Savage Night of the Sex Fiends

Savage Night of the Sex Fiends

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Details

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica

Summary

Hot crackling shit. Two evil and sadistic serial killers go on a lust fuelled rampage that scorches the dripping snatch of reality...

Summary

Hot crackling shit. Two evil and sadistic serial killers go on a lust fuelled rampage that scorches the dripping snatch of reality...

Content

Submitted: May 25, 2013

A A A | A A A

Content

Submitted: May 25, 2013

A A A

A A A


The following is a transcript of a broadcast transmitted on a gramophone in an empty room. Sections of the broadcast were unintelligible due to heavy interference. White noise and whispers. They do the monologue in different voices:

"We can only speculate on the activities of the entity..."

Me the monster? The descriptions and locations fitted…victim of circumstance! However, I harboured suspicions…the fall was not so good, the fucking sober hour. I would sit on the end of my bed, the greyness closing in. I did lots of drink and drugs, it didn't help, I could not recapture the high. I obliterated my mind with cheap scotch and uppers and downers…chain smoking an hundred a day, eating like a pig, candy, peanut brittle and beef jerky. I ate a lot of pickles. Leafing through a jissum stained porno mag was my life pretty much. I just didn't get it back. I got in my car and trolled the streets, waiting to succumb to the dwarf within.

"We can only speculate on the activities of the entity…"

The man lay on the bed in the dirty rented room and began to talk into the hand held microphone attached by a short black lead to a cassette recorder. He pressed the record button. It was red. The tape started its whirring machinations. Discussing himself in the third person, the man idly thumbed the notebook resting on his chest:

"The killer lay on the bed staring vacantly at the ceiling. He felt numb, life had drained away, he was dead. It was always like that after the moment of insight, when the clouds cleared and everything was bright and fresh. He tried drink and drug cocktails to try and recapture the high…weekends thought lost through rivers of alcohol occasionally resurfaced. He would get into his car and troll the streets."

The man was strewn on crisp linen sheets on the floor, holding an ice-cold can of beer to his forehead. He wanted to compose a love story, transcendent and divine, from his heart, an exposition of the soul, but it was no good. All he got was the junk, that inside, the hollow and darkness, oh Henry, love me tender and blind. He saw a girl in his head, briefly revived by the stealthy application of a Zippo lighter just so he could see her suck in the black plastic bag again.  The man reached for his notebook and fountain pen.

 

a love poem to henry lee

 

3rd

 

I'm a cold-hearted son of a bitch. Years ago a Sheriff said to me, "Why Henry? How? You rammed an aerosol up her ass." I sort of shrugged. He told me I had ice coursing through my veins.  I just didn't get it. I told them what I'd do if they let me go. I killed Orangesocks the first night out in Jackson. I wore my best shirt and jacket. There's a pretty waitress at the diner with a real nice smile. I told her while I smoked cigarettes and drank coffee. We talked nice and I guess I thought she liked me. There was some guy hanging around her tonight. They shared a beer and made fun of me. I walked home praying to God she'd get gash cancer and I guess He owes me some.

 

6th

 

I liked Granny Rich. I liked Becky more because I could fuck her. Granny Rich smelled of cunt but I liked her all the same. You know that old fuck smell. I cut her head off. She'd slapped my face. I butchered her and stuck the bits in the culvert. She had a golf ball tumour on her kidney swilling in her guts so I didn't feel too bad. Becky had nice pert tits and she always made a big thing about my dick, I never had anyone lick or suck, not least swallow, well, not without a gun in my hand. Becky always took the spray with little complaint. I fucked Granny Rich up the ass but she was dead, and in that position you don't expect a kick back. When I took my dick out it had mucus on it mixed with shit and stank all the way to Heaven. Please love me I am godless yet divine. I pray for me and for you.

 

9th

 

I picked up a prostie for thirty bucks. She was fat, huge wrinkled tits, dirty long blonde hair, trussed up in black PVC like a Thanksgiving turkey. I wish I had a bullet for every woman in the world. She had a big red cruel mouth. She had it wrapped round my cock and I couldn't get hard. I was bombed on liquor and downers. She said she'd loosened her teeth she was sucking my soft faggot dick so hard and that would be an extra ten. I slapped her and she bit my cock. Now I was so hard my prick could cut diamond. I strangled her and chopped her head off. I left it on top of the wardrobe, so it would look at people coming into the room. I want pretty waitresses to like me.

