Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 2

Brody’s head was filled with the fog of satiated bloodlust, but when Dan and Pete burst through the door into his bedroom, he knew there was gonna be trouble.  Their shirts were off and their dicks were out—they were in full snuff mode.  And the only other person in the room besides him was already dead.


They’d turned on him, the motherfuckers.


“You fuckin’ cunts!” he screamed, his anger not entirely covering his sudden fear.  He wasn’t sure he could handle them both.  Dan was larger than he was, and Pete—well, he hadn’t seen Pete in a few weeks, and the boy was swole.


And worse, their huge, hairy scrotes were seething with hot manseed.  Virile as Brody was, he’d emptied his sack inside Tony’s corpse and hadn’t had time to reload yet.  And that was important, because whatever was about to happen, it was obvious that the loser was gonna get raped before—or while—he died.


“You gone off the rails, boy,” Dan drawled, leaning against the wall at the foot of the bed.  “You gone rogue, and I don’t tolerate that.”


“Aw, fuck you,” Brody sneered.  “I’m sick of yer fuckin’ preachin’, you piece a’ shit.  Can’t trust a goddam cop.”


He was deliberately trying to get a rise out of Dan, and Dan wasn’t falling for it.


“Discipline, son,” the Captain continued in his unperturbed tone, “Ya can’t be a good soldier without it—”


“I ain’t no fuckin’ soldier!” Brody yelled, his flushed face betraying his nervousness.  Pete was slowly edging around the bed.  His silent, measured movement was redolent of sexual, self-assured masculinity.  The Pete Brody knew was a boy; the hulking, hardbodied figure that advanced menacingly towards him with a jutting, engorged cock was very obviously a man.


“You keep back, punk,” the redneck snarled.  Pete gave him an icy grin and stepped closer.


“You got my six, Captain?” Pete asked, tilting his head towards Dan but not taking his eyes off Brody.


“Yeah,” Dan responded brusquely.  “He’s all yours.  You c’n take ‘im.”


It was the placid, casual assumption of Brody’s inability to defend himself in Dan’s tone of voice that finally flipped a switch within the savage hick killer.  His balls might not be full, but when push came to shove, he knew he’d have plenty to shove.  And he needed to be the one to decide when to shove it.  He had to gain mastery of the situation.  Now.


The angry red flush dropped from his face and he returned Pete’s grin with one just a malevolent.  Then he crouched, raising his fists.


“Come at me, bro,” he murmured, feeling the first twinge of excitement in his long dangling manmeat.  Beatdown bloodlust was flowing in his veins again, and despite being spent, he was still a powerful and dangerous man.


What happened next happened fast.


Pete lunged forward, over two hundred pounds of buff male muscle flying through the air at the redneck killer.  Brody saw it coming and immediately dived onto the bed, neatly arcing over Tony’s twitching body and executing a damn near perfect tuck-and-roll off the other side of the bed.


Dan’s displeasure was visible on his face, but he didn’t move.  The boy was strong, but he was inexperienced.  He needed to learn how to take down his own fuckmeat; Dan had no intention of stepping in unless it looked like Pete was in danger.


Until later, that is.  He wanted a close-up view of Brody’s death.  Just because it was Pete’s kill didn’t mean that Dan couldn’t have some fun, too.


Pete quickly regained his feet, his face red with embarrassment.  He didn’t look Dan in the face; he already knew he’d fucked up.  But he was smart enough to realize it was because he was over-eager; he took a couple of deep breaths and calmed his raging sexual impulse to kill.


“C’mon, ya little punk,” Brody sneered, “That the best yuh can do?”


It wasn’t, and Pete was about to prove it.  He had the advantage not only of his private workout lessons but of police academy training as well.  He recognized that Brody’s sidelong glances were an indication that he was judging his distance from the door and was about to bolt.


Without signaling his motion, Pete suddenly dived onto the bed exactly as Brody had done—only he had already marked the position of both the door and his quarry.  He rolled and landed perfectly on his feet, his Wolverine boots thumping loudly on the thin trailer flooring between Brody and the bedroom door.  The trailer trash killer backed away.  With his escape cut off, his eyes darted about the room, desperately seeking anything he could use to his advantage.


