Primrose and Brimstone

by Jason Mueller

  “Are you OK, mister?” He asked when the man reached him.

  “Oh, I’m more than fine!” The young man in the suit reached out and placed a hand on Eugene’s shoulder. The devil jumped to Eugene and David Jeremiah’s burned body fell to the ground smoldering.

  HALLOWEEN

  Halloween 4:30 p.m.

  “I’m going to fuck this bitch good.” Danny Grey mumbled as he tried desperately to push his limp cock inside the young hooker. The girl, an attractive blonde, did her best to encourage him; begging him to fuck her. His shriveled cock, however, made it hard to sound convincing.

  She didn’t care if he fucked her or not; she needed the money. It was Halloween night, and she had to have a fix. She wanted to party with a few friends. She almost had enough money to pay for the rundown motel room for another night and money for her addiction.

  Like many young girls, she had headed for Los Angeles dreaming of fame and fortune but found only bitter disappointment. She found that work was scarce, and the competition to break into acting business crushing in its enormity. She worked hard at two jobs but couldn’t hold on to her apartment, and after two months found herself to be on the way to homelessness.

  In desperation, she answered an ad on Craigslist for a roommate situation. She had been nervous about living with a stranger, but she had little choice since she refused to go home. Anywhere but there; after years of abuse, she had escaped and vowed to never step foot in that house again.

  She nervously had knocked on the door after a long phone conversation, a pretty girl named Gabby answered. The two hit it off immediately, sharing much of the same background, and so Gabby had walked into her life; a life that would never be the same.

  Things were great the first day or two until Gabby’s boyfriend Jamal came over. She didn’t trust him and he made her uncomfortable, especially when he tried to get her to sleep with him—even with Gabby in the room, who didn’t seem to care. Gabby would leave for work dressed in skimpy clothing. She claimed she was a waitress at a strip club and the sexier she dressed the better her tips were. Shelly was shocked at this but said nothing. She was not comfortable with Jamal staying at the apartment while Gabby was at work, and Jamal didn’t seem to have a job

  Soon, the awful truth of the situation played out and made itself known. A week after Shelly had moved in, Gabby left for work, as usual, leaving Shelly alone with Jamal again. Jamal kissed Gabby goodbye and shut the door, locking it behind him. He strutted over to the couch where Shelly lay reading an old worn out paperback she had found in the apartment.

  “Bitch get in the bedroom and strip,” he growled. “We’re gonna fuck.”

  “I don’t think so.” Shelly dismissed without looking up from her reading.

  Jamal could not believe this white bitch was disrespecting him like this. In a rage, he grabbed Shelly by her hair and punched her in the face repeatedly, leaving her addled and bloodied. He dragged her to Gabby’s room, still clutching her hair in his fist. He jerked her tank top off, revealing her large tits that were pushing the DD range. When she tried to cover herself out of modesty, another blow to the face brought her hands back up to protect herself. Jamal slapped her breasts, leaving large hand prints on her pasty flesh. Her knees buckled from the pain, but Jamal was a large man and held her upright by the hair.

  He flung her, like a rag doll, to the bed. She bounced unceremoniously. She scrambled, trying to get away, but he grabbed her ankle and drug her back to him. He jerked her shorts and panties off and stood back, enjoying her nakedness.

  “You are one hot bitch,” he remarked, taking in her ample curves, very much liking what he saw.

  He could feel himself thicken with anticipation. She whimpered and begged him to stop. His response was to pull his belt from his already sagging jeans.

  Later:

  Shelly knew she was being raped. She knew it was by many men, not just Jamal. Jamal kept her in a delirious drug induced state of euphoria where she lost all track of time and lost track of herself. It was surreal to her. She had never taken drugs before, and Jamal expertly administered her the right amount to keep her in oblivion, and the needle delivered its addicting sensations.

