Goon

by Edward Lee

  “A train, huh?” she said. “Well, I might be interested, but—”

  “But what, baby?” Reed, then, without reservation, rubbed the deflated serpent that was his penis.

  “I want to know who’s going to be there, you know?”

  “Well, like I said, they all cool guys. No rough stuff. Horrific Harry Haylor, Cactus Zack, Rockin’ Randy Viper.”

  “What about…Goon?” she dared to ask.

  Goon?” Reed gaped. “Aw, shit, girl. Don’t’s ya tell me you gotta thing for him! That big weirdo—he never hang out with us other grapplers. No one never see him. Shit, most any town we gotta show, afterward we all’s hit the local bar and shoot shit. But Goon? No way. That man never join us. N’fact, I don’t’s think I ever heard him say more’n two words. I worked a card with the guy last year. Smacked him on the head with a two-by-four, and you know what that crazy fucker whispered to me in the next clinch? He said ‘Hit me harder.’ And, I means, this was a real two-by-four. You gots to be careful how you hit a guy, else you could wind up crackin’ his skull or even killin’ him. But this nut says ‘Hit me harder.’ So’s I did, and I’se hit him hard. That fucker falls down like the work says to do, and I win the match. But I sees him in the dressing room a half hour later like nothing happened. Shee-it, girl. That guy Goon, he ain’t right. I mean, I hit this guy hard enough to knock me out.”

  For whatever reason, this information did not surprise her. “I want to do Goon,” she said. “I need to see him.”

  “Well you can foe-get that, girl. I just got done tellin’ ya. The man don’t go out.”

  He don’t go out, huh? Melinda thought. Tell that to the six girls he’s already raped and murdered.

  Reed the Butcher gave a tilted grin, cock-eyed. “A’corse, you’se come to this party wiff me—ya know, have some fun wiff dah fellas—and one’a dem might’s be able ta introduce ya to Goon’s manager. What say, baby?”

  Cock is cock, she reasoned. Melinda shrugged. “So where’s the party?”

  ««—»»

  “Holy motherfucking shit,” Straker muttered. He winced, appalled, at the thin, naked thing on the morgue slab. The stick-figure shone pallid white in the overhead fluorescents: slat-ribbed, a couple of tattoos, breasts so small they appeared nonexistent. And the nipples… Straker squinted. “What happened to her—”

  “It’s my consensus,” Beck replied, “that the decedent’s areolae were bitten off.” Jan Beck ran VSP’s Criminal Evidence Section. The witchlike woman was a stoic veteran of death. Dull, deadpan eyes assessed the corpse from behind large-framed glasses. Black hair frizzed out like an explosion, and she spoke as though she had sinus problems. “The m.o.’s identical to the other six. Death resulted from a transect fracture of the number three and four cervical vertebrae. Russell County Sheriff’s Department found her in a ravine off State Route 154. They called VCU when they took one look at her. But at least we got an ID this time.”

  Straker looked up. “The first six were all Jane Doe’s. This one had ID on her?”

  “That’s a fact.” Beck closed the hatch of an autoclave, no doubt sterilizing her post instruments. “Like the others, the perp threw her clothes out too.” Then Beck approached another table on which lay some bloodied garments; with forceps, she picked up a pair of shiny silver hot pants. “Until now, he’s made every effort to reduce the likelihood of name ID. Cuts off the hands and feet, pulls the teeth, removes the eyes, and never-never—has he left a wallet or purse or anything that would contain any identification. But this time he slipped up. We found her driver’s license in the back pocket of these.”

  Straker frowned at the hot pants, then cast a glance at the remaining garments. There wasn’t much. Black fishnet stockings, a pink haltertop, darker pink high heels. The clothes were another parity. Sleazy, tacky, like a city streetwalker, just like the others. Only problem was there were no real cities in Russell County, nor in Pulaski, Edmunds, or Danner—the counties where the other bodies were found. All hick jurisdictions. “Even roadhouse whores and strippers don’t dress like this.”

  “How would you know, Captain?”

  Straker declined an answer. A real sense of humor. “Okay, you ID’d her, great. So what’s her name?”

  “Susan Bilks, 28 years old. Lives in south county.”

  Lives? Straker thought. You mean lived. He looked again to the body, and quailed.

  Footless, handless, eyes extracted from their sockets. Nipples bitten off. Wisps of stringy blond hair lay stuck to the sides of her head.

