by Kirk Alex
“My, my, what a pearly girlie you are. . . .”
Readjusted the scalp. Made a renewed effort to run a comb through the hair. Wasn’t easy. Dirt was impossible to get rid of; blood was caked and too tough to do anything about.
He reached for the Polaroid camera. Aimed carefully, and took a series of shots. Once he was satisfied with the results, he placed these latest treasured pics inside the clear plastic bag with the others. Laid them under a false cardboard bottom inside the makeup case. Placed the tray that contained the various items of makeup on top. Closed the case and locked it. Biggs unzipped his fly, withdrew his groin and began to masturbate while guzzling blood from the jug in his other hand. It would not take him long to ejaculate. The sight of all those bones in the chest earlier, the blood, the dumping, and then throwing dirt over it to cover it up had kept him excited, caused him to have a strong desire for sex (as he had known it would). Muck had tried to be comical about it. What a fool. Just another thing that annoyed him about the low IQ retard.
He wondered if he performed orally on her if there might be a chance, albeit a slim one, to bring her back to life—so that he might bludgeon her to death all over again?
Deep down something told him that it was wishful thinking.
Cecil found himself placing his mouth on the genital area just the same, and badly wanted to chew on parts of her body. He bit into her buttocks repeatedly, then rubbed his penis against a thigh, while touching the breasts.
Some preferred them full of life, he preferred them struggling to hold on to life, then ultimately in this present state, under control. It’s when they weren’t breathing that they didn’t give you any lip.
He turned the body on its side, the right hip side, drew a condom over his groin (not only as defense against worms and other parasites, but more importantly—should the body ever be discovered and gone over with a fine tooth comb by the coroner and his cretins, who by the way molested far more stiffs than he was ever able to get his hands on and his chubby in), poured some blood over the prophylactic and proceeded to sodomize the corpse.
There would be a tinge of regret later, mixed in with disgust. So be it, because the only thing that mattered at this moment was to shoot his load, and get off he did.
Could have been better. It was good enough. It was the condom, having to use a condom. He’d never cared for them much. What would he do with it? Didn’t want to take it with. Had no choice. Sperm was DNA. Pubic hair? DNA.
He pulled the rubber off. Held it over the dead woman’s face. Emptied the contents this way. Checked for stray pubic strands. Saw none. Even if he had, he still would have done the following: poured a touch/pinch of Tabasco sauce in, and tossed the condom aside. Let them knock themselves out testing for traces of DNA.
He chugged more blood, until he began to gag and was about to vomit. Blood didn’t quite agree with his taste buds, although he believed it had to be good for his health.
The next thing had to happen, as it always did after dropping a load: there was no avoiding it, the need to urinate was there. And he did so over the body.
“I piss on your corpse.”
It was said to no one, while he attempted to guzzle what remained of the blood inside the jug—and could not bring himself to do it.
CHAPTER 92
Goddammit, he felt sick, satisfied (somehow) but sick to his stomach. There was no preempting the hollowness that ensued. It was the blood, it was post corpse molestation nausea that he could not exactly pinpoint or wanted to deal with. He had consumed too much blood; that’s what it was. Made sense. Had allowed himself to get too worked up and excited.
Prior to coming out here he had determined to control that part of it—and he had failed. As always, he had failed and failed miserably.
Let it go. You’d brought that jug with her blood in it, didn’t you? What did you expect to happen? Forget it. Drop it. There was no way to mask the feeling of disgust, no way to deny it. What made it worse, blood this old turned black and tasted way cruddy.
The nausea hung in there. One thing he could always count on. Some bile wound its way up. He was bending over to spit it out. Wiped his mouth. Turned the jug over the corpse and emptied the contents out, over the body in the shallow grave (where it undoubtedly belonged).
He wiped prints off the jug handle and spout, other parts. Rubbed it against dirt—and flung it. He zipped up. Using the entrenching tool, covered the body with dirt and leaves.
