Adam stared blankly at Joe.  The name meant nothing to him, but the words…

…and then Joe stepped forward into the light, and recognition hit Adam light a bolt of lightning.  He knew exactly who was facing him, even if the heavily muscled stud didn’t know him—he knew him from years ago, back when he first discovered his need for necro sex.

This was him.  This was that guy.  The one whose kills he’d fucked before learning the erotic power of snuffing his own victims. 

“Dude,” he whispered, “You—I…”

“You owe me, fucker,” Joe said.  He’d been aware that someone had trailed a few of his kills, but had never seen who it was, or even cared.  He didn’t recognize Adam now—and it wouldn’t have mattered if he had.  What mattered was sinking his huge aching tool in some fagmeat and letting its death milk out his seed.

For his part, Adam fully understood the danger he was in.  He’d seen what Joe was capable of.  Worse, he’d been fighting and struggling with the Asian cunt.  He was strong and fit, but he’d been exerting himself.  Joe was bigger and strong—and fresh.  Adam needed to distract him, maybe win him over.  They’d make a great team…

“He,” he blurted, “Him.”  He pointed to the corpse on the floor, still shuddering and twitching.  “Take him.  He’s all yours.”

Joe grinned icily as he slid off his jacket and tossed it onto a chair in the corner.  Placing one hand on the back of the chair to steady himself, he kicked off his Carolina loggers while continuing to grin and shake his head slowly and steadily.

“Unh-uh,” he said as he unfastened his jeans and let them fall to the ground.  “You don’t get it, asswipe.  I don’t fuck dead meat.  It’s gotta die on my cock to get me off.  And since that faghole is already dead, looks like you just nominated yourself for the job.”

Adam had remembered how freakishly massive Joe’s dick was, but it had been a while.  He gaped at it, appalled, before replying.   “No way, man.  I ain’t no fag.  Ain’t no one stickin’ anything up my ass, even you!’

Joe’s grin became even more shark-like.  “Oh yeah?  Wanna bet, motherfucker?”

“Dude, don’t do this,” Adam responded, trying not to sound desperate, “Don’t make me fuck you up.  We need to team up.  We’d be awesome together.”

Joe sneered.  “Bitch, I took a new kid out on my last job.  Stupid asshole triggered a tripwire and got a bullet in the leg.  Barely more than a flesh wound but the motherfucker was carryin’ on like he was dyin’.  Too many enemy troops around for him to be makin’ that much noise—so I cut his throat.  He was nice and quiet after that.  Plus, I didn’t have to share the bonus with him.”

The powerful man stepped forward, his monstruous rod jutting out in front of him like a jouster’s lance.  “I work alone.  Tonight, I’m leavin’ here alone.  And you?  Well, you’ll probably end up shoved into the same morgue van as that faggot on the floor.”

Adam came out of his trance at Joe’s words.  There was still a disorienting sense of disbelief—he’d often imagined himself meeting his mentor, but never in such antagonistic circumstances—but it was crystal-clear to him that he was going to have to strongarm his way out of a potentially fatal situation. 

 He crouched into a fighting stance nearly identical to the one Derek had been in; it was probably a good thing that the similarity was lost on him.  Not that Adam lacked confidence in himself, of course, but he knew the odds were stacked slightly against him.  He refused to acknowledge that they were more than slight, though. 

“We ain’t gotta do this, dude,” he said, flushing in anger at the faint pleading tone that had entered his voice in spite of himself, “But if you wanna take me on, yer gonna find I ain’t goin’ down easy.  I ain’t no faggot, man; I can take care of myself.

“Good,” Joe replied in an almost cheerful tone, “The best kinda hole to fuck is one that’s been well-tenderized.  Remember how much you deserve it, cunt, when I destroy you.”  Then he waded in, fists swinging.

At first, it was almost even—two heavily-muscled studs, their powerful nude bodies slick and glistening with sweat, beating each other down.  But while Adam’s blows, strong as they were, seemed to have little to no impact on Joe’s rock-hard abs and mighty torso, the opposite was not true.  Adam still hadn’t fully recovered from his run-in with Derek, and whenever Joe managed to slam his ramrod fist into the same spot the dead fag had hit, Adam could feel it.

