by Unknown
Happened with Quen all the time. He got all the girls, and if he decided he wanted in on the action with those two writhing sex goddesses there, then guaranteed he would get it. He’d be the first to tap that new girl’s ass and that kind of irked Heath, got under his skin. Yeah, sure, he had a steady girl, and she wasn’t averse to doing anything at all, at almost any given time, but with all the partner swapping, group sex, crazy, and kinky shit that went on during these drug-fuelled gatherings, Heath wouldn’t have minded if he got to be involved with a few multiple partner activities. He sure wouldn’t have minded putting it to the new girl first, before Quentin, before anybody.
Quen wasn’t around at the moment; he was elsewhere, either in this ramshackle construction that passed for a house or outside. He wasn’t catching the sexy show from the girls and for that Heath was thankful. Meant he wasn’t getting a raging hard-on over it and planning on joining in the dance, to turn it into more horizontal action minus all clothing.
Thinking about attire removal, Heath wondered if Stacey and Renetta were going to start disrobing each other. He hoped so. They had hands everywhere; to him it was a natural progression to just start stripping one another. He supposed he should have just been thankful that he was in the midst of getting a fine blowjob from Kelsey right now, but his brain wouldn’t allow him to think that way. He wanted blowjobs from all the women there, he wanted everything and popping more than one ecstasy pill at once hadn’t alleviated that situation.
As he gripped the back of Kelsey’s head and pushed her mouth down harder to meet his thrusts, which was just about the extent of motion he currently felt capable of, he suggested to himself that perhaps since he’d found this epic place to hang out, party and get royally fucked up without anybody in earshot, or around for miles, to mess with them or intrude, Quen would be suitably grateful and pleased, and maybe hook him up with something special. He figured he’d probably have to voice that though; it wasn’t as if he was one of the unattached individuals here who didn’t have somebody they could fuck at the drop of a hat.
***
Renetta was coming out of her euphoric state now, the initial buzz that kept her dancing and peaking for a good few hours now starting to subside and wear away. What was creeping back in was all those original feelings and misgivings she’d been subject to, prior to even turning up at the remote party location. On top of that, with plenty of other drugs and alcohol slithering through her system, came paranoia.
Though most people inside had been cajoling her and Stacey to do more than dance, grope and kiss, they hadn’t. They’d eventually disengaged and drifted into different orbits as more drug-fucked folk swarmed the makeshift dance floor and turned the ancient farmhouse into some rudimentary rave, to the flame-dance of candlelight. Now that the initial blast of her highs was dissipating, she was glad she hadn’t been so carried away with the moment that she and Stacey ended up bare ass naked and putting on a live sex show in the middle of the decrepit building. For one, it wouldn’t have ended with just the pair of them, and two, she remembered she didn’t fucking like anything about Stacey.
If she’d been one on one with Quen, somewhere private, without a host of horny eyes and lolling tongues drooling over the shenanigans, it might have been a different story. And if she was still ensconced in ecstasy raptures. And anywhere, but this creepy fucking husk of a house that looked as though it had survived a host of drunken, drugged up parties akin to this one, with a side order of wanton vandalism tossed in for good measure. Now she felt herself coming down, she acknowledged she couldn’t think of anywhere less sexy. She sure as hell couldn’t imagine dropping her panties for anybody, anywhere within the remaining walls of the place and outside in the wilderness didn’t particularly get her any wetter.
Some of the idiots in there couldn’t care less about surroundings or whoever was around watching, wanting to join in or any of that shit. It was all about getting fucked up, and getting fucked, and plenty of them had already engaged in all kinds of things, both inside and out.
Some of them were also getting careless, or utterly shit-faced drunk, and a few were even getting the vandalism bug that must have afflicted any who’d partied here before, literally tearing the walls down.
If Quen genuinely wanted to make this joint some new party hang-out, he’d be well advised to ensure there was enough of it left to do so, before half these idiots crashed through the rest of the walls, or floorboards, or tried to climb up on the roof and fell through that too.
