Rocko Breaks Up

Wes paused outside the door and sighed.  He was tired and, what was worse, depressed.  It had been a rough day at work and now an unpleasant confrontation was looming in front of him.

Wes had just turned eighteen but had been on his own for over two years.  He’d started by turning tricks on the streets, but one john had beaten him so badly he’d needed medical care.  He’d ended up in the county hospital, with indifferent staff and inadequate medication.  After that, he learned the value of a decent insurance plan.

He’d gotten a job in a convenience store; it was a shitty job with shitty pay, but it did offer an insurance plan.  He still turned tricks on occasion to supplement his income, but his main side gig was dealing weed.  As of last payday, he had almost two thousand dollars tucked away inside a balled-up pair of socks in his dresser drawer.

But he still had to live.  He rented a room by the week at a no-tell motel near his job, and he’d spent some of his carefully hoarded cash on decrepit but functional car.  Having someone else in his life would help with the finances.  And if he could find a hot stud with a big dick…

Three weeks ago, he’d found him.  An older man—definitely rough trade.  Heavily muscled, heavily inked.  There was a dangerous edge about the dude that turned Wes on; he was sure the man had been in prison although he never talked about his past.  And damn could he fuck!

But he wasn’t contributing financially.  He’d had some money when they’d met—he evidently still had some—but he wasn’t working.  He just fucked and drank, and he was a mean drunk.  It hadn’t bothered Wes too much at first, but the dude was getting meaner and more violent by the day, and it was worrying.  Between his inactivity and his temper, the guy needed to go.

That was why the lithe, black-haired teen, dressed in a white t-shirt, camo cargo shorts and white Converse hightops, was standing outside the door of his own room, hesitating to go in.  There was no way of knowing how it was going to play out, but one thing he knew for sure—it wasn’t going to be pretty.

Reluctantly, the teen whore opened the door.

Inside, Rocko heard the sound and glanced languidly at the entrance.  He was laying full length on the bed, shirtless, his furry, muscled torso on full display.  A thick leather belt encircled his waist, and his Diesel jeans were tucked into a pair of loosely laced Justin Drywall work boots.

The ex-con was slightly buzzed—just enough to be give an edge to his temper.  On the nightstand next to him stood a bottle of Wild Turkey.  As Wes came through the door, Rocko picked up a half-full plastic cup and knocked back a hefty slug.  He was bored.  He’d been banging the whore for three weeks and it was already reamed out.  He had nothing to do.  One day soon, he figured, he’d off the fuckmeat, take its money, and head out.  It was just a matter of when.

He didn’t quite expect the matter to be resolved so soon.

As was his habit, as soon as he closed the door and fastened the chain lock, Wes peeled off his t-shirt in preparation for his after-work shower.  “Hey—uh, look, Rocko…” he began hesitatingly as he wriggled out of his shorts, his long boycock dangling from a nest of wiry black pubes.  He kept his chucks on—he didn’t like the feel of the bathroom tile on bare feet; he’d kick them off once he was ready to hop in the shower.

And was he ever ready.  He knew Rocko wouldn’t be happy, so his plan was to blurt out the bad news, then lock himself in the bathroom until the muscled alpha had some time to cool down.  With that plan in mind, he paused right at the doorway to speak.

“It, um…this ain’t workin’ out,” he started.  “You know it as well as I do.  You, uh—you need to go, man.  Now.  I’m serious, dude—I ain’t supportin’ you no more.  I gotta do this, bro.  If you ain’t gone by the time I’m done with my shower, I’m callin’ the cops.”

Wes slipped into the bathroom, closing the door, and locking it audibly.  He sighed with relief.  It was over.  Rocko might be upset, but Wes had kept to his plan.  He wasn’t allowing the ex-con any time to kick up a fuss.

Or so he thought.

Rocko wasn’t upset.  He was outraged.  Who did that cunt think it was?  Rocko called the shots, not the homo scumfucks.  It was time that little piece of shit learned a crucial lesson.

But first, a little mind game.  Rocko picked up the bottle of bourbon and polished it off in a single extended chug.  As the alcohol fired his blood and stoked his anger, he began opening drawers and digging around in them.

To Wes in the bathroom, it sounded like Rocko had acquiesced and was packing—which was what the violent killer wanted the meat to think.  In fact, he was searching for its hoard of money.  It didn’t take him long to find what he was looking for—stupid little faggot cunts never got very creative about hiding their stashes—and he pocketed the cash before turning to the bathroom door.

