by Kirk Alex
“Gonna do it? I know gonna kill you to.”
“Might have to. This time. Waiting to see what their offer is. If it’s within reason, I’ll concede; on the other hand, if it’s out of line, we’ll have to seek an alternative: Take the beaners and turn them into burritos.”
“Damn, man. Thought of it alone nearly gives this nigga the runs. Just like that fuckin’ jambalaya.”
“You asked.”
“Your show, Hoss. Like I said.”
“I want her to have that stuff, understand?”
“I don’t be understandin’ nothin’, me, but I get it.”
Biggs placed the junk food inside a plastic supermarket bag. “Wait for me by the basement door.” Biggs stepped out of the kitchen. “I’ll get the sap.”
Marvin did as told. Carried the bag out with him. Cecil walked down the hallway to his room. When he re-emerged, he had latex gloves on and a wadded-up hand towel in his hand. Marvin was all too familiar with the ether-like odor of the solvent, and he didn’t care for it. Found himself cursing.
“Chloroform.”
“What else? If the Ding Dongs and the soda fail to impress her, knock her out with the chloroform.” The bishop handed him a latex glove to slip his good hand into. Handed him the rag that had been soaked in the toxic fluid.
Muck still wanted the blackjack.
“You’re not getting the blackjack.”
“Why not?”
Bishop unlocked the door to the basement without answering. “Try to limit her exposure to it. Don’t leave it pressed against her face too long. It can result in serious health issues.”
“Yeah. That would break my heart—after what the ho done to me last time.”
Biggs waited for him to walk through the open door. Closed it after him, and locked it back up.
He sat on the floor, his back against the door. Held the wrist with the Rolex up. Figured he didn’t have long to wait.
CHAPTER 282
There was pounding on the door less than ten minutes later and the would-be-rapist was yelling for help.
Biggs allowed it to go on. Sat there. Unmoving. At last, he stood up. Drew the pepper spray from the holster on his belt, and unlocked the door.
With his jaw Twinkie-smeared, Muck was lying on his back on the landing, fighting the chef off, at least attempting to, with his one good hand.
It was Greta Otto who held the chloroform-soaked towel in her fist and was shoving it in Marvin R. Muck’s face between kicks to his groin region with the black leather Wehrmacht jackboots with the hobnailed soles and heels with U-shaped irons.
She glanced up long enough to take in what Biggs held in his hand, flung the towel at Marvin’s messy mug, turned, and took her time descending the stairs into the abyss, from whence she came.
Biggs watched her take pause at about a dozen steps from the bottom. Something had made her stop. Olin Goodfellow, the half-queer who was either from one of the Dakotas or Minnesota, Biggs could not recall which, not that it mattered, wearing his customary diaper, was peeking through a hole in the door that lay over the pit, and he was fondling himself. Poor, disturbed bastard had spent time in an Upper Midwest bug bin for molesting some pig farmer’s hogs.
They had it all on film. In fact, Olin got a special and peculiar thrill from filming his romantic interludes with farm animals.
Years later, upon his release, he had headed west. Ended up working on a farm in Kern County, up around Bakersfield—and was promptly incarcerated for the same offense: molesting a variety of livestock, having carnal relations with horses and sows. Greta Otto, upon discovering his peculiar proclivity, had aptly christened him “Swine Vomit.”
Since sex with humans (these days) appeared to be alien to Olin, Biggs found it puzzling that Olin Goodfellow could be aroused enough by what he saw through the hole in the door to be pulling on his pecker in this fashion. He also suspected that Greta hadn’t cared for it one bit: another male chauvinist getting his jollies off at the expense of a helpless female who was unable to fend for herself.
The Leaper’s bellow was one of rage and disgust and loud enough to be harrowing, as she leapt far enough into the air so that it carried her to the intended target: with her left boot landing on the cement floor, while with her other she stomped the back of Swine Vomit’s head. His noggin bounced off the door hard enough so that his body flipped completely over, away from her.
There he was, braying like a burro in serious pain. That didn’t stop Greta, or even cause her to take pause. She kicked him in the face a few times to shut him up, then followed up by stomping down hard on his groin.