Derek had landed a few relatively ineffectual punches on Adam’s belly; somehow, Joe could tell that was the younger killer’s weak spot and began to pummel it mercilessly.  Attacking that spot hadn’t done the dead cocksucker much good, but Joe was much more powerful than it had ever been.  Adam could feel the pain increasing, along with his weakness.

He did his best to dodge the brutal alpha’s relentless hammering, and he succeeded—but not for long.  Becoming enraged at his fucktoy’s useless resistance, Joe drew his right arm back, his deltoid and bicep swelling with formidable power that Adam was unable to parry or avoid.  He had just enough time to see the blow coming when it struck him in his hard, firm belly with enough force to knock him back two feet.

“HOOOGHH!!” the copper-haired pervert cried involuntarily as every last fraction of air was violently ejected from his lungs.  As bad as the pain was, the truly terrifying sensation was that his diaphragm had been paralyzed by the impact.  It was like being in a vacuum; he simply couldn’t inhale.  At all.

He staggered forward, his hand clutching his bruised abdomen, his face a mask of shock and pain.  He saw Joe’s arm drawing back yet again, but this time the unlucky fagkiller wasn’t able to even give the pretense of some kind of defense.  He didn’t even flinch as Joe’s fist plowed into his jaw like an industrial piston.  The uppercut was potent enough to flip Adam up and back; it was as if he somehow became horizontal in mid-air, then dropped three feet straight down onto the floor on his back.  The tiny amount of air his lungs had managed to regain was violently expelled yet again.

For a few seconds, everything was dim and gray inside the sadist’s head.  As he tried desperately to breathe, he raised his head, weak and wobbly.  Through eyes blurred by tears, he could see Joe pacing the room like a caged tiger, shaking out his fist and flexing the fingers.  Then the hard-bodied stud noticed that his prey was moving again.  He turned and approached the gasping younger man.  

“I oughtta just beat ya to death right here and now, ya little shit—but that’s too easy for you.  I’m still gonna stomp yer worthless ass flat.”  He raised his huge, socked foot, then paused and lowered it.

“Naw—gonna put my boots back on for this, bitch.  I can do a fuckload more damage with ’em on.”

As Adam struggled to draw oxygen back into his lungs, he saw Joe, who was facing away from him, bending over to retrieve his loggers.  The alpha’s ass radiated the man’s power on its own.  The dimples that formed on the thick glutes as they flexed only emphasized the sculpted shape and the hard, chiseled firmness of Joe’s ass muscles.

When Joe turned back, the loosely-laces loggers back on his feet, his jutting rod was oozing precum that dripped onto the toes of the boots.  Joe glanced down at the spectacle, then grinned at Adam. 

“Got steel toes in these,” he chuckled malignantly, “This is gonna hurt like all fuck, you piece a’ shit.  But you deserve it.  Remember that, faggot—you deserve it.”

“I…I…ai-ain’t no…fa-fa-faggot…” Adam managed to grunt.

“Shaddup, cocksucker,” Joe sneered.  His foot lashed out, the boot catching Adam squarely in the flank.  There was the loud wet snap of a rib shattering and the agonized bleat of airless fuckmeat unable to scream its agony.

“Aw fuck yeah, this is what I been needin’!” Joe exulted, “C’mon, motherfucker, let’s get it on!”

Adam was literally stunned, not just by the pain but also by the speed with which the situation had changed.  Minutes ago, he’d been the alpha, so utterly in control that he’d slaughtered a faggot whore with ease.  Now, He was in danger of being snuffed like a pansy bitch himself.

No.  Fuck no.  This wasn’t gonna happen; he wasn’t gonna allow it.

As Joe approached, Adam sprung quickly to his feet.  The effort caused him phenomenal pain, but he knew it was necessary.  He’d admired the older man at one point, but he wasn’t gonna be his fuckhole.

