Lustmord: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher Vol. 2 (of 2)

By Kirk Alex

Desperate to leave behind a legacy as the most notorious sex slayer in the state of California, Biggs stalks San Fernando Valley strip joints and LA hooker hot spots in search of potential victims in his van dubbed the Meat Wagon. He likes to lure unsuspecting victims into his dark world by whatever means possible, even offering them drugs, booze, cash or trickery.

By now the stench of death billowing from his cellar furnace is starting to arouse suspicion, which might ultimately hinder his grisly exploits. And when this remorseless sociopath's neighbors become concerned, and the family and friends of the missing young men and women unite to converge on this house of horrors, it might finally put an end to Biggs' sadistic sexual rituals. But not if he can prevent it. . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kirk Alex
• Release date: Jul 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9780939122103

Kirk Alex

Instead of boring you with a bunch of dull background info, how about if I mention a few films/singers/musicians and books/authors I have enjoyed over the years.Am an Elvis Presley fan from way back. Always liked James Brown, Motown, Carmen McRae, Eva Cassidy, Meat Loaf, Booker T. & the MGs, CCR. Doors are also a favorite.Some novels that rate high on my list: A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole; Hunger by Knut Hamsun; Street Players by Donald Goines (a street noir masterpiece, a work of art, & other novels by the late awesome Goines); If He Hollers Let Him Go by the incredible Chester Himes. (Note: Himes at his best was as good as Hemingway at his best. But of course, due to racism in the great US of A, he was given short-shrift. Had to move to France to be treated with respect. Kind of sad.Am white by the way, but injustice is injustice & I feel a need to point it out. There were so many geniuses of color who were mistreated and taken advantage of. Breaks your effing heart. I have done what I have been able to support talent (no matter what the artists skin color was/is) over the years by purchasing records & books by talented folks, be they white/black/Hispanic/Asian, whatever. Like I said: Talent is talent, is the way I have always felt. The arts (in all their forms) keep us as humans civilized, hopefully). Anyway, I need to get off the soap box.Most of the novels by Mark SaFranko (like Lounge Lizard and Hating Olivia; his God Bless America is one of the best memoirs I have ever read, up there with Ham on Rye by Buk);The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway; A Farewell to Arms also by Ernie; Mooch by Dan Fante (& other novels of his); Post Office by Charles Bukowski; The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath; the great plays of Eugene O., like Iceman Cometh, Long Days––this system has a problem with the apostrophe, so will leave it out––Journey Into Night, Touch of the Poet; Journey to the End of the Night by Ferdinand Celine (not to be confused by the Eugene O. play); Postman Only Rings Twice by James M. Cain; the factory crime novels of Derek Raymond (superior to the overrated Raymond Chandler & his tiresome similes & metaphors any day of the week; Jack Ketchum; Edgar Allan Poe; The Reader by Bernhard Schlink; Nobody/s Angel by Jack Clark; The Professor and the Madman by Simon Winchester, et al.Filmmakers: Akira Kurosawa (Ihiru; Yojimbo); John Ford (almost anything by him); horror flicks: Maniac by William Lustig and Joe Spinnell; original Night of the Living Dead; original Texas Chainsaw Massacre; original When a Stranger Calls; The 400 Blows by Francois T.; the thrillers of Claude Chabrol; A Man Escaped by Bresson; the Japanese Zatoichi films;Tokyo Story by Ozu . . . and many other books, films and jazz musicians like the amazing tenor sax player Gene Ammons; Sonny Rollins, Chet Baker, Jack Sheldon, Stan Getz, Paul Desmond; singers like the incomparable Sarah Vaughan, Shirley Horn, Dion Warwick; Al Green, Elmore James, Lightnin Hopkins . . . to give you some idea.However, these days though, tv does not exist at all for me, nor do I care for most movies, in that I would much rather pick up a well-written book. I get more of a kick from reading than I do watching some actor pretend to be something he is not.Having said that, I confess that as a young man I did my share of wasting time watching the idiot box and spent my share of money going to the flicks. But those days are long gone, in that there is no interest in movies (be they cranked out by the Hollywood machine, or elsewhere).Final conclusion when it comes to celluloid? Movies are nothing more than a big waste of time (no matter who makes them). Reading feeds the brain, while movies puts the brain to sleep. There it is.

Book preview

A HEADS UP AND A WARNING

And if you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.

–Friedrich Nietzsche

Translation: this one is not for the faint of heart, nor the weak of belly. Foretold is forewarned.

