by Edward Lee
Gray’s dream came true. Jory and Hull were scrambling in the fenced yard. And the cop?
He stood with his hands on his hips, staring right up at the window.
“Damn,” he said. “I think—I think I see someone there.”
“HEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!” Gray’s throat belted out the plea like a cannon shot. He waved frantically then rammed his elbow into a glass pane, shattering it. The pieces flew out into the air.
“HELP ME FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE! I’VE BEEN IMPRISONED UP HERE!”
“I don’t believe it,” the cop said bewildered to Kari Ann. “Wait here. I’m going up…”
Then the cop drew his revolver and entered the house.
Gray’s adrenalin was practically dripping off his fingers. He stomped up and down, shouting, when he heard the cop’s footsteps racing upward. Gray glanced down in the yard again. There was no sign of the brothers. They’re already heading for the hills! he thought.
When the door burst open, the deputy sheriff stared, gun poised. “God almighty,” he muttered when he saw Gray standing there: chained, filthy, wearing just the soiled t-shirt and black socks. “It’s true… The girl wasn’t bullshitting. Those assholes have got you chained up here.”
Gray wanted to rush to the cop and hug him, but the chain wasn’t long enough. “Thank you thank you thank you! Jory and Hull—they’ve been keeping me up here for almost a week! They’re stealing cars and repainting them! And they’ve been…abusing me…”
“Well don’t you worry, fella—” the cop began.
Gray’s heart nearly stopped when the shadow entered the room from behind. Over the cop’s shoulder, Gray saw—
Hull.
He was grinning through bad teeth, stealthily stepping up from the doorway.
“Look out!” Gray bellowed, spit flying. “Behind you!”
The cop spun. “What the hell are you guys doing? You’ve got this guy chained up here?”
“That’s a fact,” Hull replied.
Shoot him! Shoot him! Gray thought.
“And you didn’t even tell me?” the cop went on. “What a bunch of selfish assholes. Bet you’ve been stickin’ him every night.”
“Yes siree, ever nat.”
“Hoggin’ all the ass for yourselves.”
“Well, shee-it, Bobby. We didn’t know you was inta boy-cherry. But now that we knows, you’s kin help yourself any tam.”
“Fuck,” the cop grumbled and began to unbuckle his trousers. “I’m so horny I could fuck a hole in the wall.”
Hull winked at Gray. “Well that there’s yer hole.”
Gray’s soul felt like a stone transom whose keystone had just been knocked out by a hammer. The rest just crumbled down.
“Belly to wall, bitch,” the cop ordered. “I’m in a swivet, I need to come so bad.” No time even for hands and knees, the cop shoved Gray against the wall and prepared to fuck him standing up. He rubbed his bare groin against Gray’s buttocks, reaching around to pinch his nipples. “Yeah, I’m gettin’ hard quick. It’s been a while since I’ve had a good hell-for-leather ass-fuck.”
“Well, he’s a good un’. Makes his asshole twitch whiles yer cock’s in him. Sucks damn good dick too, Bobby. Damn good…”
During the preludial molestation, Gray’s face was pressed against a window pane, and as his buttocks was thumbed open and spat on, he could see down into the yard.
“Looks like Kari Ann done fell for ya, City,” Hull said behind him. “Bet’cha promised to take her aways from here if she helped ya, huh? Jory’ll be punishin’ the dumb bitch presently. Cain’t have no shit like that. It’s a sad day whens yer own sister’ll betray ya. But how’s that fer some luck, City? Of all the cops she could’a ratted us too, she picks the one we’se in business with.”
Gray didn’t hear anymore, as he was penetrated. Bile raced up his throat, and he bit down on the inside of his cheek so hard, his teeth clicked. One eye seemed to rove independently of the other, as if divorced from the outrage. It looked down into the yard and saw that Jory had already beaten Kari Ann to the ground. She looked up, screaming bloody-mouthed. Jory was chuckling, throwing her baby up into the air, spinning it around like a ball of pizza dough. Eventually, he hooked-shotted it directly into the metal drum, then began to hammer the lid on.
And Gray?
Gray was fucked in grand style. The only difference between being raped by Hull and being raped by this cop was singularly noticeable. The cop’s cock was bigger than Hull’s.
««—»»
Gray felt stuffed from both ends. “Sheeeee-it!” Hull whooped, his penis burrowed in Gray’s mouth. Jory busied himself at the other end, with deft sodomy. “Gawd-damn, Hull! I’se swears this boy’s even tighter’n he was last nat!”
