Jackpot

by David Bernstein

  Nine

  Booker was surprised when he walked into the Quik Stop and saw the stranger behind the counter. All the years he’d been stopping there, not once had Hamid not been manning the counter.

  Booker grabbed a pre-made turkey and ham sandwich, along with a purple-flavored sports drink, and walked up to the clerk. He figured he would grow a taste for more luxurious foods at some point, but for now, it was the same old corner store cuisine.

  A tall, lanky fellow with greasy, long hair and a crooked nose scanned Booker’s products. The man’s arms were covered in scabs, one wound clearly open and bleeding. He was a picker. It sickened Booker that such a disgusting individual was allowed to work, handling people’s food and money.

  Booker imagined following the dude after his shift was over, kidnapping him, and having some fun with those scabs in the back of his van. He’d make the guy eat them. He’d cut new pieces of flesh, cover the asshole’s entire body, and let him scab over. The fuckbag would resemble a burn victim when he was done with him, and all the time only feeding the lanky fuck his own scabs. All in all, he’d love watching the guy devour himself little by little. He grew hard thinking about it, deciding that he’d have to return later or tomorrow to get him.

  “That everything?” Scabby said, as he wiped a drip of clear snot from his right nostril with the back of his hand.

  “Where’s Hamid?”

  “Don’t know. He never came in, so his wife opened the store. She’s in the back.”

  “Who are you?”

  “His brother-in-law. Just helpin’ my sister out, man. Want me to ring this up, or what?”

  Booker ground his teeth as he slowly nodded, deciding to let it go as Scabby finished ringing the items up. He hoped Hamid was all right, though he had a feeling the guy was probably out joyriding in his new car, having too good a time and decided to live it up a little.

  He’ll be back tomorrow, Booker thought. He hoped so anyway. Hamid was one of the only people Booker didn’t have an urge to kill, and that had to mean something.

  Booker handed over a ten-dollar bill and grabbed his stuff from the counter before the guy could touch it again. “Keep the change,” he said, then walked away and out the door.

  He walked over to his van, ready to climb in, when a female voice said, “Hey, mister.” He stopped and turned around. A young woman was making her way toward him. She had long, curly, bleached-blonde hair, wore a denim mini-skirt that barely covered her pelvic region, and a tight tank top, revealing a huge set of bouncy tits. A sexy, nicely drawn, flowery tattoo crept up her thigh. The girl was clearly white trash, and Booker could already picture her with her mouth and cunt fused shut, hanging from her wrists in his garage. Another contestant?

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Hi,” she said, stepping up to him. “My car broke down.” She pointed over her shoulder to a dented, beat-up sedan. “Think I maybe could get a lift from you?”

  He bit into his sandwich as he let his eyes glide over her body. “Where to?”

  “Any garage that might be on your way to wherever you’re going.” She batted her eyelashes and gave a warm smile.

  “No phone to call a tow?”

  “Battery’s dead,” the girl said. “Too much time on the internet. Killed it.”

  “They can call a tow for you inside,” Booker said. He had already decided that she was coming with him, but he didn’t want to seem too eager.

  The girl looked down, ashamed. “I’m not allowed inside. Had a fight with the owner, Hamid. He won’t help. He’ll only call the cops, and besides, I don’t want help from him.”

  He almost told her that Hamid was missing, but then bit his tongue. “Pride’s a killer, you know?”

  The girl giggled. “I know, but it’s mostly all I got.”

  “Well, you seem like a nice girl. C’mon.” Booker turned and opened the driver’s side door of the van.

  “Oh, thank you, mister. Thank you so much.”

  Booker climbed in, quickly moved the taser from the center console to the side of his seat, and unlocked the passenger door. “It’s open,” he said.

  The girl climbed in.

  Booker started the van and pulled onto the road.

  “Name’s Tonya.”

  “Booker.”

  “Good to meet you, Booker.”

  “Likewise.” Booker reached alongside his seat and slid his fingers around the taser’s handle.