 

12th

 

I've done some things I'm too ashamed to talk about. Once I snatched a schoolgirl. I took her to a log cabin. I fucked her on all fours and cut her throat. I did lots of other things I don't want to talk about and I sure as hell won't. I held the kid for a long time. I made baby talk and pretended she loved me. We rolled on the floor. Sex has been my downfall. I've killed animals and fucked them I was so horny as a kid, beating off on a dead cat is scraping the barrel. When I was big enough the same happened with people. I've been fucked too. In the mouth and ass. When I was in the pen I was balled by the cons and bulls. There was no great divide, just a blurring, and I guess that's how I see everything. To have black and white vision must be special. I've done bad things and felt nothing now I have the loneliness and I guess that's the Lord's payback. I pray a lot to him nowadays. All I have to fill the days is headaches and memories you couldn't carry without putting a cap in your skull. Killing brought Christ's breath upon me and I sincerely think that counts for something. Henry, you cheap fucking whore, I think, you can't wipe away the mess of life. I am just a mad dog, and like one I should be shot.

"How could you hurt a child that hadn't done harm to anyone," I heard some weeping woman say on television about her son, who I'd strangled and buried somewhere I forget. She held up a photo. He was blonde, blue eyed and peachy, a real beaut I'd a been proud to call my own. "How could my son inspire so much hatred?"

I thought lady, you just don't get it. I'm always making people not people. Less than human. It's a card trick you play on your brain and you prime yourself to react, or you're drinking bourbon and dropping crystal meth and next morning you wake up in bed with your arm draped round a headless girl. You have to compartmentalise. You rape and strangle a girl not because you've something against Nancy Turd from Wisconsin, flesh and bone, with the same hopes and inspirations as you and me. They're a cunt you stuff a flaming tissue up to get rid of your jissum and the DNA. They're an asshole shitty and too slack and makes you madder like an insult. They're just one thing to look at. It pays to be obsessive. And when they're stinky and rotten, when no one, not their mom or papa, sister or brother, wife or husband, none of them can stand there long, well that's when the job's been done. After the blizzard of hate comes the love. When no one else wants them, when they're ready for the hole in the ground or the crematorium flames, I'm the only one to care and tend to them. I pray to the Lord for both our souls always. Thank Christ for booze and ludes, they stop me turning my alarm clock off.

 

?

 

Ornery. That's my favourite word. I learnt it out of a book the size of a doorstop in the prison library. It means cussedness. Not horny. Which I most surely am. Maybe I'm both. I'm a man who belongs to different moons. I'm my own, though. I done terrible things but I never wore no fuckin' uniform or badges and shit.

 

Another month

 

Men love to beat up other men. Kill 'em if they can. Rows and rows of 'em, shoved into pits. Stabbed, burned, strangled, whatever. A bullet in the head can sometimes say a hell of a lot. There's a case to be made for the small gesture. Men love to rape women. Anyone who says otherwise is a liar or a faggot. What really makes a pecker hard if you can fuck a woman, a lady not a tramp, there's no fun in bird-dogging a slut, in front of her pappy or hubby. There has to be some sort of stake in it. Otis was holding this co-ed down and I was sticking it hard, when the boyfriend went free and sorry hell broke loose. Seems the girl, a pretty thing, blonde ponytail, was dumping the jerk and he started saying all this filthy stuff and all names under the sun. Made her blow him, and Otis and me are packing pistols! Jealousy is a terrible thing. I ended up firing the gun up his ass just to get some peace. Once I fucked a real estate salesman up the ass in front of his family. Spat on my cock and slipped it in. So tight I thought when I came he was gonna rip my prick off with his gloryhole. His kids were so far gone I didn't have it in me to kill 'em…I'm glad I was riding solo that night for surely Otis would have done them in…in the papers a week later I read he'd swallowed a shotgun…I felt sorta strange, like I'd killed the fella by remote control. Cruellest damn thing I ever stood for. I'll never forgive myself.

