by Glen Frost
"No," Anya replied brusquely. She gestured impatiently towards the door. "I don't think so. Come on. Let's go, before he wakes up."
Chastity didn't need telling twice, and she was halfway out the bathroom door before she seemed to think better of it. Turning back, she leaned over the bathtub, cocked back a fist, and punched the insensible priest squarely in the balls. The guy grunted, scrunching himself up into a fetal ball in a desperate attempt to protect his junk. Chastity spat on him, hawking a big dollop of spit that landed squarely on the lower part of his chin; thanking Anya, she hurried out into the bitterly cold night air.
Anya nodded approvingly. For the second time in just a few nights, the worm had turned on this abusive piece of shit. And speaking of which...
The priest was up and moving again, though barely. With his pudgy fingers gripping either side of the tub, he was trying to lever himself up into a squatting position. Anya grabbed him by the throat with both hands, her fingers slipping between rolls of sweating flab and causing the fat man's eyes to bug out of his head...but it wasn't strangulation that she had in mind, nor anything so quick and merciful.
Growling, she picked the pastor up by his neck and flung him through the bathroom doorway. His foot clipped the wooden frame with a loud thwack, causing his body to spin end over end before landing in a heap against the motel room door. His right foot was now bent ninety degrees out of true, the ankle obviously fractured from what little she could see poking out from underneath the hem of his pants.
"Whore!" The priest was rolling on his back like an upended turtle, trying frantically to grab at his busted ankle.
"Yes," Anya agreed coolly, striding across the room toward him, "but at least it is an honest profession. Unlike yours, 'man of God.'"
"Fuck y—aaaaaargghhh!" His cry of defiance was abruptly cut off when Anya punched the outstretched fingers of one hand into his blubbery white belly. They sank up to the knuckles, each one surrounded by spurts of blood.
She shoved her fingers in deeper, tearing the skin in two as she thrust the arm in up to the wrist. The priest went berserk, jerking and twitching spastically. Anya's fingers ferreted around inside his abdomen, finally latching onto something that felt like warm, squishy rubber tubing. Closing her fist around it, she yanked her arm backward. Blood splattered her face and the stained white shirt that had been her burial shroud, dripping from her eyebrows and the tip of her nose.
Anya looked at her hand, also soaked red with blood and gore. It held a loop of bluish-grey intestine, which reminded her of something she'd eaten in a seafood restaurant once. The length of bowel was maybe four feet long, poking through the bleeding, jagged tear in the pastor's skin in a U-shape. He looked on wide-eyed and screaming as she pulled out another two feet of his guts and then slowly, carefully draped them about his neck like some obscene kind of scarf. She looped them twice, three times around his throat until they were beginning to cut off the air supply to his windpipe.
The priest's jowly face was turning purple as his own guts constricted, tightening their hold on his throat.
"Uh uh," she chided mockingly, wagging a finger in front of his bloodshot eyes. "We're not done yet."
She reached down, taking his flaccid penis between her thumb and forefinger, and began to massage it gently, up and down, up and down. All the pastor could focus on was his own personal world of pain, but his dick reacted to Anya's stimulation regardless; it began to swell and stiffen, and when she manipulated it expertly in the palm of her blood-slick hand, it soon sprang to the fully erect position.
Leaning forward, Anya let her mask drop again, showing him the brutal ugliness of her true face. The priest tried to scream, but lacked the breath to do it. All that came out was a sputtering choke of revulsion at the sight of her. Ignoring him, Anya lowered her head and slipped his member into her mouth, then began to bob her way up and down the veiny shaft. She looked up at him while she worked. There was, she suspected, no way in Hell that he was taking pleasure in what she was doing, because the agony was simply too great. As for the erection, that was simply his body reacting on autopilot to the skilled ministrations of her mouth and hand.
Then she bit down. Hard.
The Russian may not have had any teeth, but she had the strongest jaw this side of the Rockies. When it came down to a competition between her gum and bone versus flesh and connective tissue, there really was no contest. Clamping her jaw shut tightly, she shook her head violently like an attack dog worrying at a victim's leg.
