by Kirk Alex
She nodded her head.
He went on. “How those pathetic, so-called serial killers can bring themselves to pack shit in a man’s asshole is beyond me. It absolutely boggles the mind.”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Cleared his throat. Farted. Then farted a second time. His hemorrhoids didn’t care for it and let him know it. His rectum stung. Made you wonder if that’s what that Johnny Cash song was really about. Ring of Fire.
“On the other hand, sliding my cock up a woman’s butt is sheer ecstasy for me. I absolutely love it. And then ATM, of course. Ass-to-mouth. Nothing like it.”
He watched for her reaction. There wasn’t much of one.
“How about you? You like ATM? How do you feel about it?”
“Can’t say as I enjoy it.”
“Don’t like licking your own shit, huh? Don’t blame you. The enjoyment comes in the giving, not so much in the taking. Unless you happen to be like my stepfather.”
“He wasn’t fond of women, I take it?”
“Oh, in a superficial way, I suppose. He was a hustler. Failed hustler, would be more accurate. One of his favorite ‘toasts’ before putting away a shot of whiskey was: ‘Here’s looking at your asshole.’ Proud of it. Sure was. Hell, was in love with that line. ‘Here’s looking at your asshole.’ Then he’d let go with that loud redneck cackle. Throw his head back and laugh like it was the funniest thing in the world. Picked it up in the service, he said. Found great joy in reminding us. Charlotte would ask him where he got it, because it sounded so fucking stupid; it seemed like such a dumb thing to say to someone, especially a woman, in this case, that you were drinking with. Sailors. Being around sailors, down in Long Beach. Where he heard it. While being reamed by sailors and other military types, or else just prior to. The women he hung around with? Barflies like him. Whores. Dirty. Low class. How he and Charlotte met. And he used them to his advantage, which is really the only way to treat bitches. Oh, he gave the mad witch, my mother, the occasional ride, let her give him the occasional blow job. Speaking of blow jobs . . .”
CHAPTER 275
He unzipped his pants. Withdrew his semi-erect member. Wondered if he’d have to kill a chicken to get his cock hard? Would hate to. It could easily break his chicken budget. There was a certain amount he had set aside for the purchase and upkeep of hens, just as there was a certain amount of money he allowed for everything else that was needed to run his burgeoning empire.
No, he would not get a hen involved this time. There would have to be another way to get his groin to rise and for him to spray spooge: through sheer willpower and determination—and a little trick or two added on top that he might have to resort to.
“Suck it. Make it grow.”
She did as told.
“Siphon the toxins out. They filled me with toxins for years. Siphon them out.”
She flicked the head of his penis with her tongue. While she did that, it occurred to him to ask that one question he felt a need to ask those around him: didn’t matter who it was, or how he personally felt about them.
“Who sent you?”
She had stopped the flicking and looked up.
“Don’t play dumb with me. Somebody sent you. Who was it?”
“I can’t speak for the others. I wanted to get high, forget my troubles and get high.”
“Don’t lie to me. I hate being lied to. Hate being conned. Hate it when bitches think they can get over—at my expense.”
“There is this other thing . . .”
“I knew it. Let’s have it.”
“I was drawn to you. . . . I’ve waited my whole life for someone to come along. . . . Not just any man. . . .”
“You’re right about one thing, Girlie: I’m not just any man. I’m the most evil fuck you’ll ever meet, the most unpredictable, sickest fuck you’ll ever have the misfortune of encountering.”
She said nothing for a while. Then thought of a response.
“I’m here because I want to be. Nobody sent me.”
Biggs wasn’t grinning. Slid his groin back in her mouth, where it belonged.
“You’re conning me. We both know it.”
He would not have minded taking her cunt, and then her asshole—but it was out of the question presently. His back was acting up.
“My spine hurts. More like the area down around my lower back—so we won’t be fucking. I don’t want to press it. Keep sucking. It’ll have to do.”
