Lustmord 1

by Kirk Alex

  “Feels good, baby. Feels real good.”

  Stay in control, you must stay in control. Everything is fine. It really is, Lusty. Copacetic is the word you’re searching for. Enjoy yourself.

  You’ve got a great looking slut fondling your cock for the second time around, and another drop-dead gorgeous bitch taking her clothes off right in front of your eyes, right under your roof. Pearleen Bell. Prick-teaser nonpareil. Just don’t let things get out of hand. Do not lose control. Don’t spoil it.

  Meanwhile, over on his right, Mack Daddy Muck was as stiff as a billy.

  CHAPTER 156

  Stella continued to stroke the deacon. Looked like Muck was close to blasting. His eyes shut tight, the jaw clenched.

  “Yawza.”

  “I don’t want to see cum on my carpet.”

  Muck placed his large hands on the back of Stella’s head and guided her toward him, while at the same time driving his groin up into her mouth, exploding.

  Stella hadn’t cared for it, but it was too late. Deed was done. Marvin was smiling ear-to-ear. Stella claimed she had to use the john, rinse her mouth out.

  “No,” said Muck.

  “Want me to pee right here, Base?”

  “It would be something to see,” said Biggs.

  “What?”

  “Open your mouth, Deacon.”

  “Fuck that. I don’t let no crack ho piss in my mouf.”

  Biggs grinned. Let it go.

  Stella left the living room and stepped into the hallway and was trying to figure out where the rest of the bishop’s stash could possibly be. Tested several doors, only to find them locked. She tried another down toward the rear door, on the right. Kitchen door.

  Opened it.

  There was a long dining table and a large, demented-looking individual balancing himself on a chair, careful not to fall off, while attempting, with a wooden spoon in his hand, to whack away at one of two birdcages up there that hung from the ceiling.

  There was no mistaking the clanging of metal, silverware and whatnot, bolts and washers, who knew?—that came from somewhere in the big man’s belly with every missing swipe that he made.

  The best he could accomplish, it seemed, was to rap the bottom of the cage, from time to time, causing the cage to swing from side to side and bang against the other one, that made the chickens inside them nervous and panicky, had them clucking wildly.

  There could have been more than two chickens up there; she couldn’t tell exactly. The cage he rapped at had that one in it. Whole thing was odd. Reverend Stinky and his weird ass way of doing things.

  She saw the man take a hard, wild swing, whack the cage with plenty of force that sent it banging against the other cage, bounce back against the arm with the spoon with enough impact behind it so that it caused him to lose his balance and sent him to the floor.

  The man recovered, noticed that there was someone else present, rose to his feet and sat in the chair and went at the stew in the bowl before him, without so much as ever acknowledging the intruder.

  Norbert Fimple shoveled spoonfuls into his heavy jowls. Stella stared at the character with the eyeglasses taped to his forehead with a Band-Aid, the stained clothing, the scars on his face, the swollen lower lip and matted, greasy short hair that needed washing and a trim around the ears. Whoever had given him the haircut had failed to get the areas behind the ears. Must have been done by somebody half blind or just didn’t give a shit.

  He never looked at her, or even in her direction. Never once looked up at the chickens, either. He ate. The glazed, practically lifeless eyeballs looked at nothing.

  Stella’s focus shifted to the gas range in back of the beefy male, and the kettle sitting on top. There was a stainless steel meat grinder bolted down to the kitchen counter to the left of the sink; what appeared to be traces of ground up hamburger in and around the five-inch-by-six-inch hopper opening. There were palm and fingerprints on the wood hand crank and other parts of the grinder.

  There was a tube-shaped sausage stuffer/jerky maker beside it. This item, too, had various prints on it, various traces of ground up meat.

  Next to this was what looked like a heavy duty, commercial type of patty press. Like the grinder, this appliance was bolted to the counter. On the far side of the sink was a slicer, the type used for slicing roast beef, with what appeared to be a seven-inch steel blade.