His prick came away in a shower of fresh blood, dangling limply from Anya's mouth and draining its coppery contents all over her chin and breasts. She spat it out into the palm of one hand, knowing that it wouldn't stay erect for long. She had to act fast before the damn thing went flaccid. Anya slapped the priest hard on the cheek with his own severed dick, blasting his head to the left, then backhanded him in the opposite direction. The cock made a repulsive thwacking sound on impact.
The priest was too busy asphyxiating to care much about the double cock slap.
"Can't breathe?" Anya asked, faking sympathy...badly. The pastor shook his head, eyes screwed tightly closed in a vain attempt to shut out this new world of pain. Just like the filthy pig in the truck, he was rapidly bleeding to death; and just like her first victim, he deserved it every bit as much. The world would be infinitely better off without him. "Well, maybe we can open up a little airway for you..."
She grabbed a top knot of lank, greasy hair in one fist and hauled his head backwards, exposing his throat for her inspection. Just beneath his corpulent chin, the intestines were still wrapped tightly around his throat, spasming and twitching in peristaltic waves. Anya watched in morbid fascination as the man's Adam's Apple bobbed up and down, his closed throat trying desperately to suck in even the smallest amount of air. She positioned her pointer and middle fingers directly below the Adam's Apple, straightened them as much as possible, and then jabbed them forward with all the force of a striking cobra.
The exposed bone ends which had once connected to her fingertips easily punctured the soft cricothyroid membrane, entering the priest's windpipe. She twisted her wrist viciously through ninety degrees, first one way and then the other, taking a hole that was two finger-widths in diameter and turning it into a ragged, gaping wound.
When Anya removed her fingers, blood from the soft tissue around the new bodily opening competed with fresh hemorrhage from the man's lacerated jugular veins. Fresh waves of blood sheeted down his neck, pouring into the disgusting wiry black hair that covered his chest and belly. The pastor gulped in the manner of a fish out of water, guppy-breathing its last agonal gasps, and air bubbles began to form around the rim of the throat wound.
That's it, Anya thought to herself with a newly-found sense of satisfaction, that's pretty much wide enough...Carefully, she inserted the bulbous purple head of the severed penis into the new hole in the pastor's neck. It took a little more effort on her part than she'd expected, mainly because the dick was shriveling fast and become more flaccid with every passing second, but it didn't take more than a few seconds for her to fill the gap with a veiny meat plug.
The pastor collapsed backwards into a bloody heap on the floor. Anya stood over him, looking over her handiwork with a critical eye. The steadily pulsing blood from the man's severed prick, disemboweled abdomen, and traumatized throat was beginning to weaken and slow. His eyelids fluttered closed, and his head lolled drunkenly to one side on the floor. Seconds after that, his entire body went limp.
Anya took great pleasure in the certain knowledge that the very last sensation he had felt before leaving this mortal world was that of his own penis being inserted into his neck.
"So, cocksucker," she spat disdainfully, "how's that for a deep throat?"
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Days had passed since Anya’s murder. Piotr had gotten wasted with Marko and a couple of their drinking buddies the night before, and slept late into next day, fin
ally "surfacing just after one o’clock in the afternoon. His bed was soft and warm, it was cold and still snowing outside, and he had no place to be until nightfall, when he’d get out on the streets again and keep his whores in line. It was an insistent electronic chiming that finally caused him to open his eyes and grope blearily for the phone that sat on the bedside table.
He knew that ring tone, because it was assigned to one specific man in his contacts list: Piotr’s boss, a man whose first name he had never learned and therefore simply knew as “Mr. Guskov.”
“I am going to be very clear,” Mr. Guskov had said without preamble. His accent had become very westernized over the years, but a trace of its original Russian was still detectable in the background. “The Denver Police Department is taking an interest in our affairs…in my affairs.”
“Why?” Piotr asked groggily, struggling back to wakefulness. “I mean, why now?”
