Genital Grinder (13 page)

“Well, I’m a Samaritan. I’d have helped anyway.” He leaned under the hood, feeling her spiteful look. He yanked something at random, and was rewarded when it slid out. “Hey, I might have found something. This thing here is loose.” He held it up for her inspection.

Carrie sighed with a bonus eye roll, even though Renee wasn’t around to enjoy it. “That
thing
tells how much oil is in the car.” She snatched it away from him and guided it back into its proper place, mouthing a stream of obscenities which he gathered weren’t in high praise of his character.

She hunched forward, brushing her fingers with her thumbs to wipe off grease. Gabriel enjoyed the rear view as he cracked his knuckles.

“You should have called Triple A,” he said, too quietly for her to hear.

“Hey,” Carrie said excitedly. “This wire isn’t—”

He smashed the safety bar with the palm of his hand, dislodging it. The hood slumped down, striking Carrie across the back. It wasn’t much, just enough to stun her. It was all he needed. He hoisted the hood up and slammed it back down, increasing his momentum by jumping. She sank to her knees. She made an effort to slide out of harm’s way, but he blocked her off and reaped some well-earned frottage as he delivered six more compacting blows in rapid succession The last few came down on the back of her neck, eliciting tiny pops as vertebrae cracked.

As the script called for, Gabriel took a few steps back and observed the scene. Carrie was sprawled in front of the car now, arms jutting out like broken wings. Motionless.

Gabriel looked back at Movie Heaven. He thought he saw a red light in the darkness, like the one which glowed on his father’s video camera when it recorded. He couldn’t see clearly, but he didn’t have to. The article in the paper this morning had told him what was going on, the simple headline reading BARTOK WOMAN KILLED IN RABID DOG ATTACK.

Seven simple words, all it took to make him see what was written . . . and what was prophesied.

IX.

The emissary of visions unclaimed found him again—the hapless individual at 37th and Garren. About to return to the wife and kids, maybe, or at least thinking he was. Not paying much attention to Gabriel, or the strange way he hunched over to obscure the shotgun as Gabriel stepped out of the car.

“Are you ready to do your magic?” he asked, approaching the man. He stopped five feet away from him.

And waited for him to blink.

Part 1: Genital Finder

The Electra Complex was a beacon for the lost souls who had nothing better to do on a Saturday night than have the same tits from last weekend thrust in their faces.
    Some souls were more lost than others, which is where Von and Greg came in.  They were no strangers to the nudie bar circuit. In a couple dives they were known well enough to elicit a greeting like Norm’s from
Cheers
. The Electra Complex, however, was not one of them.

“I’m sure glad we ain’t actually paying ten to get in,” Greg said.

Von concurred. “I’m all for full nudity, but it ain’t nothing I couldn’t see from my own mother. And hell, it don’t cost me near as much.”

Greg seemed distressed by this. “You get some kind of discount being blood-related or something? I’m out an Abe Lincoln and a couple Washingtons every time.”

Von laughed. “You’re getting your ass burned, son. I was in it for nine months and it didn’t cost me a dime. The milk was free after that, too. For awhile.”

Greg was not Von’s “son.” It was merely a colloquialism they had cultivated over the years.

“Hell, though,” Von continued, “it won’t put you on welfare to spend ten to look at some titties now and again. Safer, too. Ma’s retirement home is getting suspicious.”

To sit here and complain about paying ten bucks to see naked women when they were going to be millionaires before the night was over was absurd. Every slut had a price, and they’d be able to afford it. They wouldn’t have to slum anymore. There’d be no daring sieges on the dumpster behind the gynecological clinic, sifting for used sanitary napkins and sniffing the fingers of discarded rubber gloves. Finding out the clinic didn’t properly dispose of hazardous waste was among the five luckiest things to ever to happen to them. Scoring above that landmark occasion was the miraculous rumor of a doctor’s visit by a certain red-headed TV star who often investigated crimes with paranormal circumstances. Von and Greg kept every single pair of gloves and each blood-soaked tampon they found that night. They pored over them at least bi-weekly, wondering if this or that had come from within the gilded snatch. They’d wrung every last drop of juice form the tampons into a beer mug and traded swigs. The rumor had never been confirmed, but on still nights where a sudden breeze ruffled the tree branches and the tall grass of an open field, Von always believed that
yes,
it had really been
her
quim.