I started LUSTMORD: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher back in 1987, and it is January 17, 2013, as I write this. How many years is that? Twenty-six? Give or take. I say give or take because somewhere in there, during the mid 1990s, I had to lay off the thing for about five years. Why? Nightmares. Cold sweats. Unable to sleep. Why? Subject matter. Some of it was too damn horrific and the images wouldn’t go away at the end of the day. Five years. Not to mention another three years when I could only face the book for about four or five months at a time. The shit was sick and depraved. Fucking brutal. I needed a break.

Why go anywhere near the subject matter, then? Why fool with it? Because I have to bounce around, move from genre to genre, or else I get restless––and because if I’m going to do a book about a sociopath, you better believe one thing: I am going to treat the material with absolute honesty. There is no other way. I did not want to whitewash (or sugarcoat) any of it, the way certain writers like to do, or the way some, rather, most Hollywood flicks treat the material: by having the unpleasant stuff happen off screen, or else it’s done with gimmicks and cheesy effects. I wanted it raw, and I wanted it to be disturbing––because when it happens, the way it happens in real life, that’s what it is: appalling, venal, sickening and twisted. So I repeat, read at your own risk.

The author/publisher is not responsible for any nervous breakdowns, facial tics, insomnia, depression, loss of appetite, loss of hair, sexual dysfunction, bouts of insanity, marriages and/or relationships disintegrating, time spent in therapy, stays in the bughouse, shakes, quakes, headaches, heart problems, vomiting, nausea, episodes of anxiety, suicidal tendencies or a sudden, inexplicable urge to do bodily harm to your fellow humans, and any other ailments, be they large or small, that you may experience as a result of having read LUSTMORD: Anatomy of a Serial Butcher. You have been thoroughly advised. Proceed at your own peril.

Kirk Alex

CHAPTER 28

The gray prefab house to the right of Biggs’s church did not have any of its lights on but that did not mean that the Roscoes, Marty and his wife Petunia, whose domicile this happened to be, were both sound asleep.

The dogs had taken turns yelping, waking the woman, while her husband slept like a log, snoring away, as usual.

Petunia was full-figured, as some liked to call a certain type of woman built in this fashion. She was a couple of years past forty, stood a shade under five foot four inches. Mrs. Roscoe was not known for her calm demeanor, instead her claim-to-fame and/or infamy, depending on the individual making the observation, were her enormous udders, that her husband rarely failed to boast about, measured a good forty-four inches. Triple E.

The Boston terrier, Darcy, had first barked about something, then the Lhasa apso named Ziggy had followed suit, and created enough of a ruckus between them to cause Petunia to remain fully awake.

She had heard Biggs pull up in that boat of a car, and she had rushed to the living room curtains to steal a peek. Saw Marvin hop out to unlock Biggs’s front gate and the Brougham pull into the driveway and disappear behind the church as Biggs drove it on to his backyard.

Marvin had locked the gate back up, and hurried on foot to meet up with the bishop back there.

Petunia found herself practically running through the house, across the carpeted bedroom floor, to get to the rear porch door. Was careful to open it and the screen door as quietly as possible. Chewing on her lower lip nervously, she had tiptoed across the porch and cautiously climbed down the stoop. Made every effort to stay silent as she snuck up to the picket fence to peer through a crack in it.

She saw Biggs and his sidekick, the one he referred to as Deacon, reach inside the trunk for a large, suitcase-type metal chest and carry it inside the church through the rear door.

After a while, Biggs reappeared and made certain the Caddie doors were locked, closed the trunk quietly enough, clicked on the car alarm, and hurried back inside his church.

Petunia looked at the watch on her wrist. It was twelve past four. She returned to bed, sliding in beside her husband.

She had wanted to tell him that Biggs and Marvin were at it again, that they were hauling that chest around. Something was not right, she felt like telling Marty—only Marty snored on. That was usually his response to most of these suspicious sightings that she felt like discussing, going over with him.

I wonder what those two creeps could be up to? Petunia said to herself. "Every time I see them they’re either carrying something out of that house to one of his fancy cars, or else it’s the other way around: carrying something from either the Cadillac or the Rolls-Royce into the house… "

Her husband coughed. Turned on his side. The snoring did not stop.

Marty? she said.

Hmmm?

Marty, you’re snoring.

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CHAPTER 29

Biggs and Marvin carried the suitcase into the basement and lowered it near the pit. The bishop had Marvin stay put and not do anything while he walked in the direction of the Geek Room with the baby blanket.