 

Christmas

 

I'm a mild looking character. My mother sent me hogwild. We lived in the hills, I was a skinny sorry kid. My momma hit me so hard with a piece of wood my eye popped out. I had a glass fitted like a marble. When I could run I started stealing. My momma was a bitch. She dressed me up like a girl. At school they thought I was a candy assed faggot. The kid's threw stones at my white bonnet, my grand momma's old rags. They taunted me with salt risin' bread so bad my teacher fed me fried chicken and hot grits. You'd think I'd appreciate it, I did, in my own way, but it made me a strange one no mistake. A little kindness, that hurt more than the fence post on my skull. Someone in that position given hope…it would a bin a whole lot nicer if she'd a slit my throat like the pigs at the abbatoir they gutted and boiled down into head cheese. In the hills everyone was poor and mad and ragged…juiced on moonshine and hollerin' all the while…this crazy old geezer with a beard like Moses on Mount Sinai, face black and pulpy like a rotten apple and eaten away, his pop fucked his sister, he felt my ass and I kicked his nuts he bent double and puked…I bit punched scratched…he caved in real easy like a rag doll…that was my blooding. I was hard and veiny most of the time, always jerking off, carried my own jissum rag, feeling mean I stuck it up his gnarly old asshole. My momma said I was born in hot britches. Hing hang hung. That pecker of mine got me into a swamp of trouble. I buried him out in the woods. I marked it with a cat skull. My momma turned tricks in front of me on a pissy mattress full of toadstools. She made me watch. The blacks took ages to come and had dicks like a baby's arm holding an orange and she liked it best with them a wailing and shrieking like her tubes were being fused. I was bitter with the world and wanted a bullet for everyone. If I was lucky I hid in the outhouse, the toilet overflowing with piss and turds, me barefoot in it up to the knees. My momma winked at me when she was rutting like a scalded cat like it was for my benefit. Or amusement. I hated her and wished her all the fire and ice of hell. I'll swear, I'm her man. My pop was weak. I don't fault him for that. Weakness is a strength. He lubed on shine and blind and crazed. Once we were in a saloon and he tried to trade me to his buddy for a pitcher of beer. If a stork had dropped me down I'd be a good soul and Jesus would a had me for a sunbeam. Families is a sick fuckin' concept. That's another big word I learned in the library. Someone told me books are a weapon as nasty as any switchblade and bless me if that ain't the darndest truth. Cookies and milk was all I wanted, a childhood of chocolate muffins and jam doughnuts, and all I got was the gristle off fried chicken bones , a bite of a possum's ass if I was lucky. When I was on the road with Otis, all I could eat was peanut butter and Jell-O mixed up in a jar. Can't stand the stink of BBQ or a burger. Otis was an animal. He'd stiff them and cook 'em up. You sort of lose respect for a man who dished up titties in a frying pan.  Well, one night momma was hitting poppa over the head with a broomstick calling him queer and no good to no one and he crawled out into the snow. My momma locked the cabin door. My poppa lost his legs working the railroads years back and he just lay there and died. He threw a snowball at the door before he went bellyup. In the morning he was frozen solid like a lemon Popsicle.

Yaahh, yaahh, I went, my knees knocking together. Henry you stinky cur, make me a highball my momma said and then I surely knew we are all alone and that fucking and hugging was just window dressing. She me whupped for crying, Jesus she whupped me, and I knew it wasn't Cain that marked me it was God and one day I'd live in the clouds and the sun would shine on me and that I'd have the smell of the pines and fir trees in my nostrils. I got the measles, the red fever, felt like I'd been doused in gasoline and torched. She was good to me that week. It was Christmas. She gave me a potato wrapped in Santa Claus paper and sprinkled with glitter. She let me go into town and sleep on foodstore porches. She put me in a red dress and said I was little red riding hood and the wolf would lick its lips and pick the meat out of its fangs with a toothpick. Soon after we got to quarrelling. The clap was chewing her up and I was not a boy no more. I stuck a blade in her ribs and twisted. I remember that now. For years I truly believed she'd died of a heart attack. Liquor lets you do that, you can lose a lot thank Christ. When I think of her now I feel nothing. This ain't a sheep shearing feast, what's gone is gone, what's done is dusted, and I feel a haystack better for knowing it. Some people always buy a wintry tale and they are the sorriest bums. When I think of my pappy it makes me angry. Some wino blasted on Sneaky Pete in New York had his legs took off a train track and the government bankrupted the federal reserve givin' him millions. Like the stupid old gash in Dallas who spilled pipin' hot coffee on her fanny. And my pop died as naked as when he was born and not a cent to show for it. They buried him under a pile of horseshit with his claw hand sticking out and a palm crucifix jammed up his ass.  There ain't no justice. Lawyers, I'd buttfuck 'em all in a conga line and spread their chicken gizzards like ticker tape at a fourth of July parade. I love Jesus but I won't bullshit him, kill them one and all I surely would. Most of my life has been spent in diners, smoking and drinking coffee, rustling up a last buck, finding a dime for a waitress. I'd smile real polite and clock their tits and ass and wish I was the one they snuggled up to  and cooked ham and eggs for in the morning. Then I get as hard as the wedge of a nine iron and say Henry, you're trying to catch a coyote's fart. There's them and us and don't forget it. Getting twitchy, I'd take a ride.

