Lustmord 2

by Kirk Alex

  The bishop pocketed anything of worth to him. He turned the volume up on the police scanner that he kept on a shelf inside the metal cabinet, and—employing due caution, from fear of smearing the Trusty Lusty makeup—proceeded to get into his gear: yellow slicker, apron, matching hard hat (with light and goggles). Leather gloves. Rubber boots.

  The junkie’s wrists were lifted over his head, extended out and slipped over an iron hook at that end of the saw-table. Down there where his feet were, Biggs held the chain that was part of the shackles, and slipped it over the hook at that end. He then cranked the wheel below so that the hooks at either end stretched the victim out and made the body taut, as the geeks stood around, Dixie cups at the ready. All, that is, save for Patience McDaniel, who was not likely to be curious or interested in anything of this nature or would want to willingly drink blood. Greta was present, not holding a cup or interested in that part of it, either. She was here for the simple fact another male was about to be destroyed. What could be better?

  Cecil pointed out the track marks the junkie had scarred his body with.

  “This one’s blood, in all likelihood, is toxic. I can’t take the risk of exposing you to it.” He escorted them out of the room. Some were rather annoyed and stuck around by the door, refusing to go any further.

  “Want to enjoy the festivities from here? Fine. I can’t let you consume any of his blood.” It was obvious, by the expressions on certain faces, that they didn’t exactly understand.

  “Someone has to look out for you.”

  CHAPTER 466

  He didn’t care that they didn’t get it. Withdrew, and slammed the door shut. He pulled the goggles down over his eyes, turned the hard hat beam on. He adjusted the blade tilting mechanism below so that the circular saw blade was straight, worked the blade height adjustment so that the blade was no more than three to four inches, tops, above the surface.

  Flipped the switch and the saw screamed like a banshee. Cecil let it sit there in place for the time being. He had Marvin reach inside the cabinet for the cordless reciprocating saw with the twelve-inch blade and hand it to him. Recipro saws came in handy. The type of blade he liked to use had a great rep for demolition work or remodeling, for cutting into walls that contained wood, nails, plaster, and aluminum. Perfect for his needs. He was about to “remodel” someone’s anatomy.

  He flipped a switch below that resulted in the circular saw blade crawling along toward Ace’s crotch. Biggs waited this way in order to allow the saw teeth to get to about a fraction of an inch within his juevos. Made a further adjustment in order to keep the spinning blade from going beyond. He wanted it to remain there for the time being, ever so close to the car thief’s groin and balls.

  About the only regret Biggs felt at this point, as he turned the Recipro saw on, if he felt any remorse at all, was having blinded the fucker in the first place. Having rendered him sightless took away Ace’s ability to see what was being done to him—just as the other vics had. Oh, he was sure Ace would feel every bit of it, as well as sense what all else was about to take place. . . . On second thought, it was probably better this way: what Glassy didn’t have a visual of, his mind’s eye would compensate for ten times over. Horror that you can’t see and can’t tell where it is coming from next has got to be far more petrifying.

  “I want in on this, Trusty.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since the mothafuckah call me Oreo. See what he done to me? What him and that other Messican asshole Felix done to me?”

  “I was right all along, wasn’t I?”

  “You got yo reason, I got mine.”

  CHAPTER 467

  Biggs had Muck crank the wheel a bit more, so that Ortiz’s body was about an inch or so off the bench that caused him enough discomfort to be coming to gradually. It was happening hardly fast enough as far as Cecil Biggs was concerned. Exactly why Cecil and Marvin had a bucket of ice on hand.

  Marvin did not need much urging: poured water on the parolee to help him regain his senses. When the move proved not to be as effective as the bishop was happy with, the old standby was employed: smelling salts. Usually did the trick.

  The pungent odor made the eyes sting, and more: the ammonia fumes irritated the membranes of the nose and lungs, which triggered a reflex, causing the muscles that controlled breathing to work faster.