He hadn’t wanted to deal with the latest development, and yet there was no putting it off. Just as a moment ago the urge to urinate had been there, now he had the need to defecate. There was no getting around it. Couldn’t do much about the bowel movement he was experiencing.
He dug a hand inside the left pocket of his trousers to see if he might find something to wipe with: couple of old paper napkins, Walgreens and Target receipts. They would have to do.
He dropped his pants. Saw to it that he was positioned on top of the grave. Squatted. Did his business. It was a good one.
“I shit on your grave.”
He wiped. Pulled his pants up. Guilt gnawed at him, as he knew it would. The price one paid.
Why’d you have to do it? Wasn’t it enough that you owned her, body and soul? Sure. Man had to mark off what was his, didn’t he? Animals did it all the time: dogs, cats, mountain lions. . . . All I did was to mark off what belongs to me. Nothing remotely disgusting about it, except the turmoil inside his head would not leave him be. Disgust, regret, remorse; hollow emptiness that had no bottom.
Pearly Girlie hadn’t deserved to be shat on this way, even though, when you truly came down to it, they were nothing more than whores, worthless sperm receptacles who did not have a clue what it was about and spread their thighs and opened their mouths at first sight of money . . . or dope; notoriety.
Everything was upside down these days. They fucked for fame, attention, jack, dust—anything and everything—but the one thing that mattered above all else, the one thing he lacked in his life, that he was alien to (because the biggest whore in the universe hadn’t possessed it herself, his mother, had shat on it herself), therefore did not pass it on to him (the way she was supposed to), whatever that element was that one required to be a “well-rounded” human.
Why? Why were they this way? Because twats didn’t have any other way. They lived to whore, and whored to live. All of them. From Charlotte Yvonne, on. And those who worked hardest at pretending not to be this way, like Pearleen Bell and Olivia Duarte, and others like them, were, in fact, far worse, the worst. Smelly sluts with gamey pissers.
That’s exactly why this particular Pearly Girlie, Jolly Dolly, had needed to be whizzed on, and her grave dumped on.
He gathered up enough rocks, some the size of eggplants or small melons, and placed them at the end where the head was.
Not certain why he did this. Out of respect, a degree of it, a small degree of it, or to keep animals from disturbing it.
Whatever the motive, he hoped scavengers wouldn’t tamper with it. There was also the issue of footprints. Piggies had ways of making casts. He went about destroying any and all signs that could be traced back to him, and made it down the ridge to the Cadillac.
CHAPTER 93
Bishop and his deacon climbed in the car. Biggs drove it to the edge of the road. Shut the engine off. Sat there. Considered letting Muck take care of the tracks. Then thought better of it.
Want something done? Want anything done right, especially something as important as this—you had to do it yourself.
He got out. Found a fresh branch. Walked back to where the limbs and bones were buried and went about eliminating any and all signs that they had ever been in the area. Some of it was no fun, in that he had to stoop to get at the tracks left by the tires all the way back to where the Cadillac sat parked by the road.
He told Marvin to step out. Handed him the branch with instructions to do the same once he pulled the car onto the blacktop. Muck did as told�
�to the best of his ability—while Biggs watched him from the driver’s seat. Muck finished up. Tossed the branch, and got in. Serial killer and his apprentice drove off.
In spite of the mixed feelings Biggs had had to cope with on the ridge, there was no denying the underlying euphoria that stayed with him, a euphoria fueled by the fetid odor that lingered in his nostrils long after he and Marvin were gone from the dump site.
Biggs thought he was hungry and said so. Gargled with Listerine, and spat the mouthwash out the window.
“You hungry, Base?”
“Hear my belly cryin’ out for food, Omar. Just cryin’ out for some good eatin’. Yo.”
Cecil Omar Biggs looked at the other man.
“Keep calling me ‘Omar’ you won’t get shit.”
They were south-bound on Laurel Canyon Boulevard soon enough, making their way back toward North Hollywood.
