by Gavin Graham
All that cash should have been the answer to all their problems.
Would it not seem?
Nora was now in a position to live a normal life (whatever a ‘normal’ life was). She didn’t go along with that idea though - she was messed-up and doped-up in the head. “I’m still gonna’ be on the game,” she’d said one night as they ate supper at their pretentious new dining table. “I won’t stop being a whore just because you fucking say so Tam, ya’ vindictive bastard.”
“Nora, for God sake…”
“Maybe I like being a slag, eh? Maybe, deep down, that’s all I have to offer - ma’ body,” of course, she was being irrational and a bit ‘loony’, having already melted most of her brain cells as a functioning alcoholic; most days she’d be on a bottle of vodka before noon.
Crack cocaine would probably be the next step.
Then, a measly death…
“Don’t say that, ya’ ungrateful cow,” Tam had attempted to calm her down but she just kept saying these awful things, as if to rile him. He’d been drinking heavily himself that day, ten pints down the old Miner’s Club and more than a few whisky chasers, which meant he would soon start to get handy with his fists.
John excused himself quietly as it all kicked off (not that they noticed) and headed upstairs to his room. He never wanted to be a part of all the arguments and, as usual, he attempted to block it out. He turned on the stereo and played some Metallica…Enter Sandman…with the volume up to the max as he hung out the window to smoke a joint. He dreamed, as he always did, of more executions and the second coming of ash. It felt near, so close that he could almost taste it.
It was getting brutal downstairs.
Glasses were smashing as they hurled obscenities like God knows what.
Dirty slag…
Daft cunt…
I fucking hate you Nora…
No, Tam, I fucking hate you…
He heard them scuffle and his mother screamed, struck hard across the face with a cracking-hard slap. There was commotion. Helpless struggling. She was fighting back this time and Tam wouldn’t have it. No, he’d end up putting her in hospital.
That’s when he casually re-appeared downstairs, with a massive hammer in his hand, one with a huge oak handle and a heavy, rusted square-head. That thing could do some damage in the wrong hands, and Johnny-Boy was just that - wrong. As soon as he felt its almighty weight, in-hand, he no longer saw it as a hammer but as a highly-potent murder weapon.
His time had come, to kill again…
Chapter 9
Deviance, Buckfast & a spoiled corpse
Evil is as evil does…
He saw the ash, the fluttering darkness, as it poured down from the white roof and settled in a whirling storm, overhead. He raised the hammer up into the air, standing silent, frowning with hate as the fight ensued and Tam belted his mother into next week.
He allowed the hammerhead to fall, giving it to gravity, and stepping forwards to apply force as it fast-approached the target - the back of his father’s head. The skull cracked, audible and loud, as a vicious spray of blood painted his mother’s face. Tam went down hard on the floor, instantly, busting his nose on the hard wood as blood spilled from the front and back.
Tam Moffat bled to death on the floor and the mother-and-son duo just stood there for a while, watching him die. His mother hadn’t even screamed as he’d intervened with the murderous blow. Eventually, he dropped the blood-stained hammer, and did something rather bizarre and unexpected; like a man possessed by Lucifer himself.
He approached his mother and put his arms around her, to console her.
Soon, though, he started to touch her, in a very inappropriate way. He didn’t know why he was doing it, he just was. He expected her to stop him, but she didn’t, she just looked up with a wicked sort of smile as he brandished his tongue and licked at the specks of blood that were splattered across her face. He started to kiss her mouth, with his tongue, deep and hard. He put her against the wall as she clung on to him for dear life. Soon, their lower halves were naked and bare, they were going for it hammer and tong, right there, as the body of one Thomas Moffat, a husband and a father, lay dead on the floor.
It was so damn wrong…
What made it even odder was that the sex had been purely consensual. Nora had loved it, screaming the roof down, begging and coaxing her beloved son to give it to her harder and deeper. “Fuck me!” she had growled, like a hoarse demon.