“The priest. His murder was sufficiently lurid to attract prime time media headlines. The public seems to have a morbid fascination with the case.”
“Not surprising. Whoever killed him ripped his guts out and strung him up by them.”
“And we still do not know who is responsible,” Mr. Guskov admitted with a sigh. “I suppose that it could be the gangs, but the Bloods, the Surenos, and the Crips prefer guns and knives. Even by their standards, this seems…excessive.”
“Drive-by shootings are more their thing,” agreed Piotr.
“Besides, gang bangers target other gang bangers. White holy men aren’t usually high on their lists.”
There was nothing holy about that fat fuck, Piotr thought but did not say. He hadn’t told Mr. Guskov about Anya. The boss man didn’t like to be bothered with the nitty gritty details of day to day operations, for the most part…or so Piotr told himself. In reality, he suspected that he might himself rotting in a shallow grave of his own if his boss found out that Piotr had offed one of his working girls in a fit of savage rage.
“At any rate, one of their detectives is sniffing around some of our street girls, primarily those on Colfax Avenue.”
Piotr blinked in surprise. “I have heard nothing of this.”
“Nor would I expect it,” Mr. Guskov said airily. “Such concerns are, as the saying goes, above your pay grade.”
“If you say so, sir.”
“I do.” The sound of ice cubes and swirling liquid were followed by a gulp from the other end of the phone line. “Strategy and intelligence gathering are my responsibility. Beating whores and pulling triggers is yours.”
“Do you mean…you wish him killed?” Piotr felt his heart rate increase. The prospect of another kill excited him. He’d gotten a taste for it lately. Murdering hookers was no challenge, hardly a test of his manhood at all. Taking out a cop, on the other hand…
“That is precisely what I mean. Do you have something to write with?”
Scrabbling in the drawer next to his bed, the pimp fished out a month-old lottery ticket (not worth the cheap paper it was printed on) and a pen. “Yes, Mr. Guskov.”
“Good. Take this down.”
Obediently, Piotr wrote down an address that, based on the zip code, was in the City of Golden.
“This is his home?”
“It is. The detective’s name is Forsberg. According to our source in the Denver Police Department, the man cannot be bribed to stay away. He lives alone, so there should be no witnesses…”
Piotr didn’t bother to write the man’s name down. If he lived alone, it should be pretty simple. “I will go tonight,” he promised.
“Take another pair of hands. Marko would be a good choice. Oh, and Piotr…”
“Yes, Mr. Guskov?”
“This is professional, not personal. Afford the police officer what dignity you can. Do not abuse the body. Do you understand?”
“Understood, sir.”
Click.
Piotr heard the connection drop. Slowly, a sadistic grin spread across his face. A cop. This was going to be more than business. This would be a fucking pleasure.
Jeff Forsberg was having a shitty day. No, scratch that: He was having a shitty week, the Homicide cop reflected as he popped the cap on a bottle of Blue Moon and took a long pull. It was getting on for ten-thirty. As soon as he’d gotten home, Jeff had taken off his suit and thrown on his lucky Colorado Avs T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts, perfect for lounging around the house on his night off.
He was still dressed more respectably than his unexpected house guest.
After a long and fruitless day and most of the evening spent freezing his balls off, talking to every working girl on Colfax Avenue, he’d finally been ready to call it a night. It was then that she’d hissed at him from the shadows of an alleyway next to a 7/11.
Her name was Natasha, or so she said. None of the hookers had been willing to talk to him, but this particular bedraggled specimen had wanted nothing more than to spill her guts to him. Dragging him further into the alleyway, she started telling him a frankly ludicrous story straight out of a horror movie: One that involved a dead prostitute, a dead priest, and a pimp who went by the name of Piotr.
Standing there, shivering in the darkness while the snow fell all around them, Jeff was ready to dismiss her obviously bullshit fantasy out of hand, but one thing was stopping him: Natasha (or “Chastity,” as her street name went) knew every single minute detail concerning the priest’s murder. Stuff that had never been released to the media. Specific wounds that the sick bastard had sustained before his death. Things that only the coroner would know…and there wasn’t a coroner’s assistant in the world that dressed like that.