  Ten

  Winona sat up and watched Tonya get into the van and drive off. She was in the back of Tonya’s Ford Tempo, lying on top of Rufus so the dog wouldn’t give them away.

  “We’re clear, boys. Let’s get.”

  Benny and Arnie raised their seats, Arnie at the wheel. The two had nearly killed each other fighting over who was going to drive. Hamid’s body was in the trunk, his charred flesh filling the car with the scent of barbeque.

  See how ol’ Booker likes his car buddy now.

  When Benny had thrown that trunk door open, the peckerwood Tonya had tied up in there nearly jumped out at him, but Benny got startled, slammed that door right on top of the fucker’s head. Winona, being pressed for time, shot Tonya a look, and all that trashy little cunt could do was shrug, sort of roll her eyes. Arnie and Benny tossed Hamid’s still-smoking, half-eaten body on top of that fella, had to slam the trunk three times to get it to hold.

  Arnie started the car and took off after the van.

  If anything, Tonya was a capable woman, though her only skill beyond killing was whoring, just like her mama. The girl had gone up against all types, and held her own just fine.

  The man in the back of the car looked strong enough, and if Tonya could handle him on her own, the dweeb in the van wouldn’t be a problem. He wouldn’t know what hit him, and soon he’d be tied up in Winona’s house, spilling his guts about where her money was and how to get to it.

  The van started to pick up speed, and as it flew around a sharp left turn, they lost sight of it.

  “Don’t lose him, now! Move this hunka junk, will you, Arnie? Come on, come on!”

  “I’m tryin’, Me-maw. This car’s a piece of sheep shit.”

  “Tonya gonna suck his pee pee, Me-maw?” Benny asked, then wiped the drool off his bottom lip.

  “Oh, hush, you little pervert. She ain’t gonna have a chance to. We do this right, it won’t take long.”

  “There he goes,” Arnie said, pointing through the windshield at the tail lights glowing like demon’s eyes in the distance. He nearly lost control of the car, had to swing it to the right and missed an oncoming truck by maybe a foot.

  “Goddamnit, boy. I swear to Christ you got chili where your brain’s supposed to be.”

  Benny giggled. “Chili, yeah. With beans in it.”

  Arnie reached over and slugged Benny in the arm, nearly lost control of the car again. There was some thumping in the back and Winona imagined that fella waking up, wrestling with Hamid’s body in that tight space. Whoever that man was, he probably didn’t do nothing more than follow his pecker, and though Tonya was nothing but a pile of trash with big tits, Winona knew men only saw the tits. Whether he deserved to die or not, it was too late now.

  Arnie sped up, damn near rammed the van in the ass.

  “Arnie, you stupid shit. He ain’t supposed to see us tailin’ him. Back off before you fuck this whole thing up, get yer sister killed.”

  “I should have drove,” Benny said, then took another shot in the arm. “Me-maw—”

  “If both of you don’t shut up, I’ll toss you in the trunk with them other fellas and I’ll fuckin’ drive.”

  ***

  The moment after Eric busted his nut, everything went to shit. He couldn’t remember all of it, just bits and pieces, and the way his head felt he was surprised he remembered a thing.

  The blonde, Tonya she said, was riding his cock and riding it good. Best piece of pussy he’d had in years. Not the tightest, but she knew damn well how to work that thing. Eric had h
is seat leaned back as flat as it would go, gripping the fat on both of her ass cheeks as she rocked so hard she nearly blew the axles out. Those big tits of hers, nipples the size of half dollars and the color of baked ham, were knocking him in the face, and he let his tongue hang out so he could taste them as they slapped him around.

  He remembered clenching his teeth, telling her he was about to shoot, told her to jump off so he could spray it across her chin, but she said no.

  “Just cum inside me, baby,” she said. “I can’t have no kids, anyhow. I wanna feel you sprayin’ inside me, baby. Come on, give it to me.”

  And he did. He remembered her being a squirter, remembered his lap getting soaked like a bucket of warm water was overturned.

  And the next thing he knew there was a heavy, intense pain on the top of his head.