“Incorrigible male drip.”
Greta Otto spit at him twice. Did it a third time, with emphasis, then casually strolled away. By then Marvin Muck had gathered up enough strength to crawl into the hallway. Wiped Twinkie from his battered face.
“Ugly ho done a blindside number on my ass.”
A disinterested Cecil O. Biggs didn’t want to hear it.
CHAPTER 283
Early the next morning Biggs and the sidekick, wearing their GOD’S #l ball caps, were sitting in the van with the tinted windows a few houses from the two-story, tan stucco Duarte home.
Everything had the appearance of being so picture-perfect that it made Cecil cringe. There was the perfectly cared for green front yard, manicured topiary, white picket fence (with nary a picket missing) and the perfectly aligned gate with every hinge intact and functioning. Not to mention the custom-crafted mail box with the stenciled The Duartes on it.
Yeah; it just about made him ill. Made him want to soil it all, spoil it, sully and destroy it.
Nothing was ever as blemish-free as it seemed, especially when people worked so hard to give the impression of utopian scenarios such as this.
Biggs sat there eating Hostess Ding Dongs and drinking chocolate milk. In contrast to the litter-free Duarte property, his dash was covered with candy bar wrappers, Zingers (packaged), mini doughnuts, and assorted sweets. And, of course, the Bible. The Bible was always present. In its hard leather case. Locked. Visible, present—and locked.
He’d attempted being better organized years before, many times, but somehow his mind worked against it these days.
Well, at least his photo albums were in tip-top shape, in order, as they always would be. The latest stills showcasing his performance skills in the art of chaos as Trusty and/or Parfrey gave him a sense of accomplishment. That was about the only thing that mattered to him anyway, that and his finances, the cars.
Marvin was there with him, sitting in the front, popping M&Ms in his mouth.
Biggs looked at his watch. Pretty soon Liv Duarte would be emerging. He washed down the prescribed amount of Elavil, and noticed Rudy Perez coming down the sidewalk on his right, carrying the pooper-scooper and walking those two dogs in the direction of the Duarte house. When Olivia appeared, closed her front door behind her, made it down that pretty, spotless little walkway, through the gate, and started walking toward Bertha at the corner, Rudy picked up his pace in order to catch up. The bishop watched all this and it made him want to puke. The kid’s got no balls, he thought. Perez made every effort to get Olivia to stop walking long enough so that he might talk to her, but she would have none of it. Pretty soon the older sister, Yolanda, was out there, too. She had come running out of the house, caught up with Rudy and Olivia and began to give Perez a piece of her mind. She was loud enough.
Biggs could see Rudy gesturing that all he’d wanted was to talk to Olivia. The older sister would not hear it, and told him to get lost.
“Leave Olivia alone, Rudy. You are not wanted. Can’t you get that through your head?”
Finally, forced to let up, Perez was left standing there, dejected, helpless, as the sisters walked off.
“What a pathetic little worm. There’s no way that cunt would do that to me. . . .”
“Said it right there, Hoss.”
CHAPTER 284
Biggs shifted into gear, and
had the van crawling along as the sisters joined up with Bertha Lenier. He watched all that long, auburn hair shine in the morning light, watched the summer breeze do things to it. And then there was all the rest: hips, ass, legs, pussy, tits, soft belly. . . . He watched, knowing he was getting two for the price of one. Two Duarte females, both built. He watched, and it brought forth memories of his runaway Filipino wife, Tillie Marie, who had sued him for “mental anguish,” and was now trying real hard to have her alimony upped.
Typical opportunist. No different from the Mex stools.
Biggs thought about her and that time, one of many, when he’d had those two hookers from Hollywood in his house. Had them butt-naked and high, and the three of them had been groping one another and Biggs had forced her to sit there on the sofa and watch. He’d had to slap her once or twice, of course, to keep her from closing her eyes, to keep her from whimpering and wanting to leave the room. He had slapped that gold digger down and forced her to watch him fuck those prostitutes all that day and well into the night. . . .