“I ain’t yer rentboy, motherfucker,” he snarled, “This is gonna be harder than ya think.”

“What, yer dick?” Joe sneered, “Damn right—it’s gonna be a lot harder when I jam my thick tool up your homo asshole, cunt.”

“The fuck you are,” Adam barked back.  He flexed his arm in front of Joe.  “See this shit?  See this power?  You ain’t gonna make me do a damn thing I don’t wanna.”

Joe smirked at Adam’s pumped bicep.  “Think that’s swole, asswipe?  Shit—look at this.”  He flexed as well; his bicep was easily half as large again as Adam’s.  “That’s real power faggot—you wanna taste of it?  Here.  Enjoy it!”

His arm flashed out.  Adam knew it was coming; his reflexes weren’t quite fast enough to avoid the blow, especially with his injury, but he managed to shift enough that it struck his shoulder, doing relatively little damage.

And then it was on.  Adam swung, his fist impacting Joe’s hard abs.  There was no visible mark, but Joe felt it.  The asshole was strong, no doubt about that.  Joe was gonna have to beat the meat into submission—and the thought angered him.

Fuckmeat should know its proper place.  The cunt was gonna suffer for this.

Joe went ballistic, his heavily muscled arms moving in a rapid blur.  Adam responded in kind, doing his utmost to parry the brutal, remorseless onslaught.  But the younger man seemed to be always just a little too slow; he managed to avoid many of he impacts, but enough hit home for the mounting damage to have an effect.

The air was thick with mansweat and testosterone as the hulking, hard-bodied males slugged it out in the dim light.  The only sounds in the room were the meaty reverberation of flesh striking flesh and the masculine grunting forced from the combatants by sheer physical effort.  After a few minutes, though a new sound crept into the mix—it was a low, ragged moan, the first indication of Adam’s weakening.

Joe knew what it meant.  His shark-like smile broadened as he plowed onwards, fists flying, his eyes glittering with homicidal lust.  “Yeah!  Take it, faggot!  Take whatcha got comin’ to ya, you cocksuckin’ homo!”

Adam heard the words and resented the fuck out of them, but he didn’t have the time or extra reserve of air to dispute them.  He was fighting for mastery of the situation, if not for his very life—and he was losing.  It was slow and gradual, but he could feel it.  And when one of the older man’s blows hit him on the base of his sternum, he knew beyond any doubt that the balance had definitely tipped away from his favor.

He was physically knocked backwards off his feet.  He heard a high squeal but had no idea that he was the one emitting it.  And when he hit the floor, hard, on his back, it ceased altogether.  But much to his surprise, he was suddenly granted a respite.

It certainly wasn’t mercy on Joe’s part that the brutal alpha paused for a moment.  And although the muscle-bound sadist enjoyed toying with his prey, it wasn’t all for that reason only.  He’d just engaged in a brutal slugfest with someone who almost his equal—and if Adam hadn’t been quite Joe’s equal, he’d been strong enough to at least slow the hulking sadist up.  In short, Joe needed a break.

He left the room, his powerful body briefly silhouetted in the doorway as he strode into the kitchen and opened up the fridge.  Adam heard the sound and realized this was probably the only chance he’d get.  He needed to leave, to hide, to do something.  He needed to get out of the room—but he’d been so badly beaten, he wasn’t able to stand.  It didn’t matter.  He’d get out by whatever means he could, even if it meant he had to crawl.

It did.  He rolled over, slowly and painfully, and began creeping for a door, any door.  Not the door through which Joe had exited, but any other door.  It was incredibly painful, especially given how his broken rib was digging into his innards, but he was desperate.

That was when Joe re-entered the room.  He’d ransacked the dead fuck’s fridge, looking for a beer.  All the cunt had had was domestic horsepiss, but it was better than nothing.  The brutal killer slammed the entire can at once, then, somewhat refreshed, turned back to his fucktoy.