  Then she took notice of the refrigerators. Two of them. Large. Admirals. Doors chained up, with heavy duty padlocks hanging. On the refrigerator farthest from her was what appeared to be a recipe for making frankfurters. In bold, black marker, she could make out certain hand-printed headers:

  INGREDIENTS FOR 25 LBS. Various ingredients followed, then the second header:

  GRINDING & MIXING

  Following the instructions, another header:

  SMOKING & COOKING

  Then:

  CHILLING

  Lastly:

  EMULSIFYING INSTRUCTIONS

  Stated to grind the meat up and mix in the required seasonings. Okay. Nothing particularly oddball there. Quite a few people made their own wieners and ground up meat in their homes, so why shouldn’t this wiener?

  Sitting on the floor, against the far wall, with its door open wide, was what looked like a smokehouse. Stainless steel. Three feet high. About a foot-and-a-half wide—and maybe just as deep. Newly purchased. Chrome-plated shelves for jerky. Hardwood dowels to hang sausage from. Sawdust pan. Next to it a white freezer. Oblong in shape, like a casket, only twice as tall.

  Her eyes wandered up. Not unimpressed by what she saw. Wall was covered in pennies. The entire wall, from one end to the other, from floor to ceiling, decorated with copper pennies. The time and effort it must have taken. Made about as much sense as stuffing your own sausage. Pastor Stinky cut corners at every turn—in order to be able to stick money to walls, buy fancy rides and dope; tip big time.

  What did you expect? Had never been in his kitchen before. Whatever it was she had expected wasn’t this.

  Felt like taking a look in the freezer. Had a need to. Would’ve been too easy for Cecil to stash anything in there. Was worth a try.

  Sweaty slob acted like she wasn’t there. Wouldn’t look at her. No problem. She walked in back of him, past the refrigerators, crossing the kitchen to the other side. Took a gander inside the smokehouse (to satisfy her curiosity). Nothing in it. Door wouldn’t have been left open if there had been.

  Got her hands on the freezer lid. Lid was locked. Wouldn’t budge. She looked at the big man with the double chins. Didn’t want to. There were things you did to get your dope. Mook was as disgusting as they come. Obese degenerate. And he smelled.

  “Can you open this for me, baby? I’m not interested in eating your food. Got a different kind of hunger.”

  The man ate. Stared straight ahead.

  “He got any goodies in here? Where’s the key?”

  She may as well have been talking to one of the chickens. Frustration was a bitch, especially the kind that mounted. Cupboards would have been a good place to hide dope. All had locks on them. Refrigerators, too, would have been a good place to keep stuff in. Why else tie cycle chains around them? Had to be more than groceries in there.

  “You’re strong enough to break a chain. Break a chain for me, sweetie. I’ll give you anything you want. . . . You can break the locks off the cupboards at least for me, can’t you?”

  It wasn’t working. Asexual fuck wasn’t normal. She would have had any other man panting for pussy by now. Stella walked back to where she had been standing before. Her eyes on the slob eating the slop. Those glasses taped to his face was the kicker. The imbecile had actually taken a single Band-Aid and stuck it vertically to the bridge of his nose. Held the glasses in place this way. If hardly. It was a long Band-Aid that ran from practically the tip of his nose, up the bridge, over that section of the glasses, and halfway up his forehead. Had to be a mook.

  Cecil did say he had taken in some imbalanced
homeless people to help them out. That was his business. Only the stench made Stella Martel want to turn right back out and leave. But she didn’t. She was determined to get her hands on Biggs’s stash. Why they had made the effort to come here. Had to get a lot more than what they saw in the living room for having to put up with Cecil and Marvin and their bullshit. Had to do it, too, while that dumb Mexican slut Lana was busy doing Creep #1.

  She placed a hand on the back of Norbert’s neck and rubbed gently. Men liked this. All went for it. She knew the tricks. Get them to relax, whisper sweet nothings in their ear—and watch them open up, reveal their innermost thoughts and secrets. Gullible creatures that they were. Worked every time. Not that any of them had anything to say that she was remotely interested in.