She went about it. Listened as he told her to take the small bottle of baby oil and apply it to the head. She did that. Ran her fingers over the knob, back and forth, then jammed it back inside her mouth. He was hard and enjoying it. Ignored the pain in his back. Something was still lacking, something was missing.
He grabbed a hunk of her hair in his right hand. Pulled back, hard, so hard that she winced, looking right up at him. He did not stop. Pain was the solution, always the answer. Put the bitch whore in some pain. He withdrew a switchblade with his other hand. Carefully ran the tip of the blade down between her heavy tits. Pressed in, continued, until a thin stream of red began to appear.
Chop her ass. She’s just another good-for-nothing slattern. They all are. Lookit the way Charlotte Yvonne lived, lookit what Tillie Marie put you through. Whores gotta pay. Whores. Kill all whores. There are so many whores in this fucked up world that no matter how many of them you kill you will never, ever be able to clean up the planet. What a fact. A sobering thought.
He continued with the cut. Ordered her to keep sucking. She did. The sight of her own blood added to the fear and disgust of the situation, but she went on. Bobbed her head.
“Draw the cum out, whore. Suck it, or your nipples end up in Greta’s jambalaya.”
She worked it, applying enthusiasm. Biggs shot his load. In and around her mouth. He rubbed his groin about her lips and chin, both cheeks, back and forth. Took the blade away from her chest. With the index of his right hand pushed what cum had escaped her mouth and dribbled down her chin back in there. There was some of the white stuff above her upper lip. This, too, he “scraped” down inside her yap.
CHAPTER 276
Bitch was good. It had been fine. No argument there from him. He shoved his groin inside his fly. Zipped up. Pearleen finished off her Punch. He wiped his forehead. Gave her Band-Aids to take care of the cut between her breasts.
“It’s always a damned shame to butcher a looker like you. Real damn shame. . . .”
“Where does it say you have to keep killing?”
He wanted to grin. She didn’t get it. That’s what he was about. Do unto others, always do unto others.
“I can understand your fear. I can relate to that. Believe me. That’s why I hate it so much, that’s exactly why it sets me off. As a kid I lived in fear; I was raised in fear—in a House of Fear.” He paused, reflecting. “I’ve been scared shitless a few times in my life. . . . I mean really, truly scared. All through childhood, grammar school, army, nursing school. . . . I lived in fear of them. . . . Feared the world . . . people . . . the psychotic human race. . . . Chunky, brain-dead creatures like the white trash Roscoe couple next door. Lloyd Dicker across the way . . . and his kind. . . . With one exception.”
“Mr. Trusty?”
“Mr. Turnbull, Truly Turnbull. Trusty Lusty was his alter ego. We won’t go there. No need to go there.”
Pearleen cleared her throat. “I never did nothing to you. . . .”
“Not directly, Pearleen. Indirectly, yes, you have done plenty.”
“I can be your woman, Cecil. . . .”
“What I wouldn’t have done, what I wouldn’t have given to have been able to have someone like you for a girlfriend when I was younger. . . .”
“It’s never too late. . . . If I didn’t find you attractive I wouldn’t have come here.”
He ignored the comment.
“Personality types like me can’t connect, really connect . . . no matter how hard we try. . . . We can’t fit in. . . . Mr. and Mr
s. Turnbull befriending me and showing genuine interest was the exception, as noted. Then one day they were gone. Excised from my existence. As though by a skilled neurosurgeon’s scalpel having erroneously removed a part of his patient’s brain that he should not have gone anywhere near, rendering said patient if not entirely dead, close to it, pretty much a vegetable. Zombie-like. Empty. Well, I wouldn’t label myself a zombie exactly, although I do feel like one more often than I care to admit. The three: Flora, Trusty, Parfrey were yanked from my ever-so-needy, ever-so-hungry for love and attention grasp and self and there was no recovering from the loss. Once I came to terms with it and realized there was no choice but to accept it . . . that’s when I decided I didn’t want to fit in, be part of anything or anybody, any group. . . . Ever again. I have my own reality . . . and I’m happier this way. Do what I want, when I want.”