Adam reached the doorway simultaneously with Joe’s reentry.  His faint moan of despair at discovering that it was the bathroom—and hence a dead end—was muffled by the heavy thudding of Joe’s boots on the carpet.  Adam couldn’t help but hear that.  He knew he was fucked.

He just didn’t know how fucked.

“Where ya think you’re goin’?” came Joe’s harsh, jeering voice from behind him.  “Fun hasn’t even started yet, motherfucker.  And its rude to leave a party without tellin’ the host—where’s yer goddam etiquette?”

And before Adam could react, Joe’s boots began hailing down on him, stomping him viciously.  Again, Adam squealed like a little girl, his mind spinning uncomprehendingly.  Then something happened that Adam had no difficulty comprehending at all.  Joe slammed his logging boot down onto Adam’s right arm with such force that the forearm snapped.

It wasn’t instantaneous.  Adam felt the first blast of pain as his ulna was ground to pieces under the heavy heel of Joe’s boot, then the second as the brutal sadist increased the pressure and shattered the radii to shards.

“Oh God oh shit oh fuck!!!” the perverted necro killer screamed, spinning over onto his back on the tile floor and holding his mangled arm up, watching his hand dangle helplessly.  Through the searing agony, he could hear Joe’s malignant chuckle.

“Goddam, this is fuckin’ hot.  The way you bleat in pain is turnin’ me on, scumfuck.  I think it’s time you sucked my dick.”

By this time, Adam knew what would happen if he refused, but his psyche was so fucked up that he couldn’t accept his own homosexuality.  It had been so severe that he’d killed his sexual partners before fucking them so he didn’t have to think of himself as gay; he simply wasn’t mentally capable of abandoning that viewpoint now, no matter the ultimate cost to himself.

“Fuck you!!” he screamed in a high, frantic voice, his tear-streaked face twisted with pain and rage, “I ain’t no fuckin’ faggot!!”

“Yeah, you are,” Joe replied with deceptive calmness, “And it’s about goddam time you get what all worthless pansies have comin’ to ‘em.”

Grabbing a fistful of Adam’s copper-colored curls, he lifted the younger stud’s head and rested it on the toilet seat.  “This is gonna hurt,” he said smilingly.

Adam opened his eyes wide, staring up at the hardbodied alpha looming over him.  Enough light came over Joe’s shoulder and reflected back onto him from the bathroom mirror to prevent the sadist from being nothing more than mass of silhouetted muscles.  The lighting emphasized the power in the older man’s hairy form, his bulging pecs with their large dark nipples, and the monstrous horsecock jutting threateningly out like a jousting lance.

And then Joe lifted his foot again and Adam got a close-up view of the tread on the vicious killer’s Carolina loggers.  But it was a brief view.  The sicko necro boy put his good arm up to ward off what was obviously imminent, but it was too little, too late.

The explosion of excruciating pain that burst in Adam’s head was bad enough to make him lose consciousness momentarily—but not long enough to be merciful.  His jaw shattered in three places and the back of his head was driven through the porcelain bowl of the toilet.

And that was how Adam, his mouth hanging open helplessly and his red hair sopping and darkened by the water, had a dick shoved down his throat for the first—and last—time in his life.  It didn’t happen right away; Joe took a few minutes to enjoy teabagging his fuckmeat before ramming his shaft down its throat.     

It was too much.  Adam’s fragile mental state fractured as he gagged and choked on the enormous rod grinding its way down his esophagus.  He could feel every inch of it, from the huge spongy head, oozing salty precum to the thick, throbbing veins that pulsated against his windpipe—just like a worthless cocksucking homo.

Him.  He.  He’d been made into a faggot.  He’d been beaten and tortured and now he was exactly the kind of disgusting pansy pervert he so profoundly hated.  It was more than he could take.

Joe grunted in anger as he felt the worthless cumguzzler go limp beneath him.  He knew what was going on; he was well aware that the would-be alpha didn’t have the mental ability to handle what was happening to it.  That was why he, Joe, was the superior male.  In the same situation, he would have kept his head and been able to find a way to overcome his enemy.