After the dance floor became a heaving mass of drunken flesh, Renetta eventually separated herself from it and drifted elsewhere. She was still soaring on her drug highs at the time, but the crush of people trying to get in on the makeshift dance floor, angling for something sexual to arise from it made her claustrophobic even while she was peaking. While she was in that reverent state of intoxication, she floated around the wreckage of the house, from room to room, investigating the mayhem wreaked in the place with stoned wonder. Her head was light, her cheeks sore from insane laughing and her teeth were incessantly grinding, and colours that she knew weren’t present in the dark of the abode danced around in her vision as she trailed through.
She wanted to experience the strange journey through this long abandoned residence alone, so when any of the others drifted into her orbit, suggesting one thing or another, she brushed them off or avoided them altogether to carry on her trajectory. It was all wide-eyed wonder, amusement and intrigue while the drug cocktail had her on a high, but as that slipped away, she was bombarded by quite the opposite. The couple she stumbled across in one of the back rooms, fucking to the accompaniment of one single candle, wasn’t sexy or in any way enticing, it was desperate and squalid. The guy halfway up a flight of stairs, passed out on them, clearly on the nod, with his needle and other shooting up accoutrements still visible, wasn’t a sign of too good a time. It was a sad snapshot of an addict, a severe indictment on the state of everybody here’s lifestyle.
Those two encounters sobered her up quicker than anything, although the high points of the drug experience were already winding down off their apex. More than anything, she wanted to be outside. This place was a fucking mess, a shithole, a condemned skeleton of a house with barely any flesh or skin left to hold it together.
No matter what she felt about Quentin, or her unrequited desire for him or fitting in, if they all decided this shambolic fuck-up of a joint was to be High Society’s new party headquarters, then she was out. Finished.
Apparently the majority of the High Society had migrated into the decrepit structure to party, leaving the car stereos thumping at headache inducing volumes, literally shaking what few walls remained in the place. If the over-boisterous, clumsy, vandalistic souls inside didn’t bring the abode crashing down before the night was through, the volume of the music was liable to. There were a few people still outside, but not many at all, which suited Renetta just fine. She was a little over the company of people. Especially drug-addled, drunken idiots behaving like complete animals. Jesus, these were all adults. Grown fucking men and women acting like fucking teenagers here. Intentionally. Electing to deliberately act like that, live their lives that way and shirk any responsibilities that should have come along with their supposed growing up process.
If they weren’t the idle, bored rich folk financing this drug fuckery, they were the dregs of society who indulged in it.
Nestor and Wilson were among the few still outside, both of them standing a little way down the barely there dirt track all the vehicles had driven up to gain access to the house. It was lined by thick woods on either side, gnarled twisted trees hanging their foliage so low in places branches scraped against the roofs of cars passing under. The duo of stooges were smoking, whether it was cigarettes or joints Renetta didn’t know. The air was already so thick with the pungent aroma of both, that it was anybody’s guess.
Neither of them could stand still; they both paced around, in animated conversation punctuated
with snorts and loud braying laughter. Renetta knew only too well why the two idiots couldn’t just keep to one spot. Unlike some of the High Society they didn’t partake in every single recreational substance on offer there, they had their own personal favourites and usually just stuck to that, albeit with an abundance of alcohol to go with it. They were both meth heads, speed freaks, who toted around eightballs, even full ounces, and indulged in it like candy at every opportunity. They’d no particular chosen method to take it; they’d snort, smoke, shoot it up, whatever crossed their mind at the time. Consequently, the pair of them were consistently jittery, aggressive and unable to remain in one spot for long.
Renetta kind of hoped it was just cigarettes they were smoking. She’d just about kill for one right now, and she’d somehow misplaced the half packet she’d had on her earlier. No doubt it was somewhere in that crush of drunken, lecherous stupidity going on inside those badly damaged house walls, and she wasn’t about to venture back in just to search for them. Besides, at any of these gatherings, unattended cigarettes didn’t stay like that for long. Somebody would have already swooped on them. Even at their drunkest or most drug-fucked, these folks had uncanny homing devices for zoning in on cigarettes not kept safely on one’s person.
