by Glen Frost
The man was burbling now, incoherent and childlike. His hands patted desperately against the soft, pulpy ruin beneath his limp dick, trying frantically to stem the flow of blood. His efforts were fruitless; blood stained both legs of his jeans, and was beginning to pool on the shag carpet at his feet.
Ray's skin, already sweaty, was now beginning to turn pale, she noted with approval. He is going into shock. There is just one more thing to do...
Anya looked down at the two stringy grey orbs that sat snugly in the palm of her right hand. Without warning, she balled her left hand into a fist and slammed it into Ray's prodigious gut. All the air went out of his lungs with a hiss, his mouth opening wide in reaction to this new source of pain.
Perfect.
Quick as a rattlesnake, Anya lashed out once more. This time, she took hold of his chin and lower jaw with her left hand, drawing it downward and ratcheting it open, causing it to gape wide. His eyes bulged in disbelief as Anya used her right hand to force-feed him both of his blood-streaked balls, once after the other, popping them between his teeth before the fat trucker could react.
Once Ray had both of his nuts in his own mouth, Anya pushed his jaw firmly closed.
"Swallow," she hissed, "bitch."
Ray shook his head: No. He began to retch and gag, trying desperately to breathe through nostrils that were flared wide and wholly inadequate to the task of moving enough air to meet the needs of his heart and lungs. Tightness began to stretch across Ray's chest, and he soon realized that despite the disgusting taste and sensation that his testicles provided as they sat upon his tongue, he would soon be forced to either swallow them...or die of suffocation.
In the end, Anya saved him the trouble by making the decision for him. Clenching her fist, she slammed the flat of one hand hard against the underside of Ray's chin. Her strike shattered his jaw into more than a hundred separate pieces, but that was actually the least of his worries. The sheer force of the blow ruptured both of Ray's testicles inside his mouth, causing them to explode like two raw eggs that had been dropped from a great height. His teeth shattered as well, broken into fragments when they were rammed together.
Blood and testicular tissue exploded out of Ray's nostrils in two dark liquid streams, running across the front of his mouth and down his fractured chin. More chunks of nut juice erupted down his throat, causing him to gag and splutter as some of it went into his gut and the rest was aspirated into his lungs.
Ray collapsed against the back of the sleeper cab, flopping down on the upholstered leather bench like a whale stuck out of the water that had just been harpooned. He tried to open his mouth in order to take a breath, but it was impossible; the muscles of his jaw had tightened and constricted, effectively wiring it shut. His nose was plugged with dripping blood and testicular juice, which also prevented him from breathing. His face had now turned a beetroot purple in color, standing in stark contrast again the pale white of the rest of his skin.
Blood continued to pool around Ray's feet, pouring from the shredded veins and arteries in his groin. Then the stream of blood and chunks of ball tissue hit his stomach, which wasn't feeling all that welcoming towards them; Ray felt his gorge rise as his stomach revolted, puking the invading tissue back up and hopefully out...but instead, they hit the back wall of his clenched mouth. Small flecks of sick and spittle made it out through his nostrils and tiny gaps where his teeth had once been, staining the front of his chin, but the rest of the vomit tsunami simply splashed around inside his mouth, before making its way either back down his esophagus or into his windpipe.
Pressing the flat of her hand against the blood-soaked shag carpet, Anya licked the coppery goodness from her palm. She felt strength exploding through her body, fueled by just a few drops of the freshly spilled blood. Closing her eyes for a moment, she reveled in the feeling of her spent power being replenished.
Ray's demented thrashings were beginning to quieten down, becoming weaker and less organized. His eyelids were at half-mast, secondary to the diminishing blood supply to his brain. As she climbed carefully down out of the cab and closed the door firmly behind her, Anya knew that it was fifty-fifty on what killed him first: Hemorrhagic shock due to blood loss, or asphyxiation because his mouth, windpipe, and lungs were full of what had once dangled between his chubby legs.