Didn’t quite get why Tillie had made all the fuss. The screwy broad. All he’d wanted was to have her join in and have a good time.
Sex. That’s what it was about. Getting laid. Tasting pee-hole and getting blow jobs from sex-starved gutter tramps like the ones he’d been picking up over the years, like Tillie Marie who, in fact, was one—whether she would admit it to herself or not, like these two stuck up Duarte sisters who walked around as though their dung didn’t stink.
Christ, what a laugh. They were all like that. Don’t get near me because my shit don’t stink. On the other hand, your shit stinks and that’s why I don’t want anything to do with you.
They acted like they owned the neighborhood. The good-looking cunts behaved like they owned the world, like they had it all under control and everything was at their fingertips. Tough ballbusters; they didn’t believe in compromise or flexibility of any sort. They were unbending, baby. Control was the thing. And it had been like that all through his life. The hot cunts had never wanted anything to do with him—until he’d discovered the secret to it all years later: dope, money and cars.
That was the answer. Give them nose candy and flash the green. Let them see you in a new Cadillac. That was the ticket, the best bait in the world that worked every time. The ironic thing of it was the slits all felt that they had it coming, deserved the best of everything, that they were somehow entitled. To his amazement, this was the attitude. They deserved all the best and damned sure acted like it and never let you forget it. Fine legs and well-shaped butts and sweet-tasting vagina ruled the world, called the shots.
As ridiculous as it sounded, that’s the way it went. That is until he, Cecil Biggs, the bishop, got his hands on them. When you had them tied up, wrists cuffed behind their back, and had them naked like that in front of you and you had a dagger in your hand or icepick, a chainsaw, a claw hammer—all of a sudden everything changed. All these detached, hardcore ballbusters became whimpering little lambs willing to do anything for you, ANYTHING.
That’s how crazy and screwy and ridiculous it all was. All that tough “don’t touch/don’t come near me” attitude was gone then.
In a way, that was fine with him. It made it that much better to cut them down to size, literally, chop them down to size and do with them as he pleased. Who was boss, then? Who busted whose balls, then? Who was in control, then?
That was why he could never stomach punk fags like Rudy Perez, a wimpy little spic bastard who did not know how to control the situation, who had allowed a couple of nothing little whores like Olivia Duarte and her sister to humiliate him like that.
Christ, how could he? How could Perez, or any man, for that matter, allow himself to be put through all that by any female? What kind of wimpy bastard allows it?
Biggs was shaking his head now, and he had to spit out the window. Too much, he thought. Just totally hopeless.
He reached for a Ding Dong. Unwrapped the foil and bit into the cream-filled, hockey puck-shaped chocolate cake, while nudging the pimp in the ribs with the package that contained the remaining one. Bishop decided it would be safer to make a left turn at the next corner and not tail the culos the rest of the way.
CHAPTER 285
He drove to a mini-mart that had once been part of the 7-Eleven chain, had since been sold to Middle Easterners, and the store not as well stocked or neatly organized as it had been by the former owner. But he had a few items to pick up, and he had a particular dislike for the ragheads who worked the counter.
“Lemme guess: You out of Preparation-H?”
“Listen up, want you to keep him distracted, keep him busy while I fill my pockets. When you see me walk up to the counter that means I got what I needed and you walk outside; wait for me there. I pick up the ball. Don’t want him to think we’re together. Walk in ahead of me, and leave before me. Don’t wait by the van.”
“You rich. Why go to all this boo-shit?”
Biggs gave him The Look. Said not a word. Marvin turned away. What kind of serial killa this mofo be anyway? Sore asshole and Preparation-H. Got money up the culo and gonna risk gettin’ busted by Valley Five-O, maybe backup. Peep’ be sayin’ I got no sense. Yeah? Bigg’ be actin’ like he ain’t got none neither right now.
“It gives me a rush. Besides—”
“Shit be costin’ coin’.”
“You got it.”
Biggs turned away, his gaze focused on the seedy store front. “As I was saying . . . before I was rudely interrupted: Ask the diaper head for something they’re not likely to have. . . .”
