by Kirk Alex
“Carcasses. You bitched that they were going to waste. ‘Get Greta on ’em,’ remember? ‘Put the ho to work.’ Well, it’s done. You should be happy. Money is being saved.”
“Don’t do me no good”.
“Mop up. In all this excitement I forgot to eat. Feel kind of weak.”
“Could forget to breathe.” Marvin was grumbling to himself. Biggs ignored it. Had Greta get out of the slicker and leave it hanging on a coat hanger there. Saw to it that everyone stepped out of the cooler while Marvin worked the mop. What the mop couldn’t soak up, absorb—bits and pieces, small chunks of bone and skin and whatnot: tails, paws, ears, loose teeth—he was obligated to pick up with his hands. Didn’t care for it, vinyl gloves or not, but there was no choice. Man was watching.
Finally, he was done, and dragged the full bucket out of the walk-in. Biggs followed him to the Furnace Room. Opened the gate for him, and Muck threw the sludge and mess in there. Biggs had him return the bucket to the cooler, and stood there as the entrails burned. He turned the furnace down, locked the door to the Furnace Room. Returned the saw to the cabinet in the Fun Room. Had Marvin drag the hose in there. Cabinet was locked, so was the Fun Room door. Walk-in cooler door was closed. Lock was unlocked. The chain wrapped about the door handles—and the lock relocked.
CHAPTER 379
Biggs climbed the stairs with Pearleen and Olivia, while Marvin and Greta followed not far behind, lugging that heavy kettle.
Biggs unlocked the basement door, and they stepped into the hallway. Captives were led to the utility room. He unlocked it.
“Dump those blood-and-vomit-stained rags in the washing machine. We’ll get you something better to wear.”
Pearleen nodded her head. The other woman said nothing. Still unnerved from what she witnessed transpire inside the cooler. He walked them to the john.
“Brush your teeth.”
Biggs indicated the various toothbrushes hanging from the toothbrush rack on the wall. “Gargle with mouthwash. Clean yourselves up. Shower. Apply makeup. Keep the door open. I don’t want any whispering. You got nothing to discuss.”
Marvin and Greta waited at the kitchen door. Biggs walked over. Unlocked it for them. The deacon and the big woman carried the kettle in. Bishop locked the door to the basement back up, and rejoined them in the kitchen. It seemed Marvin had changed his mind and wanted the beans after all.
Greta waited to be given something substantial to start cutting the meat with. Cecil unlocked a cabinet below the counter. Retrieved a toolbox. Unlocked the lock on it. Selected a butcher’s knife, and placed it on the table in front of her. Greta took one look at the knife and decided it wouldn’t do. She wouldn’t go near it. Refused to pick it up.
It wasn’t that Cecil didn’t get the message. Drew his Magnum all the same. Pointed it at her.
“Want to throw a temper tantrum, bitch? In my house? After all I’ve done for you? You’re the reason they’re out to shut down the Bordello of Fear for good. Had to go after those punks with the ax handle, didn’t you? After countless warnings; telling you to control that insidious hatred you carry around of the male like some badge of honor. Fucking twat. You reek.”
She stood there, clenching her jaw, saying nothing.
“Doesn’t seem to matter to you that you’re costing me big time. May have to settle. Could be forced to. Money will be going out, when we could have used it here.”
“They’re rapists.”
“Who is?”
“Like you: they’re rapists.”
“Like me? I don’t rape, I take what’s mine. What I’m entitled to. There’s a difference. They don’t even belong in the country. Don’t you ever compare me to all that fecal matter out there.”
Biggs glared at her. Trying to communicate with the freaky heifer was a waste of time. Pointless. So why do it? Good question.
“All you had to do was fake attacking them. Pull back in time. Left one Mex fuck with a concussion; another with a busted knee. What the fuck? I don’t have enough problems around here? Took you in when no one else would. Not only gave you the haunted house job, but made you the centerpiece. Featured attraction as Lizzy. I don’t have enough to deal with? Money going out all the time? Who can keep up? When my own people are scheming to pull me under at every turn. I need this? Do I? Say something. No; on second thought: better not utter another fucking word, heifer. You’re smart enough to keep your smelly pee-hole shut. I don’t want a peep out of you—unless you’re sitting on the throne and the the only noise that snapper of yours makes is when you’re pissing, the urine hitting the water in the bowl. The rest of the time it stays silent. It better. Got it? Got that?”
