We've killed one other boy. He was ten or eleven years old. This was two weeks ago. I chose him. I think the Germans felt weird about killing a kid, but they did it. He'd been haunting me for a long time, maybe six months. He worked with his father or uncle or someone like that in a hamburger stand near the windmill. He deep-fried potatoes, turned hamburgers over, etc., while his dad manned the counter. He was always there, working or sitting around reading comic books. He was skinny and girlish with pink cheeks, brown eyes, and long, wild hair. Something about how laconic he seemed drove me wild, not to mention his looks. I took the Germans to see him one day. They said they'd help, so we hung around until the stand closed at 6. The kid helped his dad sponge up grease and so on for a while. Then he kissed the man's cheek and strolled down the street swinging his arms, balancing on a crack in the sidewalk like kids do. We followed. The dad didn't notice us. Luckily the kid turned down a narrow street with boarded-up buildings on one side, elevated train tracks on the other. Jorg and Ferdinand ran ahead and wrestled him to the ground, which didn't take much effort, obviously. By the time I caught up, Jorg was waving his knife at the kid, who was blinking and sniffling. You understand? Jorg was saying. The kid shook his head. Jorg said the kid's English sucked. I said, Let's get him home quickly. They yanked him up to his feet, then we hustled along. I think an old man spotted us and realized something was wrong, but he didn't actually see us go into the windmill, thank God. Up, up, up, Ferdinand said, lifting the kid by his shirt collar. I was behind, Jorg in front. The kid's shirt had raised up. The small of his back was incredibly skinny and white. I stroked it a little, then slid my palm into his pants. His ass was so little and perfect it felt more like a prototype than a real ass, which made me think about what you once said about Kevin's ass, that it was a "toy ass." Actually, the kid looked a little like Kevin did then. Anyway, he kept looking startled over his shoulder at me. Upstairs Ferdinand threw the kid across the room really hard. He hit a wall and slid down to the floor. He started crying. I knelt beside him and tried to kiss, but he hid his face in the crook of one arm. I shook his shoulder. Kiss me, I said. He tried to pull away. I grabbed his head, slammed it against the wall. After that he stopped crying and looked very dazed. I dragged him toward the futon by one wrist, which was easier to do than it sounds since he didn't weigh much. Jorg said, Let us know when you need us. Okay. I laid the kid out on his back, unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, unzipped his short pants, and gave them a yank. He didn't wear underpants or have pubic hair yet. His genitals were too tiny to be very interesting. I put my lips close to his face and whispered, I love you, baby. I really felt like I did. You understand? I asked. He shook his head. It's true, I said. I undressed. The Germans stood by the refrigerator, as usual, drinking, half paying attention. The kid watched me intently, eyes fixed on my hard-on. I couldn't read their expression. I knelt over his face, aimed my cock at his mouth. His eyes were still fixed on the head of my cock, vaguely cross-eyed by that point, because it was so close. I thought that looked sexy, I don't know why. I dabbed a little drop of pre-come on his lips, smearing it around with my thumb. I forced the thumb inside his mouth, even deep down his throat. Then I brought it out coated with spit and smeared his lips again. I pushed in my cock. I couldn't fit much inside. The difference was too great. When I forced it he started to squeal. So the Germans rushed up with a long piece of rope and tied the kid's hands in case he decided to struggle, though like I said, Dutch guys don't fight back, period. Physically, anyway. Ferdinand got out the heroin and cooked it up in a spoon. He shot it into a vein behind one of the kid's knees. It took effect right away. The kid's squeals sort of faded. He sounded more like a cat mewing. His eyes rolled back in his head, but he wasn't OD'ing, according to Ferdinand, who seemed to know. Still we kept his wrists tied in case. The Germans went back to the fridge. The kid looked more beautiful than before. It had something to do with the mildly lush build of his body combined with that sort of erased angel face. I leaned over and french-kissed his mouth for a while, sucking juice from his lips, biting them until they leaked a little blood, sucking that, then finger-fucking his throat. The next time I rammed my cock down there and managed to get half inside. But it came out coated with blood, which I scraped on a finger and licked. I slapped his face five, six, seven times. It turned scarlet. I fucked it some more, gripping him by the ears. I screwed his face all the way down my cock, until his nostrils were full of my pubic hair. Then I pulled out, cradled his head in one hand, and punched his face with the other. It was bleeding furiously from the lip and nose. I squeezed his throat, banged the back of his head against the floor. I'm almost sure I heard the Germans laughing. Afterward he was still breathing, just raspily. I licked every inch of him from the callused soles of his feet to the part in his hair. He tasted amazingly sweet and mild. Someone once told me young boys taste like nuts. He sort of did. I probably would have paid hundreds to fuck him, much less to murder him. I got so impressed at one point I lay my head on his ass and let his taste kind of melt in my mouth. Jorg, I want to open him up, I mumbled. He came over and squatted nearby, handing me the Swiss army knife. I rolled the kid over, cut his ropes. I pressed the point of the blade into the base of his throat and made a long, straight slit all the way down his chest, stomach. It wasn't deep enough, so I went over it again. This time I managed to part a small area between his nipples and see maybe two inches square of purple material. I licked all inside there. It was incredibly lush. Blood was leaking from five or six spots along the cut. I wish he