He paused, thinking. “Explains why I relate to my staff, directors of the board. . . . Bunch of demented geeks; broken-down souls with no place to go. . . . That type I never enjoyed harming or crushing. . . . Of course, they are subjected to Pit Therapy from time to time to keep them in line. . . . You see, they are so imbalanced, that basic reason and/or logic hardly works at all with them.”
“I was attracted to you. That’s why I came here to see you.”
“You were attracted to this.” Biggs tapped his wallet. “And the cocaine. That’s what the whole world is after these days. Nose candy. Toot. The ‘sane ones’ out there think a guy like me is off, when in fact, they’re far sicker. They’re fucked. All of them.”
His groin itched, and he unconsciously reached down to tug on his crotch.
“You came here for one reason: to rip me off. You and your cunt pals. And even that doesn’t really matter. Nothing new there, nothing revelatory at all. You’d think someone with all your outer beauty would be beautiful inside for sure. . . . Only that’s not how it works. . . . You’re warped. Tainted, toxic . . . just like all the rest.”
She said nothing, had no comment. Kept her mouth closed. Listened. Intently.
“Still, I’d hate to dismember someone as easy on the eyes as you. . . . I hope I won’t have to carve you up. . . . That’s why I brought all this stuff down: tv, reading material, Hawaiian Punch, first-aid kit.” Her captor shrugged. “Fact is: the urge comes and goes. There’s times I look at you, or anyone, doesn’t matter who, and I feel like putting my fist through their face, feel like sticking my blade in them about a thousand times, or going at them with a sledge. . . . I’m not even always sure what brings it on. . . . Pressure builds up. The only way to decompress is to strike out, strike hard. There is a need to unleash the rage within, a desire to squash, crush, annihilate. . . . Even when I have nothing against some of them out there, which is rare, but it happens; I don’t always despise all of them. . . .” He paused here. “At the moment the urge isn’t there, the pressure hasn’t backed up yet to the point where it is unbearable and release imminent. So who knows? We’ll see.”
“I’ll never make you angry. I’ll do as you say.”
“You won’t try to wear the pants, is that it?”
She nodded.
“That might help. Bitches who attempt to wear the pants and act like they’re the ones with the cock and balls thoroughly annoy me. Bitches like Petunia Roscoe, old cunts like Fay Crust, the appallingly homely witch Lloyd Dicker, the former mail carrier, is married to.”
“I’ll do as you like. I can be your very own private sex slave. BJs and anal sex whenever you feel like it.”
“A lot of lesbo Libber cunts like my cook Greta Otto just love that kind of talk.”
“There’s nothing wrong with sex. I enjoy it. Makes me hot to give blow jobs. Not only that: I’m not a Libber. I hate the ERA. All those bitches are bitter. You’re absolutely right, Cecil: a lot of them are lesbians. They hate men. I never was like that. I never would have been any good as an exotic dancer otherwise. You can believe me, can’t you? Sure, I was trying to make money—but only to survive, pay rent. There has always been more to me than just money. If you don’t have money in this society you’re either at somebody’s mercy or in the gutter quick, homeless. I didn’t want to be homeless. Lived in my car when I first left home for a while. It was no fun, especially for a woman. Those people you mentioned, church staff and board members, you saw what happened there. No home to go to. Nobody wanted to help them—until you took them in. Being homeless is no fun.”
“Said a mouthful. Takes a good amount of the green stuff just to exist, or to even afford somebody like you. . . .”
“You never would’ve been able to buy this house or those great cars you got without money, that’s just the way life is.”
Biggs looked at her without saying anything for a while.
“You got backbone, beautiful ebony bitch you. . . . You’ve got real guts. . . . I liked the way you looked in your sparkling gold heels and lamé cape in McCoy’s that night . . . the way you kept pushing up your tits in your hands and then turned and bent over for me to be able to get a good look at your whisker box and bunghole. . . . Granted, you weren’t completely naked, but that didn’t matter. In fact, the patch of cloth you had over your pee-hole, the thong in back that covered the butt crack only made it all the more exciting, in that the imagination kicks in and shifts into overdrive.”