He reached in a cupboard above the sink for a generic can of beans. Opened it. Handed it to Marvin.
“Ain’t even gonna heat it up?”
“This is a gas range. Last gas bill was way too high. It costs a lot of money to keep you people fed and clothed. You didn’t hear what I just got through explaining?”
“You the one got to have him a church.”
“Want it, or not?”
“I’ll take it.”
“Sure you will.”
“Be thirsty, too.”
“You just had a cherry soda.”
“This shit don’t go down by itself.”
Biggs grabbed a coffee mug. Tossed it to him. Marvin turned on the tap. Filled the mug.
“Anything else I can do for you?” Biggs reached in the fridge for a pack of Twinkies and a Coke. Tore the pack open and bit into a Twinkie.
“Yeah: Choke on them Twinkie’, mothafuckah.”
What saved Muck from a vicious whack across the back of his neck was the fact he’d uttered the words under his breath.
He turned the tap off, and walked out of the kitchen.
CHAPTER 380
Cecil’s eyes were back on Greta, who remained standing there, not doing what she was supposed to: meat needed to be separated from bone and fried in the skillet until brown. Cecil returned the knife to the toolbox. Dug a hatchet out and placed it on the table at Greta’s end.
“Get to work, Lizzy. I don’t have all day.”
The woman lifted the hatchet, and proceeded to do what her job entailed: chopped away at the meat. Gristle bits and bone shards were dumped into the metal garbage can.
It bothered Biggs to see anything, anything at all wasted in this fashion. Bones were good for soup. Depended on the size and what part of the anatomy they came from. For instance: thigh bones, lower leg bones, arm bones—were worth holding on to. Yes, space was at a premium, at times posed a problem.
“Save some of the better bones for soup.”
He stood. Walked past the barber’s chair. Unlocked the freezer on the floor by the wall of coins. Lifted the lid open for her.
“In there. For later use. Congregation can be fed soup. No need to give them meat every time. We can also donate soup to the Mission. Makes the church look good. Be a giver, not a taker. No need to always be taking. What’s wrong with society these days. Too many takers. Not enough givers.”
She looked at him. Turned away without saying a word.
“What’s that? What are you doing? Judging me? Am I being judged? By someone like you?”
She dropped the larger bones into the freezer. Biggs closed and locked the lid.
When she was done dumping the meat chunks into the skillet on the range, and finished wrapping what she couldn’t use in clear plastic and putting it away in the refrigerator, Biggs saw to it that she had the hatchet lowered onto the table and stepped back away from it. Not until she had done this, did he pick it up and return it to the toolbox. Locked it. Returned the toolbox to the cabinet under the sink. Locked that as well. Everything had to be kept under lock and key, secured, for one never knew when these imbalanced fucks would go off and try to do to him what he’d been doing to his victims all this time. One had to watch one’s back. Always. One had to keep on one’s toes. You stayed vigilant or you ended up being victimized yoursel
f.
Speaking of vigilance, he noticed the skillet that was being used was the one lined with Teflon. Teflon was bad news. He had pointed this out to her before. More than once. Never did much good.
“Teflon contains a chemical that is hazardous to our health. Causes cancer. I’ve got enough health issues as it is.”
The woman dug out a cast iron skillet (that was not coated with anything) from the pile of dishes in the wire dish holder on the counter. To Cecil’s way of thinking her eyes lingered on that heavy duty fryer longer than was called for.
“Careful with that skillet. Lest your head ends up in it.”
This seemed to pull her out of whatever notions she may have had. Dumped the meat chunks into it from the other. Biggs watched her scrub the Teflon skillet clean, rinse it, and hang it on a hook in the wall to the right of the cupboard that was covered in copper pennies. She stirred the meat in the fryer, her back and that prominent behind to him.