The side door of the Electra Complex sprang open. Angelique emerged at 9:35 for a smoke, par for the course when she was on backroom suck detail. She wore what counted as her costume—a white, easily removable shift. She kept a bare foot wedged in the door so it wouldn’t shut; the door locked automatically.

“Showtime,” Von announced. He and Greg stepped out of Greg’s Nova. Through the crack in the door, they could faintly hear an old Celtic Frost song: “Return to the Eve.”

Angelique had the bored detachment perfected by all veteran strippers, and she looked even less pleased to have visitors. It didn’t detract too much from her beauty, though. Gentleman might prefer blonds, but there weren’t many gentleman in a place like this, and her black hair was duly worshipped.

“We were hoping you could settle a bet between us,” Von began.

The smile faltered on Greg’s face. “We were?”

Von shot him an irritated look and prepared to continue his ploy. He surreptitiously craned his head around, searching for any stragglers in the parking lot. It was early in the evening, and the major activity wouldn’t start for another couple hours. It wasn’t a good idea to go to a strip show when the doors opened; by midnight you’d see your whole paycheck fluttering in some Jezebel’s g-string.

Angelique waited, taking another drag on her cigarette.

“We wanted to know if you could smoke that cigarette with . . . well, what a learned man would call your ‘netherlips.’” Von glanced at his friend. “Ain’t that right, Greg?”

Greg was practically drooling. “Right as rain, son!”

Angelique stared at them with a mixture of doubt and incredulity. “You want me to smoke with my box? For how much?”

“How much?” Von echoed. “Why, on the house, darling. In the interest of science.”

“F.O.C.?” No doubt in her face now, just incredulity. “That’s sick.”

“Why, are you a dyke or something?”

Greg looked confused all over again. “What’s . . . fawk?”

Angelique sighed. “You boys haven’t even paid the cover, have you? Look, this is a business, not a charity. You want something extra, use the ATM inside. Then talk to me. Assuming you aren’t cops.”

Von’s foot shot out and kicked the door, shattering the knob of bone above her heel. She crumpled, cigarette falling from her lips, crying out. It was doubtful anyone would hear her scream over Celtic Frost, but Von hurried, dragging her inside by her hair. Greg followed close behind, dropping a boot in her sternum. The vestiges of her last cigarette drag exploded as smoke from her mouth, followed instantly by a stream of vomit. The torrent was clogged with a murky, mucusy substance instantly recognizable as semen. Von pushed her head at the doorframe and slammed the door on it for good measure. She was definitely unconscious now. As far as the rest of the evening’s activities were concerned she was not imperative, but this did not stop Von from stashing her in the Nova’s trunk while Greg held the door. Old habits die hard.

Their destination in the Complex was fortuitously close, known as The Vacuum. It was actually two rooms, with holes in the dividing wall. The guys would not know who was behind the wall, but they’d slip forty bucks through for a blow job from whomever.

Greg gestured to an unassuming door, painted a sickly shade of green. “This is it.”

Von nodded. “That’s where the magic happens. Ready to meet the Wizard?”

Greg opened the door. They were tensed and ready to lay waste to anyone who might be within, but the room was empty. Angelique had been alone as calculated. There were bouncers at the club, but not as much of a call for them in a locked room. They guarded the door to get in here from inside the club, though, and it wouldn’t be wise to lollygag . . . The Vacuum existed for an entirely different form of gagging.

“Man, did you see how much ball sauce she puked?” Greg marveled.

“Enough to repopulate the Holocaust,” Von concurred. “I didn’t think they really swallowed, even for the extra fiver. I don’t about you, but I was relieved to find out there’s actually a girl back here and not some candy-ass.”