The grim scene of a violent murder had essentially paved the way to an explicit two-day orgy. Not really knowing what they were doing, they just did it anyway, because they wanted it. Nothing made any sense, but they enjoyed it, and that was all that mattered. They drank vodka and Buckfast, smoked hash up in Johnny-Boy’s room where they had sex in his bed to the energetic sound of his beloved metal.
We’re off to never-never land!
They had sex in her bed, too, where he snorted cocaine from the inside of his mother’s bellybutton. She had laughed wickedly as he did it and played with her son’s dick, getting him hard and ready for play-time.
They ordered Chinese deliveries and watched TV, naked, up there in their big fancy house - a house of death and deviance and all kinds of wrongness. They continued to enjoy each other’s bodies and the forbidden fruits of their sexual incest. They never even thought to leave the house and every once and a while, Johnny-Boy would saunter over, bare-arsed, and kick his dad’s corpse, calling him a ‘dirty auld cunt’, yelling down that he was stinking the whole house up.
It was morbid and sinister…horrendously evil…
Finally, they decided to dispose of the body and officially report Tam as a missing person. His mother instructed her obedient son to bleed the body in a bath and chop it up into individual pieces, to be wrapped in cellophane and scattered around the city.
Some parts of him had gone into the Clyde.
Some were dumped at a rubbish tip.
And, other bits of him were just buried in the woods.
“I’m your whore now, Son, and this is our dirty little secret, OK?” she would tell her demonic child, stroking his cheek, that loving way that mother’s do.
“Aye, Mum, that’s right…”
The incest they shared was a sordid taboo and they both clearly revelled in it. It was passionate, wild, fiery sex and young John soon learned that his mother was into ‘kinky stuff’ too.
She liked to be tied up, for example.
She liked asphyxiation - the act of being strangled mid-intercourse to create increasingly intense orgasms subject to the brain not getting enough oxygen. She loved it and John, as her devoted demon, did it the way that she wanted it. He’d do anything to please her, his dear old mother. One night, though, it went too far and he accidentally ended up killing her too.
He’d been coming so hard inside her that he’d strangled her to death.
“Oh fuck, of fuck, oh fuck…” he’d just kept repeating as he trembled and shook violently with wide eyes, still coming inside her, but realising that she was out-for-the-count.
Dead as a dodo…
He’d stayed with her and held her in his arms, all night long, crying like a baby.
He’d kissed her softly and decided to enjoy her body just a few last times, while she was still warm, like the way he’d fucked his teacher’s head after chopping it off with an axe. It’s what she would have wanted, so he consoled her in death, in his own way. “It wasn’t our fault Mum. We didn’t ask for this putrid existence, it was him, he caused it…he made you a prostitute…he made you an alcoholic…and the bastard made me into a freak,” he spoke softly and kissed her cheek as her dead eyes stared up to the ceiling, her arms still bound by leather straps that were fastened to the bed posts. “You didn’t have a choice, Mum, not like those girls out there who give their bodies to men for free, without a care in the world. Those well-fucked sluts who were never forced into prostitution or turned on to the drink. Their livers are good, Mum, good but tainted
by their own sinful promiscuity. They are the real whores, not you. And, I will make sure that they suffer. OK, Mum? I love you. And, remember Mum, this will always be our dirty little secret…OK…?”
Chapter 10
The toxic promise of casual sex
Be careful what you wish for…
It was grey and dreary on Byres Road, car tyre’s sloshing on rain-soaked roads.
But, as always, Tony Macaroni’s was packed.
Inside, is a woman, marked for death…
She was lured there, under her own free-will. To dine at The Devil’s table. To sleep, fornicate and bleed at the satin sheets of his wicked bed and die under his fearsome hand.
Beneath her tight-fitted skirt, she was moist and slick, with a primitive type of hunger. The animalic pulse of sexual desire. She had adult needs, of course, and that’s why she used Tinder. She was looking for good, hard sex, with grown men who were out for the same thing.
No strings attached.
No talk of husbands or wives.
Just SEX.