The girl was also patently terrified. Jeff put a beer into her in an attempt to calm her nerves. He was just starting his first, but she was already working on her second. She’d go on the record and testify, Natasha had promised, but she was terrified; not only of the supposedly living-dead murdered hooker who had rescued her from the pastor’s abuse, but she was also scared shitless of the pimp that had put her in the ground in the first place.
Frankly, he didn’t know what to believe. He’d told Natasha that they were going to the police station right away, because she’d be safer from them both under lock and key in one of the cells. That was when she’d started to get a little spirit back. There was no way her ass was going to a jail cell, nuh-uh; the only way that Chastity White was going to talk was to him, in private, and if the detective wanted her to go on the record, then he could put her up somewhere safe: Not a motel, not even a hotel…only the cop’s own home would do.
Jeff was out of options. He couldn’t get any of the working girls to tell him jack shit. He wasn’t buying this zombie bullshit, but the girl obviously knew something, which meant he’d be able to get the truth out of her one way or the other.
“Wait here. I’ll pull my car up over there.” He gestured at the street outside the alley.
An hour later, Jeff was ushering her into his duplex. They sat and talked, warming themselves in front of the gas fire. The detective left a digital voice recorder running, capturing every word. It was one hell of a story, he had to give her that, and she was telling it like a real pro. He was getting engrossed, despite his better instincts, but something suddenly caught his attention — movement, glimpsed from the corner of his eye, over by the window. The curtains were open, and something had disturbed the steadily falling snow outside.
“Get upstairs,” he told the wide-eyed hooker, cutting her off mid-sentence. “Find somewhere to hide. Don’t come out until I come and get you.”
“But—”
“Now.”
The steel in his tone finally got through to her. Natalie disappeared in a flash, her footsteps thudding up the staircase. Satisfied that she was as safely out of harm’s way as possible, Jeff headed for the kitchen, where his suit jacket was draped over a chair. Underneath it was his Beretta, sitting in its shoulder holster.
He didn’t make it.
; The front door crunched as something struck it. Something powerful. It blasted inward on its hinges, letting in a gust of freezing cold December air. Standing there, silhouetted in the doorway, was the hulking figure of a man. Snow flurries danced around him. Jeff froze, catching sight of what the figure held in his outstretched hand: A 9mm pistol.
“You know we’re going to kill you, of course,” said Piotr conversationally.
Jeff stared at him expressionlessly, not speaking. The second man, the big fucker, was the one to watch, he reckoned. After all, he was the one pointing the silenced Glock at Jeff’s head.
“But things could always be worse,” the pimp continued, his eyes roaming around the room and taking in the decor with detached interest. “If you scream, try to call for help, my friend here” the big man nodded humorlessly “is going to shoot you in the balls. Then he will shoot you in your left knee, followed by your right. I don’t know how good the paramedics here in Golden are, but you will probably bleed to death before they arrive…and trust me, it will hurt.”
“What do you want?” Jeff demanded.
“Answers. Cooperate, and it will be a bullet to the head. A quick, clean death…well, clean for you, at least.” Piotr gestured at himself and Marko. “We might get splashed, but we’ll cope.” The pimp laughed at his own joke. Marko smirked, but it never quite reached his eyes, which were cold and dead.
“What do you want to know?”
“You are the detective who is investigating the murder of the pastor.” It was framed as a statement, rather a question.
“Yes. So what?”
“What have you found out? Who killed him?”
“I don’t know. Nobody will talk to me. Surprise, surprise.”
“I think you’re lying. I think that you do know something. Marko—”
The flash of recognition in Jeff’s eyes when Piotr spoke Marko’s name told the pimp everything he needed to know. He had been about to order the hulking great tank to put the Glock’s barrel into the cop’s balls, giving him some extra motivation, but it was no longer necessary.