While his focus was divided, Pete barreled at him again.  This time, Brody wasn’t able to react fast enough; the impact was loud, a rough smacking sound of flesh striking flesh.  Both men fell to the floor and Pete began punching Brody, brutally hard blows raining on the older man’s chest and abdomen.


For most men, gutpunching Brody would have been like beating a brick wall; the psycho’s flat ripped abs were impervious to all but the most violent impacts.  Pete had learned a lot in his past few weeks of intensive training, though—things like to how to deliver power where he really needed it.  His arm moved in a blur as he assaulted Brody’s solar plexus with a concentrated attacked.


Dan was much more impressed with Pete now; the kid had been overexcited at first, but now he’d gained some self-control and was utilizing his hulking male form as an efficient killing machine.  Brody was too busy warding off Pete’s blows to land too many punches of his own—there was no need to Dan to step in.  He could sit back and watch the kill.


“That’s it,” he said encouragingly, “You got the fucker.  Beat the shit outta him, wear ‘im down.  He’s gonna fight ya when ya try to stick yer dick up his ass, so ya gotta beat ‘im into submission now.”


“Ya hear that?” Pete sneered as he slammed his fist into Brody’s sternum like a demolition ball, “He sez you don’t want my cock.  Is that right, bro?  Ya don’t wanna get ridden like a bitch in heat, huh, motherfucker?”


Brody was in too much pain to answer; he was stunned—literally—by how strong the deputy had become.  He was also getting scared.  The kid was getting the better of him, and the Captain hadn’t even joined in yet.


Brody suddenly realized that there was a distinct possibility that he was gonna die tonight, and it was gonna be an ugly, squalid, and brutal death.  It spurred something within him; he began swinging his fists like a drunken prizefighter—no aim, but plenty of strength and fury.  He got lucky.  One of his wild punches connected.  Pete’s head rocked back; the deputy was momentarily stunned.  As a shiner started to darken his left eye, Brody squirmed out of his grasp and dived for the bedroom window.


Dan was there first.  “No ya don’t,” he said calmly, sticking out a booted foot and causing Brody to stumble headfirst into the wall.  By the time he recovered himself, Pete had too, and was closing in again.  Brody was becoming unnerved by the deputy’s steady attack; the black eye had done nothing to hinder the buff young man.  In fact, it gave his appearance a slight air of menace that it had previously lacked, somehow adding to Brody’s growing sense of fear.


Aching and bruised, he felt himself being literally backed into a corner.  All the violence and bitterness of his ignorant, uneducated rage began to seethe within his dark, twisted soul.


“So he wants me dead an’ yer gonna be the little bitch to do it, huh?” he spat at Pete.  “What, the jealous faggot to scared to take me on himself?  How many times he have ta dick ya down, boy, ‘fore you said you’d do it?”


“Only one gettin’ dicked down here is you, asswipe,” Pete said evenly, reaching down and brandishing his massive throbbing cock while smirking and staring Brody straight in the eyes.  The redneck killer recoiled momentarily—he wasn’t used to this level of self-confidence from the kid; something clearly had changed—but was soon buoyed back up by his anger.


“You goddam cocksucker,” Brody growled, “Ain’t no way a piece a’ shit fag like you’s gonna take me down.  All yer gonna do, boy, is take a nice long dirt nap.”


“Goddam, you talk a lot,” Pete said dismissively.


By now, Brody had backed into the angle of the wall by the bed’s headboard.  He had no place else to go.  Fight or flight had boiled down to this moment—and it would have to be fight.


The two hairy, hardbodied men stood just beyond arm’s reach, both panting and sweaty, staring at each other.  Pete was wearing only his jeans and boots; Brody even less—only his Red Wing boots.  And by now, the rampant flow of adrenaline and testosterone had given them both huge erections.  Again, the air in the room was heady and crackling with an almost electric discharge.


It was about to go down.


Pete closed in for the kill, his focus narrowing in on his muscular opponent’s vulnerable spot.  As an experienced killer, Brody knew what that intense, scrutinizing look meant, but even so, he was still taken by surprise when Pete darted forward and began pummeling the buff redneck’s chest.  As the deputy’s fists made repeated violent contact, the sound of him beating against Brody’s pecs was muffled by the older man’s chest fur; the loudest sound was the jingling of Brody’s gold necklace as it danced under the impacts.


