The Creep (31 page)

Bishman's plan was coming to
gether w
ilder than he expected. He did his chameleon trick. He wrenched off the guard's black tracksuit bottoms and pulled them over his own corduroys. He then did the same with the black top and the balaclava, and added the guard's AK-47 to his armory. He was one
of them. To all intents and pur
poses Bishman was invisible.

The motorcycles were firing up, the noise from the museum was deafening; joined with the organ it was thunderous. Bishman's mayhem
plan
was working. It was only a matter of time
be
fore the gasoline caught light, adding to the chaos. Bishman was on a roll.

Bishman took a Mag-10 Roadblocker, a monster 10-gauge shotgun, over to the dew-covered Sikorski helicopter and let rip. One blast and the helicopter actually lifted off its skids. The first thing Bishman noticed was the searing pain in his right shoulder. Despite the substantial rubber butt pad, thi
s thing had a hell of kick, Shi
t!
...
all
the helicopter's glass shattered, the rotor went limp and the whole helicopter blew apart in a spectacular fireball. Bishman had never experienced such power from a shotgun.
Jeeeezus! No wonder they call it a fuckin' Roadblocker, this thing could stop a MACK truck
, thought Bishman.

Five guards appeared in the courtyard behind Bishman and were reluctantly
leveling
their weapons at him, not really sure which side he was on. Bishman had no choice, he let rip again. The problem with Mag-10 is you only have three rounds. You have to use them judiciously. The five guards dropped to the ground in a fusillade of
heavy steel pellets. They were blown apart, decimated, blood and guts everywhere. They didn't even know what had torn them apart.

What the hell?
thought
Bishman, as he opened the garage door where the stretch Cadillac was parked, next to the Chamber of Horrors. He let the Cadillac have it. It's worth it, to see how this gun performs. The windows shattered and the hood and trunk flew open simultaneously, and the Caddy burst into flames. The power of the Mag-10 was awesome. However, it was now spent. Bishman eyed the racing red
Ferrari
Testarossa, a silver gull-winged BMW and a midnight blue Lamborghini Countach that were garaged next to the Caddy and knew it wouldn't be long before they'd be ablaze as well. Bishman dumped the weapon,
then
rubbed his shoulder
...
Jeeeezus!

He went back to his haul of weapons, loaded the grenade launcher and
leveled
it at the portcullis. Just as he was about to fire he sensed someone at a window on the second floor of the castle. Shit! He swung the grenade launcher around at the window and fired. Whoever had been standing at the window didn't stand a chance; a billow of black smoke was coming out the window, the room was well and truly ablaze.
Anyone
in the room would have been killed instantly by the blast.

Bishman sensed someone in the courtyard, about twenty yards behind him. It was Leo, King of Snuff Movies, and he was furious. He was brandishing a lethal Skorpion submachine gun, the type of gun used to mow down Francesco Coco, the chief prosecutor of Genoa. Without
hesitation Leo held the gun at his hip and opened fire: rat tat tat tat tat tat, a burst of thirty rounds in
under
two seconds. Bishman felt no pain. He couldn't believe his luck: the rounds had all been blanks. Leo was puffed-up, red in the face, with a look of rage, disbelief and frustration, screaming abuse.
Some people are just not
meant
to die!

Bishman, King of Serial Killers, whipped
out
a Colt .45 automatic from the rear of his trouser belt. He knew his gun wasn't loaded with blanks because he had injected the clip himself. Further, he had selected teflon-coated shells that were slippery enough to go straight through even the toughest bulletproof vest. With deadly concentration he took careful aim at Leo's
chest and squeezed the trigger. The gun jammed.
Shit! Fuck!
Bishman went white and felt his asshole pucker. There wasn't another weapon within easy reach.
Some people are just not meant to die!

The King of Snuff movies snarled at the King of Serial Killers, head to head, their eyes locked in open warfare, the Clash of the Titans.

Without warning, a frightening explosion rent the air and the front of the motorcycle museum blew out in a massive whirlwind of dust and a fireball of smoke and flame, practically lifting Leo off his feet. By the time the dust had settled Leo had disappeared; however, about half of the five thousand motorcycles were still roaring away, and the other half were ablaze.

Bishman turned his attention back to the portcullis, reloaded the grenade launcher and fired. When the brick and concrete dust cleared, a gaping
hole emerged. By this time the courtyard was filling with sex slaves. Debbie and Wendy were there, telling the others what to do.

Nine guards were waiting on the drawbridge and they were opening fire with AK-16s and AK-47s.
Fearsome weaponry.
Bishman held the Uzi around the corner and let rip, holding the thing on fully automatic until the clip was spent. He then threw two M26 grenades for good measure. These grenades were used in Vietnam and took out more than their share of Vietcong. They were also used for "fragging" unpopular officers behind the lines. He poked his head around the wall: he'd taken them all out, blind. Good one!