Good, she thought cheerfully as she walked back toward the Denver-bound stretch of highway, it serves the piece of shit right.
Besides, it was very small potatoes indeed compared to her plans for Piotr...
CHAPTER TWELVE
One night a few months before, Anya had been making small talk with some of the other working girls while they were all between customers. One of them had said that Colfax was the longest continuous street in the entire USA. She'd Googled it, and sure enough, it was; twenty-six miles, which made the whole thing as long as a marathon...which explained why it was taking so damned long for her to reach her destination.
She'd walked for another four hours after ditching Ray and his truck. It was getting on for midnight by the time she saw the neon sign for The Lucky Star. Despite the lateness of the hour, snow plows still blew past her at regular intervals, sanding and gritting the road. More than once, she was pebble-dashed on her left side, but she ignored it. Based on the lack of horrified reactions from the passing drivers and pedestrians, she figured that her psychic disguise was still holding — something that she was able to confirm when she looked in the window of a marijuana dispensary.
The reflection staring back at her had her usual flawless, pale complexion, with carefully applied dark eyeliner that emphasized her expressive, soulful eyes, and lipstick that did the same for her pouting mouth. Both had proven to be potent weapons when it came to getting what she wanted out of men.
Just for a fleeting moment, she allowed the mask to drop, catching sight of herself as she really was. Her face was grotesque almost beyond imagining, the reddish-purple muscles standing out in stark contrast to the lighter ligaments and tendons that attached them. Her eyes were gone, the sockets two sightless black pits. Anya opened her mouth, which was toothless and gaping, then closed it again with a snap.
She shuddered, surprised to learn that she was still capable of disgust, and pictured herself whole and healthy once more. The facade returned in a flash, a blinking, smiling recreation of how she had looked just a few days before...and never would again.
Shrugging it off, Anya crossed the street. There was a vacant lot directly opposite The Lucky Star, and a convenience store right next to it. Between the two was an alleyway, dark and probably empty, based on what she remembered. At best there might be a homeless person sleeping in there, but she doubted that would be the case on such as cold night as this. They would all hopefully be in one of the shelters, motels, or at the very least underneath a bridge or somewhere that would keep the snow off them for a little while.
Just as she had predicted, the alley was completely deserted. She found a pool of deep shadow just a few feet from the alley's mouth. Disappearing into its depths, Anya settled down to watch the motel. The obvious thing to do would have been to watch the street corners and intersections where the working girls liked to gather; they were clustered around in groups of two and three, even on a night as shitty as this one. But there were a good five or six such places, and Anya wanted to work smart, rather than hard. She knew that pretty much all of the girls working within a six or seven block radius would bring their johns back here to The Lucky Star. The manager was willing to rent out rooms by the hour, knowing full well what they were being used for, mainly because Piotr slipped him a few hundred bucks each month for the privilege of using his motel as a makeshift whorehouse.
The Lucky Star was the hub at the center of the wheel. All of those street corners were just spokes, and every one of them led back to the same place.
She didn't have long to wait. Passing the time pleasantly, wrapped up in memories of her precious Darya, she almost missed
the fat man with his long black duster, when he went into the motel office. Her lip curled upwards into a sneer. It was that twisted fuck, the pastor. He was leading a colored girl, obviously a streetwalker based upon her manner of dress. Anya squinted. Sure enough, she knew her: It was Chastity White.
Anya frowned. Chastity worked for a pimp named Juan. Her stomping grounds were usually a few miles east of here. With a barely perceptible shrug, she figured that the fish must not be biting in Chastity's usual neck of the woods tonight. Piotr had better not catch her working on his girls' turf, unless Juan had worked out a deal with him beforehand. Otherwise, things could get real nasty.
Either way, it was none of her concern. If Piotr happened by tonight, or that rat fuck Marko, then she'd seize the opportunity and kill them both. But right now, the pastor was in her sights, and she'd be damned if she was going to pass that one up.