“It could be like that all the time for us, Cecil . . . if you would let me take a real bath, a bubble bath . . . and shampoo my hair. . . . I can get all dressed up for you, even better than that time. . . .”
“Maybe we’ll keep you around for a while. At least until I get tired of you. . . . We’ll see. . . .”
CHAPTER 277
Biggs had his field glasses with him, German chocolate cake, quart of milk. He and Marvin had gone up to the attic to select a decent color set and VCR for the deacon, maybe also do a little checking up on the billy and his nosy beast of a wife, see what they were up to; there was also a yearning on the bishop’s part to revisit the stash of triple-X porn magazines he had tucked away in two tall stacks of cardboard boxes that reached the roof practically. Mainly though, Cecil was up here to get away from all that odor down in the basement and first floor, the stench of raw sewage and whatnot seemed to permeate the whole damned place just about, no matter how much Lysol or lemon-scented ammonia was used to staunch it.
Of course, one of the nastiest odors of all was caused by Greta Otto burning her cooking. There were times the stench was so pervasive and inescapable that it brought on nausea and made the migraines and buzzing in his ears that much more difficult to cope with.
Therein lay the dichotomy: visiting the corpse up in Lopez Canyon that time, as well as being around cadavers in general, enhanced the sex act for him—so long as it was out in the open; preferably, at least. However, this other could be overwhelming at times and periodic respite was called for.
Marvin was satisfied with his new-found tv and VCR, particularly when Biggs pointed out that with a sharper, cleaner picture he’d be able to get a bigger kick and greater enjoyment from watching all that Dolemite crap and Bruce Lee bullshit he loved so much.
Marvin had the tv plugged in. Adjusted the rabbit ears. Reception was a lot better than what he was used to.
“No shit, Trusty.”
“Told you.”
Biggs sat on the floor, legs crossed, eating his chocolate cake and washing it down with sips of 2 percent milk from the carton. He had a pile of glossy porno magazines spread out before him and kept looking at all the attractive women in them, what was being done to these women in the magazines. There was penetration, vaginal as well as anal. In some instances the sluts took it both ways simultaneously: up the front and up the back, sandwiched between two studs. DP. In other photos there were great looking bitches with semen dripping from their lips and chins. The images worked on him, to be sure, but what he could not figure out is how they got such good looking cooze to do all this nasty stuff. All his life he’d been trying to get the slits to go along
with what he liked—and not been able to, not even the hookers—(some hookers had gone along, but most hadn’t) and yet in these slicks they had the most attractive females performing an assortment of the kinkiest, sex-related acts. . . .
“Like to have me some cake, me. Cake and tv go hand-in-hand.”
Biggs’s eyes stayed on the porn.
“Proves what I’ve known all along: trash. All of them. People are depraved. Can’t admit it. Won’t admit it. They know it; deep down they know it. They sure love to put on airs, though, don’t they?”
“You be right about that one, Cecil. Society be made up of hoe’. They all be hoe’.” Marvin tugged on his crotch. Rubbed himself for a moment. “Just lookin’ at them pichurs make’ me want it—almost as much as a taste of that cake.”
CHAPTER 278
Biggs lowered the magazine he had been looking at, rose, and walked over to the attic window on the Roscoe side. He had outfitted these windows with inside shutters and an iron crossbar with a lock that could only be unlocked with a key that he carried around with him on the series of key rings and carabiners. These shutters here served a dual purpose, as did those on the second floor: dissuaded burglars from wanting to invade his abode, as well as prevented the retards, staff, and members of the board, not to mention some of the congregation, during the occasional church service he gave, from getting the bright idea of taking a leap and drawing attention from the local “constabulary” that he certainly preferred to do without.