CHAPTER 94
It was five minutes past ten and the morning rush at Jessup’s Family Diner had come and gone. This was the lull before the lunch hour crowd filled up the place. Vester “Slim” Jessup, the lanky fifty-year-old African-American who owned the eatery, was in the kitchen in the back helping scrub some of the larger pans that were too enormous for the automated dishwasher to handle, and he was scrubbing them now in the trough-like sink while he had the time before the next wave of customers appeared.
Big Bertha sat at the far end of the counter taking in a coffee break and a smoke. Olivia helped out with what orders there were. She walked over to where Pearleen Bell sat at a table with her two friends Stella Martel and Lana Sepulveda, saw to it that they were taken care of, let some of their snide remarks about her and the whole Duarte family being square and squeaky clean wash right off, and was back behind the counter when Rudy Perez walked in.
Rudy wanted to talk.
Olivia tried to tell him that she was the only one presently working, since Bertha was still on her break.
“Can you please stop for just one minute? There’s something I’d like to say to you.”
“I can’t, Rudy. Slim watches his employees like a hawk. Besides, we’re busy.”
“Huh?” His brows raised, Rudy looked about the nearly empty diner. “You call this busy?”
Olivia walked away, but then had a change of heart. Smiled, and walked back. She planted her elbows on the counter in front of him and cupped her gorgeous face in her open palms.
“What is it? What’s so important that you absolutely have to talk to me?”
Rudy’s right hand slid across the counter toward her, obviously concealing something underneath. When he lifted his hand there was a small, square-shaped red felt box there.
“What’s this?”
“Open it.”
Olivia hesitated. Opened the box to find a heart-shaped diamond ring.
“It’s beautiful, Rudy.”
“Yep.”
“Where did you get the money?”
Rudy shrugged.
“Your shop money, Rudy. What will your brother say?”
“I don’t know. I’ll just tell him the truth: I spent some money on a ring for the girl I want to marry.”
Olivia looked at the engagement ring, clearly overwhelmed by the gesture. She felt, at first, she wanted to try it on her finger, instead decided against it.
“I can’t accept this, Rudy.”
“Sure you can. We’re engaged.”
“Rudy, I can’t. My parents—”
“You’re looking at the real thing: fourteen karat with a real diamond. And I got it in a real jewelry store, and not off Jesus Ortiz.”
Olivia held the ring in her hand. Slid it on her finger.
“It’s gorgeous. Thank you.”
She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. About time, Rudy thought.
“The only thing left to do is tell your parents.”
Olivia did not appear remotely thrilled at the prospect.
“Come on, Livia. After six months we should at least have the guts to tell them the way things are.”
CHAPTER 95
At the strippers’ table, in a section of the diner to the left of the entrance as you walked in, Pearl Bell was clearing her throat to alert her stripper pals that “Moneybags” was pulling up outside in his Cadillac: “Mr. Moneybags” and his sidekick Deacon Marvin “Free Base” Muck.
The roommates watched as Biggs and Marvin, wearing ball caps with God’s #1 embroidered across the front, with Biggs lugging that oversized Bible with him, climbed out of the luxury car and entered the faux coach diner. Muck was known for having a habit of tugging, then cupping his crotch. Today was no exception. He was at it. Big Bertha Lenier noticed it herself. Couldn’t help but look. She’d taken a moment from what she’d been doing behind the counter to fire up a smoke and took it in.
“Fool is always playing with hisself. Like nobody else got one of them.”
Biggs paused inside the entrance, with lap dog Marvin standing to the left of him, eyeing the trim on his side of the diner. Bishop was taking a moment to decide where he wanted to sit.
“Look’ like a ho convention over there.”
“Ho convention?”
Biggs turned his head in the direction of the strippers, while his eyes sought out and lingered on what appeared to be a shiny gold lighter that Pearleen Bell was lighting up with. He thought he might like to get his hands on it someday.
“Be lookin’ that way to me.”