  Biggs cracked one of the aromatic stimulant capsules in half and held it over Ortiz’s nostrils, jolting the junkie awake in a nano second.

  Biggs made an adjustment below the table saw and the circular blade above began to nibble at Ortiz’s package and blood began to spray. Cecil was satisfied with the blade remaining in place and not moving in beyond this point. Ortiz was yelping, tugging, and screaming. The geeks wanted in and continued to pound away on the door. Biggs was not about to let them have their way this time. Besides that, the offal posed a bit of a hindrance, spraying him across the goggles, impairing his vision.

  He thought about what he felt like doing and was in the mood for with the Recipro saw. Would have been real nice to hold the blade vertically against the bottom of the junkie’s left foot and cut into it this way—and proceed all the way through the bone, right down the middle, through the knee cap, thigh, and all the way along that side of his body until the blade cleared the shoulder and came out the other side of his neck, severing his arm and that entire side of his anatomy; then, for the encore, if he could have done the very same along the other side of his body: through the right leg, through the hip—and on. . . .

  It would have been nice, real nice—and would have killed him off way too soon. Loss of the red stuff. He needed the torture episode to last; needed to draw it out as long as possible. Had to see to it that he stayed alive during the torture phase for as long as humanly possible. Cecil felt he owed it to himself as well as to Marvin. Quality of Torture had been the bishop’s theme for such a long time now that he didn’t want to start straying from it here with a worthless sack of manure like Ace Ortiz.

  What, then, was the answer? He would flay him: piece by piece, strip by strip. Cut away a knee cap, slice away part of thigh, calf muscle, toes, ears, fingers. . . . But first he needed to do something about the annoying blood over the lenses.

  CHAPTER 468

  He leaned out for a moment, not unlike an involved surgeon pausing to have his brow mopped. Muck didn’t step in with a towel fast enough, as far as he was concerned. Too busy enjoying Glassy’s comeuppance.

  “You wanted in. Participate.”

  Marvin did so. Dabbed at the bishop’s brow.

  “Get the lenses. I can’t see.”

  Marvin took care of that, too.

  Biggs nodded “thank you,” just as a doctor would have, and faced the screaming grave robber. He held the Recipro blade horizontally at the top of the junkie’s left foot at below where his toes were. Applied enough pressure and watched the blade cut into flesh, stayed with it slowly, taking his sweet time about it, as it sliced on down toward the heel and dropped off like a slice of blood-drenched rye bread.

  Biggs held the blade up, pausing for a minute. Thought to hold it out to Marvin with instructions to start in on the other foot.

  “Go around and start on his right foot.”

  “You doin’ all right.” Marvin reached down for the bucket with the chunks of ice. “Gonna be needin’ more ice water. This one. I be ready wiff it.”

  Cecil shook his head.

  “You the one got them goggle’. Raincoat and rubber kicks. Glove’, too. Wanna see this mofo get cut up like a pork chop, me.”

  Biggs waved his arm. Didn’t want to hear it.

  The spinning circular saw blade made it too risky to lean over from where he stood, and Cecil walked around to the other side of the bench. Had the teeth of the Recipro blade positioned against the top of the junkie’s right foot. Held it this way. Glanced at Glassy, who was on the verge of going out.

  Cecil demanded more water. Muck was there with it. It worked to some exte
nt. For the time being. Cecil applied enough pressure behind the blade using both hands, so that it cut into the vic’s foot, and stayed with it as before: watched it descend to the bottom of the heel.

  Bishop found a certain satisfaction in it. The gutter rat and his kind had been a thorn in his side for as long as he could remember: shack break-in at the graveyard, breaking into his cars and costing him untold repairs, general harassment—not to mention he was a witness to the drifter biting the dust, the dumping of Slim and Big Bertha, Olivia’s abduction. Although enough to want to do him in, none of the reasons motivated him half as much as the simple fact that he just did not care for hypes, junkies, users, and juicers. Hypes were the slime of the earth; juicers, dopers, glue huffers. Many and varied labels that stood for the same thing. Detritus. Garbage. Flotsam. Jetsam.