This piece of shit had crumbled like wet plaster.  For that alone, it deserved to die.

Unconscious, Adam slumped to the floor, his mangled mouth unsheathing Joe’s cock, drool drippling from his flaccid lips.  Joe towered over him, sneering contemptuously.  Fucking useless faggot couldn’t even suck dick.  Only way the sadistic killer was gonna get any sexual satisfaction out of it was gonna be to make it die while riding his shaft. 

The buff hardman bent down and grabbed Adam’s ankle, just above the pervert’s Nike Air Falcon shoe.  From there, it didn’t take long for him to drag the youth out of the bathroom and across the bedroom.  As he stooped over the cunt, he noticed the fucker’s eyelids begin to flutter.  Adam was waking up.

From Adam’s point of view, the world that was slowly coming back into focus was one of sheer agony.  His once-impressive body was now a battered mass of contusion and broken bones.  His mouth was dangling open uselessly and he couldn’t close it.

Even worse, he could still taste Joe’s huge rod.    His mind shied away from that; even as he struggled to open his eyes, he knew it was going to be to a reality he wouldn’t—couldn’t—accept. 

And then, suddenly, his air was completely cut off by something that clamped around his throat with the brutality of a bear trap.

Adam’s eyes flew open, the lids overcoming their hesitancy and snapping up like sprung window shades.  His field of vision was filled with Joe’s cruel, handsome face, grinning down at him with an expression of unspeakably malicious glee.

“Glad ya decided to join the fun,” the hardbodied serial killer chuckled, “wouldn’ta been the same without ya!”  Without the slightest hint of effort, he stood up in a single, seamless motion, hoisting Adam into the air as he did so.  The gagging from the copper-haired pervert’s slack mouth was even louder than when Joe’s tool had been choking him.

As Adam’s Nikes kicked and flailed above the carpet, Joe brought the dangling pansy closer, peering into its face like he was inspecting a detestable but harmless insect.  “You ready for this?” he asked, almost civilly, “You ready to get buttfucked?  Yer gonna love dying on my tackle, motherfucker.   All you useless disgusting faggots love it.  Every one I’ve wasted has shot a huge wad as it died, and you ain’t no different, are ya, you cumguzzlin’ homo?”

By this point Adam’s face was a deep purplish red and his tongue was starting to protrude from his gaping mouth.  The pounding in his head was almost deafening—but not enough that he couldn’t hear the taunting words of his assailant.  His suffering psyche refused to understand them, but he couldn’t ignore the fact that he was moving.  Joe was carrying him.  Joe was carrying him to the bed.

Without relaxing his grip once, Joe laid Adam on the bed, on his back.  Despite his agony, Adam could feel moistness on his back; he knew it was the not-yet-dried cum of the boy he’d killed…but that seemed so long ago…

Then Joe used his free hand to roughly part Adam’s legs, and he could feel the freakishly enormous head of the older man’s shaft probing his bared asscheeks.  He was aware of what was going to happen, but he refused to know it.  It wasn’t gonna happened.  It couldn’t.  It couldn’t.

And then it did.

The pain was worse than anything he’d ever imagined.  Compared to the impalement he was undergoing, everything that had gone before had been no more than a slap on the wrist, a harsh word from a slight acquaintance.  He could feel his sphincter tear apart like a wet paper bag, his blood becoming a squelching lube that did nothing to ease the remorseless passage of Joe’s brutal manmeat as it tore its way up through his rectum.

Instinctively, Adam tried to fight Joe off.  If he’d been coherent, he’d have realized that the desperate thrashing of his right arm was only causing him more pain, but the muscled young sicko was long past lucid thought.  As his shattered arm flopped uselessly, bone fragments grinding together excruciatingly, his left hand beat against Joe’s furry, marblelike torso.

For his part, Joe was enjoying every bit of the ginger punk’s agony.  The punk’s firm ass muscles clenched the alpha’s cock like a fist with every blast of pain, milking his shaft better than anything the serial killer had experienced in a long time.  His own powerful asscheeks dimpled and flexed with an increasing tempo and forcefulness as he plowed the cunt’s virgin fuckhole.  But Adam’s resistance was beginning to anger him again—he was already choking the meat; it should be starting to get nice and submissive by now.