Her Tinder date is a real-life demon…
The demon in question is the vilest-of-the-vile - one Johnny Moffat - dressed to kill, in a black Versace suit, his hair slicked back. He is sat there with her at the very same table, invited to gorge at the trough of her flesh; a mere form of foreplay to the horrendous act of lustful violence that was set to occur.
He frowned, mocking her with spiteful eyes as he indulged in a Quattro Formaggi and sipped on a glass of Barolo, watching with hate as his latest victim picked away at a hideous little salad of anorexic proportions.
Who the heck comes to a pizza-joint and orders a salad?
Her demon-date was rugged and handsome, easily mistaken for the Scottish actor, Robert Carlyle. He continued to stare at her, from across the candle-lit table, drilling her frontal-dome with his eyes. “How’s the meal?” he asked in his distinctively throaty baritone. He had a steely edge to him and dark eyes that somehow sparkled.
“Gorgeous,” she replied, revelling in his voice. She somehow felt that an orgasm was promised in his suggestive undertone, whenever he spoke. A long, hard, screaming orgasm that would make her see the glorious depths of all of The Abyss.
She knew it.
She felt it, in the tender sensitivity of her supple breasts and the hot moisture that burned, streaming, deep down in the sordid enclave of her iniquitous cunt.
She seemed to be nervous and overwhelmed by him, avoiding eye contact, perhaps not wanting him to see her for what she was - empty - a mere inanimate object of magnificent worthlessness.
She was a forty-one year-old divorcee, slim and tall with long red hair, and freckles to match. She was rediscovering her inner-promiscuity with callously good-looking men that were well-endowed and looking for easy sex; to use her and abuse her.
Married, or otherwise, it didn’t matter to her; sometimes, it even added to the thrill.
She’d liked the look of this guy, Johnny, and they’d quickly gotten to the point of exchanging nude pics and extremely explicit sext-messages. She loved that in a man - the sexual confidence. She had no time for timid wee boys who couldn’t take control. It was almost like foreplay for her and it fuelled the excitement of actually going on a pre-sex ‘date’, knowing what was going to happen once all the food and wine was out the way - all the great shagging - a sure thing; guaranteed.
She raised her head to smile at him for a moment and he stared back at her with those intense eyes; it sent a shivering chill down the back of her spine. It felt as though he was touching her, stroking her skin, uninvited. She had invited him though, to do much more than just touch. She rubbed slightly at the back of her neck, with slight discomfort and an awkward smile.
He continued to stare and as she returned her attention back to the salad he pounced upon her, mentally. With a psychic stab, he jumped up from the table and assaulted her jugular vein…he kept on stabbing and stabbing and stabbing at her neck…repeatedly, with an icy-sharp scalpel…a marvellous whirlwind of blood, wine and marinara sauce ensued.
No response.
She hadn’t even looked back up from her plate and the fetid little beige olive that she fussed over, intricately de-stoning it by knife and fork.
It was good for her, that she never sensed or saw with her eyes, the wild fires of sadistic hate that had screamed out of his evil eyes as he had committed that heightened-state knife-attack and waited with grand anticipation for some kind of supernatural response; a confirmation of his undoubted powers of life-ending divinity.
She didn’t flinch though.
Damn you, rancid parasite!
The voice of the demon is strong…
The assault had failed to pass, in the desired state of the transient dimension and, sadly, she was still alive.
Alive.
Breathing.
Still picking at her anorexic, bone-merchant salad.
Bitch!
I fucking hate you Nora…
No, Tam, I fucking hate you…
He savoured the deliciousness, nevertheless, of that lucid murder. For a brief, titillating moment, like all the cream and all the butter in all of the whole wide world. And slowly, a slight smirk of unimaginable benevolence broke the icy demeanour of his unassuming poker face and he accepted the reality of his own predicament, that the joys of the hunt and the thrill of the kill would quite simply have to wait.
Chapter 11
The enjoyment of a meal at Satan’s table
The mind is the most powerful of all weapons…
The conversation was dead, not that it mattered, all she wanted was to feel him deep inside her.