Gray tried to remove his psyche from the scene: it wasn’t his mouth sucking Hull’s penis, nor was it his rectum at the receiving end of Jory’s. Pretend it’s happening to someone else….
“Aw, yeah! I’se gonna dump me a fuck up this boy’s tail! I’se gonna come so much my spunk’ll be drippin’ out his nose!”
“Here comes supper, City,” Hull forewarned. Gray wasn’t sure, but the brothers seemed to climax simultaneously. He felt the warm gush deep in his bowel at the same moment Hull released a flabbergastingly large allotment of sperm into his mouth. Gray swallowed it, without hesitation this time. It slid down his belly like a long, hot worm. Then Gray’s hands and knees went out, and he collapsed procumbent to he floor.
Thanks a lot, God, he thought. Thanks a hell of a lot…
“Yeah,” Hull guttered. He gave his penis a final squeeze, perhaps for posterity. “I’se said it before’n I’ll’se say its again: this fella here is the best cock-suck I’se ever had.”
“Best cornhole too.” Jory gave a hick giggle, then withdrew his own reproductive architecture from Gray hind quarters. “Hope it don’t git worn out, now that Bobby’s in on the action.”
“Yes sir, Kari Ann shore brung us a winner this time. He sucks dick like a reg-ler champ, and he’s got a great car.”
Gray slid to the wall and sat up. “And that’s the scam, isn’t it? You make the girl lure the drivers back here, then you guys take over. You got a remake shop.”
Hull scratched his belly, then hitched his overalls up. “That’s right, City. We’se paint the cars all diff-urnt colors, then drives ’em up to our fence. And that purdy ’Vette’a yers? It’ll fetch us some fine scratch. Three, four grand at least.”
Even in his plight, Gray was appalled. “Three or four grand? That car cost sixty-three thousand dollars! You guys are getting ripped off.”
“Aw, we’se ain’t greedy here,” Hull said. “We likes ta keep things simple’n safe.”
Jory, yet again, was wiping his sullied genitals off with Gray’s silk shirt. “The fence takes most’a the risk, see. We just delivers the cars. He moves ’em ta buyers.”
“So how many have there been?” Gray saw no harm in asking. They were going to kill him anyway, so why wouldn’t they tell him? “How many other guys have you pulled this number on?”
Hull stroked his stubbled chin. “Over the years? Shee-it. Probably over a hunnert.”
“A hunnert’n fifty’s more like it,” Jory augmented.
“And way back here in the hills,” Gray added, “no one suspects a thing. The cars are repainted and resold. And that county sheriff probably keeps the heat out of here, helps cover your route to your fence. The bodies are never found.”
“Right again, City,” Hull asserted.
“An’ Kari Ann done tolt us ’bout yer little scheme. Promisin’ ta marry her, help her raise her kid. Shee-it, what’choo think we is, City. Stupid?”
Who was the stupid one?
Gray was dragged by the hair to the corner. Just as he realized what they were going to do, he snatched in a quick breath. Then—
plup!
—his head was quickly submerged into the bucket full of his waste.
“Down ya go, City. Blub, blub, blub
.”
Gray was too exhausted to resist. He had no strength, nothing left in his muscles and nothing left in his heart. Were there bugs in his diarrhea? Little things seemed to be swarming in it, tickling his face, but Gray told himself it was just his imagination. He even came to grips with the circumstance now. They were going to kill him, they were going to drown him in his own diarrhea, but then it would all be over. He felt confident that God wouldn’t send him to hell after all of this.
His lungs expanded; soon they would burst. He doubted that he’d pass out before reflex forced him to inhale his first mouthful. But that didn’t matter, either. I’ll be dead in another minute, and you know what? I’m ready.
He sidled over, drenched, and gulped air like a grouper on a pier when they pulled him out. All those liquefied bowel movements dribbled down his face. When he realized that they’d pulled him out one heartbeat short of drowning, he actually yelled up at them: “Come on! Just kill me and get it over with!”
“Kill ya? Kill ya?” Jory said.
“Naw, that were just yer punishment fer fuckin’ with us,” Hull added, “plottin’ behind our backs’n such.”
“Yer diff-urnt, City. You’s the best we ever had.”