  Then he woke up in the fucking trunk. Arms tied behind his back. At least his legs and ankles weren’t restrained, but he couldn’t get the leverage to kick the door open, and no matter how many times he thrust his knees into it, he couldn’t get it to give.

  It felt like there was a bull in his skull ramming its horns and bucking its legs against the bone trying to get out. The bitch had pulled what felt like zip ties tighter than hell around his wrists, and the sharp plastic edges dug into his skin with every tug and pull.

  It wasn’t until his panic had died down a level or two that he realized he wasn’t alone in the trunk. And that the cooked meat smell was coming from his trunkmate.

  Eric didn’t know if it was male or female—it was pitch fucking dark in there—but one thing he knew for sure was it was dead. Not just from the odor, but from the way it slid and rolled around back there, limp and lifeless. And from the wetness soaking into Eric’s clothes. Blood, most likely, and maybe grease. This fucker was roasted, at least the head was, which kept knocking into Eric’s face and shoulder, the crispy skin cracking and flaking off.

  Other slimy bits and pieces sloshed around as the car turned and swerved, and Eric couldn’t help but imagine the body was torn open, innards spilling out of it and spreading across the floor of the trunk.

  Tonya. Is she the one responsible for all those other bodies?

  Maybe, but Eric heard male voices, at least two of them, up front. Some kind of fucked up family? A real-life Texas chainsaw clan or some shit?

  Eric couldn’t believe his fucking luck. A detective fishing around a Walmart parking lot for pussy, and he picks up the same killer he’s chasing at the job. She must have nearly laughed out loud when he said he was a cop.

  Just then, the car took a sharp right turn, throwing Eric to the other side of the trunk. The top of his aching head collided with metal, felt like a sledge hammer to the cranium. His juicy, medium-well trunkmate swung into him, part of that crispy head slamming into Eric’s face. His mouth had been open, teeth bared as he grimaced from the pain in his head. A smear of liquid, warm meat painted his incisors and lips, basted his taste buds with a rancid brisket flavor.

  Eric retched, sprayed hot vomit into the side of the corpse’s head which only splashed back into his face. His sickness mixed with the stew of death floating around and soaking into him, and as he spat and gagged, he swore to God he would kill Tonya and her whole fucking family before the night was over.

  Eleven

  One thing Frank had forced the kid to buy with his winnings was a goddamn cell phone, and as it went to voicemail for the fifth time, Frank nearly threw his out the window.

  “Answer the fucking phone!”

  Frank drove his rental toward Booker’s house, eager to show him the photos of the land he had found for his “mystery mansion.” He knew the kid would go bonkers for it, could tell this house meant the world to him.

  But Frank was starting to wonder about this Booker. The kid wouldn’t let Frank into his home, seemed nervous about it. Had been adamant about Frank not saying a word to anyone about what he spent his money on, which at first didn’t seem all that strange. Frank could understand a young kid wanting to keep things quiet so as not to attract the vultures, the distant cousins, the long lost siblings.

  And then he showed Frank his plans for the mansion. Equipped with a—as Booker had put it with an impish grin on his face—fully functional dungeon.

  He’s just into kinky shit, that’s all. And he’s embarrassed about it.

  Something still didn’t add up, but Frank had to admit, when it was all said and done, he really didn’t give a shit. Booker might be seeing Frank as a buddy, and Frank would exploit that as much as he could, but the kid was nothing but an investment. Frank’s ticket to a better life, for him and his family. No more bullshit. He could retire, he could travel the world, he could live it up.

  If Booker turned out to be Charlie fucking Manson, Frank would just smile, nod, tell him to be careful. Hell, Frank was willing to bury the fucking bodies if it meant a big payday.

  He dialed the number again as he took the exit, now maybe five minutes away. Booker needed to continue to see how much he needed Frank, needed to think that Frank was essential to his new life—his go-to guy.

  Twenty acres of forest surrounded by at least a hundred more. No neighbors. Private. A man could sing the Star Spangled fucking Banner through a megaphone on his roof, and nobody but the trees and animals would hear it. Frank had even called the landowner, talked him down, got a damn good price.