“Like what?”
“Ask him if they carry Grey Poupon.”
“Say what?”
“You heard: Grey Poupon. They won’t have any in a rathole like this. Keep bugging him about it. Get him to order some.”
“Great what? Poo-puta?”
“Poupon, idiot.”
“What it be?”
“Mustard, asshole. It’s mustard.”
“Great puta?”
“You know that’s not what I said.”
“Be soundin’ like it.”
“Poupon.”
“Why come it be called that?”
“Who the fuck cares?”
“What do it taste like?”
“Just told you: it’s mustard.”
“Ain’t we got mustard up at the house?”
“You’re not buying anything. It’s a distraction. Keep him preoccupied long enough so I can pocket the Preparation-H.”
“You on. Ain’t got to tell me twiced.”
“Twiced? Twiced? Try half a dozen times before anything sinks in with you. Wear me out. It takes more energy to communicate with you than it does to slash a slut.”
“I got you, Hoss. Yo, we communicatin’.”
He opened his door. Stepped down.
“I’ll put some jive over on the raghead punk. Tell him all about the mayo sandwich I had to eat while mama was out doin’ crack and lickin’ weenie.”
“You do that. Don’t make me waste his ass. Not in broad daylight. Keep the cocksucker busy.”
Marvin was about to walk away without closing the door.
“Hey. The door.”
The sidekick closed it. Walked inside the mini-mart. A moment later Cecil Biggs did likewise.
Marvin was at the counter jabbering with the white-turbaned clerk.
“We do not carry this item, sir. I will pass it on to the proprietor, who will return shortly, that he should order it.”
“You do that, Hoss. Grey Puta be dynamite shit. Kinda mustard mama used ta make. Mustard sandwich’ was all I had to eat, too. Them mustard sandwich’ don’t be half-bad, neither. Other time’ we had fried tater’ an’ mustard. Ate lotsa mustard, sure did. When there was mayo had me mayo sandwich’; other time’ there don’t be nothin’ left in the motel room but a bag of sugar mama left behind while she be out workin’ the track. I could take me a slice of Wonder Bread and sprinkle sugar on i
t, pour some Crisco oil on that—an’ had me a tasty sugar sandwich. Mustard was my favorite: fried tater an’ mustard. On account Mama spent all she made hookin’ on crack, workin’ the track. She did. I don’t blame her for nothin’. Her mama was a ho, too. What was yo mama like?”
CHAPTER 286
Biggs was in the medicine aisle, filling the pockets of his black fatigue jacket with hemorrhoid balm.
It occurred to him, while he was at it, he ought to pick up a couple of containers of Tylenol. Stuffed these in his pants.
He palmed a small packet of Ex-Lax, the single item he would pay for at the counter where all the blather came from. He could easily hear a tv or radio newswoman going on about a Beverly Hills psychiatrist who was arrested for having urinated on one of his patients.
Biggs lifted his head. It was on tv: a woman in tears. White woman. Looked like money. Evidently the pissed-on patient. Dumb twat.
As part of her “therapy,” the B. Hills shrink had talked her into letting him whiz on her. The out-conned cunt couldn’t stop blubbering.
Biggs came close to chuckling out loud. There’s your “society.” Civilized fuck with a pile of degrees, caught doing the golden shower number on an unsuspecting head case.
The way he saw it: dumb bitch deserved everything she got. She was lucky the Beverly Hills melon doc didn’t defecate on her instead. Yeah. Could have happened. He might have done that to her if he had been in the shrink’s position. On the other hand, he might not have. He preferred to shit on the graves of his victims. That set him apart right there. Torture them, fuck them, slice them—and for the coup-de-grace—shit on them. It was nothing more than payback. Payback. With interest.
While looking in the direction of the tv, he also picked up on the store clerk shaking his head as he watched the screen between Marvin’s run-on rap. Maybe they didn’t have this sort of “unacceptable behavior” go on in the Third World toilet he was from originally, or else they had far worse. Biggs suspected it was the latter. Had to be. Lookit what the idiot had on his head. What was up with the head gear?
