“For cripe’s sakes, here comes the Tri-County Journal bunch.” Huckleberry let fly with a wad of phlegm to announce his contempt.
Things were getting sticky, and they still didn’t have any leads in the case.
It started with him wanting to keep a little something for posterity. Then it hit him: posterity…posterior. If he was already going so far out of his way why not just crank it up a notch?
And crank he did. In fact, he had a new batch of meth underway in his bathtub.
Yeah, the whole posterity thing had been so very sappy: photos, love notes, locks of hair, panties, fingernails, vials of blood. The blood was the last straw.
His meth was tasty in pellet-sized amounts wrapped in tissue, but he preferred mixing it with some vitamin B-12—got to stay healthy, right? Of course, there was also the income issue. His blood-soaked little hobby had snubbed work in the nose. In fact one could rightly say that his deadly pastime had taken the nose clean off of working, for the purpose of spite if nothing else, so his haunted nights and days of mirthless revelry had no obstacles. While out hunting he could sell small quantities of his homemade crystal at seventy-five dollars a gram. Who was going to argue the point? He was the only source in the closest four counties at least. With a little more initiative he could be rolling in money, the next Scarface, but he only wanted enough to get by unnoticed.
“The blood shall flow…like wine.” He’d heard that somewhere once, and it had made an impact on him, an impact like no other statement he had heard. Or had it come to him on the dark dream tides of slumber? Not likely considering his meth habit, which kept him up for days at a time.
Sappy…it was just so sappy to get mushy about his relationships with women. Yes, he should benefit from the sap, not unlike the natives had. The sap would flow like wine, and he would imbibe it with impunity.
But what use was sap for a man like him? Well, it could be distilled into a kind of syrup for one thing. Syrup for pancakes maybe, or biscuits, or maybe not distilled but made into a form of gravy—even so, he preferred the distillation process. If he was anything he was a process man, not a tit man or even an ass man as some would believe. The process, the act, was the thing. He’d gotten hooked on it during his time as a methamphetamine manufacturer.
No, the sap distillation process was not precisely comparable to handling muriatic acid or ethyl ether, sodium hydroxide or eyedroppers and Pyrex dishes. But, just as with his standard ingredients, the sap had multiple uses. The muriatic—or hydrochloric—acid was well suited for games of musical chars with his lady friends. Well, they weren’t friends exactly, but they got burned just the same.
The final piece of the psychological puzzle, however misshapen it might be, was the overheard line, “Make me wanna tap that ass, baby.” This was in a crowded nightclub about one hundred fifty miles from home, but even so Ryder couldn’t contain himself. He dragged the first woman he came across into the bathroom. Once inside a stall he yanked down her stretch pants, ignoring her enticing voice suggesting positions and spanking and such, instead choosing to stab a pen into her right buttock…deep into the flesh, penetrating all the way down to the bone of her pelvis in one severe thrust. The rich maroon which immediately welled up from the depths of her muscle and fat acted as a magnet, for his face was pressed against the solidness of the nameless woman’s goose flesh before he knew what had transpired.
Her screams prompted a return to reality, causing him to flee the scene after only two or three slurps of blood. The entire episode took less than ninety seconds but it was the pivotal event which shaped the course of Ryder’s life.
All available hands from law enforcement throughout the tri-county area were gathered in the Chapelle Municipal Building. The briefing covering the murders had lasted well over an hour. The wounds on the victims, positioning of the bodies, anything that may have been of some relevance to the case was scrutinized.
Sheriff Madison switched the lights back on, pausing to shut off the lamp in the slide projector before asking, “Anything you’d wike to add, Big C?”
All eyes turned to the medical examiner. “What we got on our hands, gentlemen, is some manner of grandfuckery yet to be witnessed by mankind.”
“Not quite,” came a voice from the back. Again all eyes turned, this time to focus on an individual of foreign descent, Middle Eastern by the looks of it. “I’m Special Agent Norm Hasaad of the FBI. Just flew in out of the Minneapolis office.” After an awkward silence he added, “My supervisor called to announce our involvement.”
Madison hitched up his belt, the enormous and excessively polished American Eagle belt buckle threatening to blind Hasaad. “Invowvement? Just how do you mean that?”
One of the others muttered, “Towel head.”
Hasaad was not thrown off; he’d dealt with such comments his whole life. “Let’s not play games, gentlemen. I’m sure you’ve been made well aware of the scale on which this investigation is being conducted.”
Around the room the local law enforcement wore only blank stares. “You mean the FBI is after the same perp?”
Exasperated, Hasaad explained in detail the profusion of bodies which had been littering the St. Paul/Minneapolis area for well over two years, the bodies in Montpellier, Vermont, in Concord, New Hampshire, in Lansing, Michigan, in Madison, Wisconsin.
“Madison—now ain’t that a coincidence,” Huckleberry said, elbowing his sheriff and triple-hawking a resistant lugie.
Another officer spurted, “And ain’t it ironic: Lansing, Michigan? That’s all this dude’s been up to, lancing!” This drew a few chuckles.
