by Gavin Graham
“What? Really? Why would you do that?”
“I want to remember this forever, and masturbate every time that I watch it, when I can’t be near you…”
“Oh William, that is so hot, I think you were sent to me by God.”
“Or, by The Devil…”
“Hmm, even better…”
“Do you love me?”
“What?”
“Say it, but call me Mad Dog.”
“Yes, Mad Dog, I love you…I want to marry you, my baby…”
“I think I really could have loved you too, you know that? If things had been different.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, sounding totally confused, trembling in his Elixir of life and death.
“Close your eyes for me, will you?” he put his fingertips to her eyelids and softly closed them over.
She obeyed his command and held them shut.
Just then, he went to the side drawer and took from it a large Commando knife. It had deep, jagged teeth along the inside, good for tearing up the ripe-aged necks of needy young virgins.
Messy work though, as the killer well knew.
It had a shiny chrome surface at the side, greyish-black with a high-polish, military-grade. The edge and the tip were razor sharp, carefully treated with a sharpening stone, by the hands of a monster.
He watched her eyes flicker, lids tightly closed, and her body tingling with erotic shivers.
Her burning lust.
Her ignorance.
Her need to die.
He fought the unwanted emotions, those human feelings that had pulsed in his veins just then, making him want and long for some form of basic ‘normality’.
For love, not hate.
Life, not murder.
Making him question it all, and forcing him to ask - was he a normal human, after all?
“Nah, fuck it,” he said with gritted teeth, hauling the blade up into the air before launching down with a clenched fist and tucking the tip of the knife right into her kidneys, twisting the blade as it entered her body.
Her shoulders sprung upright as an untidy outflow of blood began spurting out from the side of her belly and flowing off the edge of the bed in a thick and noisy trickle.
She sucked in air with wide and accusing eyes, perfectly propped with hands by her sides, looking directly at him as if trying to communicate her shock.
Murdoch smiled, just looking down at the gaping wound on the lower-side of her mutilated belly, before removing the knife with a fleshy ‘slit’ noise.
Shleeeeth…
He casually re-inserted the blade into the side of her tummy, applying the same twist of the blade each time.
Stab…stab…stab…
He gasped too, watching with delight as more blood spurted, pouring out in heavy, dark waves.
It was like breaking the dam; on an oily red river.
It was like an sexual ejaculation; chaotic and pulsing.
A tremendous fountain of blood; like a deep, red seed.
He watched the movement of her putrid, hot liquids with morbid fascination; it was totally erotic.
Again.
Again.
Stab…stab…stab…
Down and tuck, right in at the side, short sharp movements.
She was still reaching out to him, with curious eyes, pleading and questioning eyes that seemed to be shocked and disappointed; clueless too. Her limbs were flailing around in a pathetic state of bodily confusion.
No fight left.
It was just a matter of holding the time till the lights went out and she didn’t flail any more. She roared a kind of ‘séance roar’, like she felt her own spirit leaving her body, or at least preparing to do so. The confused intensity and the mysterious frown on her innocent face was a thing to behold.
For a student as he was, of the dynamics of death and murder, it was always fascinating to watch.
To watch a human being die.
It was the eternal study, for the curious minds, those who chose to walk the path and endeavour to see things that most will never fathom. It was written all those years ago, in his comic books, as it was written in the stars. Written in his destiny, as a motherless boy, raised by a paedophilic rapist of a father. As a gangland executioner and a man set on revenge; yes, this was his destiny.
To know God and to know The Devil, what it’s all about...
Chapter 43
The gangster who came in from the cold
Some women get turned on by evil, that’s just the way it is…
The woman in shiny black stilettos and a tight-fitted skirt that was too short for a December night in Hillhead, wasn’t a prostitute.
She emerged from the lift on the top floor where two men stood guard upon a solid oak floor with PPSh-41 sub-machine guns, aiming them directly at her head.
Russian weapons.
Russian heavies.
Ex-military.
Former Russian Airborne Troops of the 45th Guards Spetsnaz Brigade. Each had his finger on the trigger. Old soldiers, eager to blast somebody.
Anybody.
Like the old days in Afghanistan, fighting against the Mujahideen. They were ready to paint the insides of that elevator with blood, brain and cartilage; auto-fire mode engaged.
When they saw that it was her - the provocative woman with the sultry pale looks of a young Monica Bellucci - they instantly lowered their guns, in polite and amicable fashion, providing solid re-assurance to their most honoured guest.
Their level of battle readiness was a mere formality that had to be respectfully obliged by all visitors to the Penthouse, friend or foe, even her. Not that they were expecting any gangland shooters to turn up anytime soon. But they would come, eventually. And when they did, they would be ready.
Not tonight, though.
For the woman before them, with the crimson lips and the heavy mink coat was powerful in her own right.
She was a friend and confidant.
So, the only one blasting her tonight would be Vlad, in a purely amorous sense, of course. As usual, the heavies would be forced to listen as they made the beast with two backs in the main living area.