  A week later she left the apartment addicted to heroin, and now a prostitute to feed her habit. She worked for Jamal for a year; she attempted once to escape from him but he found her four days later and had almost beat her to death. Ironically, soon after, Jamal and Gabby were gunned down in a drug deal gone bad. The perpetrators were never caught.

  Shelly took advantage of the ensuing chaos to disappear before some other pimp tried to add her to his stable. She moved out to the suburbs, making new contacts to supply her habit, and changed how she conducted her business; posting ads on Craigslist and other social networking and dating sites. She found she made more money and needed to sleep with fewer men to do it. Now she might sleep with two to three men a night; Jamal had kept her busy for hours until she passed out from exhaustion. All of this was how she was to meet a dickhead like Danny Grey.

  Danny Grey was no good. He’d been any good; even as a child. He had spent his childhood in and out of juvenile detention centers and mental hospitals until being sentenced to boys’ school until he turned eighteen. Soon after he did time in an adult facility for armed robbery.

  An armed robbery was the least of his crimes. By the time, he was twenty-one he had already killed three people, but never made it to trial. He was also a suspect in other cases but police could pin nothing on him. He was brilliant and insane both of which allowed him to ply his murderous trade and not get caught. The truth was he was prolific as a murderer, often doing contract killings for the mob, and sometimes just because he wanted to.

  Danny played off his inability to get an erection by taking Shelly’s foot and sucking on her toes, moving up her calf and thigh, and finally planting his face in her sex. She was slightly disgusted. There were certain lines you didn’t cross between clients and prostitutes. No kissing, and you never let them eat you out; it wasn’t fair to the customer. Shelly had already been with two men that evening and felt repulsed as Grey lapped at her juices.

  She already hated herself and felt dirty for being a heroin-addicted prostitute, and now this ignorant ass was making her feel even more self-conscious. She could usually block out the unpleasant parts and people—that was the life of a whore—but this guy was just revolting to her. Finally, she'd had enough. It was better to take a chance of losing out on the money than continue with this dumb mother fucker, she thought. His incessant prattling and asking her if she liked how he was making her pussy feel was too much.

  “Are you going to fuck me or what?” She asked the frustration clear in the tone of her voice.

  Danny stopped licking her dirty pussy and looked at her through the coldest eyes she’d ever seen. Cold enough it seemed as if the temperature had dropped in the outdated old motel room with nothing more than his look.

  Like a flash, he was on her pinning her down with his weight. Shelly's fight-or-flight instincts kicked in but there would be no flight without first getting him off her. The fight was her only choice, it seemed. She clawed at his face and arms, but to no avail. Three quick punches to the face forced her to stop.

  Danny could feel himself getting hard. His hands found her throat. As Shelly gasped for breath Danny entered her, finishing long after Shelly was dead.

  Danny rolled off Shelly’s lifeless body, panting and covered with sweat as he lay there letting the moment pass, catching his breath. He smiled and giggled as the phrase “fucked her to death” popped into his head. Danny had fucked her good, though, he thought. Too bad she hadn’t been alive to enjoy it, he mused.

  This wasn't the first time a woman had died having sex with him. He was a professional, though, and always destroyed the evidence, and that thought was leading him to the question of how to take care of this situation. He wasn’t worried, but the location made it more complicated. Most people would just leave thinking no on
e would care about another dead hooker in L.A., but that's how people get caught, his internal dialogue discussed with itself. His DNA was all over and inside of the dead girl, and on the sheets, and god knows where all his prints might be now. He would have to do something.

  Danny was in a mood though and he wasn't sure why but he had been feeling angry, restless, but mostly careless recently. It bothered him. He prided himself on always being in control of his emotions. It was a plus in his line of work and there was really nothing he could do about it, so he tried to put it out of his mind, but just couldn’t. Little did he know he would leave a trail of carnage with him wherever he went this night.