  Straker turned away, lit a cigarette in spite of the NO SMOKING! FLAMMABLE CHEMICALS! sign. “Was she raped, uh, you know, like the others?”

  “You bet,” Beck affirmed. “Somebody did a cock job on her that would make Caligula puke. Joy juice in every hole, and lots of it. The B524 peptide scan estimates that she had about 60 cc’s of sperm in her stomach. I aspirated another 60 or 70 from her rectal vault, and her vaginal barrel? Shit, Captain, it was Cum City. The girl’s cervical cap was ruptured; the guy’s cock was in her cervix when he came. He blew his wax all the way up into her ampullas and fallopian tubes. Must’ve been a hundred c.c.s of jizz hemorrhaged up there. Our man comes enough for 20 guys, Captain.”

  Straker was wincing. The way Beck talked never failed to make him sick. “So it probably was 20 guys, Jan. You know, a—”

  “A gangbang?” Beck shook her head. “64s like this? You know the ride. They take forever to get the lab results back. Who cares about a dead Jane Doe out in the boondocks? But CellMark Labs in Maryland came back with the DNA test on the jizz from the first three girls. It’s all the same, a five-probe match each time. All that cock-snot was dropped by one man.”

  Joy juice. Wax. Cock-snot. Straker, a man of protocol, simply could not think in such terms. Gangbangs? Cum City? No. No.

  “And I presume that the…sexual traumas occurred…”

  Jan Beck nodded. “Post extremis, Captain. This party started after her neck was broken. Just like the others.”

  “Well then. I’ll leave the…cock-snot to you, Jan,” he said, “and get back to my own areas of expertise.” A final, accidental glance at the savaged girl caught him like a hook in the face. The vagina gaped, the majora hanging like lunchmeat. The sphincter too yawned at him, so loose now in its post-rigor: a distended socket of flesh, and a trickle of remnant semen glistening there. Straker left the autopsy suite, made it halfway across the State Reserved Lot, before he bent over and displaced the entire contents of his stomach onto the asphalt.

  ««—»»

  “Okay, great,” she said. “You’re Goon’s manager.” A snick-snick-snick sound seemed to emanate from her, chewing fruity gum as she talked. “But I ain’t interested in Goon’s manager. I’m interested in Goon.”

  Jon Felander ordered her another drink. What’s her name again? Mary? Marie? Shit. “Well that’s good, because Goon is interested in you.”

  “Oh, come on!” Her fruity breath gusted with her excitement. “Really? You mean Goon’s noticed me?”

  Tell them what they want to hear, Felander thought. “Yeah. After his match tonight with Rocky Morton, Goon caught a glimpse of you in the crowd. ‘That brunette with the pink pants,’ he said. ‘See if she wants to party ‘cos she’s one hot gal.’”

  The girl—Mary, Marie, whatever—absolutely squealed with delight. The crowd at the back bar looked over, which made Felander suppress a smirk. The last thing he wanted was attention. After all, he was taking the girl to her death.

  Not that she’ll ever be seen again, he reminded himself. These places were all the same: closest bar to the arena, which were almost always dives. After the match, most of the grapplers on the card would flock here for a shitface, and the ringrats followed them like flies on a shitwagon. Felander glanced over his shoulder. Ted Rodz hamming it up with Johnny Adams, Dashing Dick Dude arm wrestling with Rex Ruger. And ringrats everywhere in between.

  “Okay, so what’s the scoop?” Mary sipped her
drink—a big sip. Then her hand found its way to Felander’s lap. “You take me to Goon in exchange for what? Head? I give good head. If you don’t believe me, ask half the guys in DSWC.”

  “No, it’s not like that,” Felander assured her. God knew, he’d had his share of ringat blowjobs. I’d sooner stick my dick in a garbage disposal…

  Mary, Marie, Whatever—smirked. “Okay, you wanna fuck me first, fine. You and Goon wanna do a threesome with me, fine.”

  No dice there, either. A lot of these ‘rats were cute, sure, but to say that they were well-used would be the all-time understatement in the history of human sexuality. Felander could think of nothing less enticing than putting his pride and joy into an orifice that had been reverted to a communal sperm-dump/human herpes culture.

  “I’m game for anything. Just so long as Goon’s in the picture. I’ll take you on plus fifty other guys as long a Goon’s at the end of the line.”