“No lie, the dang best.” Hull gave his crotch a squeeze. “I’ll be dagged-damned if I ain’t gittin’ hard again thinkin’ ’bout that sure-fire cock-suck mouth’a yers.”
“You knows, Hull?” Jory offered. “You’s’re right. I’se gittin’ hard again too. What say we have ourselfs another nut?”
Hull whipped it out. “Shee-it, yeah. Come on, City. Let’s make some more whuppie.”
“Aw, Jesus,” Gray groaned. His face dripped shit. Not again!
Yes. Again. Wearily, Gray crawled forward onto hands and knees, a human coffee table. His mouth engulfed Hull’s fattening manhood, and after only a moment of adroit fellatio, it turned hard as a billy club. Behind him, Gray felt the familiar wet splat as Jory expectorated into his buttocks and inserted a billy club of his own.
Hull gripped Gray’s ears as though they were handles. “This shore is the life, ain’t it, Jor?”
“Dag straight, Hull,” Jor agreed, pumping vigorously. He slapped Gray’s right buttock. “Come on, City. Squeeze that butthole like you do.”
Gray constricted his sphincter—
“Yeah! That’s it! Gawd-dag that feels good!”
Gray could only listen with his mouth jam-packed with Hull’s cock.
Hull chuckled, patting Gray’s head. “Shee-it, City. All them other fellas, we kill ’em lickety-split. But we ain’t gonna do that ta you.”
“We’se done decided!”
“We’se gonna let you live.”
Gray’s eyes widened.
Jory stroked away, plunging in an out. “That’s right, City. Me’n Hull’s already talked it over. We’d be out of our ever-livin’ minds ta kill you.”
“‘Cos yer so good is why.”
“It’d be a waste’a good boy-poon.”
“An’ good mouth-lovin’.”
“So’s instead’a killin’ ya like we done them other fellas, we’se gonna keep ya here.”
“But don’t’s ya worry none. Kari Ann’ll bring ya up viddles’n water ever day.”
Hull chortled. “An’ me’n Jor, we’ll’se bring ya up our peters ever nat.”
Ever nat, Gray thought as he sucked. Every night.
“That’s right, City,” Hull said, caressing the top of Gray’s head. It was almost affectionate. “You’se gonna suck my dick. Ever nat.”
Then Jory: “And you’se gonna take mine up yer cornhole.”
“You hear that, City? Ever nat.”
“That’s right, City. Ever nat.”
“Ever nat.”
“Sheeee-it! Ever nat fer the rest’a yer life!”
Gray got the message. He didn’t even bother listening any more. He just pinched his sphincter again, and sucked.
— | — | —
HANDS
When the EMTs brought the guy in, it looked like he must’ve sat down in a bathtub full of blood. “Damn it!” Parker shouted, thinking I’m off duty in five minutes! I ain’t got time for a cut-down!
Dr. Parker was completely bald; he was also in charge of Emergency Room Cove 4 tonight, and had been for the last twelve hours—or make that eleven hours and fifty-five minutes. He was pulling noon-to-mids for eight days straight, but he had tomorrow off. It would sure be nice to just go home and get some sleep, but this bleeder looked like a two- or three-hour string-job at least.
“Don’t forget your Hippocratic Oath,” Moler, his intern, remarked with a mordant grin. Moler had a short beard and a wise ass. “Looks like you miss Leno tonight, daddy-o.”
“Just get the meat on the table,” Parker ordered. He smirked as Moler and the gurney-jockey hoisted the unmoving patient up onto the crash table. “What’s the guy’s stats, Ben Casey?” he asked the EMT.
The EMT gave him the finger. “Looks like a single GS high and inside of the right thigh. We slapped a tourniquet on and brought him in.”
“Don’t EMTs have to go to school anymore?” Parker said. “How come you didn’t ligate the wound in the ambulance?”
“Because we picked him up on Jackson Street, about two minutes away, Dr. Dickhead,” the EMT replied.
These fuckin’ meat-wagon jocks, Parker thought. They got no respect for doctors anymore.
“All that blood?” Moler observed. “The bullet might’ve hit the femoral artery.”
“Duh,” Parker said. “At least the Two Stooges out there know how to strap a tourniquet.”
“The guy’s type is A-pos, Shemp,” the EMT added. “Have fun. I’m out of here.”
“Thanks for staying to help out,” Parker shot back.