  Cecil equated them with turds like Manson and Gacy. Pussies. Punks. Worthless. If pressed, he’d have to admit he had more respect for someone like Harve the Hammer or even an asshole like Penzram—whom he would have sledge-hammered without the slightest hesitation—if ever presented with the opportunity.

  Well, Penzram was history. Long gone. Harve the Hammer was behind bars.

  Cecil shut the Recipro saw off. Lowered it on the sawbench. Had Marvin rub ice chunks over Jesus Ortiz’s forehead, then cracked a second smelling salt capsule near the huffer’s swollen and bleeding schnoz.

  The geeks grew restless in their pounding and grumbling that did nothing but detract from Cecil’s concentration and enjoyment of the session he was engaged in.

  CHAPTER 469

  He walked over. Opened the door.

  “I won’t tell you again: I doubt he’s edible or his blood worth consuming. I can’t afford to have you come down with food poisoning, so knock it off.”

  He ducked back in, slamming the door shut. The varied and sundry sounds they were exposed to through the closed door and were awed and held in thrall by for the next twenty-five to thirty minutes consisted of more hair-raising screams and wails and the din crested by both the circular saw as well as the Recipro that Biggs continued to flay Ortiz’s flesh with. Finally it was all over.

  “The late, great Glassy Ace.”

  “Yo. He ain’t got King Kong on his ass now, do he?”

  CHAPTER 470

  Rudy Perez had no idea where he was or what had happened to him that caused him to end up on this cement floor in this sorry condition with quite possibly a broken collar bone and shoulder—or at the least a dislocated right shoulder and a collar bone that felt like it was cracked, busted. There was the blood. Too much of it. On his hands and face.

  He struggled to do something about the cobwebs in his head, shake the grogginess and blurred vision long enough to figure out where he was exactly and what had led to him being in this smelly cell of a room with the large furnace.

  He staggered to his feet, using the back wall for support. When his vision finally cleared and he was able to lift his head, he saw a tall man in either freaky clown makeup or a type of mask or both standing there and silently staring at him. He had a yellow hardhat perched on the very top of his large head that was spattered with blood, as was the yellow slicker he had on and dark apron he wore over it. Blood and flesh stained; everything on this individual was. As gruesome and shocking as the initial sight of the geeks had been up there on the first floor in that kitchen, and shocking it most certainly every bit of it had been, this was far worse in many ways and made his entire body quake and his belly clench. He felt his head shake a bit as well now, of its own accord; his reasoning powers wanting to comprehend what was taking place—and failing and failing miserably. Some nightmares were impossible to grasp and you did the only thing left to do: let the situation unfold as it intended. You yielded to it, because there was nothing else to be done at the moment.

  Cecil Biggs was in his psycho Trusty Lusty outfit, no doubt, the role he played at that haunted house that he owned and that Rudy had heard enough about over the years but had never gone over to visit. Money had always been tight, and haunted houses were out of reach for the average person. And now, standing there in front of him and quietly licking his lips and scrutinizing him, without uttering a word, was the owner of Bordello of Fear. There were two others with him: Marvin R. Muck, and the foreign guy they called the Pinko Punisher.

  He was cornered, outnumbered, and in agony. Nothing to fend them off with. He stood there. Waited for the next thing to take place.

  CHAPTER 471

  Biggs held a chalice in his hand and Rudy watched him wash down a tablet with whatever the red stuff was in it.

  Then he heard Cecil order Marvin to search his pockets. Muck found some coins and turned them over to the bishop.

  “I’m hurt. I’ve got pieces of glass stuck in my neck. Feels like my right shoulder might be broke; my collar bone, too.”

  “You look about as bad as I feel whenever my back acts up.”

  “Didn’t mean to bring trouble down on you, Mr. Biggs. Just trying to help out Olivia’s family and find Olivia for them.”