The trailer-trash sadist couldn’t believe his luck.  He swung low, his huge meaty fist slamming brutally into Pete’s unprotected—but still rock-hard—belly.  And that was when Pete had him.  By lowering his arms, Brody had left his upper body exposed; before he could so much as inhale, the deputy had locked his fingers around his throat and was squeezing with the inexorable relentlessness of a bear trap.


Suddenly, Brody couldn’t breathe.  At all.  And he had virtually no reserves of oxygen in his lungs.


The violence of Brody’s prior actions had been motivated by rage, hate and fear.  Now, it was motivated by panic.  He suddenly found himself clawing frenetically at Pete’s hands, staring straight into the murderous deputy’s scruffy, handsome face.  There was no sign of recognition in the younger man’s face—Brody had become a thing, something to be used and disposed of.


It wasn’t working.  He couldn’t move Pete’s hands, couldn’t break the young killer’s iron grip on his windpipe.  The buff redneck changed tactics; snatching at Pete’s dark, curly hair, he managed to grab a handful, which he used as leverage to try to punch the dude in the face.


Pete saw it coming and tried to shift away without losing his grip.  As Dan watched, the two hardbodied shirtless men, locked in a tight and desperate embrace, suddenly lurched sideways and fell onto the bed.  Grunting and sweating, they remained intertwined in a life-and-death struggle, but the cop could see that Pete’s hard dick was already oozing in anticipation.


The problem was, with his hands locked around Brody’s throat, Pete couldn’t get his dick up the fucker’s ass.  The struggle was too intense for him to be able to let up long enough to aim his long thick meat at Brody’s tight virgin fuckhole.  And while it would have been simple enough to waste the trailer trash first and then fuck his dead body, that wasn’t what Dan wanted.


He wanted Pete to know the sexual thrill of true power—he wanted Pete to know what it felt like to have another man die on his dick.


The two hardbodied dudes continued to grunt and thrash on the bed, their flat furry bellies and hard throbbing cocks slapping together heedlessly in the struggle for control.  Dan circled the bed, looking for an opening.  Pete was establishing dominance; if he needed help aiming, Dan was willing to be the targeting assistant.


As Brody kicked and flailed, his face began to swell and turn purple.  He felt the skin on his face grow tighter as the relentless pounding inside his skull grew to excruciating levels.  The was a fire in his chest, and it felt like there was another one in his dick.  The various bruises and contusions from the beating Pete had inflicted on him had faded to nothing more than love taps as his body began to suffer the effects of extended oxygen deprivation.


“Yer doin’ real good, Pete,” Dan said approvingly, “But it looks like ya need a hand showin’ that faggot fucker his place.”


“Goddam,” Pete grunted as he continued to squeeze Brody’s throat, “He’s puttin’ up a helluva fight; not like his life’s worth anything anyway.  I can’t let go long enough to shove it in.”


“Tell ya what—I’ll be yer wingman.  Give ‘im hell quick and hard and I’ll make sure you’re right on target.”


“Fuck yeah!  I mean, yessir,” Pete responded and let go with his right hand, keeping the left clenched around the redneck’s throat.  Brody took advantage of the slight relaxation to inhale—a weak, gurgling action that brought a small but helpful amount of oxygen into his lungs.  The black explosions that had burst in front of his bulging eyes began to fade, just in time for him to see Pete’s upraised fist.  Then it moved so fast he never saw it again—but he damn sure felt it.


Pete beat the fuck out of Brody, his fist rising and falling like a jackhammer onto the older man’s face.  Brody brought up both arms, totally focused on the assault on his face.


And that was when Dan, standing by the side of the bed, bent down and reached between the two men.  Grabbing the deputy’s enormous pulsating rod, he pressed the massive oozing tip up against Brody’s pulsing pink fuckhole.  “Yer in, dude,” he called out, “Nail the motherfucker!”


Pete didn’t need to be told twice. Thrusting forward with as much force as he could generate, he simultaneously resumed his complete stranglehold on the cunt’s windpipe.  Brody wasn’t able to scream but the look of horror and agony on his face showed that he could feel every thick throbbing, vein-wreathed inch of the younger man’s hog as it reamed its way deep into his guts.