  She soon had both hands working his upper back, rubbing, kneading the stressed out, knotted muscles she knew to be there, and was convinced would help in obtaining what she needed.

  “Tell me where Cecil keeps his stash, baby. I’ll make you feel good. In fact, I’ll do better than that: I’ll make it the thrill of a lifetime. . . .”

  Norbert belched, and shoveled a spoonful of the jambalaya into his mouth. Paused suddenly, not chewing or doing anything, but enjoying the wonderful effect her magical fingers were having on him. Stella had leaned her head in, no closer than she had to, to be sure, as the man smelled something awful; she had the smile going, about as genuine as her interest in him—but that didn’t matter, as far as she was concerned. She was about to get lucky. Could be. Might just be this smelly, sub-normal chauvinist would be able to provide her with enough information to point her in the right direction.

  Norbert’s features did not betray the slightest trace of an expression, as he stayed with his otherworldly stare, then without warning, spat out the entire load of stew he’d been holding back in his mouth, covering her face practically and leaving her gasping.

  Stella spun away. Felt like throwing up. Swiped at some of it with her hands. One of the fragments that she swiped at appeared to be a thumbnail, a female thumbnail at that—but her vision having been greatly impaired by stew juice and growing anger, that it did not entirely register. Instead, rage kicked in at having all that unwanted debris on her, that on instinct she considered locking her hands together and maybe delivering a hammer-like blow against the back of this bastard’s neck—or even punching him in the face, but that would have only resulted being left with sore fists. She reconsidered. Thought of something far better, as well as more practical: grabbed one of the metal chairs and swung it against the back of the slob’s head that knocked Norbert’s dentures out of his mouth and sent his face plopping hard into the bowl of slop before him.

  CHAPTER 157

  She left the kitchen in a hurry after that. Made it to the bathroom down the hallway to wash the mess from her face.

  Wiped it off. There was a distinct odor here as well. She paused, looked around. Noticed traces of blood along the edge of the tub; spots up and down the plastic shower curtain.

  She drew the curtain back—and there it was: feathers. Blood. The sick fuck had murdered another chicken. Just couldn’t stay away from it. Couldn’t get his pathetic dick up without killing a harmless chicken. It disgusted her.

  She rinsed her mouth out and sat on the toilet.

  Look on the bright side: at least Lana was the one who’d had to deal with it; Lana was the one who’d been in the bathtub when he offed the chicken. Too bad. Somebody had to do it.

  She washed her face some more. Looked around for a clean towel. In here? Didn’t trust the towels hanging on the rack and resorted to wiping her face with her hands.

  “What a sicko. What a sick, degenerate creep. This whole place gives me the willies.” Couldn’t shake what had gone down in the kitchen with the slob. Images stayed with her.

  She was talking to herself and didn’t care. “I have to get my hands on Stinky’s stash. He’s got to have shit hidden in the house somewhere. I know he does. No matter what he says.”

  Could be in that freezer in the kitchen, she thought. Only there was no way to get into the freezer or the refrigerators, or the cupboards even. Pry the lid on the freezer open? How? Refrigerators had chains on them. Cupboards had locks—top and bottom. Even if she were able to figure out how to get the slob out of there, there wouldn’t be a way to deal with all the chains and locks and the locked freezer lid. It made her nuts.

  She was out in the hallway again. Stood there. Taking in the various doors and trying to determine which ones she hadn’t tried to open. There was that one to Marvin’s room that she may have overlooked, and the one directly across the way from the kitchen. Wondered where it led to?

  She moved in the direction. On edge was how she felt. Antsy. She heard a door open down at the other end of the hall, toward the rear. It was the kitchen door. The imbalanced giant who had given her the slop shower was emerging. Someone seemed to be shoving him.

  Cecil? It was Cecil. She ducked behind the wall in the foyer area, for what good it did. Busted. Knew it. Heard them walk about halfway toward her and stop. When she peered from behind the wall she could no longer see where they were. There was an alcove where the door to the basement was.

  Had to be where they were.