  And it’s all thanks to me, kid. You wanted this, and I went out and got it for you. Even delivered the BMW to the habibi like you asked. I’m here for you.

  Frank tossed his cell to the passenger seat when it went to voicemail again, gripped the steering wheel with both hands, and smiled.

  I earned this. I fucking deserve this.

  And nothing will stop me now.

  ***

  By the time they pulled up to the house, the van was empty, the back doors hanging open. When they were still following, Winona had forced Arnie to pull back, just far enough to keep the van’s tail lights in sight. For a minute there, she thought they had lost it, but here it was, abandoned in front of a shitty little house.

  Puddles of blood were pooled along in the back of the van, handcuffs hanging from metal poles. The van looked like some kind of fancy, custom job, and Winona bet that pipsqueak used his winnings—her winnings—to get it done.

  Where’n the fuck did the blood come from? Tonya wouldn’t have had time to bloody him up and then take him in the house. And why would she take him to the back for?

  “Whatta we do now, Me-maw?” Benny said.

  “Yeah,” Arnie said, then snorted and spat a blob of yellow snot in the dirt. “Tonya’s in there having all the fun, and it ain’t fair. I want a turn on him too. Don’t I get a turn?”

  An alarm in Winona’s brain was going off. Something wasn’t right here. Tonya wasn’t clever enough to do anything but cut him up, maybe beat him to death. If Tonya did this, the fucker would be bleeding sloppy in the dirt, and she’d be standing there all spattered in it, probably smiling, probably ready to rub it in her brothers’ faces that she got the son of a bitch before they could even get there.

  But Winona didn’t tell Arnie that.

  “Know what, Arnie? You’re right. You been good, you deserve a go at him. Why don’t you go on in there, tell yer sister to get her ass out here. Then you can go on and do what you will with him.”

  “Really?” Arnie smiled so all his gums were showing, eyes almost pinched shut.

  “Hey, that ain’t fair. Me-maw, that ain’t even fair.” Benny stomped his foot and flopped his arms like a kid who just got told he wasn’t getting dessert. “Why’s Arnie get to go’n have all the fun? Didn’t I do good with that terrorist fella? Didn’t I make him talk?”

  “Yes, yes you did. But I need a strong man out here with me, just’n case sumpin’ happens. Like a bodyguard a sorts.”

  “Bodyguard?”

  "S’right.”

  Benny’s frown slowly pulled into a grin.“Yeah, I’ll keep you safe, Me-maw. A
in’t nobody gonna mess with you while I’m around. Not nobody.”

  Arnie started to screw up his face like he was about to pout, probably say something about him being the stronger man, how he should be the one to keep her safe.

  “Mess him up good, Arnie,” Winona said. “But don’t kill him. You let him know we come here for our money, and you let him know we mean bidness, you got me?”

  Arnie sneered. “I’ll get him. Can I take Rufus with me? Just for the fun of it?”

  “Go on. But remember what I said, boy. You kill that peckerwood, we won’t have a dime to show for it.”

  “Don’t worry, Me-maw. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I trust you will,” she said, then opened the car door and let Rufus out.

  The dog shook its body, spraying foamed saliva all over the goddamned place, then ran straight to the trunk and pawed at it, whined and licked his chops.

  “Rufus’s still hungry. He ate damn near all o’ that terrorist, too.” Arnie chuckled as he grabbed hold of Rufus’s collar and dragged him away from the car and toward the front porch of the house. Just before they entered, Arnie shot an ugly as sin smile Winona’s way, and she forced herself to smile right on back at him.

  Go on in there, boy. That peckerwood’s in there waitin’ to ambush us, better your ass than mine or my baby Benny.

  Arnie roughed up Rufus’s head, getting him riled up and growling, then threw the door open and the both of them disappeared into the house.

  ***

  The first thing Arnie noticed when he got inside was the trail of blood leading from the door into the house. Rufus noticed it too and started licking it up, his tongue making loud sloppy sounds as it slid across the floor and slapped back into his mouth.