Chapter 14
A Night of Debauchery
1
C hristmas was days away. The Killer’s feet punched through the frozen surface of the snow. He was tired of the all the Christmas displays. The obnoxious twinkle lights. The drunken fools wearing Santa hats. The gifts. Wetness seeped in at the neck of his boots. Stopping in front of Brock and Lance’s decrepit Victorian rental, he inspected the house. Aware enough, he invaded the home through the back door, by way of the garage. Peering in through the frosted square window, he acknowledged the wide space filled with overstuffed cardboard boxes and random clutter. Glancing upward, the Killer admired the darkness. Halting at the base of the cement stairs, he kicked the snow from his boots. Entering the house required no skill. He hiked upstairs and then strolled down the hallway to Brock’s room. Here he would find the desired weapon to execute his plan. This serrated weapon was the accurate tool, necessary for sacrifice. Brock always touted that stupid fucking knife everywhere he went. Well, he wouldn’t have too much time to miss it. Invading this foreign property, The Killer hydrated in the excitement of uninvited silence. These actions were obscene. Clearly, no one was home. This was a planned certainty. He’d witnessed both Brock and Lance entering the downtown hotel earlier in the evening. Then he’d watched Brock order a few drinks at the bar before returning to his room. Nothing about this criminal activity was unnerving and he was comforted by his belief that the Dark Lord walked with him. Guiding his dark intent.
The Killer wore all black to include a ski mask.
Heart racing and sincere, he prayed that Brock, Lance and Brianna enjoyed their final carnal activities. Each minute of their existence that remained should be savored. Soon, he would own their souls in Hell. Hopefully, each orgasm exceeded the prior. Involuntarily, his humanity couldn’t resist the slight elevation of jealousy as it intruded his thoughts. They’d better enjoy each other. All joy would be stripped from them within the following twenty-four hours. Deranged and twisted pain was to follow this night. Torture. The Killer couldn’t resist laughter at the promise of inflicted pain. Pondering the lives of those to be affected by this sacrifice stimulated his beautiful madness. The death and destruction of this loving friendship would birth black contentment. The Dark Lord would reward him for his actions in Hell. Sacrifice was a strengthening exercise. But this specific sacrificial crown was his masterpiece.
Entering Brock’s bedroom, The Killer maneuvered around enormous piles of scattered clothes.
Wow, Brock was a slob.
This room had never been cleaned.
The pungent scent of cologne captured his nasal passages. The odor wafted upward from beneath piles of mold-ridden socks. Very foul smelling. Sweat and cologne erupted into a near-tangible cloud upon accidentally kicking another pile. Unable to hold back, The Killer coughed into gloved hands. Stumbling forward, he steadied himself on the dresser.
Reaching outward, his fingers gripped the lip of the wooden dresser. His gloved hand swept right then left until his dancing fingers detected the weapon. Brock’s hunting knife. The hunting knife Brock displayed at parties as if it were a trophy, silly and bothersome to the intellectually enlightened mind.
Gripping the handle, his forearm muscles quivered. Squeezing the wooden grip, a stinger shot along his arm, beginning in his shoulder and concluding at his fingertips. This sensation was clearly the Dark Lord guiding him. He felt the presence. Tracing the shape of a circle on the laminated surface of the dresser, he then formed a five-pointed star in the middle with his index finger. A pentagram was the perfect symbol of worship to the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord demanded praise.
The Killer repeated this ritual until the wooden surface of the kitchen floor creaked. Then he halted before navigating his way out of the room. He crept down the hallway. Hurried down the stairs and then whisked out of the house. The mission was accomplished. Standing tall in the backyard, he glanced upward and stared at the home he’d violated. Spiritually, he’d grown. He didn’t worry that he’d been seen. His faith was strong. The Dark Lord hadn’t allowed visibility. This sacrifice was destiny. It was written. And the weapon was an important symbol of the darkness to follow.
He walked home. Rested well. Strength would be needed for the sacrifice.