  “Shame on you, Stella.” It was Biggs. Spoke from where he stood at the door to the basement. “Really. Sneaking around like that.”

  “Sneaking around?” Stella Martel stepped out in full view. “Why would I be?”

  “Not you.”

  “Frustrated.” She walked toward where the two males stood. “That’s what it is. I’m one frustrated chick right now. Can’t get the square bitch to participate. You saw the way she acted in the living room, like she’s better than everyone else. Was on my way upstairs to see if I can reason with her. Don’t know if it’ll do any good.”

  Biggs nodded. “Olivia?”

  “Who else? She’s a cunt. They’re cunts in that family: males, females. All of them.”

  “I wouldn’t be so hard on her.”

  “Of course not. Because you’re holding all the cards.”

  “Speaking of cards. Will you excuse me while I escort my good friend Norbert downstairs to the play room where a poker game is waiting? His peers refuse to commence without him.”

  “Poker? He doesn’t look like he’d know how to tie a shoelace without help.”

  “That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”

  “Maybe it is. Sorry. While you’re at it, see if you can get him to give up the dead cat. Odor is sickening.”

  “Do you hear that, Norbert?”

  Mr. Fimple’s response was a belch, followed by a series of gas emissions.

  “I think I better go up there and try to talk some sense into the diva.”

  Biggs nodded with one of his chilling, patented grins this time. Waited for Stella to walk back down the hallway toward the front. It wasn’t until he heard her begin to climb the stairs that would take her to the second floor did Biggs unlock the door to the basement. Had Mr. Fimple step through, and locked it back up.

  He walked down the hallway toward the rear. Reached a door on his left, across the way from the kitchen. Let himself in. He locked it back up. As before, ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  CHAPTER 158

  As Stella Martel climbed the stairwell to the second floor, she could not help but notice, as did Olivia Duarte earlier, that Biggs had lined various parts of both walls with pennies and nickels, even quarters.

  The quarters were up near the ceiling and too far for anyone to reach. It was like that wall in the kitchen.

  And then, way up there, on the ceiling itself, she realized that the fool had taped dollar bills. Actual money. He had dollar bills taped to the ceiling. Why? Some appeared to be from the Civil War. Old. Ancient. What was the point to any of it? To conceal the aging and discolored paint job? What sense did it make?

  It made the kind of sense he wanted it to make: show people you’re loaded. Impress the al
ways broke motherfuckers with your wealth.

  Idiot was right. Only rich idiot was closer to the truth.

  And he had that fat ugly dick with the mole on the knob. At least they’d always been able to talk that dumb Mexican bitch Lana Sepulveda to screw him, instead of her and Pearl having to do it.

  Definitely looked like he’d cut a chicken’s head off down there in the hallway bathtub. She was sure to hear about it from Da Bottom eventually. Watch her whine about it first chance she gets.

  Well, as far as Stella was concerned, she’d done her share by doing Deacon Moron. Fucked him and sucked his big dick more than once in the past. The thing about Marvin that made her half enjoy it was the asshole was hung like a pumpernickel baguette.

  She didn’t particularly enjoy fucking most men, but at least with Marvin she usually got off, whether it was intentional on his part or not. Truth was she preferred women, preferred going down on pussy, and one of these days she might even be able to convince “LaBelle of the Ball” to let her eat her out. That was something she’d been fantasizing about for some time now—but Pearl was straight and she had to be careful how she went about approaching her to let her taste that luscious muff.

  She reached the second floor hallway. Dug around inside her handbag and withdrew a purse. She held the purse behind her back and walked up to a door on her right. Went in.

  Olivia was sitting in the front row next to a shivering figure in a monk’s robe with a hoodie on. Another one, thought Stella. Biggs seemed to be the Pied Piper to the mental defectives of Porn Valley.

  This person, sitting in a chair on Olivia’s left, who turned out to be a woman, turned her head, looking in Stella’s direction.

  “Can you please turn up the heat? Please?”

  “We don’t have much time left.” Stella walked toward them. “Where’s the nose candy?”