She started wandering down to where they were, with the intention of hitting one of them up for a cigarette. One, or both, of them would probably grant the request no problems, albeit with something ribald or suggestive tacked onto any response. That she supposed she could handle, unless they suddenly decided double-teaming her right out here, or off in the thick of those woods marching along the track, was on their agenda.
As she neared though, something stopped her in her tracks, halting her a few metres away from them. They were talking to one another and pacing incessantly, so they didn’t immediately see, but then Wilson turned his head to toss a glance down the track and he too saw it.
Somebody else was walking up the track, with a strange limping kind of gait.
A man, face shrouded underneath a wide-brimmed hat, dressed in simple dark clothing, with what looked like some kind of slicker over the top. Why he needed to be wearing a hat in the dead of night was anybody’s guess, but seeing it made Renetta a little nervous, as though the approaching individual was attempting to mask his identity.
As Wilson nudged Nestor, and both cast their eyes that way, the formerly boisterous, raucous talk and laughter dropped away, replaced by curious silence.
“So, y’all havin’ a party out here, then?” The man called out to them, as he neared. “Ain’t y’all realise it ain’t the done thing ta go and throw a big shindig with boozin’, loud music, women and druggin’ without invitin’ all the neighbors. Ain’t good manners. Not at all.”
“The fuck?” Nestor and Wilson exchanged glances, while Renetta, frozen behind them eyed the newcomer with wary apprehension.
“Yeah, ain’t nuthin’ wrong with big ass parties, gettin’ fucked up, howlin’ at the moon and whatnot, but there is sumthin’ wrong with thinkin’ y’all can just come on in here and pull that shit off without bein’ right cordial and friendly-like to all them folks ‘round these parts who’d be right fixin’ ta come along and have a good time with y’all.”
He stopped just in front, and they stared in disbelief at him, as he tipped his hat back on his head a little, revealing a crooked grin, crooked nose, crooked teeth, shit just about everything on that unshaven visage looked crooked.
He was gnawing on something and as he leaned forward and launched a stream of dark spittle from his mouth, landing perilously close to Nestor’s boot, Renetta realised it was chewing tobacco.
“Jesus! You almost spat on me, you filthy fuck!”
“Ain’t no different to you fancy-ass rich kids figurin’ y’all can come ‘round and spit on my neighbourhood by partyin’ down and not being good hosts. That’s just plumb rude.” The fellow looked unrepentant, nor did that crooked grin shift from his face. “But I reckon we could come to an agreement of sorts. How’s about I mosey on in and check the party out in there, have a coupla brews, relax with y’all, see if we should make a real big combined party? Lotta folks round here love a good party, love sippin’ on some right proper headfuck juice, y’dig?”
“You fucking serious? You weird fucking hick bastard.”
“Sure as shit, I’m serious. Y’all be gracious hosts and shit, and slide me a coupla brews, pills, tokes, whatever’s goin’ on and we’ll keep everything civil-like. Everybody has a good time.”
“You know, all night I’ve been kinda plagued with this indescribable itch,” Nestor said, and now he’d started his pacing again, the appearance of the man having temporarily stilled him. “And I couldn’t really figure out whether it was to fuck some ass or kick some ass. And now…now you come along and well, shit, you’ve enlightened the fuck outta me. Because now I know exactly what it is I’m itching to do. And since Quen has specifically forbidden fighting amongst members of the High Society, your fucked up arrival is what I’d like to call a motherfucking blessing. Since I now know what I been itching to do is kick some ass!”
He was constantly on the move the whole time he was speaking, and before the final emphatic statement was even spat from his mouth, Nestor was stepping in close to the newcomer and swinging with a massive roundhouse punch that came around in a vicious arc. The fellow never saw it coming, or if he was in some way expecting a sudden violent assault, it happened too quick for him to defensively react. A fist rocketed into the side of his head and knocked it lopsided, before he buckled and crumpled on the ground in a sprawl of limbs.