 

Summer

 

When they caught me I'd tell them anything so they'd give me coffee and cigarettes. Told them I did hits for the Hand of Death mob. They laughed. Through Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and Wisconsin we rode, with a head in the boot. It was like walking outdoors. If we wanted a victim we just grabbed 'em. I confessed to any shit. A lot of it's bombed by booze and ludes anyway, but a lot I couldn't have done. I was either banged up in the pen or in another state. Fuck it. There's fellas out there owe me a killin' or two. They took pictures of my brain, a bunch of fancy ass doctors who talked to me like I was a retard, a cat scan they called it. I lay down, my ass for all the world to see in a white gown. I felt like I was selling chilli dogs, on a trolley in a kind of metal tube and there was a whoosh like the world's biggest flashbulb going off. They made excuses for me, my brain was short-circuited and I was like a revolver with a cocked trigger and the safety catch sawn off. I didn't care, I was past justifying myself, I could see the sky and was out of the quicksand, talking to Jesus. I spent a lot of the time in the library. It was empty and I was by myself. It beat the hell out of being with the rest of the cattle. They got their asses branded. I got special privileges and all they did was hold up a twenty-four seven or K-mart to feed their families and they was gonna fry. They got a funny way of punishment. Anyway, it was better than wanderin' from one battle to another, worrying you'd get a shiv up your ass.  Their cocks didn't bother me, hell you could park a station wagon up my asshole. Well, unless they got the fag plague, all the talk of jissum and blood and needles made me damn queasy, all that monkey jungle shit from Africa. I ain't a reader but apart from the bible there was a little book I committed to memory. See, another word. The biggest I reckon'. Mulled wine they drunk in that book and they was limey. May it haunt their houses pleasantly, and no one wish to lay it. I remember that, don't know what it meant. It had drawings in it. An old geezer in a shroud sat by a big log fire, the flames touching his hands, the candle flickering on the table, some ghost coming through the wall, ragged and dusty. His skull was bandaged like it had been cracked like a hard-boiled egg. It musta scared the shit out of him because on the last page he buys some crippled fat ass of a kid a big fucking goose, all basted and juicy, and the little shit look fit to burst free of his callipers. That little book, cloth bound and the pages so yellow and parched I was afraid they'd turn to dust, helped me love my pappy and hate my momma less. I paint too. I think of the House of Prayer. There I cried, I'd never known happiness. Becky was my sister, well, when Otis give her to me, all peaches and cream, the sweetest, cutest little thing, we got on swell. We argued when the lord told her to go back to reformatory school and finish her sentence for delinquency. Granny Rich, the old bird Otis and me was paid to look after, was my momma and she looked like a mummy. We fell out over Becky going missing.  When I killed them I damn near killed myself. We prayed. I can't talk about so I won't. We'll shine eternal, not like the other lambs, led to the slaughter like they're told. They were going to send me to ol' sparky but my lungs are black and ashen. Four cartons of Luckies a day saved me. I sit in my cell and look at my favourite painting. A log cabin up a snowy mountain in the clearing of a wood, momma and popper on the porch smooching. The cabin is full of toys and fried chicken and doughnuts and soda I'm sure. And I'm on the pathway, sniffing up the spruces and cedars, a pocketful of juniper berries, my boots crunching on the red brick pathway. God is yellow and glowing and smiling at me and I am stood there waving back.

I shall be dead soon but I will be kissing the Virgin's breast.

 

"We can only speculate on the activities of the entity…"

Laying down the fountain pen, the man threw the spent cartridge into the wastepaper bin. He had allowed it to seep through and consequently felt almost defeated. The poem was finished and its completion had left him feeling empty. He had written himself into a position where progress, if he appraised the situation honestly, was unlikely; certainly, the past was out of bounds.

And what had he already lost?

He pressed the black stop button on the tape recorder. Next, rewind.

 

 


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