2
Brock slept undisturbed for a long while and awoke just before noon. A thin beam of intense sunlight infiltrated the hotel curtains and heated his sealed eyelids. Once fully awake, oxygen pumped through his blood and surged energy into his new day. Twelve-hour slumbers allowed this welcome sensation. His heart thumped heavily when the heat radiating from Brianna’s naked skin warmed him. The curve of her fit ass accelerated his blood flow. Then, all three bodies glowed with perspiration in the light of this new day.
Brock woke Brianna by gently rubbing her ass cheeks. She moaned into consciousness and giggled at the sight of Brock’s smiling face and attentive erection. Once Lance awoke, they pried themselves from the bed and showered together. Barely any words were spoken beneath the warm soft-water spray. Last night they’d completed their bond, defined their unification. Tonight, they would execute Brianna’s fantasy. Jeff Torrance’s Christmas party began at eight o’clock sharp. A checklist needed to be completed. In order to pull off Brianna’s fantasy they’d need to obtain GHB. Disturbingly, Brock knew where to acquire this cowardly chemical. Toby—bar manager at The Quarter—acted as a date rape distribution hub. For a small fee, he’d dribble an ounce into a designated cocktail. Brock hadn’t the need for the stuff. Being the campus stud, he was up to speed on sexual prowess, the necessary avenue of persuasion. This current behavior resonated disturbingly to many parties. Hell, it was even more disturbing to inside parties. But that was the price for attaining unattainable sexual bliss. This brand of sexual assault would be digested into the category of different. The bartender didn’t care. He openly broadcasted his services in gym locker rooms and after-bar parties. He’d assisted a number of his favorite bar patrons in obtaining their non-compliant sexual conquests. If a fellow playboy needed assistance luring a girl that wasn’t quite sold—then for a modest fee—he’d slip a little something into the designated cocktail. This behavior was simply overlooked by the authorities, like J-walking. In addition, most of the violated women were afraid or embarrassed. Not much was reported and the process remained an unspoken secret sickness. A bottle containing the virus was full and one day soon the cork would pop or the glass would shatter. Not today. So far as Toby the barman knew, none of the affected had ever persuaded the authorities into investigating the matter or its source. And no one cared to sympathize with the receiving end of this deviance. Mostly, it was an age thing. Brock thought. And Brock didn’t hate this bartender. He merely despised him.
He despised everyone.
He despised himself.
After a hearty continental breakfast, Brock, Lance, and Brianna separated.
Brianna cleaned up.
Lance and Brock debated and hashed out the details of Brianna’s erotic plan. The emotional void that both men felt for Grady was intriguing on numerous psychological levels. One; the degradation. Two; the sociopathic behavior pattern. Three; the degree of perversion they were willing to adhere to for a simple orgasm.
Orgasms aren’t simple. It’s amazing how many complications are entered into the equation of deviated sex. Even natural, healthy orgasms are complicated.
Brock thought.
Brock entered the dingy bar, which smelled of stale beer, whiskey soaked carpet, and dish soap. The cheap dishwasher ran loudly from the kitchen. Brock stumbled when the bottom of his boot stuck to the floor. “Mop the floor, you fucking delinquent.” He stepped toward the bar and called out, “Yo Toby!”
“We’re closed!” Toby hollered from the kitchen.
“It’s Brock Hills!”
Toby’s dark complexion held a hint of red and his face was swollen from the previous night’s intoxicants, but he smiled. He stuck his head out from the swinging doors that sepa
rated the bar from the kitchen. His smile was wide, but his eyes were streaked red. They bulged. Obviously hung over, Toby shouted in a raspy voice, “Brock, what’s up?”
“I need ... something. A favor. You alone?” Brock whispered.
“Look, if your sick of banging chicks and you’re thinking about switch-hitting ... I ain’t your guy.”
“Fuck you, douche bag.” Brock laughed.
“You want a Bloody Mary?”
“I won’t turn one down.” Ingesting liquor sounded refreshing at the moment.
Toby lifted a bottle of clear liquor from the bar, shook his head, and returned the bottle to its place on the top shelf. “Only the best, right?”
Brock shrugged, walked to the bar. “Right by me.”
Toby dumped three sloppy shots of good vodka into two high balls and added a splash of tomato juice, a dash of hot sauce, plopped horseradish into the mix, and sprinkled celery salt on top. He handed one sopping glass to Brock.