Neither Nestor nor Wilson gave him any opportunity to regain his feet or even start attempting to; both were on him in an instant, like pit bulls going in for the kill. Wilson hadn’t even waited for any words of encouragement from Nestor to incite him to lay into the fallen man, but then again, anybody who’d seen them in this type of action before would have been expecting nothing else.
Nestor grabbed a handful of the man’s slicker, enabling him to haul the fellow up off the ground a little, and hurled a series of short, sharp brutal jabs at the already abused face, while Wilson elected to use his feet as preferred weapons of choice. He thundered savage kicks into the guy’s ribs, legs, just about anywhere he could get a clean kick without accidentally planting a boot into Nestor.
Renetta screamed involuntarily with the first sudden flurry of violence and now she jumped backwards, her hands flying up to her own face as she stumbled away a few steps to separate herself from the maelstrom of brutality.
She wanted to run away, but her feet were betraying her, keeping her rooted to that spot she’d managed to carry herself to just a short distance away. Her eyes remained glued to the bloody carnage as if transfixed, unable to be torn away. She was barely aware that her scream and the sounds of commotion were bringing others running from inside the decrepit house shell, despite the perpetual pulse of the music. Until people were running around her to witness the scene of the duo belting the hell out of the stranger, she didn’t even know they were there.
Quen was one of these, leading the charge.
“What the fuck’s going on here?” He wasn’t directing it at anybody in particular, though Renetta felt she should answer. All the same, she couldn’t even conjure up any words.
Without waiting for an answer from anyone, Quen launched into the fray as well, but not to assist those raining kicks and punches on the victim; he seized Nestor and yanked him backwards. Nestor’s next barrage of punches hit a great load of air as he was pulled free of his target, and another couple of guys were on hand to haul Wilson away too.
“Nestor, what the fuck?” Quen shouted. “What did this guy do? Did he do something? Fuck with one of us? What?”
Quen looked as high as fuck, his pupils dilated and his movements jittery, as if he’d dosed up on a similar cocktail to the two antagonists, and his words burst out in a torrent of sharp queries, but at least he still had enough faculties to halt
the brutality of his friends.
“Shit, fucking hillbilly sonofabitch was saying all kinds of shit,” Nestor declared, breathing had as he shrugged free of Quen. He stood, glaring down at the prone soul, fists bunched at his sides.
“What kind of shit? What? What’d he say?”
“Trying to wangle his way inside to get with the gals, drink our booze and score drugs, all kinds of stuff. Calling us rude motherfuckers, saying we shoulda invited him and his fucking backwoods buddies, or some shit. Fucking inbred asshole sonofabitch. Got what was coming to him.”
“Jesus Christ!” Somebody else said in a hushed undertone behind Renetta and she glanced around. Quite a crowd had assembled on the scene now, and she guessed out of the thirty or so members of the High Society, over half of them were here right now. The others were evidently still inside the ramshackle joint, either too inebriated to care, passed out somewhere or otherwise engaged in sordid sexual activity.
“Fuck's sake, Nestor,” Quen shook his head, the concoction of drugs and the disturbing scene, driving him into a highly agitated state. “Jesus. What are we going to do about this?”
“Fuck all. Leave his ass there,” Nestor retorted. “Got what was coming to him. Nothing to worry about.”
Renetta thought the guy was unconscious; she wasn’t expecting him to move at all, much less get up, but that was exactly what he did. He did so unhurriedly of course, but he clearly hadn’t been knocked out. Nor was he wearing any pained grimace, or expression of suffering. Though his face was cloaked in blood, marred with marks that would swell up into ugly discoloured bruises, he was grinning that big crooked grin, perhaps even wider than it was before. Blood adorned his teeth and trickled from the corner of his lips, but the grin remained plastered on his face, more unnerving than any of the visible gore.