She was horny like never before.
She was also scared though, a little uneasy, and she wasn’t sure why.
He was a man of crippling intensity, he had this weird thing going on, a kind of mad and starey look that flamed with intent in his darkly alluring eyes. It was a thing that she had never encountered before, something alien. It gave her the creeps. But, somehow, it also turned her on in a way that she just couldn’t explain; she was drawn to him.
Moffat was breathing deeply and gripping his knife and fork. Right there and then, he hated her, the desire to kill was building and he patiently awaited the magical arrival of the ash. In his mind’s eye and in the lucid intent of his dark soul he had further enjoyed the dead, rotting vegetation of her perfect, slight body. Tasting the raw expiration of her muted, dormant, lukewarm sex. And, he had opened up her still-heated, pulsing carcass, by the application of perfect pressure on his perfect blade, to remove that sacred organ. Good, yet tainted by lust, and all the things they took for granted. Spoiled scabs, like her. Social privileges. Education. Unlike his poor mum, who didn’t have a choice, having to persevere with all the shit that life had dealt her.
The pure-dream of it, killing her in his mind, had sent a spike of warmth to his aching crotch and his tool began to unravel, in the confines of cloth, growing hard with fullness down the inside of his left thigh.
The harder his dick got, the more he wanted to kill her.
Come the ash, come the ash…
He revelled and relished in that immediate arousal, that killer instinct, and the sheer sexuality of his bloody agenda. Just then, with his manhood burning warm and hard, he saw the ash. It came and it formed as a perfect halo around her ugly head. Grey, black and sooty. It moved around her being like a tornado in slow motion. He smiled as it moved, in awe of the dark divinity that formed on earth when The Devil awaited the arrival of a deserving soul - the spoiled spectre of a whore - a mere scab. And, when the omen came for a son to kill - the ash - a mother smiled in the Heavens above and fallen angels sang with delight.
This rotten bitch, with her pretentious chat and the convoluted emptiness of her structured education, with her violence-free household, her rich ex-husband and the straight-laced parents who raised her…this little cunt was going to suffer…she was going to feel all the fear, and the pain, and the wrat
h of the Gods. She would know too, intimately, the darkest taboos of eroticism - to look death in the eye - as he strangled and assaulted her.
Raping and abusing her body, freely.
Impregnating her womb, as a beloved son.
Killing her softly, as the keeper of a dark secret.
Tonight, as destined by the curse of his own circumstances and by the occult prophecy of the coming of the ash, Johnny-Boy Moffat would be the giver and the taker of life, the one - chosen and anointed - to purge all sin.
He noticed, that she was starting to frown and dart her eyes around nervously, like the frantic eyes of his beheaded teacher.
He didn’t want to scare her off though, not now that he was so close to having complete control of her being. He just had to keep drawing her in, working the dark ‘Casanova charm’. “So, do you meet a lot of guys on Tinder then?” he asked, breaking the deathly ice and dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
“Eh, I’ve dated a few guys since becoming a divorcee,” she kind of laughed nervously and blushed, “so, I’m just enjoying myself at the moment. I’m definitely open-minded though to meeting a guy who could be my regular boyfriend…” she added, not wanting to come across as too much of a slut.
“Right, so you’re not just out for a good hard fuck then?” he asked, casual as you like, and laughing to himself. He was one of those guys, though, who could say such things and somehow get away with it.
“Excuse me?” she deplored, shocked by his crassness.
Moffat laughed louder, loud enough for the whole restaurant to hear his mockery and derision. He raised his wine glass and sipped indulgently on the full-bodied red wine. “Aghhh…good drop that is…” he said, already ruddy-faced and semi-pissed. “I’m just kidding, by the way…” he added, as soberly as he could, “…you seem like a really nice woman, very beautiful too,” he was easily able to realign the playing-field with false sincerity and fruitful compliments, the kind of patter that would see him easily get into her pants, if he so desired.