He downed half of his drink in one swallow.
“Hair of the dog.”
The Bloody Mary was a pulpy mess that Brock gagged on while chugging. The horseradish sauce burned his throat and sinuses. The vodka stung his nostrils, inside and out. Closing his eyes, he relaxed and let the hangover-drink course down his throat. Once the alcohol soaked into the lining of his stomach a warm buzz drifted upward. A comforting dizziness swarmed his head. “Good stuff,” he lied.
“Right?”
“Right.” Brock took another sip. This time it wasn’t so bad.
“You got any GHB?” Brock choked on more horseradish sauce.
Toby laughed hard, spit up some of his drink. “How much would you like to see left at the end of the bar?” He stopped laughing. A stern expression found his swollen face. He had the look of a man that needed to shit.
Brock understood Toby’s underlying message. It was stupid and ridiculous, but he understood. Toby spoke in drug dealer speak. Brock would explain how much he needed and then Toby would tell him how much cash he would need to set at the end of the bar. This way, the police couldn’t bust Toby on the slight chance that Brock was recording their conversation. Toby was paranoid. He had reason to be. If the police learned that he’d distributed date rape enhancement drugs he’d wind up the rape-ee and not rape-ist.
What did that say about Brock? He wondered. Anonymously informing the police would be the morally correct solution, but he wouldn’t. So what did that say about him? He decided not to dwell on all the faces of the females that had fallen victim. There were probably hundreds.
Brock couldn’t even make eye contact with this sack of shit, which was strange given Brock wasn’t exactly an innocent. “Enough for a full nights sleep?”
“You want me to administer the medication? Just tell me which bitch and drag her sweet ass to the bar.” Toby made a strange noise that sounded like a wet fart, but came out as a sigh.
“Nah, just leave it at the end of the bar and I’ll leave you a twenty-spot.” Brock countered.
“Add five bucks for inflation,” Toby negated.
“Sure.” Brock dug into his pocket. “And don’t say a fucking word.”
“Have no fear, that’s what I do. Or... don’t do... rather,” Toby winked.
Toby disappeared into the backroom, sifted through the pocket of his black leather coat and returned with a travel-sized mouthwash bottle full of clear liquid. He set the bottle at the edge of the bar and then downed the rest of his Bloody Mary. “You wanna rail a line of blow?”
“No, I’m good.”
“I know you’re good, but blow makes everything better,” Toby persuaded.
“Ah, when you’re right you’re right,” Brock smiled.
Toby removed a glass vile from his shirt pocket, twisted it open, and then laid out four thick lines of white powder. Rolling a dollar bill and placing it beneath his left nostril, Brock inhaled the first line. The bitter chalk crawled down the back of his throat and numbed the lining of his esophagus as it dripped. His attention perked. He nodded. Inhaled a second line up the same nostril. “Good stuff, my friend,” he choked.
Toby took his turn. Inhaled heavily. Nodding, he rubbed trace powder onto his gums and then said, “Why thank you, sir. Have a good night. Maybe throw a Viagra down your throat if the coke gets too intense.”
Drug dealers always knew what drugs to mix in order to compensate for the side effects of the drug they sold. These mixes were good on the outside, bad on the inside. They rotted the soul.
Brock pocketed the GHB and left the bar. “Later.”
Toby grabbed a wet rag and wiped away remnants of the white powder from the bar.
3
For the party, Grady dressed casual and looked cool. His attire was more of a uniform. Jeans and a T-shirt. He never dressed appropriate for the icy Wisconsin weather. At first sight, most people thought Grady was an idiot because he didn’t bundle up, but soon they realized the cold had no effect on him. He never complained. Even in freezing conditions he would wear a T-shirt and wouldn’t rub his arms for warmth.
Running his wet hands through his hair, he styled the shaggy blond waves into something he agreed with. Squirted some decent cologne onto his neck and genitals and then headed out the door. He would meet Brianna at her dorm. From there they’d walk to the party.