  “You can do better than that, Base. Keep looking.”

  Muck did. Further probing and digging around produced the engagement ring Biggs had questioned Olivia about a while back.

  Biggs held his palm out. Muck placed the ring in it. Cecil looked it over. Satisfied, he jammed it in his pocket. Icing on the cake. Asked Rudy how he came by it.

  “Graveyard. Found it.”

  “I knew she was holding back.”

  “That wasn’t all I found out there. There’s enough writing on the tombstone to make the cops want to take a look at this place.”

  Biggs thought he might want to return to the graveyard at some point—on the outside chance Perez was on the level. For now, he stood quietly, watching Perez go on about why he shouldn’t be finished off. He needed a break and so he listened.

  “I can be useful to you. I’m a good mechanic. I can keep your cars in top running condition.”

  Cecil was wincing again. His back was giving him trouble. What he got for mentioning it earlier.

  “I don’t doubt that. Only I won’t be needing a mechanic where I’m headed.”

  “I could save you money. I’ll work on your cars for nothing, Mr. Biggs. Keep them spotless—inside and out. Think of it, think of all the money you’d be saving. MR. BIGGS. Where’s my girl? I want to be with Olivia. Where’s my girl?”

  Biggs raised his chalice.

  “Your girl’s blood, by the way.” He drank up. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s not dead—yet. That’s no guarantee that she won’t be eventually.”

  “Why? What sense does it make?”

  “To you—and others like you? None. To me—and my kind? It makes all the sense in the world.” He brought the chalice to his mouth for another go, wanting to drain every last drop.

  He looked at Rudy Perez.

  “One of the first things we learn in life, Rudy, is that nothing is forever. Nothing. . . . Don’t get attached to anything. Because it will only be taken away from you. . . .” He was not articulating this particular thought because he’d been attached to his mother in any way (not that he would ever want to admit it to himself). She had clearly been a mental case, a nut; had shown him a kindness here and there, had tried in her own confused, twisted state of mind, but a basket case nonetheless she had been, and she had taken her own life. He was thinking of some other things, Parfrey, his friend Trusty the Clown, the Rotty.

  “People know your mother was run over by a truck, Mr. Biggs. It was an accident. Accident. And it happened more than thirty years ago. That’s a long, long time. You can’t go on blaming and killing people because of what happened. It was an accident, Mr. Biggs. My parents were killed by a drunk driver—my parents, my sister, aunt—just wiped out one night; gone just like that. They never did anything to deserve it, either. They were good, Mr. Biggs; they were the best and they got killed and me and my brother didn’t go around hating and taking it out on o
thers. We didn’t go out there and start hurting people to get even.”

  CHAPTER 472

  Biggs refilled his chalice from a plastic jug. He took slow sips this time.

  “It’s an acquired taste, like Perrier, although far better for you.”

  He scratched, then rubbed the dent in his forehead. Done gingerly, so as not to mar the clown face. The dent was just one more reminder of what set him apart from the rest of them, what made him different, therefore that much easier to detest a useless sack of excreta like this Perez kid.

  “Accident? It was no accident. It was suicide. I was there. I saw it. I don’t blame anyone for what happened, other than the alkie hick maybe for edging her on—but I can’t really blame him either, because the whore was crazy; she came from a family of crazies. The Roscoe bitch next door reminds me of her . . . in so many ways. . . .”

  “Why do this? Why murder people who never did anything to you?”

  “Maybe it’s the flies. It’s like catching flies, just like catching flies.” Was the buzzing there? Vaguely. In the background. “Sometimes I think suicide could be a way out for me, too, but then I seem to come to my senses in time and I will say to myself: Why me? Why should I be the one to exit? Why should I kill myself when it’s a world full of assholes out there? Why me, and not them? Why not cut up a few more of them before I finally check out? So yeah, it’s like those flies and spiders, catching them and feeling those big fat blue and shiny green flies in my fist and it always gave me wood when I tore their wings off or when I set spiders on fire.”