  “Trust me, will ya? Goon’s not into all that kinky group stuff. He’s strictly one-on-one, and he’s waiting for you right now. Let’s go.”

  She fidgeted on her chair, a like a little kid who’d just been told by daddy that he’s taking her to the mall to see Santa. Only Santa, in this case, didn’t come down the chimney.

  ««—»»

  Her name, in actuality, was not Mary nor Marie nor Whatever. It was Maureen. Strawberry blond, 5’7”, a nice 34B. Secretary by day, ringrat by night. Some people liked broccoli as opposed to stringbeans—well, Maureen liked wrestlers as opposed to any other kind of man.

  And Goon as opposed to any other wrestler.

  She never bothered to even try to figure it. She’d had her share of typical flings and even romances—one redneck, loser, and no-account after the next. Even the down and dirty ones, the handsome ones, and the ones carrying big cock—they left her bored, yawning, unfulfilled.

  But grapplers?

  They float my boat, she thought, leaving the bar. Nothing turned her on more than some slick-chested, big-pec’d, 290-pound slab of hunka-hunka pro wrestler squashing her hot bod flat against a motel mattress like soft cookie dough under a roller, and humping her straight into next Tuesday. All that sweat-veneered suntanned skin, those big collops of muscle flexing, and one hard cock after the next ready to work her pussy into a hot, spasmodic frenzy. Even the fat ones—the Blobsy Twins, Moonshine Shane, Faultline—they lit Maureen up like an ember pot that wouldn’t go out. Nobody did it like the grapplers, and there was still one grappler she had to have…

  “Wait a minute,” she said, halfway across the parking lot. “We’re going the wrong way. The motel’s over there.”

  Felander rolled his eyes. “Goon doesn’t stay in these fleabag motels—are you kidding? Let me tell you something, Mary—”

  “Maureen.”

  “Right, Maureen. But let me tell you something. Between DSCW and his tours in Japan, Goon pulls in half a million a year. He doesn’t stay in a motel. He’s got a big, lux Winnebago. Wait’ll you see it. Like a penthouse suite inside.”

  A Winnebago? Maureen shrugged. A mobile home was a mobile home, but— What the hell do I care? As long as I get my hands on Goon, I don’t care if he lives in a garbage truck.

  Her nipples felt sharp as golf cleats in the zebra-striped halter. Her four-inch heels ticked on the asphalt. Goon, she thought. Goon… Her dream was about to come true. She pictured him in her mind: 6’7” at least, biceps like melons, and pecs the size of a couple of slabs of porterhouse. Maybe it was the mask that put the icing on this sexual cake of hers, a final trimming of mystery. She wondered what his face looked like but then realized she didn’t care. Her fantasy needn’t have a face, just a body, that body, a frame of skin, bone, and muscle that weighed more than a refrigerator—all on top of her at once, squashing her into bliss.

  “Almost there,” said this guy Felander. And what was his story? Most of the heel managers were part of the show, but this guy? She’d maybe only caught two or three glimpses of him since Goon came to DSWC. At least he wasn’t an asshole like a lot of them—that pussy with the tennis racket, or Al Lubano with the rubber bands in his face and a belly hanging down like a bag of pine-bark mulch—and as lumpy. She’d fucked him once and he couldn’t even get his cock in her, his gut was hanging down so low.

  Her high heels ticked on. As she followed Felander through the dark parking lot, she could feel her feminine parts already stirring. Her beige-and-glitter hot pants fit on her hips so tightly that the seam of the crotch separated her vulva into halves. Each step caused a sensation like a finger there. Soon she felt drenched, her clitoris inflamed. If we don’t get to this goddamn Winnebago soon, she fretted, I’ll be coming in my pants!

  “Here we are.”

  The Winnebago sat at the furthest corner of the parking lot, in the dark. It’s black paint-job would’ve made it completely invisible were it not for the single faint-yellow light in the tiny side window. “Why park all the way out here?” Maureen asked. “You’re practically in the woods.”

  “Goon likes his privacy,” Felander said. “Come on. You ready?”

  If you knew what was going on in my pants, you wouldn’t have to ask. “Wait!” She paused to fix her hair up, adjust her top. Suddenly frantic.

  “Don’t be nervous.”

  “I’m—” She blushed. She was nervous. The man of her most torrid dreams—Goon—was just a few feet away on the other side of that metal door.