Hasaad pressed on. “Now that I’ve put forth the effort to make sure we’re all on the same page why don’t you fill me in on the latest developments here.”
“But we just done bweifed evwybody.”
“Well, practice makes perfect. Let’s hear the details.”
And so they began again, in painful detail.
Ryder was alive—so alive. He danced around his lady, swirling with the rhythm of the music, content in his drugged state. The crimson liquid filling his goblet spilled over several times during his gyrations, but this was of little consequence to him. To Anne, though, it made all the difference in the world.
She was strapped into a cruel metal chair, her mascara caked in the lines of her face. The chair had been altered, the cushions removed so that the rough frame bit into her exposed skin, and portions had been broken away so that her naked rear end dangled unprotected. The bucket beneath her stank of two days’ excrement and urine, but she had gotten used to it. What she could not adjust to was the blood loss.
Prior to this experience Anne had prided herself on her shapely “asset,” so to speak. Her slender frame was still on par with those college girls only half her age, but with the flat chest God had dealt her she focused on sculpting her hindquarters into a flesh and blood manifestation of perfection: symmetry with the just the right resistance to the touch. But with the violation her tormenter had perpetrated…
A crudely made tap protruded from her left buttock, the sharpened steel driven in with sufficient force to even penetrate the underlying bone. The slow suction of her life fluids into a collection bag was the last thing she wanted to think about.
“Please…” she sobbed for the thousandth time.
Ryder caught himself in mid-motion, stopping to consider the distilled blood in his goblet. He exited and returned with a sterling silver platter of crackers and gourmet cheese spreads. Proffering the platter he said, “Here you go, my dear. Have some cheese and crackers with your whine.”
This mockery drove Anne into a seething fury, but her maddened attempts to free herself and attack him only succeeded in harming her further. The stream of curses that followed only aroused Ryder. She hesitated for a moment, then pleaded with him to let her die.
; Ryder admiringly fondled the two IV lines feeding fluids and nutrients into Anne’s system, began licking and kissing them. “No chance of that, babe. You’re in for the long haul.”
As with the others he had bestowed his knowledge upon Anne. He explained the entire involved process, even as he finished securing her restraints. He hoped to inspire in his guests the same appreciation for the process he himself had. The collection of the blood from bag after bag, the arrangement of trays in the oven used for slowly simmering the blood, the fact that forty gallons of tree sap produce one gallon of syrup whereas he found it took even more blood to create the kind of syrup he was after.
“The finished syrup will boil at seven degrees higher than the boiling point of water. What do you think of that?”
The ungrateful wenches were never impressed.
This Anne had been one of the few willing to return to his humble abode, a fact which had secured a somewhat merciful fate for her. Not like the others—if she thought this was bad, she didn’t even want to know what the others suffered. After their night together Ryder had sprung the bad news. Four orgasms past midnight he had informed her, “You’re a great lay baby, but you’re gonna bleed to death in my basement. It’s that simple.”
Anne continued to sputter broken words and tears. The latest addition to Ryder’s feeding family smirked from the shadows in the corner. “What a sorry little bitch you turned out to be,” Serena stated. “Have some fucking dignity at least, woman.”
The unwelcome comments silenced Anne and drew a glare from Ryder—frolicking, sweating Ryder. He wasn’t sure what the deal was with Serena, but she excited him more at every turn. A livid sphere of sensuality ensconced her, making every insult a come on, every disinterested sigh a come-hither suggestion of perversions to be indulged in.
When he got Serena back to his place there had been no foreplay whatsoever. Once inside the door she merely turned and asked, “Isn’t this the part where you drag me down to the basement and torture me to death?”
At first it had been quite a thrill to be confronted with such a willing victim, almost as if he had been blessed with a partner. However, after only a few hours, she was proving to be a bit too much of a challenge. The brandings and acid spills that customarily accompanied games of musical chars had cracked Anne’s will, but proved tedious at best to that inscrutable Serena.
At length he put his savory drink aside and stood over her. “I’m afraid you don’t understand the gravity of the situation, dear.”
Serena cocked her head, offering him a sardonic grin. “Why don’t you show me how much trouble I’m in, big man.”
Back at the municipal building the second briefing was winding down. The facts had been covered like rotten meat obscured by feasting maggots, yet Agent Hasaad was still dissatisfied. “What we need to figure out is why the bodies are now appearing here, fifty miles south of Cincinnati. One thing you didn’t cover was any possible leads.”
Frommer from North Healy cleared his throat. “Well, we got them sick fucks Josh and Perry up in—”
“No, I’ve already gone over their files, and the files of all the other murderers within a hundred mile radius. I’m talking about something only a local would know about, the kind of thing what usually, well, you know. Gets left out of the records, for one reason or another.”
The sheriff placed an arm around the city-slicker’s shoulders, walking him toward the door. “Why thank you, Mistuh Hasaad. I do beweeve you just pwoved my point in case. This is an investigation which calls for the sensibiwities of the good wocaw waw enfowcement.”
Hasaad kept an even keel. “Kindly remove your arm from my person, Sheriff Madison. I’m not going anywhere.”