Ten minutes passed. Anya idled the time away by watching the traffic and scoping out the neighborhood, or at least the little that she could see from the mouth of the alley. Part of her realized that she ought to feel at least a little bit sorry for what Chastity was probably going through, but when she searched her feelings, it turned out that her reservoir of compassion was completely empty. That came as a surprise, but not much of one. She hadn't felt much of anything since her resurrection, except for hatred and spite, of course. Those still burned brightly, keeping her innards warm on this cold December night.
She wasn't waiting out of any perverse desire for Chastity to get fucked over by the priest; Anya simply figured that she wanted him to be as distracted and off-guard as possible. Finally, she decided that a quarter of an hour had probably done the trick nicely. If he wasn't caught with his pants down and his dick out by now, then he never would be.
Like a shark homing in on a single spot of blood in the water, she crossed the street without bothering to look both ways. A yellow cab screeched to a halt, narrowly avoiding running her over. The driver flipped her off and screamed an obscenity. Anya simply ignored him, her attention fixated on just one thing: The fourth doorway from the left end of the single-story motel block, behind which she had watched the pastor and his paid companion disappear fifteen minutes ago. The door was a dull and faded light blue in color, with the black number 8 hanging crookedly at eye level.
Anya didn't even break stride. Planting one stilettoed heel firmly on the concrete, she used the other to deliver a perfectly-aimed kick at the lock. Room 8's door blasted backwards on its hinges. She strode confidently inside, eyes sweeping the room and taking everything in at a glance.
Chastity had been stripped naked, or so she thought at first; then she saw the way in which her clothes lay on either side of her, obviously sliced by the pocket knife that the pastor now held in his trembling right hand. The hooker still wore her leather boots, not all that different from Anya's own, but other than that she was as naked as the day she was born. Even the woman's bra and panties had been cut in half.
That wasn't the worst of it. Chastity half knelt, half lay on her knees in the bathroom doorway, with both hands cuffed behind her back in the manner of a suspect being brought in by the police. The priest stood over her, pants around his ankles, with the blade in one hand and his dick in the other. Anya had burst in and caught him mid-stream, pissing onto the back of Chastity's head. Yellow urine plastered her dark black hair, trickling down over her shoulders and drip-drip-dripping onto the linoleum floor. Some of it had soaked into her bangs and was running down the side of her face.
Anya's rage magnified tenfold. This wasn't about paying a hooker for sex, something which still pissed her off but would at least have been understandable; this was about humiliating and abusing the poor woman, a woman who was for all intents and purposes just like her.
She snapped.
Slamming the motel room door shut behind her, Anya advanced on the astonished john with murder in her eyes and written plainly across her face. Turning to face this unexpected intruder, he brought the knife up, ready to defend himself. When he saw Anya's face, his own became contorted into a mask of abject horror.
"No..." he stumbled..."you stay away from me, unclean woman!"
Not bothering to respond verbally, Anya let her actions do the talking. She backhanded him across the face, delivering a stinging bitch slap that echoed from the walls in the confined space of the bathroom. The priest staggered backwards two steps, then tripped drunkenly over his own pants, falling backward into the grimy bathtub. He was still pissing, and as he fell, a yellow jet of urine arced into the air above his falling body. For a ridiculous split-second, Anya was reminded of a water fountain being turned on. The pastor landed hard on the surface of the porcelain tub, smacking his head against the plug hole. Then the orange-yellow drops pitter-pattered down on top of his face, stinging his eyes and running into his open mouth.
The priest hacked and coughed up a stream of pissy, frothy bubbles. He blinked his eyes, trying desperately to clear them of the noxious liquid. At least a few trickles went up his nose, making him sneeze and splutter. Somehow, he still managed to hold on to the knife, clutching it in a death grip in his right fist.