For the first time in his miserable life, the buff country sadist was feeling the literal pain of betrayal.  His own complicity in his downfall wasn’t something he’d have recognized in the best of circumstances; as it was, with Pete’s huge string hands slowly crushing his trachea, Brody could only feel rage, fear and despair.


And pain.  Pain more than anything, pain in his head, his chest, his ass—and his cock.  It was so hard it fuckin’ hurt.  He could feel his own thick meat slapping against the wiry fur that covered Pete’s ripped abs, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to speculate on it now.  He wasn’t gonna die like this.


Pete had other ideas.  In fact, he was having an epiphany, a sudden onrush of feelings he’d never known to exist.  The sheer sense of power, of control and dominance that accompanied fucking and killing another man was so overwhelming that the hardbodied deputy found himself wanting to beat the faggot fuckmeat into a pulp.  He wanted to show Brody what a true sack of shit he was, wanted to make the choking redneck feel his rage and his power.  Pete was on the verge of losing control.


But he didn’t—that was what separated him from Brody.  He could control himself.  As good as it felt, he could maintain enough discipline to see the kill through to the end.  And having conquered his momentary weakness, the young stud refocused his mind on snuffing Brody—and without missing a beat, continued to slam eight and a half inches of glistening, throbbing manmeat into the fucker’s rectum.


Dan had watched it all carefully; this was what he’d been looking for.  This was the acid test—if Pete could master and put down the renegade sadist without giving into the bloodlust that Brody himself had been unable to handle, he’d be exactly what Dan had been looking for in terms of building up an elite law enforcement squad.


The Captain was leaning back against the wall, stroking his huge erection as he watched the fatal interplay of the two writhing, sweaty men.  The loud slapping sounds of two hard sweaty male bodies in contact was increased from another source—Tony’s corpse, still randomly twitching every ten seconds or so, kept rolling in towards the center of Brody’s cheap sagging mattress as if its only regret in being dead was that it couldn’t join the fun.  Dan took it all in, noting Pete’s irregular breathing as his lust amped up, and relaxing as he noticed the boy maintaining discipline, continuing to pump the fag’s ass while keeping up the intense pressure required for a slow manual strangulation.


The deputy was starting to get into the flow of the kill.  “That’s it, ya motherfuckin’ fag,” he grinned, realizing that the harder he squeezed Brody’s windpipe, the tighter the redneck’s ass got.  “Always knew you were the type to take up the ass.”  Digging the tread of his Wolverine workboots into the bedding to increase his traction, Pete glanced up at Dan.  “Goddam, Cap,” he moaned, “I had no fuckin’ idea it’d feel so good.  Jesus, the way his homo fuckhole is workin’ my hog—”


His words broke off as Brody, finding new reserves of strength by tapping the deep well of terror inside, began beating at his chest and face.  By now, the buff older man had been without oxygen long enough that he was on the verge of brain damage.  He could no longer see or hear very well, a dark cacophony of pounding and grunting filling his ears as his eyes bulged, the white speckled with pinpoint hemorrhages.


He’d long since stopped trying to curse Pete—if he could speak, he’d be begging now.  But even without his collapsed esophagus, his mouth was wrong; it wouldn’t work.  He couldn’t see the way his own tongue was protruding, thick and purple, from between his swollen blue lips.  He could feel the white foamy drool that leaked out past the tongue, but it was a minor sensation lost in a tempest of agony.


His frantic hands scrambled at Pete’s rock-hard body with no target; the dying man was striking at any target he could reach.  One target he could reach was Pete’s left nipple.  With no sexual intent in mind, Brody grabbed at the large hard nub of flesh, clawing at it and wringing it.


“SONOVABITCH!!” the deputy yelled—but he maintained his control, and his stranglehold.


There was the heavy tread of roper boots on the floor and then Dan was right beside him, repeatedly, swinging his big fist right into Brody’s face, using the blows to punctuate his words.