Biggs parted the small curtain over the Judas window. TV was on, flickering. Some of the geeks were awake and watching, or asleep, or just plain staring off into space. One of the generic geek males in a lower bunk picked his nose, another one was squatting over a honey bucket. Goodfellow, the diaper-wearer, had his hands inside the diaper and he was fondling his privates.

Biggs unlocked the door. Sassy, in his bunk, left row, lower birth, was doing the usual: lying on his belly and grinding his forehead back and forth against the metal frame.

Some blood was visible along the brow and ‘neath the hairline of the scalp he had on.

Knock it off, Sassounian, warned Biggs. Better stop it, or it’s electroconvulsive therapy time again—an extra helping of it. Plus a week in Siberia. Get me?

Sassounian stopped what he had been doing, although he took his sweet time about it.

Atta girl, Sassy, said Biggs. Got something for you. Held the blanket out to him. Pink. You like pink, right? You love the color pink.

Sassounian took the blanket in his hands with the taped fingertips and gently rubbed it against his cheek. His eyes appeared to be misting, only Biggs could not be certain due to lack of light and the flickering images produced by the black-and-white television. Not that it made any difference.

You’re quite welcome, you know, said Biggs, and stepped out. He locked the door back up. Drew the curtain closed over the Judas window, and walked back to where Muck waited with the metal chest by the pit in the floor.

Shouldn’t a brung that blanket back, said Marvin. ’Cause now, every time I see it gonna remind me of what we done to the kid…

Guess what? said Biggs. I don’t want to hear about it. It’s over and done with. Whacking that kid is no different from you helping me ice those two cunts who were turning tricks for you on Hollywood Boulevard.

Wasn’t none of my idea to ice them hoe’, said Marvin. You put them in the kettle. Said peep’ gotta eat.

Biggs was not interested in any of it. Proceeded to undo the clasps on the chest. Lifted the lid open, and watched Dione Aragon shoot out with a great deal of frantic energy bordering on hysteria, anguish, loud gasps for fresh air, air that her (supposedly) long-deprived lungs could not get enough of.

Why was she acting up? There was no real reason, that Biggs could see. Why did she have to carry on like this? Unless it was more fakery, which victims very often were likely to indulge in. She’d had access to the breathing tube, and she was among the living, for the time being. So what was up?

Quit your fakin’, he advised her as he had previously in a calm enough tone.

The tears that flowed did so from that one good eye that she had left.

Ho should be happy to be out of the suitcase, said Marvin, trying to get back on Cecil’s good side. Instead she still be carryin’ on.

Please don’t make me get back in the chest, she pleaded. It’s so difficult to breathe in there.

Is it? said Biggs. It’s a miracle that you didn’t asphyxiate.

She nodded her head. I thought for sure I would suffocate. I can’t take being locked up like that. Please.

You had access to air, said Biggs. You had the hose to breathe through. Did I not warn you not to let the mouthpiece slip out of your mouth?

She continued to shake. Biggs let her. Knew that she would have to settle down eventually. Enough blood had flowed out from the eye wound and that side of her head during the trip that it left quite a bit of her face covered in it. Her message came through loud and clear with all the quaking and nervousness, that she would rather endure anything, anything at all, than be forced back into the metal trunk.

No one is going to put you back in it, Cecil assured her. So take it easy.

He remained amused by her behavior, Marvin less so. Biggs reminded him to keep one hand on her handcuffs, in case she got the bright idea to take off up the staircase and they’d have to do a repeat of what had gone down with the Klopp cunt.

Yo, where the ho gonna go? said Marvin. Door upstairs be locked. Front door be locked. Back door be locked. Like a fuckin’ crack house in here. Where she gonna go?

Hold on to her, was all Biggs said.

While the bishop was unlocking the door over the pit, Marvin Muck took the opportunity to run his other hand up between Dione’s thighs; ran it across her belly. Felt her breasts.

Biggs lifted the door open. Shined his flashlight down at the murky water. Must have wakened a few flies, or else they were drawn to the sores and smell of fresh blood, because they were buzzing again. Not what he needed.

Small chunks of something or other floated on the water’s surface. There was an item that resembled a hard-boiled egg, only considerably smaller—or was it an eyeball? Against the far edge. Portion of a tongue, several teeth, bridgework, along the top edge. Fragments of bone, partial fingers.

Dione’s good eye took it in. It made it nearly impossible to calm down under the circumstances.

There was a young woman in the pit. Hair and face swathed in grime and blood. Terri Denise Klopp was the victim who’d showered Marvin’s discolored, less-than-appealing face with ammonia a while back. Hardly the feisty one presently. Happened with all of them eventually, thought Biggs.

