she was inserting it into her moist cunt, giving her cooter a nice workout, probably shifting it up toward the clit and leaving it there for the needed duration, massaging it where it mattered the most.

  Bitch was getting off, fucking her own pussy, as only a woman knew how to do—well, most women; with most of them it was like this, unless the guy had the patience to spend the time and tongue a ho in this laborious manner.

  Didn’t matter to him what a bitch wanted. Not at all. Only thing Biggs was ever concerned with was that he got his—any way he could.

  Get yours, to the utmost—and then dispose of them, like a sack of garbage. Because, when you came down to it, that’s what whores were: sacks of trash. Sluts, bitches, bimbos, prostitutes, ball-busting, useless sperm receptacles. And this particular sperm-receptacle’s moans were beginning to increase in volume. You bet; not unlike Stella Martel’s next window over.

  Da Bottom had her head arched back, her neck was up, sticking out this way; even her shoulders were up, off the bed. The sounds she made were undecipherable. There was a bit of everything thrown in: gasps, sighs, moans, screams; deep-throated something or other. Only thing that mattered, that was evident: bitch was erupting like a volcano. Over and over and over again.

  Marvin gripped the wrought iron bars on the window. Yanked like a wild man. This was too much. He was desperate to pull the bars off, if at all possible, jump inside the room, leap on top of the stripper and give her the ride of her life.

  In his mind, what that vibrator was doin’ for her was nothing compared to the way he could get her off. Vibrators ain’t shit, thought Marvin. Ain’t nothin’ but a mothafuckin’ fake Jones. What the ho be needin’ is a real man with a real dick—right in her. What he would do is shove that vibrator up her shitter, while he fucked the shit out of her cunt. Yo. Ho be needin’ man meat. What I got.

  He kept gripping the bars and was, no doubt, about to do something about it. Biggs saw it, understood it, easily related to it, but shoved Muck back, away from the window in time to restrain him and stop him from attempting something that would have got them not only noticed, but bagged and thrown in jail.

  “We have to wait, Free Ride. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Fuck on that waitin’ boo-shit. I be tired of waitin’. My Jones can’t wait. My Jones be wantin’ some trim right now.”

  “Settle down.”

  Marvin cursed under his breath. “Them hoe’ needs to be raped. They be wantin’ it. You know them hoe’ be rape deprive’. Lookit that shit. Look what they be doin’. They know we out here watchin’. You know they knows it. Makin’ all that noise and actin’ like don’t nobody know’ about it.”

  Biggs aimed his index finger at him. Pointed it right in his face. Laid down the riot act: Calm down, or else. Marvin had no choice. Nodded his head. He gripped his groin inside his trousers: stiff. Like that big, black flashlight Bigg’ own—an’ like’ to beat the retard’ wiff.

  CHAPTER 42

  They were back at the window, watching in contained silence, as both Stella and Lana’s moans grew more frantic.

  There was no disagreeing with Marvin: Biggs had wanted to bust in on the bitches as much as Marvin had, bust in on them the way Richard Speck had done years ago in Chicago; tie all of them up. Butcher the lame john, then rape and sodomize the whores; stab them a few million times, slit their throats—and leave them to stew in their own juice.

&nbs
p; Yes yes yes. Let them stew in their own blood and excreta.

  He’d wanted it; he’d ached for it. Only now was not the time.

  “We don’t want to wake up the neighborhood by doing something stupid—and to break in on these cunts here would definitely set them off screaming and firing that gun. I know these loud-mouthed sperm-guzzlers, believe you me. That certainly would be a stupid thing for us to do.”

  Both women emitted what sounded like loud, yelping sounds, followed by sounds you could not hear: subdued, nearly silent. When this happened, Lana’s body had arched one final time, stiffened; she stayed this way for one lingering moment, then dramatically went limp. She had kept her eyes closed for this last, precious phase of it.

  The following happened, just as Biggs expected it would: his Caddy alarm went off. Made him wonder what took them this long.

  He withdrew the pepper spray from the holder on his belt. Handed it to Marvin. They stepped away from the window and walked in the direction of the alley in back. Biggs paused as they reached the gate. Held the clicker out. Marvin took it. Didn’t quite get why.

  “Ain’t you goin’ after the mofo wiff yo piece?”

  “Don’t be stupid. Go kill the alarm instead.”

  Marvin didn’t exactly understand what was going on, but went ahead. The car alarm stopped wailing at last. Biggs remained standing by the side of the gate, peering at the other end of the gangway—as familiar-sounding footsteps approached from the front of the building.

  The silhouettes were easy to make out and proved him right: ex-con junkie “Glassy” and his bosom bud, sometime Pachuko, Felix Monk.

  The fools skulked down the gangway to about Pearleen Bell’s window. Lingered there. Figures. Desperate for drugs. Looking for trouble. Deliberately tripped his alarm as a distraction and to help persuade him to vacate the area.