“Lie [WHAM] still [WHAM] and take [WHAM] what’s comin’ to ya [WHAM WHAM], you worthless [WHAM] trailer trash [WHAM] piece a’ shit! [WHAM]”


Each impact of Dan’s fist into Brody’s face brought the smacking sound of flesh on flesh, the squelching or snapping sounds of bodily injury and a visceral grunt of pleasure from Pete as the redneck’s sphincter clenched involuntarily with each blow.  Brody’s ass responded to the beating by lovingly gripping Pete’s massive shaft in a velvety embrace.


“Fuck yeah, man,” Pete muttered, grinning at Dan, “Keep that shit up.  Motherfuckin’ faggot likes it!”


“They always do,” Dan said, his furry torso gleaming with sweat as he pounded Brody’s black, swollen face.  “Worthless scum kept fuckin’ other fags till he could find someone to treat ‘im like he deserves.”


“Har!” Pete brayed raucously, his voice somehow amplified in the close, testosterone-laden atmosphere of the small, hot bedroom.  “Ya hear that, cunt?  You lookin’ to get what ya need?  I got it, asswipe.  You need pain, fucker.  You need to be loaded with my potent seed.  You need to die like the outta-control homo you are.  Ready for it?  Ya ready to die like a little fuckin’ bitch?”


Buff, muscular Brody had never been called a little bitch in his life, but his life was almost over—and despite his physique, he really was dying like a bitch, being beaten and raped as his life was slowly and painfully throttled out.  He was in no position to resent Pete’s words, though.


For one thing, he couldn’t hear them.  The incessant drumming of his runaway pulse inside his skill was so loud and intense, it drowned out most other sounds.


And for another thing, Brody’s brain was damaged and dying off.  The struggling redneck still had some slight lucidity and sense of self remaining, but it was fading fast—and what was remaining was almost overwhelmed by the physical agony of rape and death.  Even as his nervous system began to fail, Brody could still feel every agonizing thrust of Pete’s enormous member deep into his intestines, ripping his rectal lining and pulverizing his prostate.


Some of the boys Brody had raped and snuffed passed through his mind.  He wondered if they’d suffered the same nightmarish pain he was enduring, but it was a passing thought, brushed aside by the terror of his own impending death.  But he did remember how they’d all blown huge deathloads—and he knew his own dick was still tremblingly erect.


They were fucking him, they were killing him—and he was gonna cum.  He couldn’t stop it.  He was gonna reward his killers by shooting a massive wad, and there wasn’t a goddam thing he could do about it.


The last coherent piece of his mind that was left decided it was gonna try to do something.


Dan, an experienced killer, recognized the signs.  “Hold on tight, bro, the fucker’s gonna start thrashin’.  The meat kicks hardest right before it dies, so buckle down and ride it out.”


With his cock planted firmly in Brody’s colon and his hands not just locked around the musclemeat’s throat but sunk into it, Pete was pretty well secure, but he appreciated the heads-up—especially given that, once Brody did begin to flail, it with all the violence that his panicked strength could exert.  His muscled torso arced up as if trying to throw Pete off, pressing his rigid cock firmly between their hard flat bellies like a hot iron bar.  As the redneck’s hands grasped at the deputy’s shoulders in desperation, his strong, thick legs kicked frantically, the heels of his Red Wing boots digging furrows on the surface of the old and sagging mattress.


“Yeah, that’s it,” Pete grunted, feeling Brody’s trachea deform under the inexorable pressure of his crushing grip, “Die, you motherfucker!”  He rode the dying stud like a bucking bronco, clinging tightly as Brody’s brain shut down and his convulsions intensified.  The hick sadist wasn’t dead yet, but he was past the point of recovery.  He was no longer fighting to free himself; his physical reactions were the involuntary result of impending death.


His legs flailed so violently, his right boot came off.  He kicked it into the corner of the room, unaware he’d lost it.  He was past caring about that kinda thing now.


His vision had narrowed to a tiny tunnel at the far end of which was Pete’s handsome, scruffy face, filled with rage, lust and contempt.  Then something new appeared, something Brody couldn’t recognize as first.  Had he still retained sensation in his black, grotesque face, he might have realized that it was Dan’s dick as the cop slapped it against the dying man’s lips and tongue.


