Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  He was fucked, and there was no way out. That was when the cutting had started; anything sharp he could get his hands on: glass shard, knife, can opener; didn’t matter. What stopped it was Charlotte and the redneck wanting to blame Mr. Turnbull for it.

  Finally, it was Mr. Turnbull making him promise to cease and desist; that life was worth living, after all. Even though he had lost his darling Flora, he still could not see suicide as a way out, even though existence without her would never be the same for him or even Parfrey, their darling pet hog.

  “Life is a miracle,” Trusty would often remind him. “Life is precious. Don’t you dare harm yourself that way. It hurts me, son.” The old man had wept. “Not only does it hurt me, but you can see how sad it makes Parfrey.” And he had been right: Parfrey did appear forlorn at the time, all the while nuzzling up to Cecil. It was then he had given the old gent his word that he would stop hurting himself. And they had sealed the deal with gingersnaps and milk.

  Cecil recalled the hog liking the gingersnaps as much as he ever did. Seeing him eat out of his hand had brought a smile to his face. Trusty had been smiling too. He had wiped his tears with the back of his shaky hand and hugged them both.

  “You’re my only dad, Mr. Turnbull. You’ll always be my true Daddy.”

  “I love you, boy. I couldn’t love you anymore if you were mine biologically. That is the Lord’s truth.” Cecil O. had buried his face in the old man’s chest, and fought hard not to start weeping again. Trusty had rubbed the back of his head, promised him that everything would turn out all right. There was nothing to worry about. No reason to give up hope.

  “You’re in my will, lad. Haunted house is yours as soon as you’re of age. As well as all that Flora and I own that is of any value and worth. This house here, my coin and stamp collection.” He gave him the name of the attorney to see when he turned eighteen. “Do you think you can remember the name, lad?” Cecil had nodded his head. The old man had reached for the thick phone book, opened the Yellow Pages, and pointed to the listed law firm and their prominent ad. He had circled the ad with a sharpie, and had Cecil repeat the name.

  Cecil had looked up at him.”What would I do with a haunted house, Mr. Turnbull?”

  “Beside the point, son. You’ll know when the time comes. Run it, or simply have someone run it for you. Pursue whatever you wish, but it’s always nice to have a plan-B, something to fall back on. A well-managed and creative haunted house will never go out of style, especially around here. We’re in Loony Tunes Land, son. That’s a fact. No need to I remind you. Know it better than I do, Cecil. Folks will never tire of the harmless jolt that made-to-order fear induces, and fear is with us from day one. Real fear. True fear. For every single one of us. From birth to death. Just the way it is. Doesn’t mean that there isn’t much else to appreciate while being above ground, that there isn’t love and happiness and all those other wonderful things. Remember that.” He had paused, before stating the rest: “Anyway, do with it as you wish. Coin collection is worth a pretty penny; quite a bit of it is. Not so much some of that paper money from the civil war, but the rare coins, silver dollars. Worth a small fortune.” He had added: “Let’s not concern ourselves with it now. There’ll be time for that later.”

  “What I want is for you to get well, Trusty. Get them to take that bag off your leg, so you can walk without hurting and be able to go to the bathroom like everybody else.”

  “Eventually, lad. Eventually. No need to fret. Most important thing to remember is never to give up hope: in me, or yourself. Because I’m not. I got faith in us both, lad. . . .”

  He’d noticed the man wincing from time to time when he moved about, or even when sitting still or lying in his bed. He’d watched him open his jaw as though about to scream or give out a loud roar, only they were silent screams and soundless roars. He never made a sound during these moments. Never shed a tear. It was his way of dealing with the pain caused by having a tube inside his urinary tract. Cecil, having been a young kid and not known much about it other than what the old gent told him, inquired if it was hard to take. How uncomfortable and intense.