She always had a smile and a wink for the gunmen, as she entered and left the premises, and each man was privately convinced that she made such great noise when she orgasmed because she knew they would be listening as they stood guard outside the front door.
Getting them riled up and turning them on.
Teasing them.
Was it all in their heads?
Perhaps, or perhaps not.
It didn’t really matter though as such a crazy idea could never be spoken of or acted upon for it could cost them their lives.
“I sense a great deal of testosterone in the building tonight,” said the woman, her Glasgow drawl smooth and suggestive, “you boys should be careful though, one night you both might go off half-cocked,” she winked as she sauntered past them with the unsettling confidence of a slightly mad individual. She brought with her a cool blast of wintery air from outside, it lingered in her wake and tempered the silage of her strong perfume. The heavies knew it by name - Black Orchid by Tom Ford - Vlad insisted that she always wear it, whenever she came to see him. They had overheard him tell her how good it smelled on her body and how it made him want to taste her pussy.
That it was the smell of power.
And sex.
And money.
And it made him want to fuck like a Moscow street dog on heat.
The men smiled and reluctantly made eye contact, shaking their heads with subdued excitement, they couldn’t wait for the ‘sex show’ to begin.
Vlad ‘the Russian’ was a creepy looking albino.
A towering figure of a man with a figure that could only be described as positively sickening and worryingly anorexic.
He was a brilliant and terrifying freak of nature.
An old-school gangster who had the mind of a corporate genius, the temperament of a homicidal maniac
and the physical demeanour of a serial killer. Yet, somehow, there was no shortage of women in the city who were not just willing but eager to get him into bed.
He knew that.
As did she.
The one who had just arrived; his chosen one.
With his right hand, he pointed a Rapier 9 mm at her head. It was gold-accented and its customized grip had been expertly engraved with a Roman Catholic depiction of Jesus on the Cross. With his left hand, he swigged obnoxiously from a half-frozen bottle of Beluga Vodka, draining out the last dregs and dropping it to the deck where it clanked without smashing.
The woman was breathing heavily and felt a sound wave ripple up the back of her thighs. A deep, booming bass, originating from a subwoofer that was set within the lower construction of a lavish three-seater, finished in fine burgundy velvet.
A Russian gangster rap vocalist - his voice deep and menacing - was rhyming lyrically; surely about robbery, guns, prostitutes and murder.
She felt the walls of this darkly demonic place closing in, her pulse racing, and her sex burning with primitive need.
“Sit down and lift up your skirt,” he gestured to the booming three-seater with his gun before bringing his aim back to her face, “sit down and show me your pussy. I want to see her, she is nice and wet for Vlad, yes?”
“Yes,” she obeyed and obligingly sat herself down, her eyes struck with fear, lust and total excitement. Carefully, she allowed herself to get comfortable, slowly leaning back into the soft cushions and adjusting her skirt to above the waistline.
She wore no underwear.
Duly, she wasted no time in spreading her solid, fleshy, womanly thighs. She slowly put her knees out to the sides, setting her legs wide apart, offering up a perfect view of her bare, moist labia. The soft alabaster wall of her pelvis, adorned with a sizeable, yet perfectly-shaved Brazilian mound was a thrilling contrast against the soft brown furs of her glamorous mink coat. It gave her a sultry and sought-after appeal, like she was some kind of rare and exotic Siberian beast, heaving on top and glistening below.
A predator, hungry to feed and eager to breed. The mere sight of the gun and the way he pointed it at her turned her on.
And the gang tattoos.
The tears of his flesh, gunshot and stab wounds, wildly strewn from his skinny chest down to his skeletal ribs.
It was enough to get her wet, without even having to touch her sweet spot.
Her juices were flowing.
She was ready for him to take her, however he so desired. She felt a sudden animalistic urge that caused her nether region to flush hot, pulsating and alive as it got wetter and wetter.
She looked up at him, unable to hide the lust.
The wanting.
The absolute needing.
Her mouth was agape and her facial expression became ever-so-slightly twisted, morphing into something dark, demonic and deeply sexual. Her chest continued to pump with adrenalin as she decided to ask him, the question that simply had to be asked. “So, do you want to shoot me with that gun or fuck me to death with your dick?”
Vlad smiled and lowered his weapon.
No, he wasn’t going to shoot her. Well, at least, not tonight.
Chapter 44
A Masonic Lodge
You never truly know what people get up to, when they think nobody is watching…
The team popped into the Highland Bar for a sit-down with the Boss.
A table was always reserved in the ‘back-room’, which was essentially a Masonic Lodge with its own private bar. As always there was tension in the room, of a sexual kind, between Siobhan and Jimmy ‘The Swede’.
Colin, on the other hand, looked curiously around the room and would occasionally ask Mac something about global conspiracies relating to the Freemasons.
“How is that surveillance operation of yours going, with the Russians?” McGreavy asked Siobhan.
“I’m getting close to them Boss.”
“How close?”
“Very close,” she winked at the Inspector who instinctively looked at McGhee as he partially choked on his pint.
“Anything you would care to report yet? Anything solid?”