“Don’t want you to think you’re pulling the wool over this cleric’s eyes. The other paring knife has been missing for quite some time now, the one with the dull blade. I don’t overlook a thing. Against my better judgement, I’m letting you hold onto it.”
She’d have something to keep Leo Nix from bothering her; Norbert, Marvin. He’d let her keep the puny paring knife.
CHAPTER 381
Greta Otto did whatever else it was she needed to do to make the jambalaya happen: dumped several large cans of tomatoes (stewed Italian style in basil, garlic, and oregano) in the kettle, some beans, cans of whole kernel sweet corn, sliced carrots, canned vegetables, water, etc., etc., etc.
She lifted the kettle. Placed it on the range. Never mind that she could have done it before dumping all the ingredients in there. Would have made it easier to lift. Thinks like Muck. No brains. Well, she was strong enough.
Which reminded him: Never underestimate the hideous she-beast.
He watched as she flipped the meat over in the skillet with a spatula. It sizzled nicely. The aroma wasn’t half bad, either. He had her add garlic salt and black pepper, lots of black pepper.
Soon enough he had her dump the contents into the veggies in the kettle. That was about all he would need her for. The rest of the cooking phase would pretty much take care of itself. All you had to do was leave it on the range for the duration, let it simmer, stir occasionally, and it got cooked. What would it taste like? Would it even come close to tasting anything like stew?
Beside the point. He didn’t give a damn, so long as it was edible. It was chow, grub, fuel for the belly—and it kept his grocery bill down. Groceries were ridiculously high these days, and going up. There was no stopping the grubbers from raising their rates. Well, it was capitalism. Free enterprise. You had to love it—and how corners got cut was entirely up to the individual intent on saving a buck.
He left the cook in the kitchen. Walked down the hallway to the john to see how Pearleen and Olivia Duarte were coming along.
They had cleaned themselves up. Only problem was Olivia didn’t have enough makeup on, not enough blush-on, not enough dark eyeliner, and her brows were not as flamboyant as he preferred.
He gave instructions to Pearleen, then decided that no one knew better than he how to apply this type of makeup, the way he liked it.
CHAPTER 382
Biggs ate four more fruit-and-cream-filled Twinkies and a 3 Musketeers candy bar. Washed it all down with a cream soda. He’d scrubbed the crud off the rubber boots, then rinsed the insides out free of blood. Washed the blood and bits off the yellow slicker and apron.
The socks were dropped in the washer in the utility room. He’d taken a shower himself, had to, in order to get all that stuff off: tufts of blond hair, gristle, pieces of skin, and who knew what else (that had somehow penetrated the slicker and got past the safety goggles).
He’d applied the Trusty Lusty clown makeup, paying attention to the minutest detail, wanting and absolutely needing to appear as demonic and evil as never before. Point being: his outer appearance would match and convey exactly what he felt inside toward all of the feckless, worthless human shitbags out there.
Biggs got into his dark brown monk’s robe, grabbed a riding crop and waited in the living room for the cunts to make their “entrance” from behind the burgundy velvet curtain that hung from the ceiling in a corner of the room situated to the right of the dresser. He’d given them undergarments, fishnets, and heels to get into. He had a deep-voiced crooner spinning on the turntable to promote the suitable mood.
Biggs turned on a red lamp of moderate wattage for the same reason. The Polaroid Impulse came with a built-in flash and he figured would provide adequate illumination for the photos he looked forward to taking.
To be on the safe side, he turned a second table lamp on that nicely underscored the crimson glow of the other.
From where he sat on the futon, he saw to it that the camera was fully loaded and within easy reach. If things went as planned, there was no reason why he wouldn’t be able to capture a goodly batch of memorable images.
“Ready when you are, ladies.”
Pearleen and Olivia stepped out from either side of the curtain and began to do their number on the elevated stage. Olivia was no match for the professional dancer, but did fine just the same, had the natural moves Latinas were known for.