  “Only when I pass water; or if I move suddenly. Primarily it’s the other: when I have to go and have no control over it and urine flows through the tube in there, inside of me, and down through the hose, then it feels like a bunch of angry bees trapped in there and trying like hell to get out, stinging the inside of my groin the entire time. So don’t you be alarmed when you see me hopping about, grimacing for a minute or so, ’cause that’s what it is, son. Passing water. It’s a tad uncomfortable, but I’ll get through it. My point earlier being: we don’t give up on the wonders of being alive and all the great joys this world has to offer just because we have a challenge or two tossed our way. We get through things, son; we get through quite a lot. Survivors; that’s what we are. You and I, Cecil. We know how to survive. And it’s worth it. It certainly is. Don’t let anyone tell you different, young man.”

  What he loved about him. The man never spoke down to him. Didn’t treat him like a child who didn’t know shit from Shinola. That was the original Trusty Lusty; the Real McCoy. Mr. Truly Turnbull.

  Well, it never did happen. Adoption was no option. Not for him. Escape was mere fantasy. What he got, instead, was what fate had stuck him with; what he got, instead, while watching shows like this these days, was vague (initially) images, appearing in his mind’s eye, of his mother taking him around to various funerals as a kid. He was four, five, maybe six, not much was clear, but there were many funerals, people they had not been related to in any way, people who were not even acquaintances—no matter, because to his mother it was on a par with a religious ritual, a ritual he could never fathom to this day. Not only were funerals in general a waste of time, but why appear at a stranger’s funeral? And they had all been strangers. Total strangers. What sense did it make? What did she get out of it?—other than the cut-rate for the occasional blow job she performed behind some tree or bramble or tombstone while he stood in front as lookout?

  The funerals alone had left him with a sense of dread, and then the cheap sex acts she thrived on and could never get enough of. Dread. It had been dread, started out as dread—of the scene. Constant reminder of death. All it was. She was drawn to it: the morbid and gutter sex with geezers. Had dragged him from cemetery to cemetery to stare at coffins being lowered into the earth, men and women in black attire shedding crocodile tears, when some of the males weren’t way in back of the pack being serviced by his loony mother.

  June Cleaver? Yes. This was the “June Cleaver” he knew, the real June Cleaver. Nympho tramp who sucked tubesteak for chump change.

  Why was it coming back to him now? What did it mean? He didn’t need it. Could have done without it. It had to be Mrs. Cleaver, the Beave’s perfect mom.

  June Lockhart was another one who fucked with his head. These women weren’t real. They were patient and understanding; they . . . they were “human, nice. . . .” They were everything his own mother wasn’t. These people, these tv/Hollywood parents represented everything that he never had, everything that had nothing, zip, zero, to do with what his childhood had been like, what his reality was like.

  Then, too, sometimes the sex triggered it. He shook it off. All of it. Funerals, priests, old men unzipping their flies and shoving their peckers into the whore’s insatiable mouth; images of the whore, his mother, running down East LA streets stark naked, urinating in public; images of John Joseph holding a gun to his temple and waiting for what was bound to happen next: Cecil wetting his pants, and John Joseph would then pull the trigger, revealing that the gun had been empty all along.

  J.J. would laugh out loud afterwards, pull on a bottle of rotgut or beer, would unfasten his leather belt and beat him with the buckle end for the mess he’d made on the living room carpet. Shoved his face in it for the encore. Pleasant memories. Could never tune them out entirely. You tried. Year after year. But they only managed to haunt him—time and tim
e again. Refused to stay buried—like all those stiffs they witnessed get put down, lowered.

  Biggs shut his eyes tight. Shook his head a few times. Squeezed his temples. Needed to let it all go. Forced it to disappear. If not completely, at least by about eighty-five percent. Best he could do, as once again, he focused on what was happening on the tv screen.

  He flipped channels and settled on My Three Sons. Fred McMurray. What an easy-going gent. Reminded him of Captain Kangaroo.

  Pleasant. Good-humored. Kind. They were kind. All of these fuckers—from A to Z—were kind, and it was this kindness, this seeming kindness that fanned the flames of his enduring and ever-lasting, absolute rage—and made him think about the captives in his dungeon, and this had his groin swelling again, gave him a certified chubby.