Once it did that, the semen-draining convulsions weren’t far behind.  Joe wasn’t willing to wait too long to unload his potent manseed into this homo waste; his rage and his lust were both near the boiling point.

“Quit fightin’ me, faggot!” he snarled.  “Take it, you cunt; take whatcha got comin’ to ya!”  Doubling up his free hand, he pounded it repeatedly into Adam’s gut.  The thick smacking sound of his fist violently impacting the pervert’s sweat-slick abs reverberated through the room.

Adam couldn’t hear it over the hammering of his own pulse inside his skull, but he could damn sure feel it.  It was as if someone was taking a baseball bat to his midsection.  And then somewhere around the third or fourth blow—Adam was no longer able to keep track—he felt something different, something worse.  A horrible tearing sensation, deep inside—somewhere vital.  He didn’t know what was happening, but he knew it was something that would need immediate surgery—if it wasn’t irreparable.

He was right about that; Joe had gut-punched the young homo hard enough to tear his liver open.  It was a bad tear, too; within half an hour Adam would bleed to death.

Except Adam wasn’t going to live long enough to bleed to death.  And his concern over his damaged innards faded into the background as Joe transferred his tender mercies to the boy’s face.

Joe cursed at the buff young psycho as he beat its face in.  It had finally become an object to him, a single-use sex toy, to be discarded after he filled it with cum.  But it was important to him that it knew that—that deep inside, it truly realized that the only value of its existence was to be a Real Man’s cumdump.

“Fuckin’ [SMACK] take it [SMACK], you useless [SMACK] sack a’ shit [SMACK]!  Fuckin’ earn [SMACK] my load [SMACK], ya goddam pussy [SMACK]!  Wanna end [SMACK] the pain, homo [SMACK]?  You gotta die [SMACK], ya cocksuckin’ [SMACK] pansy [SMACK] faggot [SMACK]!  C’mon, motherfucker [SMACK], start convulsin’ [SMACK] so I can use yer dyin’ body [SMACK] to jack off [SMACK]!”

Every word, every blow was emphasized by a brutally powerful thrust of Joe’s muscular ass as his gigantic horsecock, reamed deeply into Adam’s guts.  And despite the fact that his black, swollen, drooling face was caving in under Joe’s viciously relentless battering—and the fact that his oxygen deprivation had reached a tipping point and his brain was beginning to shut down—Adam was still aware of his huge and agonizingly erect shaft, being ground ruthlessly between Joe’s ripped, hairy abs and his own firm six-pack. 

Adam no longer questioned his own erection; he was only aware that his cock and his balls were causing him an unspeakable pain that somehow seemed worse than any of the other injuries he’d suffered.  Suddenly, though, something new came to his attention—the beating had stopped.  Joe now had both hands wrapped around his throat.

“You ready?” he hissed.  Adam’s face was too mangled for him to be able to see, but he could hear the intensity in the killer’s voice.  “You ready, bitch?  Here it comes, motherfucker!” 

Then the crushing pain in his windpipe became truly nightmarish.

Adam heard his own death.  He clearly heard—as well as felt—the crunching sound of his own esophagus collapsing into a thick wad of impenetrable cartilage.  And that was when it happened.

Deep inside his twisted mind, as he trembled on the razor’s edge of brain death, Adam finally accepted his homosexuality.  He accepted that his highest and best use was to give up his life for a true Alpha’s orgasm.  Enough of his brain was gone that he couldn’t formulate the thought, but in the last few seconds of his life, he wrapped his taut, firm legs tightly around Joe’s waist and hung on to his killer, offering up his fuckhole and his existence to the man who’d taught him his true place in the world.

That was the moment that Joe placed his thumbs under the corners of Adam’s shattered jaw and squeezed with enough power to pop the cunt’s head off the top of its spine, shearing the spinal cord like scissors where it entered the base of the cranium.