“Hey, that shit’s your job, I just drive. You’re the guy getting a hundred and fifty k a year. Have fun.”
The EMT left. Eat shit and die, Parker thought.
“We need three pints of A-pos in C4, stat,” Moler said into the phone and hung up. Then he leaned over the victim, squinting at the blood-drenched groin. “Looks small, looks like someone popped him with a .25, maybe a .32. Aimed for his cock but missed by an inch.”
Close but no cigar. Parker snapped on Tru-Touch sterile gloves. “They picked him up on Jackson, at this hour? He’s probably a john, picked up a hooker, got rough, so she shot him.” Parker got them all the time. “Can’t say I blame her.”
“Probably right—”
A draft wafted. The cove door swung open, and it was the EMT again. “Oh, and I forgot to tell ya. We checked the guy’s wallet when we picked him up—he’s a homicide captain with city PD.”
“Move it!” Parker yelled. “Fuck!”
But Moler was shaking his head. “Come on—the guy’s dying.”
“I don’t want a damn cop dying on my table! Get the hemos and the shears! We’re doing a cut-down right now!”
Shiny instruments clinked; Moler rushed the tray over, then raised the pair of Sistrunk-brand German fabric shears.
Parker put on his monocular, a plastic headset sort of thing with a single lens fitting over the eye; he’d need it to see the broken arterial walls. The completely baldhead, along with the monocular, made Parker look like a Nazi mad scientist.
Once the wound was exposed, he would cut laterally along the femoral artery and with a nearly microscopic needle and thread, perform a pre-op ligature in order to affect a cessation of the arterial blood flow. “Go!” he shouted. “Cut his pants off!”
“Roger that,” Moler said. The shears cut right through the waist of the slacks and the leather belt like onionskin paper.
Parker turned momentarily, snapped up an Arista scalpel. Its stainless-steel flash winked at him in the overheads. But before he could turn back around to the patient, he heard Moler’s dismal mutter.
“Oh, shit—”
“What!” Parker barked. “Don’t tell me he 64’d!”
“Naw, but… You better t
ake a look at this. I think we got the guy they’ve been writing about in the papers…”
Dr. Parker finished turning. He closed the eye over which the monocular rested and looked down with his other eye. Moler had indeed expertly cut the patient’s pants off with the shears, and the boxer shorts as well. And when Parker saw what lay there, he knew immediately what his intern meant.
The “patient” had been carrying a severed human hand in his undershorts.
— | — | —
I guess I knew Jameson was the one the moment after the police shrink explained the psychiatric profile. But what tagged it was when Jameson took me to his Belltown condo and showed me those pictures. He introduced me to his wife, then showed me the row of framed snapshots over the mantle. One was a picture of him as a child, his father’s arm around him.
But no mother.
The lack of the facilitation of a nurturing touch…
My name’s Matt Hauge; I’m a crime reporter for the Seattle Times. The other papers were calling the killer the “Handyman,” and I guess that’s why Captain Jay Jameson had come to me in the first place. A couple weeks ago, he walked right into my office and said, “I need your help.”
This was a cop, one of the bigwigs—a captain up for deputy chief. Cops generally hated press people but here’s this tall, imposing guy flashing his shield in my face and asking me for help.
“This Handyman shit—that’s my case,” he said..
“It’s my case too,” I countered.
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here.” He sat down, pulled out a cigarette, asked if I minded if he smoked, then lit up before I could answer. Now that I think back, I should’ve known even then. This guy looked like a perv. He had lines down his face like a James Street speed freak. One eye looked a teeny bit higher than the other. And he had this weird dirty blond hair spiked with grey and a tan, roughened complexion like a waterman. He didn’t look like a cop. He looked like a killer.
“I know it’s your case,” he said. “You think I’m here for shits and giggles?”
“Pardon me, Captain?” I said.
“Every newspaper in the goddamn state is printing all this tabloid shit about the case. They’re making me look like the most incompetent cop in the history of the department. And this ‘Handyman’ tagline they’re pushing? It sounds ridiculous, and it makes me look ridiculous.” Jameson got up, closed my office door, then returned to his seat. Plumes of cigarette smoke seemed to follow him around like lingering spirits. “What is it with press people anyway?” he said next. Then the son of a bitch tapped an ash on my carpet. “The first thing you do is accuse the police of inefficiency, and then you gotta slap these horror-movie taglines onto any repeat crime you can get your hands on.”