Chastity cowered at Anya's feet, momentarily forgotten by both of the combatants, one because of the sudden onset of fear and the other due to sheer blood lust and rage. The man's nose wasn't even close to having healed; the best he could do was to tape a 4x4" strip of gauze across its bridge. That was Anya's first target. She yanked the dressing away in a single, fluid motion, causing the pastor to howl in pain as the tape tore free. Then she stuck the ends of two bony fingers up there, inserting one carefully into each nostril and tugging as hard as she could.
The priest screamed as she pulled him up into a sitting position, using only her two fingers planted in the inside of his broken nose as leverage. The pain must have made him angry — either that, or he suddenly remembered that he still held the knife, because he swung it down into Anya's shoulder in the style of Norman Bates stabbing Janet Leigh in Psycho.
Anya didn't even bother to try and dodge. The five-inch blade sank itself up to the hilt in her shoulder. Her intended victim roared in what sounded something like triumph, but she felt no pain at all, and simply shrugged the wound off as a minor inconvenience. She began to make back and forth scissor motions with her two fingers, changing the pastor's triumphant yawp into a squeal of pain as fresh waves of agony rippled through his battered nose. Fresh blood began to trickle from the nostrils, which only served to spur Anya on to new heights of blood lust.
Still controlling his nose with those two powerful fingers, she put her face close to his, until their noses and eyes were mere inches apart.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance," she snarled. Then she allowed her mask to drop.
The priest couldn't believe what he was seeing. Although it had struck him as strange that the hooker's face, which he had really gone to town on during her beat-down, appeared to have miraculously healed itself somehow, he hadn't had time to do anything more than make note of it. But this...this was something else. What had been the face of a very attractive dark brown-haired young woman just seconds before had suddenly morphed somehow into something out of his darkest nightmares; a brutalized ruin of a face, toothless and eyeless, all muscle, bone, and connective tissue, glistening wetly as it leered back at him.
The pastor did the only rational thing, given the circumstances. He screamed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Oh, please keep the noise down," Anya tutted. "We don't want to frighten the neighbors, do we...lover?"
She pressed her lipless mouth up against the priest's quivering lips and stuck her tongue halfway down his throat. It explored the corners of his mouth eagerly, not for pleasure, but purely to revolt him. After all that he had put her through, there was no way in Hell that Anya was going to allow him the pleasure of a quick and easy death.
The priest gagged when the tip of her tongue found his uvula, tickl
ing his puke trigger by flicking it gently. He tried desperately to pull away, but she took his face in both hands and held it lip-locked tightly against her own in an obscene parody of a passionate lovers' kiss.
Noticing that the pocket knife was still embedded in this grotesque thing's shoulder, he managed to get one flailing hand up to wrap itself around the handle and tried to draw it out, wanting nothing more than to stab her again and again. Feeling the change in pressure, Anya released the fat man's face and slammed him backwards against the wall behind the tub. The dingy cream-colored tiles shattered, leaving a blood-smeared spiderweb where the back of his skull had struck them.
The pastor was stunned unconscious, eyes rolling up into the back of his head. He slid drunkenly down the tile wall, slumping over forwards in the bathtub. Anya looked closely and saw to her great satisfaction that he was still breathing. Only then did she turn her attention to the quivering, sobbing heap that lay on her side on the tile floor.
Chastity's hair was stringy and frizzed out, thanks to the dousing she had gotten in the priest's piss. Her mascara ran in two long, Alice Cooper-like streaks down both cheeks. She was trembling and shaking, the poor thing, and despite herself, Anya was able to dredge up a few scrapings of compassion from the bottom of her burned-out soul.
"Here," the Russian girl said, not unkindly. She bent down and took hold of the chain that secured the handcuffs behind Chastity's back. "Let us get you out of here."
With a single yank, she snapped the chain in two.
"Th...thank you," Chastity sniffed, clambering unsteadily to her feet. Keeping a wary eye on her unconscious tormentor, she rubbed slowly at her wrists where the handcuffs had already begun to chafe. Anya's mask was back up now, so when the other hooker looked at her, she wasn't horrified. "Hey, don't I know you...?"
