I Kill Monsters: Fury (Book 1) (12 page)

Boone stood up and pulled down his sweat
pants and drawers. He pushed up on the plunger a bit and watched
the testosterone cypionate jet into the air.

“You want to stick it in my ass?” he asked
the priest.

“Give me that.” Father Mark took the needle
from his friend. “You got a wipe or anything?”

Boone spit in his palm and rubbed his ass
cheek with his flannel.

“That’s sterile to you, huh?” Father Mark
shook his head.

“Skip the foreplay and just give it to me,
okay?”

“Fucker.” Mark plunged the syringe into his
friend’s buttock. “I
hope
this hurts.” He pulled back on the
plunger slightly. When the case didn’t fill with blood he knew he
hadn’t hit a vein so he slowly depressed the plunger, injecting the
testosterone into his friend’s body. Oil-based, it would sit in his
buttock and dissipate over the next couple of weeks.

“You were amped up today, B.”

“Work,” said Boone, his neck craned, watching
the liquid disappear in the meat of his ass cheek.

“Still having those dreams?” In college Mark
had majored in psychology. These days when he wasn’t serving mass
and pumping the iron he was finishing up his coursework in the City
University’s doctoral program in Psychology.

“Had one today,” admitted Boone. Mark had
been listening to Boone’s dreams ever since they’d roomed together
when they were both fifteen and Mark had had to wake a whimpering
Boone up from some night terror.

“How was that for you?” Boone asked as Mark
pulled the syringe free and handed it back.

“Your ass is too hairy, but that’s just a
personal preference on my part.”

“You ever get tired of the pedophile
jokes?”

“If I told you I did, would you stop?”

“No.”

“Your idea of cleanliness invites abscesses,”
the priest noted as Boone pulled up his pants.

“Next to godliness, right?” asked Boone. “And
you’d know, right?”

“Wait and see, B. Don’t come crying to me
when you get a big hole in the side of your ass. What’d you dream
about?”

Boone capped the syringe and walked over to
the garbage can under the paper towel dispenser, tossing the needle
away.

“Fuckin’ crazy shit. Bleak landscape, all
burnt and ash. Shit’s covered in bones. I mean, human bones, like
thigh deep. Corpses on top of the bones, all—how do you say it,
dried out and mummified and shit?”

“Desiccated.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Desiccated,” Boone popped
the top off a bottle he’d pulled out of his gym bag. He dumped a
handful of pink tablets into his palm. “Desiccated corpses all
dried up and shit. The sky’s all dark and cloudy except for the
sun. The sun burns red, Mark,
red
…and then this thing rears
up, spreads its wings, blocks out the sun—”

“You’s strong, dawg.” Two of the Italian kids
had come into the locker room and one of them was talking to
Boone.

Boone scoffed, not deigning to answer. He
popped the handful of pills into his mouth and dry swallowed.
“Breakfast of champions” he muttered more to himself than anyone
else.

Mark sighed. Orals had a way of wreaking
havoc on a man’s liver, having to pass through it twice. Better to
inject. And that Russian D-Bol Boone was gulping down…God only knew
the quality of it.

“Yo, where can we get some of that?” The
second kid nodded towards the bottle in Boone’s hand.

Mark saw the look crossing his friend’s face
so he spoke up before Boone could. “I’ll handle this one, B. Do me
a favor and go get yourself a protein shake at least.”

Boone grunted something, grabbed his gym bag
and walked out of the locker room.

“Yo, what’s up with your friend, bro? Roid
rage?” The kid was trying to joke around but Mark cut him off
short.

“Let him hear you say that, he’ll rip your
nuts off and use them as a hood ornament.”

“I was just kidding, yo.” The kid looked down
at his pecs, sufficiently cowed.

“Yo, that guy is strong yo.” The other kid
tried to take up the slack. “I mean, we got a friend out in Philly
who’s strong, but that guy—”

Mark munched his chicken and rice and let the
kid go on about how strong the guy out in Philly supposedly was.
Everyone seemed to know someone who was bigger and stronger than
Boone and Mark, but Mark knew he and his friend were too of the
biggest and strongest mugs walking God’s green earth. Usually the
other someone lived out on a farm somewhere and lifted engine
blocks and trained like Rocky getting ready to face Drago in
Rocky
IV
, or so the stories always seemed to go.