The electrochemical blast was so intense that Adam’s last sensation on earth was that of being struck by lightning—a bolt that seemed to originate in his head and exit his body through his crotch, ripping his entire being out through his cock.  It was accompanied a solid jet of cum that the dying pervert managed to sustain for over thirty uninterrupted seconds, as it clutched its killer in desperate and utterly involuntary bearhug.

“Aw, fuck yeah!!”, Joe grunted in a strangled voice as his own long-awaited release hosed the shuddering corpse’s guts with thick, hot spunk, coating Adam’s intestines like paint.  The dead youth thrashed as Joe held it tightly—and it held Joe as well, its good left arm around his back and its gray Night Falcons kicking so violently in the empty air that one flew off, striking the wall next to the bed and rebounding into the room.  The shoeless foot, clad only in an ankle sock, curled repeatedly in mindless death agony.

A few minutes later, Joe—sweaty, gasping, and spent—managed to extract his thick tube of manmeat from the dead boy.  Standing up, he swayed for a moment before putting a hand out to steady himself against the wall.  The orgasm had been one of the most intense he’d ever had—and he’d needed it.  He crossed to the bathroom, staggering slightly, and cleaned himself with a towel soaked in hot water. 

As the warm wetness cleansed his skin, Joe was pervaded by a sense of calmness and well-being.  What he’d done hadn’t just been an indulgence in a momentary relaxation, it had been a truly righteous act.  It would still have been meritorious if he’d just rid the world of another useless homo—but this one had been a seriously sick necro fag.

Grinning, Joe walked back into the room and reviewed the tableau in front of him.  The first dead faggot—nearly forgotten by now—still lay in a huddled mass on the floor.  By now it was completely still and obviously stone-cold dead; the only change in its appearance was the Nike sneaker that had bounced off the wall—it had landed in the small of the dead punk’s back.

The freshly fucked meat on the bed, however, was still jerking and twitching as random nerve endings in its wasted nervous system misfired; it would be a few minutes before the electrochemical activity died down.  Joe was proud of this one; the fuckmeat was practically unrecognizable.  A slight movement on the corner of his eye caught Joe’s attention; it was his own reflection in the full-length mirror opposite the bed.

That was when Joe had a moment of vanity.  Under most circumstances, he was rational and level-headed, but he was caught up in a moment of self-congratulation.  Killing the piece of shit now lying on the bed had been just as honorable and praiseworthy an act as Joe’s efforts in taking out Narcos and mercs on foreign soil.  After all, what was this motherfucker but a domestic terrorist?

Still high on endorphins and adrenaline, Joe jumped up on the bed and stood atop the trembling corpse.  With one logger boot planted on the corpse’s chest and another squarely on its mauled face, he turned to the mirror and began to flex.

He curled his arms over his head and admired the thick bulges of his biceps and triceps, the power inherent in his huge delts; he didn’t notice how his still-erect cock oozed out a few more drops of cum at the sight.  Then he whirled around, looking over his shoulder for a view from the back.  His rhomboid and latissimus muscles were well-defined, but what caught the attention were the rounded, rock-hard globes of his glutes.  Just for fun, he flexed them a couple of times to watch them dimple, grinning as he did so.

But the fun was over.  He jumped off the bed, his boots hitting the thick carpet with a solid, if muffled, thud.  He kicked them off for a moment to slip his jeans back on, then sat on the bed next to the rapidly-cooling dead fag and pulled them back on.  Standing back up he picked up his jacket and slung it over his shoulder without bothering to put it back on.  He was still warm, his skin gleaming with sweat.  He wanted to cool off for a bit.

After taking one last glance back, he left the room, then the apartment.  He was so satisfied he didn’t even bother to close the door.

It wouldn’t last, he knew.  Sooner or later, the rage would build again, and he’d need to find another faggot to take it out on.

Luckily, there was always another faggot around somewhere.  Always.

---

“I dunno,” the beat cop was saying, “I ain’t ever seen nothin’ like this before.”