  He continued to lay there next to Shelly's cooling body, wondering what had happened to him. He couldn’t figure it out. It was like something was inside him clouding his thinking and playing havoc with his emotions. Whatever it was seemed to drive him to mayhem, and he felt a sudden urge to burn the body and the motel to the ground. That was not his style; it would bring too much attention, but so great was the compulsion he gave into the urge.

  He got out of the bed and headed to the bathroom. He took his post-ejaculatory piss, and it felt amazing. When he was done, he stepped into the shower. There was no way he would run around with the pussy juice of a dead hooker, he thought smugly, his insanity playing well with his narcissism.

  He showered, dressed. The whole time talking to Shelly’s body as if she was still alive. As if he hadn’t just choked the life out of her and fucked her corpse. He dumped her purse. Its contents landing unceremoniously on her bare chest. He took the money and the room key. He counted the money; only two hundred and forty dollars—but fuck it.

  This bitch wouldn’t be needing it.

  Danny walked out, locking the door behind him, placing the do not disturb sign on the doorknob as he walked to his old battered Lincoln Continental. He loved the old car, its luxuriousness, comfortable ride and enormous trunk, which came in handy hauling the tools of the trade, and the many bodies that took their last rides in the roomy confines.

  It was 5:15pm.

  An hour later he returned with twenty gallons of gas. After watching the area for a few minutes he was certain that the motel was all but empty, and since the room was on the back side of the building, there was little fear that anyone could see him go about his work. He carried the gas cans inside, having to make two trips.

  Danny set the first can on the bed and tipped it on its side, letting the gasoline run out neatly. He tried to avoid sloshing it everywhere and taking the risk of it splashing on him. The flammable liquid soaked into the bed turning it into a makeshift funeral pyre. Then, he went to the door that adjoined this room and the next room together, and set the can down the same way letting the gas pour into the next room. The other two cans he let drain out on each side of the bed soaking the old green shag carpet that looked to be circa 1978.

  When he was satisfied that the room was ready, he walked out, leaving the door open. He went to the trunk and grabbed a small flare gun, and got into the Lincoln, started it up, and backed out. Danny put the car in drive and rolled down the window, taking aim with the flare gun. With a loud pop and a whooshing noise, the flare shot through the open door, the gas fumes exploded, sending glass falling onto the ground. With that, Danny Grey pulled out slowly as to not draw attention to himself. Grey would have been happy to know Shelly’s body would become one with the steel coils of the cheap mattress. So much so that the funeral home charged with finishing the job of cremating her body would pick bits of metal out of her ashes before they were boxed and shipped home to her mother and sexually abusive stepfather.

  It was 6:24 p.m.

  “Damn, fuckin’ Halloween night and I’m bored as fuck!” Danny muttered to himself as he tooled around town dodging trick-or-treaters. He had “treated himself” to some meth and painkillers to get into the party mood. He was sleepy and geeked out all at the same time; it was awesome. He resisted the urge to drive by the ratty hotel to see how badly it had burned, but everyone knows you NEVER return to the scene of the crime.

  That’s how people get caught.

  He absentmindedly reached down and fingered the grips of his SIG P-226 .9mm pistol lying on the seat next to him. The gun was like a security blanket to him. He never felt right without it, and it had saved his life more than once. It had never let him down on a job before. If people were as reliable as his gun, Danny wouldn’t have a job as a hit man. He needed to get rid of it. If he was caught, he would spend the rest of his life in prison, and a whole hell of a lot of murders would be solved.

  “Little fuckers!” Danny thought as he had to stop yet again for some pint-sized trick-or-treaters. “God, I want to run over the little bastards!”

  He fumed as a little princess character from the latest Disney film ran across the street, dragging a disinterested mother along, who never even looked up from her phone when she crossed the street.

  Danny turned the Lincoln toward a less inhabited section of town, hoping to cut through and get back to the business district. He cruised down the street, thankful for less traffic and fewer pedestrians. Up ahead on the right, on a corner that sat empty, save for the shopping cart that sat tipped over in the middle of the overgrown and trash-littered lot. He saw three little trick-or-treaters making their way to the corner. He shut the lights out and took a quick look around. It was deserted, and a perfect opportunity as they were all alone. He waited a few moments letting the car coast along. When the timing seemed right, he gunned it.