“About as valid an observation as any.”
Biggs let the cigarette lighter go for the time being, and decided on a quiet section on his right, away from the yakking twats. The observant flunky followed him to a red booth by the window. It didn’t take long for Biggs’s eyes to take in Olivia Duarte and the way she was chatting it up with Rudy Perez and admiring a ring he’d obviously just presented her with.
What was punk Perez doing wasting his time on something he truly did not have the nerve to go after? What the hell was he doing buying her a ring for? A cunt like that, a young, healthy, robust number like that didn’t need a ring, a ring she could get anytime, anywhere. What she needed was to be taken, raped. Plain and simple. And put out of her misery afterwards. They were all miserable, every single female, every damned single cunt—and needed to be put out of their dilemma. Only a dumb pissant like Rudy Perez didn’t get it. Too young and too stupid. Lack of perception. It took a higher IQ and a far more sophisticated intellect to comprehend what was going on with the female of the species.
Cut her loose, boy. Let her up for air. Let the young bitch do her nothing job. Let her come over here and lick my balls, or at least take my order. Give it up, punk.
Biggs continued to eye the two of them still talking at the counter. Olivia seemed concerned now that her boss Slim Jessup may be watching and not liking her slacking this way and that perhaps she ought to be getting back to work and taking care of the customers, earning her pay.
“Okay, I’m leaving. I know you’re busy. See you tonight?”
“I can’t get away, Rudy.”
“Tomorrow night, then?”
Olivia said nothing.
“Please?”
She smiled. Gave him a nod. Rudy leaned over to give her a parting kiss, and headed toward the exit. When he spotted Biggs and Marvin R. Muck sitting in their booth, he decided a word was in order concerning what had transpired earlier that morning—if for no other reason but courtesy. He walked over.
“Excuse me, sir.” Biggs looked up from the menu in his hands. “Mr. Biggs, ah, about this morning—I just want to apologize. Ace gets crazy like that sometimes. He likes to shoot his mouth off.”
“Been doin’ a lot of that crank, I bet. Shit’ll fuck up yo head every time.”
“Don’t worry about it, Rudy.” Even as he spoke, Cecil Biggs’s eyes were back on Olivia Duarte: moving around, leaning over now and then to pick up something, or as she reached up to grab a pie or a slice of cake up on the pie shelf inside the glass case on the wall behind th
e counter, and this caused the hem of her dress to go up, revealing plenty of thigh and the occasional flash of pink underpants. Biggs and Marvin were getting an eyeful, and Rudy Perez was not aware of any of it.
“No harm done.”
“Thought I’d apologize, you being one of our regulars and everything.”
Rudy turned, gave Olivia one last wave, and was out the door and practically collided with Marty Roscoe and his loaded-down bicycle outside the diner entrance.
“Hi, Marty/so long, Marty.”
“Pussy-whipped. Got to be. Only thing what makes a man act that squirrelly.”
CHAPTER 96
Marty Roscoe chained his bike to the handicapped sign on the sidewalk, walked inside, and slid his wide backside onto a stool at the counter. There was an issue of the LA Times and Roscoe picked it up for something to do; more accurately, to use as a prop to hide behind as he checked out the poontang.
First thing Roscoe noticed was Pearleen Bell and her friends. Those short skirts had a tendency to reveal plenty of flank when a woman sat in a chair wearing that stuff: black fishnets, black stiletto heels. They were in back of him, sitting at a table to his left.
Since he couldn’t very well keep craning his head to keep ogling and risk getting called out on it by the strippers, he did the next best thing: stared hard into the mirror on the wall in front of him, above the back counter and pie rack and assorted shelving.
Sure know how to make you want it, he thought. Would have paid for it right now if he had the money. Lana Da Bottom had quoted him two hundred bucks for a roll with her. Half hour. He was thinking about it. He’d have to bust his ass making every swap meet and yard sale this month to afford her, and he was going to have to save up the money without his wife getting wind of it.