  Felander opened the door. “Watch your step.” Then he led her inside. Wide inside. A small a/c unit rattled from the sidewall. All of the walls, however, and the ceiling too, seemed odd—tiles of some sort, with pegs sticking out, at least a hundred pegs per tile.

  “Soundproofing,” Felander said. “Things can get pretty noisy in here if you know what I mean.”

  But Maureen was staring ahead. Before her hung a plush scarlet curtain.

  Felander’s hand touched the curtain. “Mary—”

  “It’s Maureen.”

  “Er, right. Maureen. Anyway, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to—”

  His hand pulled back the curtain.

  “—Goon.”

  My…God… All Maureen could do now was feast her eyes on what stood before her. She gazed with the same adoration of a priest gazing upon Jesus Himself.

  The icon stood before her wearing nothing but the mask and a jockstrap stuffed with so much cock it looked like he’d stuck a bag of donuts in it. Cream-filled. His pecks flicked once. The massive expanse of chest shined in a sheen of sweat, and his arms were as big around as her legs. The barrel-like abdomen protruded, huge but not an ounce of fat.

  Felander stepped back toward the door. “Goon, meet Marie.”

  “Maureen!” she corrected.

  “Right. Maureen.”

  Cool-blue irises appraised her through the eyeholes in the mask. And that big roll of cock satcheled in the jockstrap began to visibly shift as he looked at her.

  “Hi,” Goon said.

  But what an odd voice. Just a whisper, and something effeminate about it, like a passive gay guy. One thing was obvious, though…

  He ain’t gay, she thought. If he’s gay, how come his dick’s about to bust out of that jock just looking at me?

  “Well, I guess I’ll leave you two to your fun,” Felander said. “Nice meeting you, Marianne.”

  Then she heard the door click shut behind her.

  “You’re…very…beautiful,” came Goon’s peculiar whisper.

  Maureen nearly fainted. And she nearly came when that big, dinner-plate-sized hand reached out and gently touched her shoulder.

  “Soft…”

  So gentle… It shocked her. Goon stepped right up next to her. The big hands caressed her breasts through the zebra-striped halter, ran down her bare midriff, down her hips, and then back up again. Maureen closed her eyes and sighed. Wrestlers were usually rough—real rough. Maureen, like most ringrats, had been slapped, pinched, bitten, choked, spanked, gagged, blindfolded, tied up,
gang-banged, play-raped, double-poked, fist-fucked, sodomized, etc. more times than she could remember. That’s what she expected from wrestlers, and that’s what she liked. She’d sucked asses and balls and toes. She’d had more cock in her mouth than Liberace and more jizz in her hair than shampoo. And in her time she’d probably engaged in the act of sexual intercourse more times than Marilyn Chambers. Gentle lovemaking wasn’t her bag. She didn’t want to hold hands in the park with these guys. She didn’t want to be kissed and cuddled. She wanted to be balled till she bled, spewed in and spewed on, used as a thing for the primal pleasures of these looming, beefy behemoths.

  In other words, she wanted to be treated like the fuck-pig she was, and that’s why this was so strange she could hardly reckon it. Any other guy and she’d be walking out the door right now, but this was Goon, and Goon was just so…

  Different.

  “Hold me,” he whispered.

  She put her arms around him—at least as best she could, for his girth prevented her hands from meeting. Just touching him like this made her feel electrified. His fingers, large as they were, tenderly stroked her hair, brushed her cheek, smoothed over the nape of her neck. Just as tenderly, then, he cupped her face and gazed so passionately into her eyes.

  And then, just as tenderly—

  snap!

  —he wrung her neck.

  ««—»»

  “Traci Wilcox?”

  Two eyes squinted through the gap, just over the safety chain. “Yeah? Who’re you?”

  Straker flashed his badge and ID card. “Captain Philip Straker. State Police. I need to talk to you about Susan Bilks.”

  “Aw, Jesus,” she muttered beneath her breath. The door shut, the chain clinked, then she let him in. Decent joint for a double-wide trailer—decent at least in that it didn’t stink like a month’s worth of dirty diapers, backed up drains, and a month’s worth of unwashed dishes. Straker, in the old days, must’ve answered a hundred domestics in trailer parks—drunken rube men beating the shit out of their drunken rube wives. The only things trashier than the occupants were the trailers themselves.