“Yes, you could say…,” she smirked and giggled with a sexual undertone, deliberately winding-up Jimmy McGhee who she’d recently had a passionate affair with.
“Aye, OK, less of the innuendos. That Russian psychopath, Vladimir, is causing a lot of concern. Rumour on the street is that he is looking to take-over the City. You know what that means?”
“An all-out war with the McConnell crew?”
“Aye.”
“Why not just let them kill themselves off?”
“Too much collateral damage, the blood of innocent people will spill on the streets, quite literally. That Vladimir has an arsenal of trigger-happy ex-soldiers with machineguns on his squad. And, I tell you what, it will be all-out mayhem from Hillhead to Bridgeton.”
“Less leverage for us too, I suppose.”
“Yeah. The Godfather his done his bit to help me out over the years, it’s a mutually beneficial arrangement we have.”
“Are you saying that Arthur McConnell is an informant?”
“I think we better change the subject, did any more information get uncovered about that guy with the crucifix tattoo? That torso we found floating in the Clyde?”
“No, not really, same conclusion as before - it was Frankie ‘Mad Dog’ Murdoch. A revenge murder.”
The Inspector finished up his orange juice, nodding his head, more with frustration than agreeance.
“Sorry Boss…but, on the topic of ‘Russians’, I need to be somewhere…thanks for the drink,” Siobhan said, downing her whisky and she was off like a shot, as The Swede sat ogling her with his horny eye.
Chapter 45
Sex, Russians & drugs
A fiend is a fiend for all that the world has to offer…
The Russian spoke as a sultry Glasgow woman sucked him off in the back of a black stretched limousine. “The filthy pig, I will destroy him and his mother if he doesn’t pay me in full. Who is making this bullshit introduction, anyway?” his eyes were closed as he was about to ejaculate upon the shiny, pink surface of the woman’s tongue. He enjoyed sex before doing a ‘deal’, it was a Russian tradition.
“Fat Boy. The buyer’s a McConnell street pusher, sells Charlie and Spice to students and clubbers,” the woman said, amidst her oral act, “does the weekend nights around George Square, pushing the product.”
“So, they buy from the man they fear and despise,” he chuckled, sliding down in the seat, gripping the back of her head close to his crotch as if in a Thai boxing neck-clutch. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he grunted out his orgasm as the woman moaned, lost in the moment, swallowing down his Eastern seed with an array of muffled gasps. “Damn, they must really trust my product,” he said as the woman looked up at him and wiped her lips. She smiled like the sordid nympho she truly was.
“Just don’t let him mess with you, he will try, those McConnell brothers always try to throw their weight around. Pulling the Godfather card…”
“I don’t give a shit about that old man, and they know that…” said the albino as the limo came to a stop at the dimly-lit crescent of a rough-looking council estate.
It was 1 am in the morning.
They parked behind a gun-metal Porsche 911 that had the number plate FB-1.
Fat Boy McConnell’s car.
Two men emerged from the Porsche and flicked joint stubs onto the Green. The two drugged-up gangsters stepped up to the window crouched down to peer in at the crazy looking Russian, decked out in a satin shirt and leather coat, a package of coke and a MAC-10 Uzi sat in his lap.
Fat Boy had been doped out of his mind ever since learning about his daughter’s abduction and subsequent murder. He sobered up though, stepping back when he saw the woman.
He knew exactly who she was.
What he didn’t understand though was - what the fuck was she d
oing here at a drug deal with a Russian gangster?
He suddenly felt nervous and wanted to leave.
“I got your cocaine, you got my money?” Barked the Russian nutter.
The skinny young lad didn’t know who the woman was so didn’t seem so humbled. “Nae’ bother Vlad, I’ll give you ten-grand tonight, then another ten-grand next week.”
The Moscow mobster began to laugh like a lunatic.
Skinny Dick stood tall and tried to play the tough guy but when he turned to see Fat Boy’s face he suddenly wondered what the deal was.
“What do you think?” Vlad asked the woman.
She leaned in, stroking around his body, and she whispered something in his ear.
“Really?”
The woman nodded.
Vlad took his Uzi and opened fire through the window, blasting Skinny Dick to smithereens.
The target dropped to the pavement as sharp flame ripped and orange flashed from the muzzle, shots ripping off as cartridges fell to the deck and he held his pressure on the trigger.
A MAC-10 on auto-fire at close-range?
Skinny Dick had zero chance of survival, the bullets tore him apart like a red river. What had the profile a body, laid out, was just a red pile of wasted limbs and blood-soaked intestines. Fat Boy froze, he was known for doing that. He wasn’t truly a man of action, see, or one to seize the moment and fight a dramatic battle.
No, he never had been.
He looked back at Vlad and the woman who sat beside him once more, eyes wide like he was going to puke.
“Good night, Fat Boy, send my regards to the Godfather, you fat motherfucker…” Vlad spoke with a smile as the window came up, waving his little block of powder as the car pulled away with little in the way of urgency, as if nothing had happened.
The driver continued to drive around Glasgow and played Russian gang songs as the couple in the back got stark naked and had a shameless sex romp.