“Yo, seriously, you know where we can get
some of that, cuz?” The other kid looked up from his pecs and
interrupted his friend’s story.

“You knuckleheads got names?” Mark asked
them.

“Joey.”

“Mossimo.”

“Mossimo? Shit. What’d you just get off the
boat?”

The kid looked like he didn’t know how to
take the comment. What was he going to do? Get mad at the three
hundred fifty-plus pounder hulking on the bench? Mark spoke up and
let the kid save face. “I’m just fuckin’ with you. Plus I’m a
priest, so whattya gonna’ do? Kick my ass? You’ll definitely go to
hell for that.”

“You’re a priest, no shit?”

“Yeah, you’re that guy over in St. Ann’s,
right fadda? My aunt’s parish. My aunt says you were some kinda
football player or somethin’.”

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” said the
priest.

“You seen a lot of juice in the locker room
playin’ ball, fadda?”

“The gear is everywhere, guys. But listen to
me, Joey and Mossimo. Why are you guys even thinkin’ of messin’
around with that shit?”

“Yo, look at your cuz there, bro.” One of
them said but Mark had honestly forgotten which one was Mossimo and
which one was Joey. “Look at yourself man. You gonna tell me
prayers alone responsible for that?”

Mark scoffed good naturedly. “Yeah, well let
me school you on something here, okay? Listen up. Steroids don’t
make guys like me or my friend there what we are? Get it? You know
how many guys in this gym use, right?”

“A lot,” ventured one of the two.

“
A
lot
.” Mark agreed. “And
you’d never be able to tell based on how they look or how much they
lift. You follow baseball?”

The young men said
yeah
and
sure
.

“Well look, you following this shit with Sosa
and McGwire?”

“Yeah, who isn’t?”

“You think they’re on ‘roids?”

“Nah, no way—”

“Why you ask, man—I mean, father,
you
think he is?”

“Sure I think he is,” Mark finished up his
last fork of chicken and rice. “I ain’t a gambling man, but if I
was…look, steroids get developed in what? The 1950s? The genies’
out of the bottle ever since then guys. And it ain’t going
back.”

“So whattya’ sayin’? You think some players
in the major leagues are using?”

“No, I think some players in the majors
aren’t
using. But that’s not the point. The point is these
guys are better baseball players than me and you in their sleep.
Nothing they take makes them hit the ball the way they do.
Nothing.”

“I don’t know man…”

“Yeah, if they’re all juiced why aren’t they
all jacked up?”

“Because, kid, it’s like I was saying before.
Not everyone who uses gets all Schwarzenegger, right? If it was as
simple as that then you or me could take whatever Mr. Olympia is
taking and we’d look like him, or we could take whatever McGwire
takes and we’d be hitting fifty-something home runs. But it ain’t
like that.”

“So you’re saying…?”

“My friend there? He’s been big and nasty
since I’ve known him. He looks at weights and he grows. Got
it?”

“And you?”

“Same way for me. I was always a husky kid.
Wasn’t until college that I burned some of the fat off and saw
there was some muscle there.”

“How long you been a priest?”

“Five years now.”

“Hey, fadda, I ask you a question?”

“Go ahead.”

“Don’t you ever…you know, about women I
mean?”

“Do I miss fuckin’ them, is that what you’re
askin’ me?”

“Yeah.” The kid looked embarrassed. “No
disrespect fadda.”

“None taken. I wasn’t born a priest kid. I
did my share of knockin’ boots before I put on the collar. You get
me?”

“Got you father.”

“How old are you guys?”

“Seventeen.”

“Seventeen. Jesus Christ. At your age you
guys should be chasing as much tail as you can. Don’t even think
about taking steroids you knuckleheads. You know what’s the first
thing happens when you take steroids?”

“Your balls shrink, right father?” the one
kid looked at the other kid like Mark’s answer would validate some
discussion they’d had earlier.

“No, that’s bullshit. What happens is your
balls shut down. You’re getting testosterone from outside, why does
your body need to make it on the inside, right? But that’s not the
problem. The problem’s when you come off and your nuts take two or
three months to kick in and start making the baby batter again,
okay? You’re seventeen, you even want to imagine life without a sex
drive?”

“No,” said the one kid and the other shook
his head.