  The Harris boys were much too young to be out trick-or-treating by themselves but there was little they could do about that. There was no one to take them out. Mother was a strung out crack whore, busy selling her pussy for the next fix while Uncle Sam and the good folks at the welfare office paid for the rest of her bills.

  The boys ranged in age from 4, 6, and 9. They had done their best at making costumes, but not having any, they made do with what they had on hand. So they put on their filthy crust and mold-covered superhero pajamas given to them by the Salvation Army last Christmas over their clothes and got into their mother's whore makeup. They did their best to paint their faces. They would more than likely get beat with the belt later, but for now, she had left them home alone again and the time for reckoning was too far away for them to care.

  So the little boys set out into the night eyes full of wonder and pillowcases full of potential. An hour later they had made little progress in their quest for candy. Much of the neighborhood had been abandoned, industrial, filled with crack houses, or lived in by folks who didn’t have the money for such foolishness as giving away candy to strangers. An hour later they were nearing the corner.

  Danny Grey grinned as he gunned the boat of a car and sent it hurtling down the darkened street. The Harris boys did not understand that The Angel of Death drove a 1998 Lincoln Continental until the headlights flashed on them so that Grey could see the look on their faces and enjoy the show.

  The bright lights appearing out of nowhere both blinded and confused them. They stopped to stare, unsure of what was happening. The boys were having a deer in the headlights moment. The impact sent little Myron Harris flying, crushing his spine and internal organs on contact with the bumper. Mercy came from the trunk of an old elm tree. His little face shattered. Skin, bones and brains were embedded in the bark as his broken body slid to the ground.

  Manny and Michael weren’t as lucky. The Lincoln’s bumper hit them straight on, breaking bone and tearing flesh and organs. They would both fall to the pavement, the Lincoln grinding them into the rough asphalt as their little bodies hung up on the frame, axles, and flesh-searing exhaust. They would feel every inch as the skin and flesh were ground off their bodies. After what seemed like hours of hell, but only seconds, the boys were spit out the back of the speeding car. They would both suffer until the cold hand of death took them.

  It would be two days before their mother could be tracked down found naked on a dirty mattress in an
abandoned house. She had never gone home to even notice her son’s missing. When told about her boys, she’d merely rolled over and went back to sleep.

  Gary sped off through the night until pulling into a car wash. He spent the next ten minutes power washing the evidence of the hit and run from the Lincoln. When he was satisfied he hit the streets again looking for more homicidal fun.

  It was 7:01pm.

  He cruised around bored out of his mind. He might as well go home he thought. Fuck it! The phone rang bringing him back to the moment.

  “Hello.” He answered.

  “Do you know who this is?” The voice on the other end asked with little emotion and no greeting.

  "Yes, I do," Danny answered feeling his heartbeat a little faster at the anticipation of a job to do. He would get work—a hit if you will. The client on the phone was into loan sharking on a large scale, and someone must have neglected to pay their debt. They didn’t call Danny to break legs or any of that old school nonsense. If they called Danny Grey someone would die.

  The voice continued so as not to give any details in case there was a wiretap. “Info coming soon. Usual arrangements.”

  With that, the voice hung up. Danny's phone chimed to let him know an email had arrived. He opened it up and read it at a stop light.

  William Cutler, White, 5’9”, 180, Brown Hair

  Wife 1, daughter 1, son 1

  1334 E. Moore

  Danny deleted the email from the dummy account. The account was untraceable and so was the phone. It took a monthly card purchase for minutes and data that was paid in cash at a local convenience store and the phone had been altered to disable the GPS feature off permanently. By some miracle, if the police could ever tie the phone to him or one of his hits, they could only ping his position which would still be too large of an area for them to find him.