Wes, lulled into the belief that things were working out nice and calmly, had brushed his teeth.  Turning off the sink, he was just headed for the tub when a loud crash at the door startled him so badly, he flinched.  Staring at the door in disbelief, he saw that a long vertical crack had appeared on his side.  A second crash, just a loud and as violent, and Rocko’s workboot appeared in the massive hole that the stud had just kicked in the door.  With a loud grunt, the sadistic alpha threw his shoulder into it and the remains of the door collapsed, leaving no barrier between the stunned teen and the serial killer.

“Guess what, bitch,” Rocko snarled, “It ain’t over till I say it’s over!”

Wes’s face flushed.  If he’d been looking at the convict’s face, he might have realized the danger he was in and been appropriately terrified—but he wasn’t.  Instead, he was looking at the door and wondering how much the management was going to charge him to replace it.

“You sonofabitch,” he squeaked, anger causing his voice to spiral up in pitch, “You’re gonna pay for that.  Cash, man, cash.  You hear me?”

Rocko’s response was swift and unanswerable.  He popped Wes in the face so hard the kid spun around and hit the rear wall before sliding, dazed, to the floor.  As his cheek began to blacken and blood trickled from his split, swelling lip, the boy placed a hand over his injuries and looked up at the hardbodied ex-con, his face displaying a mix of fear and loathing.

“I never shoulda let you move in,” he sneered in false bravado, “Even the sex wasn’t that great.  I been fucked by better men than you.”

The look that crossed Rocko’s face instantly told him what a terrible mistake he’d just made.  As the buff killer silently unbuckled his belt and began to remove it from his waist, the teen, ashen with terror, tried in vain to retract his words.  “W-wait, man—no…no I didn’t mean it, I—no…”

Rocko doubled the thick leather belt and swung it through the air a couple of times.

“No, p-please, man, I really, really didn’t mean that—oh God, no, please—no-NO! NO!  OH GOD OH FUCK NO!!!”

Rocko started beating him unmercifully.  Wes squealed in pain every time the leather strap hit, leaving angry red welts on his smooth adolescent flesh.  The slapping sounds bounced off the cold, unfeeling bathroom tile, intensifying the punk’s misery and the sadist’s desire to inflict pain.  Wes curled into a fetal position; at the moment, he was too preoccupied with avoiding blows of the improvised whip to think clearly.  And Rocko, for his part, was too busy venting is rage to speak.

But the muscled-bound killer soon felt another sensation—a powerful ache in his crotch.  He knew what was going to happen next; it played out the same way, time and again.  The faggot made him angry, his anger made him horny, his lust fed back into his rage—and soon the loop began to spin into a spiral that led to a violent orgasm and a brutal murder.

It was time to get it on.

He stopped beating the fuckmeat.  He stood over it, staring down at the cowering, whimpering homo in profound contempt.  Well, he damn sure wasn’t gonna fuck it in here, even if the bathroom was the most appropriate place for such a worthless fucking piece of shit.   He needed to move it.

That was easy enough.  Grinning maliciously, the convicted murder looped his belt back through its buckle, then gave Wes a vicious kick.  “Hey, faggot, looky here.”

The moment the cunt lifted its head, Rocko dropped the loop over it, around its neck.  “Gotcha,” he chuckled—and proceeded to drag Wes out of the bathroom by his neck.

The teen kicked and flailed as he slid across the tile floor, his Converse hightops scrabbling uselessly.  Once the reached the door, the boy grabbed hold of the frame, his biceps swelling as he resisted being dragged into the bedroom with all the power of his slim but strong young body.

He was too busy resisting to formulate exactly why he was resisting; he only knew, deep inside, that something irrevocably horrible was going to happen to him once he was out of the bathroom.  It had all gone wrong; he had miscalculated badly—and what was in store for him was going to be much, much worse.

Wes was a young, stupid boywhore who’d been taken in by a hot, hard-looking alpha male who’d fucked the living shit outta him, but he’d only allowed it to happen because he’d let his lust smother the faint vague danger signals his street smarts were giving off. 

Now, those signals were deafening and crystal-clear—but it was too late.  He was trapped, alone with an incredibly strong man whose uncontrollable anger issues were beyond any doubt.  Wes didn’t know exactly what was going to happen to him, but one this was absolutely certain—he was gonna suffer.

And his ability to cling to the door jamb was weakening by the second.  All Rocko had to do was pull harder—the belt tightened inexorably around Wes’s throat, slowly cutting off his air.  The teenaged rentboy realized that if he didn’t let go, he’d be throttled into unconsciousness—and if that happened, he really would be helpless, utterly at the mercy (or lack thereof) of this sadistic psycho.