The sex slaves were anxious to rush through the portcullis, but Bishman restrained them. They could hardly hear him over the noise of the motorcycles and the organ that were going wild.
Time to bring out the heavy artillery
! He picked up a Soviet RPG-7 rocket launcher and rushed through the obliterated portcullis and over the drawbridge. He dropped to one knee, put the launcher on his shoulder and fired right down the driveway. He couldn't see the front gates, there were too many swirls of greasy fog, but he knew that they were at the end of the driveway. The rocket we
nt off with a
tremendous Whooooo
sh. They heard a huge explosion a second later. They hoped the gates would be demolished when they got there.
This rocket can penetrate 12.6 inches of armor plating - two wrought-iron gates shouldn't pose a problem,
thought Bishman.

Bishman gave the order for everyone to run towards the gates, keeping off the drive. He told them over and over again to keep off the drive, and most of them did. Bishman scooped up the rest of his weapons.

They arrived at the gates only to find them still there. Shit! However, there was a gaping hole in the driveway some twenty feet before the gates, where the rocket had struck.

Six guards were gathered around the abyss in awe. Their firing was making a hell of a din, taking out a few of the sex slaves in the process, but they deliberately avoided shooting at Bishman
,
a chameleon in his black tracksuit. Bishman took them out with a grenade. They fell in the hole with surprised looks on their faces as though it was a ready-made grave.
That's why they call it the graveyard shift,
thought Bishman.

Bishman fired three grenades at the gates and they still didn't budge. Not an inch.
Solid wrought-iron gates, made to last.
Grenade-proof obviously! Shit!
Bishman fired his last grenade, it bounced back at him and nearly blew him to smithereens - he just had the presence of mind to throw himself to the deck at the last moment. The blast killed two young sex slaves who weren't so fortunate
...
Holy Shommolies!

Just then, little Peter ran over to the guard house and threw a lever. As if by magic the two huge wrought-iron gates were swung open by their powerful motors, pushing bodies and debris out the way. The sex slaves ran like bunnies and Bishman followed, only glancing behind him momentarily: the fog had lifted enough for him to
see the silhouette of the majestic castle with flames licking all around it and just at that instant he saw the driveway explode spectacularly and then collapse, leaving an ugly quarter-mile gash
between the manicured lawns where the driveway had been. Bishman had set and timed some explosives in the armory on Friday night when he and Leo were there.
He timed them to go off at 6
am, Sunday morning. Intuition! He knew the four hundred and forty-yard firing range ran under the driveway.
Perfect timing!
The organ and motorcycles were now in competition with explosives and ammunition rending the air.

Bishman saw and
heard
the humor.
A sight from Hell.
He
legged
it off down the road. Wendy was waiting - possibly a big mistake. They ran hard. They got within a hundred yards of the beach. They lay in the grass, and looked up and over to
reconnoiter
the situation. Some small boats were moored and a couple of drunken fishermen were arguing in one of them.

Bishman had the hots. All the killing had got him excited. He ripped off Wendy's bubble-gum-pink panties. Her pussy looked like an axe wound - it glistened, she was soaking wet, he fingered her like crazy.
Here's to the wound that never heals, the more you stroke it, the better it feels!
thought
Bishman. Wendy came in about three minutes flat. He licked his fingers then turned her over and came in from
behind,
fucking her doggy-fashion, baby seeds punching up inside of her. Wendy started having multiple orgasms that Bishman didn't have time for, so he pulled out. She whispered in his ear, "Bob, I love you, and I
want to thank you." Wendy's eyes were wet, her mascara running.

Bishman replied, "I love you to death." What Wendy didn't notice was the look in his ice-blue eyes.
The look of death
.
Bishman simply couldn't stop himself, even if he'd wanted to. And part of him did. He put his hands around her neck and wrung it like a Boise Idaho farmer strangling a chicken, until she was dead.

He picked himself up and ran the hundred yards over to the boat. He looked
disheveled
...
but harmless.

Harvey had made up his mind that it was his duty to free the State of this human trash. He decided to be the judge, jury and executioner. Human garbage must be cleaned off the face of the earth.
Kill, kill,
kill
, the shithead
!

To Harvey's delight, Bishman carried right on with the story, although they hadn't seen each other for three days. It was as though he'd never been away, the memory was like a film rolling on, Bishman's brain combing out tangles of the past.

As he did, Harvey did some scheming of his own, all the time questioning the state of his own mental health:

"Hey, you guys! I gotta get over to Groton.
Any chance of a ride?"
Bishman knew he was going for a ride in their boat, one way or another. The way depended on them.

"You shittin' me fella. All this fuckin' fog and you wanna fuckin' ride to Groton. I suppose you're f
rom Leo Prendegast's party,
that's where all the noise sounded as though it was coming from, hic. I thought he'd finished with those firework parties of his years ago."

"No, he hasn't, and the reason why I've got to get to Groton is that I've got a couple of cases of Wild Turkey over there in the trunk of my Chevy. Give me a ride, you get one case."

"Now you're talking." The old drunk pulled the starter cord on the
Evinrude
. The little two-stroke burst into life,
but its noise was drowned out by
the
noise of organ music, motorcycle engines and explosives that were vying for
the
airwaves.

As Bishman looked back, all he could see was the eerie silhouette of the mighty castle with flames licking all around, lighting up the black night.

The drunks stopped arguing and they broke open a bottle of whiskey and passed it around.