Biggs switched the vinyl record for a cassette recording of Pearleen singing and doing her act at McCoy’s Casbah Hideaway. This was far more suitable for the kind of dancing the high yellow was used to; after all, it was tailor-made, as she gyrated her pelvis, turned, and did things with her firm buttocks. Olivia watched what the black woman did and how she did it and followed her lead. Was awkward at first, gradually picked up on it. Latinas/wetbacks were born cock-teasers, had the moves. This proved it.
“I like.”
Biggs’s pecker had yet to get hard, but he wasn’t overly concerned. He would know how to amend that slight inconvenience soon enough. He turned the volume up on the cassette player. Watched as Pearleen Bell sang along with the recording:
Ooh baby, sometimes I like to tease . . .
Ooh baby, sometimes I like to please . . .
Lover-Boy, say you love me a whole lot . . .
Lover-Boy, I’ll show you what I got . . .
“Do a slow dance with her, Pearleen.” Biggs held his soft pecker in his hands. Played with it. “Kiss her on the lips. Give her French. Suck her tongue. That’s it.”
Pearleen held onto Olivia and kissed her full on the mouth. Did exactly as Biggs asked. Olivia did her best to shake her own nervousness as well as revulsion at being forced to do something like this with another woman, made every effort to comply, and could not conceal her clumsiness and reluctance entirely. Pearleen would not permit that to deter her and did everything in her power to make it look good, even found herself whispering strict commands in Olivia’s ear to shape up.
“Get with it, dammit. Do it. He’ll kill us both if he doesn’t get it up.”
Not only was Biggs beginning to get annoyed at not being able to wake his penis, but their whispering was getting to him by now. What the fuck were they talking about? They were supposed to be turning him on, getting his dick hard. What were they scheming?
“What are you two bitches up to?”
“Just telling the girl she needs to get with it, lover.”
Biggs tossed the riding crop at their feet. “Get with that. Step down from the stage. Take turns whipping each other on the buttocks. Five lashes each. For starters. You go first, Pearleen. Give her five hard whacks on her ass.”
Biggs had the camera in his hands, waiting for the opportunity. No point shooting at anything. Every shot he took was a painful reminder just how costly film was these days.
Pearleen stopped writhing to pick up the riding crop.
“Plant the palms of your hands on the edge of the dresser, Olivia. Lean forward, with your ass sticking out. Want to be able to see that fine beaner round-eye looking
right at me—and all that dark bush directly below.”
Pearleen Bell encouraged her, not in so many words, to do as told. Olivia Duarte’s hands were on the dresser, her rear out, per Biggs’s instructions.
Pearleen bit her lower lip, and took her first whack, leaving a red streak across both cheeks. Olivia winced. Biggs insisted Pearleen do it again, only harder this time. He wasn’t Cecil B. DeMille, but he knew what he wanted. He would get his shot.
“Put some force behind it.”
Pearleen followed up. Did as told. The girl gasped at the other end. Things were looking up. You wanted authenticity in your torture porn, reading material, and your leisure activity.
Pearleen gave her the five she was ordered and Biggs did get, not one, but two photos that he was satisfied with, so that wasn’t the problem. Not the issue. There was no action down there where he needed it the most. Cecil, Jr. wasn’t budging. Wanted to, it seemed. Eager to stand up, stand at attention—but it was not happening. Temperamental son of a thousand venal, cold-blooded sluts.
CHAPTER 383
Biggs jumped to his feet. Unlocked the closet door and retrieved a folded blue tarp. He tossed it in the center of the room and told the women to spread the tarp over the carpeting.
He reached inside the closet again. This time held a birdcage with a chicken in it in one hand, and a butcher’s knife in the other.
“Stand in the center of the tarp.”
Bishop placed the cage on the tarp and returned to the futon.
There was no way for the women to disguise the expressions of disgust on their faces. That’s what he needed to see. What he expected. Tossed the butcher’s knife at Pearl’s feet.
“Pick it up. And stab Olivia in the neck. Repeatedly.”
The stripper could not bring herself to do as ordered. She could not even bring herself to put her hand on the hilt.