Letting go of the frame was one of the greatest acts of willpower of Wes’s short, wasted life, so it was probably for the best that he never knew that doing so had extended his life by only a few minutes—all of which would be filled with mind-bending agony and terror.

Once in the bedroom, things got worse, just as the boy had expected, but in a way he couldn’t have imagined.  The adolescent knelt on the floor, clawing at the belt as he gasped for air, his lean, firm body heaving with the effort.  His pale, smooth skin was glistening with sweat and streaked with vicious red stripes from the beating. 

He looked up just as Rocko leaned over and spat in his face.  “You useless sack ‘a shit,” the alpha sneered, “You gotta lesson to learn, and I’m just the fucker to teach it to ya.  I’m the one who calls the shots around here, ya hear me?  Naw, ‘course ya don’t, and you’d be too fuckin’ stupid to understand if ya did.  Only one way homo asswipes like you ever learn a goddam thing.”

Here Rocko’s grin became truly terrifying.  “That’s with pain, cunt.  Fags like you gotta be hurt.  Hell, even if I didn’t hafta learn ya good, you’d still need to be hurt—cause you deserve it.  All you useless cocksuckin’ motherfuckers deserve to die screamin’ in pain.”  With his free hand, Rocko unzipped his fly, letting his enormous manshaft flop out.  Wes had seen it before, of course but now—now, it some how seemed bigger, more intimidating.  As he looked, he could see transparent beads of precum glinting on the huge mushroom-shaped head.

“And aw fuck, bitch, I can’t wait to be the one to give it to ya!”

Then the belt began to tighten again.  At first, Wes didn’t understand what was happening, but he arced his head back and saw that Rocko was twisting his hand slowly, winding the belt around it.  Soon, the leather strap was completely taut.

Wes wouldn’t have believed what happened next was physically possible if he hadn’t been on the wrong end of it.  He knew Rocko’s physical strength from personal experience, but he was amazed when Rocko curled his arm like he was pumping iron and hoisted Wes into the air.  As the teen choked, his Converse chucks kicking futilely in mid-air, his bulging eyes were focused on the ex-con’s left arm, the one that was holding him.  The sheer force of that swollen tattoo-covered bicep was unbelievable.

Distracted by his involuntary muscle worship, the gagging teenager never saw Rocko’s right arm draw back—but he felt it when the killer’s fist was driven deeply into his flat, tender gut.  He’d have violently expelled all the air in his lungs if his windpipe hadn’t been closed off; as it was, all he could do was flail wildly in pain and panic.

For the next two minutes, Rocko used Wes as his personal punching bag.  Somewhere along the line, as the blows wracked his lithe body with agony and the lack of oxygen began to have an impact on his rationality, the kid stopped clawing at the belt and began to claw at Rocko.  The hardbodied stud was able to keep the dangling slut out of reach of his face and body—but instinctively, the teen turned his attention to the hand that held him aloft.  A few seconds of frenetic digging, and he was able to break the skin.  It was a minor irritation at the most, but it broke the mood.  With a curse, Rocko dropped the punk to the floor.

“MotherFUCKER!!!” he roared in anger, viciously kicking the youth three times in succession.  Each one earned a snapping sound as the steel-toed Justin workboot broke a rib, the left ulna, and another rib.  In the meantime, all Wes had managed to do was loosen the belt from his neck.  He writhed and shuddered on the floor, unable to even scream out his pain and terror.

“Goddam rat,” Rocko muttered, “Time to put you down like the fuckin’ animal you are.”  But he’d seen too many scratches and bites become infected in prison.  He turned and headed for the bathroom.

The moment Wes heard the water running in the bathroom sink, he tried to make a break for it.  The process of rising to his feet was excruciating; his lungs felt like they were burning and his left hand was only semi-functional at best.  But his right hand worked, and that was the one he extended towards the lock as he staggered across the room to the door.

The moment Rocko heard the rattling sound of Wes fumbling at the chain bolt on the door, he muttered a curse under his breath and charged into the room.  The thin, worn carpeting did nothing to cover the heavy thuds of his Justin boots on the floor; Wes knew he was coming.  The teen slut whimpered, frenetically pawing at the lock with his one good hand, but his fear only made it harder for him to focus and coordinate.  Rocko was on him, spinning him around before he’d even managed to get the chain halfway off.

Experienced as he was, the young whore had never seen such hate, such bloodlust in a trick’s eyes before.

“That’s it, cunt,” the alpha growled, “The gloves are comin’ off.  All the shit up till now?  It’s all been foreplay.  Now it’s no holds barred and I’m takin’ you down the hard way.”