“Why now Agent Hasaad, do I sense some hostiwity towahds my fwendwy gestuh?”
“Not at all. It’s just that, being law men, you and I both know that touching a person against their will gives them the full right to punch you hard enough to knock the lisp out of your mouth. Hypothetically speaking.”
The men were on edge—none had ever seen Sheriff Madison spoken to in such a manner.
Madison chuckled. “Your cahh. But if you think gettin’ dihty is the wusst thing can happen diggin’ awound in a case wike dis heah case, I got some news fo’ you. You best be pwepared to fill in the hole…if ya know what I mean.”
The two stood only inches apart. “Sheriff…just what the hell are you trying to say?”
“Wet’s get to wohk, boys,” Madison said, taking his time in disengaging his eyes from those of the Fed.
Ryder led Serena deeper into his inner sanctum, leaving Anne behind to sob privately. Angels sang merciful shrieks and whimpers in the chambers ahead, but he had no intention of exposing them to Serena. Not yet, anyhow. If she kept it up with her attitude she might end up staying among them for a few nights; that would teach her the proper respect. After all, he still hadn’t tapped her ass so there were plenty of options left.
“Nice. You take all the girls here, or am I just special?”
“You can think you’re special if you want. Just keep moving.”
They entered a room tiled with marble and paneled in hand-carved mahogany. It had taken years to craft this room into his ideal lounge, but Ryder had managed it all on his own. The process was the thing. A bar waited for them and he sat Serena down on one of the five stools, her chains clanking. Not in the least bit distraught she merely examined the woods composing the bar itself, a mixture of seventeen lumbers indigenous to Costa Rica, many of them beautiful shades of purple.
“Not bad,” she said.
Ryder chuckled to himself. He’d crack this cookie, even if it meant being left with nothing but crumbs. “Thirsty?” he asked, casually sliding behind the bar. Looming on the wall behind him were a series of asses, all of them afflicted with the same homemade taps. Tubes filled with blood streamed down to a single mechanism. “I’ve got the finest asses from around the world on tap. Imports, domestic, you name it.”
She studied the pallid cheeks, long abused yet quite obviously still living flesh. They protruded from the wall through spaces that seemed to be form fit. Surveying the room further revealed two doorways she had not noticed on entering. Signs above each door indicated “Ladies” and “Gents.”
“Look, I kind’ve need to powder my nose.”
Ryder couldn’t be happier. This allowed him the opportunity to take Serena on the grand tour and show off his proficiency with plumbing. In the men’s room three preserved heads were mounted on the tiled walls, each with a gaping mouth ready for insertion and disposal of waste. “Talk about deep throat,” he joked. The toilets in both rooms consisted of four preserved heads split open and attached to each other, forming the circle over which one would do their business.
“Waste not want not, eh? Why couldn’t you just buy regular toilets? Too fucking cheap?”
“Just get on with it, will you?” The fact that he watched did not deter her. On the contrary it seemed to stimulate her, which was another pleasant surprise.
Back out at the bar Serena finally relented and took a glass. The dark one on the end intrigued her.
“Straight from India. Don’t worry, it’s on the house.” Ryder chuckled again, never failing to be amused by his own jokes. “Now remember, this is not processed. It’s the straight shit. Raw. You get a disease, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
She laughed. “That’s rich. Here I am, a prisoner in some dungeon of blood-draining cannibal horror, and I’m supposed to be worried about diseases.”
He smiled darkly as she gulped down one shot glass after another.
In the following days law enforcement agencies worked around the clock. With the bodies from all states attributed to the same perp the body count rose to forty-two. From what they could discern he operated alone in areas known for their tree sap indus
tries. Something just didn’t fit though. Why some little no-name town in Kentucky, with no tree sap industry? What was the connection?
They checked every possible lead. Some employees for the syrup companies had worked in more than one of the jurisdictions involved, but none had lived in or near even half the cities, much less all of them. Bizarre sadomasochists were rounded up by the dozen and given the full treatment—but they enjoyed it too much and had to be released for the comfort of the police.
During this time Hasaad earned the respect of a few open-minded officers, but largely the tensions escalated. It did not help matters that he continually asked: “What kind of name is Gambrille Gores anyway? Why would anybody name a town that, of all things?”
His popularity plunged further when word got around about his time at the FBI academy. Huckleberry went around behind his back, spitting and whispering in the others’ ears, “His nickname was ’The Human Latrine’…if ya know what I mean.”
Hasaad tried to tune out the snickers that followed, but it didn’t make a difference. Soon enough they turned their frustrations regarding the case on each other, and whatever small progress was being made ground to a dead halt.
When Ryder first began his foray into the consumption of human blood he was all alone, a true novice with nothing but thirst to guide him. The first few were sloppy, even he had to admit that. Despite the rough spots the rush of capturing those women and drinking their blood had been too great to ever consider going back. He became increasingly selective about the victims when his needs became more frequent. In an effort to deflect blame all the victims began to be chosen from want ads in the bondage scene across the Northeast and Midwest.
Devil Entendre Page 12