Her eyes were closed, and remained that way even after Cecil prodded at her with his foot to see if she were at all alive. Her wrists had been handcuffed behind her back and she appeared to be frozen in that awkward position against the upper right hand corner of the pit.

He prodded. It became obvious soon enough, when he saw her blink, that she was indeed alive. She may not have been full of pep, joie de vivre, not entirely the life of the party—but she was blinking and she was breathing.

Dione Aragon’s mental state was fragile at best at this point, her desperation not easy to rein in.

Biggs kicked at the woman in the pit. Not to hurt or punish, but to determine how much life there was left in her, and a rat appeared out of nowhere: more-than-likely surfaced from the depths of the pit, scurried up and over his shit-kicker boot, across the victim’s practically motionless shoulder, made it to the top of her head and promptly bounced off into the darkness and disappeared.

Dione Aragon’s own head was shaking from side to side and she was practically retching. It had to do with the stench, the rat, the pit, and the bits and pieces in it, not to mention the woman in the pit and the suffering she must have endured. This was nothing less than a dungeon of depravity that she had been brought to.

What had it been for? The drugs? Getting high? Why’d she have to get high? Why did she have to accept drugs from Cecil and Marvin?

They had lured her with drugs, baited her with tips, with money—to use to buy her and Danny’s drugs with. And Danny was dead now; he was dead…

Where was Clarissa? What had they done to her sweet little angelic baby?

Tears rolled down from her good eye. She had been blinded in the other eye. Probably sustained a skull fracture. Only they didn’t seem to care. They were cold-blooded and brutal, and didn’t care what they did to people.

We never should have left Bakersfield. Should never have driven down to LA. It was Danny. Wanted to visit a high school friend. Score some good weed at a great rate. Great deal, easy money, he had told her. Had convinced her to go along. They could come out with enough to put a down payment on a house of their own. Get out from under the roof of her mom and her overbearing boyfriend.

They’d ripped Danny off. Took their money, their hard-earned money. Left them broke with their broken-down used car. No way to get back… If only they had never left home… If only they had stayed away from LA.

The regrets piled on. It was too late for it. But she could not stop thinking, could not keep the images from appearing and flashing inside her aching head. She was in so much fear that her teeth rattled. There was no way to stop it.

Biggs bent down. Turned Terri Denise Klopp around and unlocked the cuffs on her wrists, then recuffed them in front of her. He rose. Pushed Marvin away from Dione. Rechecked her handcuffs. Uncuffed one of her wrists, held them in front of her and clamped the cuff back on.

He advised her to compose herself. I don’t want any over-the-top, needless screaming and carrying on. Ordinarily I don’t mind the noise; you can be feisty all you want—basement is practically sound-proof. Windows have boards on them: inside and out. Thing of it is, some sound probably travels and my neighbors like to bitch and moan at the slightest excuse. They have nothing better to do. That’s how neighbors are. Busybodies. Bunch of grousers. Like that professional ballbuster Petunia Roscoe. Lives in the shack to the right of us. Has to stick her nose in other people’s business constantly.

Yo, you right about that, Cecil, Marvin said. Petunia be nosy.

Chunky pit bull cunt gets on my nerves, as you may have guessed, said Biggs. Even more so than the black couple who live to the left of here. Then you’ve got the limping curmudgeon across the street. Medal of Honor winner. World War II hero. World War II pain-in-the-ass is more like it.

An’ Finger Lickin’ Flinger, added Marvin. That be another one.

Cecil did not want to discuss Wilburn Claude, Lloyd Dicker’s raw-egg-sucking grandson; he had other things on his mind. Like the business at hand. Noticed that Dione Aragon’s good eye kept looking down at the nasty water in the pit and its contents and then back up at him. All it managed to do was amuse him.

Don’t concern yourself with the pit, he told her. It’s not in your immediate future—nor will it be—unless you rile me. Pit Therapy is a form of punishment we resort to when certain individuals get out of line, break the rules. He indicated Terri Denise Klopp down there in the oblong-shaped hole in the floor. Strumpet made life difficult for us. Splashed ammonia in Marvin’s face.

Sho did, said Marvin. Had no cause. Coulda been my bottom ho, too, ‘cept she done her Mack Daddy wrong.

Somehow, Dione was able to steady her nerves and calm down. There was an inner voice that urged her to settle down, and that maybe, just maybe by settling down she would be able to keep from angering them further and that her chances