And then Brody saw nothing more.  His last few moments on earth were full of excruciating pain—and unremitting darkness.


The sounds of sex and death filled the room, the scent of three physically intimate men—and one corpse—giving an unmistakable tinge to the atmosphere.  Everything seemed to combine to spur the hardbodied young deputy to greater sexual intensity, but what really pushed him over the edge was feeling the cartilage of Brody’s esophagus cracking and crunching in his hands.  It caved under his fingers like plastic foam, collapsing into a mass of bloody gristle.


The constriction of his windpipe forced Brody’s tongue out his mouth to a gruesome extent; the dying killer making a thick gagging noise as his taut hard body suddenly snapped into rigid stiffness in mortal agony.  Every powerful muscle Brody clenched tightly, including his sphincter, which closed around the root of Pete’s tackle like a cockring and triggered an explosive orgasm.


“FUUUCK!  FUCK!  FUCK!!!!” Pete cried out as he frantically clutched at the gagging faggot, spewing his seething load into Brody’s raw, torn rectum, sending a steady stream of semen deep inside the fucker’s intestines.


“Aw, fuck yeah!!” Dan cried out, spraying a thick jet of hot cum directly into the redneck’s blind, bulging eyes.  The stinging sensation, so minor compared to his other sufferings, somehow sent him over the edge.  With one final titanic jerk, Brody blew his death wad.


It was the last thing he felt as he died, and it felt like his entire existence was being torn out of him through his dick.  And then there was nothing left of the trailer trash homo killer but a pile of twitching musclemeat.


For a moment, the room was silent, punctuated only by the ragged gasping of two physically spent men.  Then Dan spoke.


“Good goin’, son.  I’m proud of ya.”


For a moment, it was as if Pete hadn’t heard him.  His eyes were wide, his dick still up in the corpse’s ass.  His firm, muscular body was still trembling.  “I—I had—” he gasped hesitantly, not speaking directly to the Captain, “I had no idea it’d be like that…holy fuck, man…”


The deputy turned and looked his superior straight in the eyes.  “I wanna do that again.”


Dan smirked.  “Stick with me, son, and I’ll make damn sure ya get the chance.  Now pull yer cock outta the meat and c’mon, we gotta roll—but we gotta clean this mess up firsttunred to.”


Dan shoved his dripping rod back into his jeans and headed out of the bedroom as Pete extracted his shaft from the dead body and picked up one of Brody’s wadded t-shirts from the floor to wipe off his dick.  He was just putting his own shirt back on as Dan re-entered, carrying a red plastic five-gallon gas can, full and sloshing.


“Here,” he said, tossing it on the bed, “Douse the room with this, then the living room.  I’m gonna get the rest of the place.”


Three minutes later, they met at the front door amid a reek of gasoline.  Dan had made a wick of a twisted dish towel soaked in gas.  He’d placed one end of it on one of the over burners turned to medium-high–just enough for ignition–and the other in a puddle of fuel on the counter; once that went, there was enough gas splashed about to ensure an inferno.


“Hang on a sec,” Pete said suddenly and dashed back to the bedroom.


“Get yer ass back here, deputy!” Dan roared, “This place is gonna go up like the Hindenburg in a moment!”


Pete reappeared immediately.  From one hand dangled Brody’s gold chain.


“I wanted a memento,” the deputy said sheepishly, “And it ain’t like he had any use for it anymore.”


Dan grinned.  “C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here.  It’s gettin’ chilly outside and I left my shirt in the truck.”


They made sure the door latched securely behind them.  Five minutes after they left, flames could be seen through the trailer’s windows.  But nobody was there to see them, and the fire raged unchecked.



Two days later—both Dan and Pete had had the intervening day off, quite by coincidence—Pete came into Dan’s off after returning from the courthouse on routine matters.  Dan tossed aside a file he’d been perusing.


“The coroner’s report,” the Captain said, nodding at it.  “Fire department was never called; it had burned to ash and gone out by the time it was discovered.  I told the doc it didn’t look suspicious, so he wrote it up as the remains of two males found in bed together, death by misadventure.  Didn’t even do an autopsy.”


“Cool,” Pete said expectantly.  He could tell by Dan’s manner that the Captain had more to say.