Von cracked his knuckles, pacing. He didn’t want to be here a minute longer than he had to, but this part wasn’t up to them, unfortunately.

They were not in a room so much as a storage closet. The distinguishing characteristic was of course the deadbolt-sized holes in the wall, in a descending arc—a convenience for the abnormally tall and short knob-job seekers. A sixty-watt bulb burned weakly overhead. A well-thumbed issue of
Shocking Crimes
had been left on a folding chair in front of the holes, presumably by Angelique. Von reached for it, catching a bold yellow headline which proclaimed ON THE TRAIL OF ATLANTA’S BUTT SEX KILLER! He’d heard about those goings-on, which imparted a profound moral to all aware of the murders—tay the hell out of Atlanta. A journalist named Thorndike McHatchet had the low-down on this sickening affair, as well as an amusing article entitled RAPIST CROSSED THE LINE TO MURDER, AND THEN WENT BACK TO RAPING AGAIN . . . WITH THE SAME VICTIM!

That’s when he heard the door open on the other side of the wall. He looked up at Greg, startled, although he’d been expecting it. “Give me the knife,” he whispered.

He glanced at the issue of
Shocking Crime
a little forlornly, and then stuffed the magazine into the front of his pants as a souvenir, his hands shaking.

The music within the club stopped long enough for them to both hear a fly unzip, and then two rolled up twenties were pushed through one of the holes. After a moment of indecision, the consumer slid another five dollars through. Greg pocketed the money.

Von held his hand out for the knife, waving his fingers. Greg put something in it; it was a Swiss army knife. Von’s eyes flew open like window blinds. He got close to Greg’s ear and whispered as loudly as he dared, “Are you out of your mind? We’re not lost in the woods on a camping trip, you retard!”

“It’s all I’ve got,” Greg shot back.

The customer cleared his throat impatiently. Von looked down, and sure enough, the guy had eased his meat through one of the holes.

He gave Greg another disgusted look, and flicked out the Swiss army blade. He noted the faint beginnings of rust along its edge as he tentatively reached for the man’s engorged member, like a timid schoolgirl picking up a dead frog for dissection in a biology lab. It jumped in his hand when he finally seized it, and the guy moaned.

Von’s skin crawled, but the sleaze element was what had allowed for this whole caper in the first place after an amusing anecdote shared by a friend of theirs who got blown away just a few weeks ago, minding his own business at a stop light on the street corner of 37th and Garren as he walked home from the Electra Complex. The whole thing had been his idea, but he obviously didn’t have any use for it now after a shotgun blast to the face courtesy of some whack job Greg claimed to know from Movie Heaven. The fact that he had only been kidding when he said it was no deterrent to Von and Greg, who practically had dollar signs in their eyes.

“Use your teeth,” the man behind the wall gasped. “Please. I’ll pay extra—”

The request came as no surprise, but it still made him feel queasy, like those magazines where fellas wanted a high heel crammed in their dickhole.

In a passable falsetto, Von asked him to lean into the wall. The customer obeyed. Von had the knife poised over the base of the shaft like a guillotine. The touch of blade on skin earned a groan that almost made Von physically ill. The tendons in his forearm tightened as he gripped tightly and began sawing with the army knife.

“Oh, baby . . . that’s so sweet it’s almost painf—” And then the guy dispensed with the “almost” diagnosis and began bleating like a slaughtered lamb. The rust made the cutting a grueling process, and Von had to keep the organ in an ironclad grip while his other hand burrowed through the shaft. He did an admirable job of working from the initial wound, like a lumberjack burying his axe in the same groove swing after swing. The blood was deep red, gushing from the stump-in-progress like a surrogate orgasm. The guy struggled as his screams became almost feminine shrieks, which however heart-felt and desperate could not exceed the volume of “Too Fast for Love” on the club speakers. His knees had given out, but the member in Von’s hand could only elongate as the customer pushed off from the wall, trying to squirm free. Once the rusted blade had slit and hacked through enough of the shaft, the frantic gyration provided the final ingredient to the castration. The last inch and a quarter came free in a moist surge of ripping meat and veins.