The sidewalk was packed with freshmen and sophomore girls, bundled up in winter attire, laughing as they slid across the iced-over sidewalk. The snow fell heavy, making visibility difficult. These mostly attractive women tossed grins and smiles as they walked past Grady. Their seductive, drunken, inviting smiles explored him. He assumed this was a compliment. He hoped. Otherwise, it was an insult. Sometimes, he wondered if he was making an ass of himself by dating Brianna. Sure, she was gorgeous and had a great body. Her laid back attitude illuminated her attractiveness. Still, maybe she was playing Grady for a sucker. He was very aware that she possessed an abundance of deceit. Also, he could do better.
Whatever, she was still a great piece of ass and tonight’s adventure would be fun.
Arriving at the athlete’s dormitory, Grady climbed the steps, glanced over the directory and hit the numbers 0327 with the pad of his index finger. After an annoying moment, Brianna’s voice echoed through the metal speaker, “Hey, babe.” And then he was buzzed in.
He made his way to the elevator, pushed the “up” button and waited for the sliding doors to open. The low hum of the elevator car dropping to the lobby level rose in volume. At least three women giggled behind the aluminum doors. When they opened, a beautiful Latina girl with light caramel skin—not tall, but very fit—exited ahead of the other girls. She smiled at Grady and asked, “Are you that California boy Brianna goes with?”
Grady was smitten and this girl was aware. He didn’t hide his smile. Quickly, he visualized what it would be like to go with her. Just hold hands and smile with her while they strolled across campus. Took shots at The Quarter. Made love on a rainy summer night. The images passed, as did the beautiful girl and her friends.
Maybe another time?
For now he was with Brianna. The relationship wouldn’t last. That was for sure. In fact, as of late he wondered if he’d miss her. But then he remembered not to worry about it. The relationship would work out the way he’d planned.
4
Absorbing every fine detail, Brianna glanced at her reflection a second time. She wore tight, light colored blue jeans that hugged each curve of her body and complimented them with a powder blue flannel shirt. A silver heart shaped necklace dangled neatly, centered in her cleavage. Standing directly in front of the mirror, which hung at the far left of the bland dorm room, she smiled and accepted her appearance. Grady was in the elevator. Any moment he’d knock. She found it difficult to contain her excitement for tonight. Sure, the physical pleasure was enticing. But more than the sex, she was excited to make a cuckold of her boyfriend. Premeditated naughtiness was incredibly thrilling. Layered waves of emotion were at work. Some g
uilt, some thrill, some depressing, and some overwhelmingly attractive. All enticing. The only real guilt developed in the form of a question—question of her personal tolerance for evil. Was she evil for doing this? A bad person, maybe? She was about to drug her boyfriend, render him unconscious, and be ravaged by two boys while in his presence. These actions were degrading and criminal. And the raw thought made her feel steamy.
She giggled.
Grady knocked at the front door. She opened.
“Hey, babe.” She smiled and kissed him quick.
“Wow, sweetie, you look amazing. As usual.” Grady took a step back and digested Brianna’s attire. “You always know exactly what to wear. Just these plain clothes and you look like a super model, minus the strung-out-crack-cocaine thing.”
“Do you think supermodels are hot?” she asked, genuinely curious.
“Interesting question. I like the old school Victoria’s Secret models. But those aren’t the typical supermodels... I don’t think.”
“What do you think of when you think of a supermodel?”
“A gangly, skinny, heroine addict that’s just been fucked by her uncle... standing around in her underwear looking like she hasn’t eaten or taken a shit in three days.” Grady stated, making intense eye contact.
Brianna leaned forward, covered her mouth and belted out laughter. “And they wear gaudy eye make-up.”
“Don’t forget the eye makeup.”
She stood up straight. Pointed her index finger in Grady’s face and then deepened her voice to sound like a strict adult and said, “I mustn’t forget the eye makeup.”
They shared laughter. Brianna wondered if maybe she could love Grady. She was about to do something so horrid to him, but yet her mind allowed her to think sweetly of him, in this moment. Not knowing what to do next, she pushed herself close to him. Kissed him.
“You wanna go a round?” Grady asked.
She did. She started to shake her head no, but the tingling sensation fluttering below her belt and between her legs influenced her actions. “Yes, please.”
Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror Page 17