“Pete,” the older man began, “Ya done good.  I can trust you.  So what I’m gonna tell ya now, ya gotta keep to yerself, see?”


Pete nodded.  He trusted the Cap, too—and admired him.  He’d do whatever the Captain wanted.


“I heard that a couple of fraternities at the state college in Jacksboro are gonna be havin’ some kinda event in the woods just north of town.  Paintball war, laser tag, some kinda fake huntin’ thing.  Boy, these are gonna be nigger fraternities, you get me?”


Pete got him.


“We can’t have this kinda shit goin’ on here,” Dan went on.  “Once a buncha coons overrun the town, crime is gonna spiral outta control.  I aim to stop it before it starts.  If a passel of jungle bunnies from outta town wanna hunt, I say we give ‘em a hunt—a monkey hunt.”


“How many you expectin’, Cap?” Pete asked.


“Could be twenty to thirty.”


Pete whistled.  “You got anyone else you trust enough to help?  That’s gonna be too many for just the two of us.”


The Captain grinned, his icy eye twinkling with anticipation.  “Yeah, I got someone in mind.  Gotta a cousin up north who runs with a pretty strong crowd.  They’ve done a good job puttin’ down the nigger troublemakers in their neighborhood, or so I hear.  I’ve asked him to come down with some of his buds.  They should be here by Thursday.”


“Nice,” Pete grinned.


Dan eyed his deputy carefully.  “Sure yer up for it, boy?


Pete responded by smirking and reaching down to shift his stiffening cock.  “Y’know, Cap, I didn’t get out near as much as I’d wanted to last huntin’ season.  I gotta warn ya, with my lack of practice, some of these might not be whatcha’d call…clean kills.”


Satisfied that his trust in his deputy was well placed, Dan returned the evil grin.  “Well it ain’t like the fuckin’ coons deserve an easy death.  They gotta learn to stay outta our town the hard way.  Wanna go down to the armory and pick out some weapons for our guests?”


Pete was on his feet immediately, his speed the result of his enthusiasm.


“Oh, deputy,” Dan stopped him just as he got to the door.  “No handguns.  That’s too easy.  Use your imagination with the weapons, but the only guns I want are shotguns.  Any nigger that gets uppity is gonna have its guts splattered over three acres.”


Pete smiled happily and left to complete his mission.  Dan leaned back in his chair and planned tactics.  He was gonna need a good map of the area; the library might have some of the old topographical surveys done back in the sixties…


5 thoughts on “Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 2

  1. JWC

    Holy fuck, but that was hot. I’m still dripping fucksauce from that cum. Brody has offered a lot of entertainment over the years, but he fell to the better man. Pete is fuckin’ amazing. I have enjoyed the progression of his corruption. Slitting throats, jerking off to kills, and now, finally, fucking his very own deathpig. I have wanted to read about a father-son snuff team for awhile, and Pete’s mentorship with Dan comes pretty close. To top off a thrilling read, we have the promise of Dan and Pete hooking up with Jack’s crew to waste who knows how many niggers. I can’t wait. Literally, I mean my dick is leaking just thinking about these two narratives coming together. Cops, skinheads, Doc Martins, shotguns, brass knuckles, bats, and chains: toxic masculinity at its most fuckin’ intoxicating.

    Liked by 3 people

  2. I agree completely with JWC. Tho I think of “progression of his corruption” as Pete’s Progression to GREATNESS. Haha, tomato/tomahto. Both viewpoints are HOT, and M3M has again put up a masterpiece. So much going on here – but suffice to say Pete is HOOKED on killing now and it will be awesome to have a front row seat to his continued progression, FUCK YEAH!

    And thanks M3M for this as always!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. jonnyrebel

    Its too bad Brody couldn’t be around for the upcoming monkey hunt. have a feeling he woulda been great at wasting yard apes. hope jack and the boys aren’t too wild for dan and pete, hate to see another favorite character get wasted for not respectin’ authority.

    Liked by 2 people

  4. JScar

    Man, can’t wait for the nigger hunt! Fuckin’ coons gonna died hard! Hope there’s some white nigger lovers, though, so Pete and Dan can empty their fuck sauce into some convulsing shit chutes.

    Liked by 2 people

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