could see this, I said. He's too fucked up, Jorg said. I went over the cut once more. It opened up. I pulled back the halves of white stomach flesh and saw his jumbled yellow guts, which had a weird strong stench. His chest was still rising and falling. That fascinated me for some reason, so I punched his face several more times. Then I deeptongued his slobbery mouth for a while. I was really delirious. I gave Jorg the knife. Cut him more open, I said. I concentrated on kissing, while Jorg hacked away in my peripheral vision. I tried to induce vomiting with my fingers. His system was too broken down by that point or whatever. When I looked up, Jorg was trying to carve off the kid's left leg. I watched that for a while. It didn't work for some reason. Blood was just barreling out of the area. Ferdinand was leaning over Jorg's shoulder. The kid's insides were much more science-fictional than I imagined. Still, there was something so ugly and earthy about them. I could understand why they were meant to be hidden away. Anyway it made me more curious about his ass, which I hadn't explored yet for some reason. Wait, I said. Jorg quit carving. We tipped the kid onto his side. At that, guts sloshed out of the stomach wound onto the futon. Jorg sat there staring down at the organs in shock. Ferdinand couldn't believe it. He reeled away, shouting something in German. I asked Jorg, Is the kid still alive? He didn't think it was possible. I didn't care all that much anymore. I wiped the blood off his ass as best I could, grabbed the calf of his one intact leg and bent it way forward, opening the asscrack. I licked it out for a long time, while Jorg hacked the rest of the body in ways I could feel more than see. The kid was rocking around like an earthquake. I felt totally at peace. His hole tasted metallic. I stretched it open and sniffed. The bowels reeked as harshly as I've ever known. I spat on the hole and fucked it brutally, which wasn't easy. The thing was a pinhole. Jorg kept stabbing the corpse kind of lazily. Then I got an idea. Stomp the kid's head, I said. Jorg jumped up, did. It was really horrific. The back of the head just caved in. The hair got all goopy with blood and brain tissue or something. Jorg pulled down his pants and dropped some shit on the crushed head. It was facedown by this point. Turn the corpse over, I said. He did. The face was still beautiful, smiling, which I couldn't believe. So the Germans and I got together and stomped until his face wasn't human. That made cracking and gurgling sounds. We rolled the corpse onto its stomach. I enlarged the asshole with the Swiss army knife and worked one of my hands to the wrist inside. It was wild in there, like reaching into a stew that had started to cool. But it was ti
ght too, a glove or whatever. The Germans were carving their names in the corpse, laughing. I pumped my hand in and out of the ass feeling weirdly furious, with the dead kid I guess. Then we cut him apart for a few hours, and studied everything inside the body, not saying much to one another, just the occasional, Look at this, or swear word, until there was nothing around but a big, off-white shell in the middle of the worst mess in the world. God, human bodies are such garbage bags. We fell asleep curled on the floor. I didn't wake up until late the next day. When I opened my eyes, Ferdinand and Jorg were scooping up parts of the kid in their hands and plopping them into plastic bags. The futon was ruined. I bought a new one. The floor's still blackish from where the kid's blood soaked into the wood. We'd demolished him to the extent that there was no sense of what he'd looked like in the pieces of him that were left. It was like we'd erased him. It's weird. None of us can remember his looks in any detail. When I try to picture him, I just go blind and my cock gets unbelievably hard.
Now you know. Here's what I'm hoping-you're who I believe you are, which means I hope you're like me, because we used to be so much alike, right? Trust me. I want you to live here with me and participate in this discovery, like we used to do in our teens, but with this major transcendence or answer I've found in killing cute guys. The Germans have gone to Portugal or somewhere for a while. So it'd be you and me. We'll do it ourselves. It's totally easy. Nothing's happened to me. I feel strong, powerful, clear all the time. Nothing bothers me anymore. I'm telling you, Julian, this is some kind of ultimate truth. Come on, do it. Am I wrong about you? Write to me care of the American Express office in Amsterdam.
Dennis
DENNIS. DON'T DO ANYTHING UNTIL I GET THERE. ARRIVING BY TRAIN 8 PM FRIDAY. BRINGING KEVIN WHO'S STAYING WITH ME. MEET US. JULIAN.
WILDER
1989
Kevin glanced up from his copy of Tolkien's The Lord of the Rings, Book One. The train had sped two, three hundred miles since he'd last checked the view, but it looked like the same fenced-off field out there, only his face and Julian's were superimposed, and every detail, including them, was as gray as a silent film.
He kicked his brother's leg. It had wound up between his legs, resting against the right almost flirtatiously.
Julian's sunburned face spasmed, especially the mouth. "Huh?!"
"Your leg," Kevin said, lowering his eyes to the novel. This was the fifth time he'd read it. Its narrative felt like his ulterior life. There was a snapshot of him at ten or eleven years old with it perched in his lap. His eyes, which only seconds before had been deep in the novel, were fixed on the lens and resembled silvery, glistening caves to another dimension or some thing. He thought so. The shot belonged in one of those "unexplained phenomena" books, next to a crude little sketch of a UFO.
He read for a while, extremely lost, happy, etc.
He looked at himself in the glass again. It was so dark outside that an orangy reflection of Julian, him, the insides of the train, had superseded the view. Kevin's eyes looked messed-up in a positive way, like people's on Ecstacy. The train, other passengers, were just sort of there, a backdrop. Julian seemed nervous. No, not seemed, was. Nervous. Kevin closed the book arounda finger.
Frisk: A Novel (Cooper, Dennis) Page 10