There was something hypnotically snake-like in Rocko’s eyes that sapped Wes’s will.  He could see the wide, haymaker punch coming at him as if in slow motion, the ex-con’s inked arm, knotted with muscles, swinging through the air, but he felt paralyzed, unable to move.

He moved fast enough when the blow landed.  The impact was violent enough to spin him around; he hit the dresser hard enough to knock off everything on its top and caromed back into the room.  The unlucky punk didn’t have the slightest chance of putting up a defense; before he could even reorient himself to the point of figuring out where Rocko was, the sadist was on him, beating him unmercifully.

As the blows rained down on him, Wes could only grunt and squeal like an animal in pain—which, by this point, was all that he was.  But he could still see that every time Rocko’s fists plowed into his firm young body, the older man’s dick oozed yet more precum.

And, of course, he could hear Rocko’s words as the punches kept coming in a remorseless flurry.

“Take it, bitch!  Ya know ya got this comin’!  Fuck yeah, don’t that feel great?  Taste it, cunt, taste the pain!  Fuck, ya love it, dontcha?  Ya fuckin’ love this shit!”

At last, the hardbodied ex-con pulled back, heaving and sweaty.  The once-handsome teenager collapsed onto the bed, a moaning mass of bloody and bruised flesh.

Rocko looked down and spat on it in contempt.  “Ok, we’re done here,” he said flatly.  “I wanna cum.  Time to die, fuckmeat.”  He bent down and grabbed Wes, manhandling the boy like a rag doll, laying his fucktoy out and positioning it to suit his needs.  Picking up the belt and tossing it on the bed, he climbed in himself, unfastening the button on the fly of his jeans.  They slid down just far enough to expose rock-hard, hairy globes of his glutes as he forcibly parted the meat’s legs.

“You never were a good fuck, ya know,” he told the stunned, semi-conscious youth while his massive rod poked at its firm ass.  “But here’s somethin’ I learned years ago, asswipe—even the most reamed-out faggot gets all nice ‘n tight again as it dies.  Don’t worry, homo, this one’s gonna make up for all the other times I had to imagine wastin’ you just to blow my load up yer useless hole—least this time, I won’t hafta imagine it, har!”

And then he was in.  All the way in, all at once.  For a split second, dazed as he was, Wes realized that he could feel Rocko’s enormous, semen-filled balls slapping against his taint—and then the pain hit.

In some small and curiously detached corner of the adolescent’s mind, Wes was surprised that he could feel such agony, given all the suffering he was already enduring.  But in the past, he’d always insisted that Rocko ease his way in, using plenty of lube.  Neither of those conditions appertained this time.  The older man had torn his sphincter wide open.  Wes’s rectal lining had been shredded as effectively as if a belt sander had been jammed up his ass.

He screamed.  It came from deep inside, seeming to bring his very soul up from within—but it didn’t last long.  Rocko had been through all this before.  The meat always screamed, and it always tightened up a little just before it did—probably from sheer agony.  The serial killer felt the cunt’s mangled asshole clench his rod and knew exactly what was coming.  The second Wes opened his mouth, Rocko punched him twice in the face, as hard as he could.

The first blow broke Wes’s nose; it squelched like a rotten tomato.  The second knocked the fucker’s two front teeth down its throat.

As it choked and coughed the teeth up, Rocko looped the belt through its buckle and yanked the loop down over its head again.  “Ain’t no one gonna hear you, faggot,” he grinned, “Yer gonna die nice and quiet-like on my cock.  After all, folks next door need their sleep, don’t they?”

Again, Wes’s air was cut off—but this was much worse.  Unless he did something drastic, and did it soon, he knew he’d never breathe again. 

The young faggot was in agony.  His broken arm and ribs, his caved in face, his battered and contused torso—all of it seemed to fight against his efforts to save his life with the fierce brutality of Rocko himself.  As his slick, firm body writhed frantically underneath the muscled weight of the convicted killer, Wes could feel the onset of blind terror.

He tried to fight it; he had enough street smarts to know that panic usually meant death.  But there was a jackhammer pounding inside his cranium as viciously as the hulking alpha was pounding inside his asshole.  His face felt hot and taut, there was a fire deep in his chest that grew in intensity with each passing second, and great black fireworks were exploding in front of his eyes.

He was dying.  Oh fuck he was dying.

And so the panic won.

Wes’s left arm wasn’t much use, but his right still worked perfectly—at least well enough to claw wildly at his tormentor.  Despite laying face down on top of the fuckmeat, Rocko was able to draw his head back far enough to avoid the hectic scrambling of its fingers.  He wasn’t able to do the same with his chest though, and that was where Wes’s hand landed next.