“And neither could your girlfriends. So stay
off the sauce, got me?”

“Well, thanks father. I mean, that’s the
weirdest advice I ever got from a priest, but—”

“Don’t mention it. Now give me three Hail
Marys and get some food in your fuckin’ stomachs. Your age, that’s
what’ll make you grow. Train hard and eat. Now get outta here.”

“Thanks father.”

“Yeah, fadda.”

The priest met Boone on the street. The
clouds had given way to a clear sky and the sun blazed down on the
people below.

Boone stood among the hustle and bustle on
Myrtle Avenue, stuffing the remains of a hot dog in his mouth. He
held a second frankfurter in the same hand he ate with and in his
other fist he gripped a Kit Kat and a Coke. His calves were bulging
between his cut off shorts and work boots, and the veins were
popping out all over his arms.

“That’s what you eat after working out like
that?” Mark shook his head. Some people stared at them as they
walked past, the monstrous priest in his boat top with an eight
inch powerlifting belt looped over the strap of his gym bag that
hung from his shoulder, and his two-hundred sixty pound flannel
shirted companion.

Boone shrugged and held up both hands. “I got
my protein and my carbs,” he said, referring to the hot dog and the
candy bar. “You want one?” he proffered the second hot dog.

“No. Don’t you know your body’s a
temple?”

“Yeah, whatever. Shit, hold on.” Boone
reached down and unclipped his pager, looking at the screen. “I
gotta call this guy.”

“Look, legs tomorrow night?”

“If you think you can keep up with me, holy
man.”

“Keep up with you? It’s squat day, son. I’mma
bury you.”

“Well, at least you’ll be able to do the last
rights too if that happens, right?”

“For your ass? St. Peter ain’t going to let
you past the Pearly Gates.”

“Fuck him then.” Boone shoved what was left
of the second hot dog in his mouth and held out a clenched fist.
Around a mouthful of mustard, bun and questionable pork product he
mumbled something that might have been
peace
out
.

“Yeah, B, you too.” Father Mark gave him the
pound. “Hey, you ever wonder where those guy’s who sell you those
dirty water dogs take a piss?”

Boone shook his head and waved, turning and
walking up the block towards a pay phone.

He dropped coins in the slot and dialed the
number. The phone rang a few times and while it rang he popped the
top off his Coke and swallowed half of it.

“Kid.” Gossitch answered.

“Yeah.”

“You coming out tonight, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, listen, I’m going to swing by the
usual spot, pick you up in an hour, okay?”

“Why, what’s up?” Boone asked, knowing
Gossitch wouldn’t tell him on an open line.

“Something you’ll dig,” Gossitch
promised.

“Yeah, okay. I gotta run home, shit, and
shower. Give me an hour and a half.”

“Fuck kid, make it snappy.”

“Yeah-yeah, Goose. Just be there.”

“Right.”

They hung up in tandem.

“You okay, kid?” Detective Will “Gritz”
Gritzowski asked the uniformed officer stationed at the door of the
loft. “You look like you’re gonna puke.”

“This is…” Police officer Jason Smith looked
like he was having a tough time swallowing something down.

“This is fuckin’ disgusting,” declared Boone
as he and Gossitch walked in. “Wow, is this fuckin’
disgusting.”

“Hey, who are—”

“It’s alright, kid.” Gritz waved off the
cop’s concern. “These guys are okay to be here.”

“Like that guy?” Officer Smith nodded his
head at another man in the room, a man in a microfiber trench coat
with a fu Manchu, his jet black hair slicked back into a pony tail.
The guy was squatting near the remains of a victim.

Gritz ignored him and greeted Gossitch and
Boone. “Frank. Frank’s guy.”

“Gritz.” Gossitch smiled, shook hands with
the detective. “What’s going on?”

“This city, Frank. We got a serial killer,
calls himself Mr. Mephisto. Mephisto, Frank? What the fuck is that
supposed to mean?”

“Guess he likes Faust.”

“Then this…” The detective gestured to the
scene around them.

Gossitch eyed the chaos of the loft. A string
of intestines hung across the room, draped from the umbrellas of
two strobe lights. Various limbs and body parts littered the floor,
centered around a shredded mattress in the middle of the room. The
walls and flooring were awash with gore. High end audio and camera
equipment lay smashed in pieces among the human wreckage.