“I’m not interested in what you’ve seen before,” the homicide detective said testily, “I want to know what you saw this time.”

“Well, like I said before, the welfare check call came in about a half hour ago—”

“That was the neighbor, right?” the detective asked, consulting his notes, “Mrs., um, Mrs. Daniels?”

“Yeah.  She sez she heard a buncha noise in here about an hour ago, but the dude who lived here was a faggot, so she didn’t think nothin’ ‘bout it.  But when she was headin’ out to the store, she saw the door was open.  She sez he’d gotten robbed last year and was kinda paranoid about it, so she stuck he head in and called for him.  Called us when she didn’t get an answer.”

“So she never entered the room?  She never saw the bodies?”

“Man, why dontcha ask her that?  Yer partner’s over there talkin’ to here now.”

The detective sighed wearily.  “Look, pal, I’m just trying to cross check all the angles.  Ok, that’s enough for now.  Hey, Frank?”

His partner, talking to a middle-aged woman with an expression that hinted that she spent most of her time sucking pickles, muttered a quiet “one moment please” to her and hurried over.

“Get anything out of her?”

Frank grimaced.  “Of course not.  She’s up in everybody’s business in this building but the one time her nosiness would be handy, it turns out to be totally useless.”

“Any clue on the victims?”

“One of ‘em.  Crime lab folks found a wallet on the dresser; the driver’s license ID’s the one on the floor as Derek Wong.  He’s the tenant here.  The other one…nothing.  And, frankly, given the state he’s in, I don’t think even dental records are going to help.”

At that moment, the beat cop reappeared.  “Hey, the ME’s guy is here.”

The detective looked up at the lanky man in the white lab coat.  Just visible in the hallway behind him was a gurney.

“They just send one of you?  We’ve got two bodies.”

“Yeah, busy night.  Big gang fight down on 14^th.  It’s a real mess.”

“Oh, right, I heard abut that,” the detective said, grimacing.  “Glad I’m not on that one—not that this is gonna be any walk in the park.  Anyway, they’re in here.  Hope you’ve already eaten—this one’s bad.”

The two men walked into the room.  “Obviously some kind of sex murder—but it’s not going to be easy sorting out exactly what happened.  I mean, look at the one on the bed.  When’s the last time you saw something like that?”

The man in white paused reflectively, then answered.  “About two years ago—this kid was walking back drunk from Edna’s Place—you know, out on Antonia Road past the train tracks?  He was so trashed he stumbled straight into the path of a freight train doing ninety.  Looked kinda like this.”

The detective was disconcerted; his question had been rhetorical.  Finally, he shrugged his shoulders.  “Well, I’ll leave you to it.  My partner and I will be out here, if you need any help, uh—” He paused and leaned in, squinting at the man’s name tag.  “Um, Harris.  Just give us a shout.”

Harris gave him a wintry smile.  “Thanks.  But ill be just fine on my own.”

The moment he got the door closed, Harris had his fly unzipped and his dick in his hand, hard and oozing.  His first aim was the single Night Falcon, still standing on the back of the corpse on the floor.  Picking it up, he deeply inhaled its musky scent, the sensation making his shaft pulse.  Sighing shudderingly, he lowered the Nike shoe and put his cock inside it.  Holding them both in one hand he quickly crossed to the closed bedroom door and silently locked it.  He then spent the next five minutes masturbating with the sneaker.

When he felt himself close to orgasm, Harris pulled the shoe off his dick and approached the bed.  Laying the Night Falcon on it, he swiftly and skillfully jerked Adam’s corpse towards him, his years of experience with dead bodies obvious in the ease with which he rolled this one face down and left with its legs hanging down over the side and its cum-filled ass pointing straight at him.

“Nothing like sloppy seconds,” Harris said with a sick grin.  He picked the Nike kick back up and, holding it over his nose and inhaling like it was bottle of poppers, he proceeded to fuck Adam up the ass.

And that was how Adam the necro psycho ended up as nothing but a dead meat necro fuck himself.