  It was kindness that killed the real Trusty. It was kindness that ultimately caused Mr. Turnbull’s demise. Kindness equaled weakness—and he would deal with it as he had always dealt with it (ever since becoming aware that life/existence/the world) was a lie. All of it. Lie. And would deal with it in his own way.

  He cupped his testicles. They were large. Hairy and large. A man should have big balls—and his were that. Although his cock was far from it, the way that half a halfwit Marvin’s was; it was thick enough and a bit larger than your average dick. If the average cock was five inches, he had an inch more than the average schmuck out there.

  It was plenty. Sure, he should be the one with a pole on him like Muck’s got, but what the hell—that was all the idiot had. Had no money or even a bank account; didn’t have a car or his smarts. Shit-for-brains had exactly that: shit-for-brains.

  He squeezed the base of his groin. Proud of it. The head turned a reddish purple. Ready to shoot juice again. Yeah. Ready to blast cum all over those sluts down there.

  He looked at the Rolex on his right wrist. Not five a.m. even. Still too early to party. The neighbors were sure to gripe. Shoeshine man wasn’t getting enough shuteye in order to make it in to his shoeshine stand and pretend to be peppy and full of life. Lack of pep hurt him in the pocketbook. Too bad. Tragic maybe. He couldn’t wait and didn’t care. The pain had not entirely left him, but enough had and was presently manageable.

  Fuck them all.

  Let them gripe.

  It’s a free country, isn’t it?

  Last time he checked.

  CHAPTER 121

  Thursday Morning

  Biggs was in the basement. Had his rubber boots on, yellow slicker, hard hat with light on top, goggles, flashlight. He had Marvin Muck go in the Fun Room and bring the fifty-foot electrical extension cord out and plug it in the socket in the wall. Biggs was cautious to hold the two exposed wires not only in separate hands, but well apart.

  He was on elbows and knees on the door over the pit, right eye glued to a hole the size of a silver dollar somewhere near the center, checking out the victims below: Terri Denise Klopp and Dixie Osgood.

  Brunette-haired, nineteen-year-old Terri remained motionless, head hung down, eyes closed, floating in the water at about chin level. He and Marvin had nabbed this one in that Valencia parking lot one evening. Was a checker at Lumber City. Cunt was tall, large-boned, and blue-eyed. Had blond hair until Cecil had her dye it a dark brown, bordering on brunette, and she had expressed a fondness for grass and nose candy. Dust. Toot. Blow. What else was new? They had picked her up a little over a month ago and she had been kept in the pit (for most of that time) as punishment for kicking Biggs in the groin once and for throwing ammonia in Muck’s face, not to mention the two escape attempts, between beatings and sexual abuse, and she had lost a considerable amount of weight due to her own stubbornness and outright refusal to eat the jambalaya that she was offered. And now here she was, pulling another stunt, and he was about tired of her. Out of patience, especially if she were faking it.

  “Time to make room for fresh pussy.”

  Took a gander at the other heifer. From Georgia. Southern Belle. Seemed to be doing okay. At least she wasn’t trying to con him.

  Biggs took the exposed wire in his left hand and ran it through one of several other holes and stuck it in the water, while searching out the metal collar on Terri’s neck by the wire in his right hand. It wasn’t easy getting to the collar. Took some effort and strong sense of purpose.

  Finally, once he connected, saw the hint of a spark or two; he stayed with it and witnessed her do a spaz-like number, in that she jerked about as the others before her had.

  A grin appeared on Cecil’s face. He had known it all along: the Klopp cunt had been faking it. Too bad. Made no difference now. He’d had his fill of her. Besides, if he waited any longer there would hardly be any meat left on her bones to even feed Marvin’s fancy rats.

  He looked up at Muck.

  “How do you like that? Was I right? I know these bitches.”

  “Ho should know better by now. Trusty got the IQ. Cain’t hardly outsmart Trusty.”

  Biggs suspected Base was being a wise-ass. Let it go. Was back with his eye to the hole in the door, playing around with the wire in his right hand. The wire eventually scraped against the metal collar on the victim’s neck and the sparks flew. The bitch bounced around some more down there. Screamed out. Begging.

  “You’re CTD, cunt.” Biggs withdrew the wire. “She’s Circling the Drain.” Didn’t want her to die just yet. Had Marvin pull the cord out of the wall. To keep shocking her would have finished her off too quickly. Dixie seemed in shock herself—from merely having witnessed what the other went through. That worked for him. Let them get the message. Kept them in line. Kept them from scheming.

  He unlocked the door over the pit, lifted it open. Told Muck to haul Terri out of there and carry her to the Fun Room. Biggs swung the door back over the pit. Hooked the lock through the hasp, but did not lock it.

  As hurt and confused as she was, Terri Denise Klopp surmised what awaited her was far worse—and she was not a willing participant. Did not wish to go anywhere, let alone to a section of the dungeon Cecil Biggs referred to as the “Fun Room.”

  Muck dragged her in. Biggs followed. Took over. Grabbed her by the cuffs. On the cement floor was that free-standing copper Victorian era type of slipper style bathtub with claw feet that had been bolted into the floor. The brass, rim-mounted gooseneck spout and hand shower rose up from the middle of the same side of the tub that the door to the room was on and hung over the tub this way. The tub was heavily dented and scarred and stained with grime and crud consisting of bits of skin and hair strands and scalp, stray tooth or two, enough fresh and not-so-fresh blood from previous torture sessions with previous victims. He saw to it that the rubber stopper was in place, the drain sealed tight.

  “You sure ho be CTD, Cecil?”

  “Do your part.”

  Biggs indicated the customized torture board that hung from hooks in that section of the wall to the left of the metal cabinet. Devoid of hinges or knob, the torture board had been fashioned from a solid wood conventional door and featured six eyebolts that had been screwed into it: two at top corners, two at approximately the halfway point, and the remaining couple at bottom corners. Heavy-duty sections of nylon rope dangled from each eyebolt. In addition to the rope restraints, handcuffs had been secured next to the eyebolts at the top. There was a shackle each at near the bottom corners. Locked to a corner eyebolt was a bicycle chain, the other end of which was secured to one of the tub’s claw feet.

  Across the back of the torture board, a foot from the top, were three iron hoops that made it possible to hang the door in this manner from the trio of iron hooks in the wall.

  “I said she’s CTD, and she’s CTD.”

  Not that Marvin was thrilled. Waste of good tang. Ho still had her some good tang left. Mothafuckin’ Vagina Killa gonna do what he gonna do. Kept it to himself. Instead, mentioned about the chain. “Gonna have to unlock it, if I was to take the door down.”

  Cecil did that for him. Muck placed the heavy and cumbersome torture board di
rectly over the tub lengthwise, the end with the cuffs over the backrest (that was situated on the same side of the room that the cabinet was on).

  The woman had not stopped resisting. Refused to accept her fate.

  “Get out of the way.”

  Biggs shoved Marvin aside. Reached inside the gray metal cabinet for a claw hammer. Marvin stepped back. No choice. Winced, as Cecil gave the woman a shot to the head with the hammer. Another shot to the face settled her down.

  “That’s how that’s done.” Biggs proceeded to lay the quivering Lumber City checker across the torture board. “I want her on her belly.”

  The deacon gave him a hand with her. Muck shackled her ankles at one end, while Biggs was at the other end of the board handcuffing the victim’s wrists to either corner.

  Sometimes cuffing cunts and assholes was simpler, quicker, especially when the victim did not have thick wrists to cause problems. This one certainly didn’t. The hammer blows to the noggin had dazed her enough, and yet there she was, like so many before her, unwilling and/or unable to come to terms with her fate: Thrusting that bare ass from side to side, up and down—and all other ways. Twisted her wrists, yanked, did what she could to jerk her legs and feet about at the other end. None of it would do her much good. Blood oozed from her face.

  “Now get that cunt Dixie in here. I want her to see who runs the show.”

  “Just seen you shock this ho. Don’t it be enough?”

  “No, it don’t be enough.”

  Marvin was about to step through the door to carry out the order.

  “Hey. What do you say?”

  Marvin stopped. Looked at him.