It wasn’t just the deep, red furrows the hysteric cunt left on his chest that set Rocko off; it was the fact that when Wes momentarily pulled his hand away, a few curls of the alpha’s chest hair were embedded under his fingernails.

With a roar of anger, the psychotic killer wrapped the loose end of the belt around his hand so he could keep tightening it while freeing up the other hand—which he immediately used to grab the meat’s right wrist.  His eyes narrowed in unspeakable hatred, he stared into the pansy’s blackened face.  It was already starting to drool, its purple tongue rising like an erection from between the split, swollen lips.  Its eyes bulged, ruptured blood vessels creating blooms of red inside the whites.

But it was still alive.  The faggot was so, so close to death, but it was still alive.  It could hear and understand.  This awareness spurred Rocko’s sadism on to make the fuckmeat’s last few moments alive such a nightmarish hell that death would be a mercy and a release.

And even better, it would suffer so badly that it’d milk a huge creamy load out of the buff alpha’s aggressive cock.  The thought alone put more power into the swift flexing of his firm, muscular ass as he drove his rod in like he was trying to split the fucker in two.

“It was always gonna happen, faggot,” he snarled at the dying teenager, “I always off the meat when I’m done with it—because it’s meat.  Only reason you exist is to take my jizz, and you ain’t even good at doin’ that.  But don’t worry, cumsucker—before you go join all the others, I’ll make you good at it.”

He clutched at the index finger of the cumdump’s right hand and bent it backwards, snapping it as easily as a twig.  It couldn’t cry out, but Rocko could see its suffering in its eyes and feel it in the involuntary clenching of its fuckhole.  Even more, he could feel the way its long boycock, pressed hard against his belly, pulsed and began oozing a trail of precum onto his dark body fur.

“See?” he crowed, a triumphant look of insane glee on his face that was somehow more terrifying than any other expression he’d displayed on this night of utter barbarity, “Ya know ya want this, faggot—ya know ya need it!”

The middle finger went next, with a thick wet crack.  Another clench, another pulse, more oozing slime, and tears leaking from the bulging red eyes as a heavy stream of foam trickled pout of the teen’s mouth and down its smooth cheek.  Its expression of agonized bewilderment was erotic as fuck, but Rocko had to hurt it more.  Piece of shit was so fuckin’ stupid.  It was getting off on getting what it deserved like and worthless faggot—but it didn’t understand.  It was gonna cum as it died, but that wasn’t enough.  He needed to teach it why.

Ring finger.  Same reactions, but this time Rocko tightened the belt considerably.  The meat began to shudder.  “Feels good, don’t it?” the older man murmured, “Yer gonna unload the biggest wad of yer useless life in a second here faggot, and when ya do, I’m gonna hose yer guts with hot potent manseed.  It’s why yer here, faggot.  Only reason for your pathetic existence on this planet is to make me cum with yer suffering and death.  Get it now, motherfucker?”

As he broke the last finger of the homo’s right hand, Rocko transferred his own free hand back to the cunt, covering and pressing down on its face.  He could feel his seething testicles pucker, aching for release, and he had no intention of denying them.  “Time to say bye-bye, fuckwad,” he whispered to the meat, then crushed its esophagus.

As the thick, gristly crunching sound echoed in the room, the faggot went rigid, its torn sphincter locking around the base of Rocko’s shaft as if in a conscious effort to milk his balls dry.  Between the splayed fingers of his hand pressing on its face, the killer stared directly into the adolescent’s eyes, and he saw what he needed to see—what he knew would be there.

It got it.  Deep within the overwhelming suffering and terror, the sadistic psycho could see understanding and gratitude.  “Fuck yeah,” he muttered, “You needed this to happen.  I completed you, cunt.  I’ve fulfilled your purpose.  You can go now.”

And it did.  Those were the last words it heard on earth before its brain died and it became nothing but by a convulsive fucktoy, jacking off its killer.

It held him tight for a brief moment, its hightop chucks thrashing in the empty air over his shoulders.  This was Rocko’s favorite part.  Homos were so happy to be put out of their miserable existence that they clung to him as he grunted and cursed, spewing thick ropy strands of vital manseed into their guts, marking them as his kills.  Having his sperm inside them was the closest the fags could ever come to being real men; even in death, the fuckmeat seemed to know it and crave it.

Somewhere along the line, the dead teen blew a huge pearly deathload all over Rocko’s furry belly, but the alpha was too intent on his own sexual pleasure to notice or care.  He expected the death wad as a matter of course.  Happened every time.

It had taken a bit of time for the hypersexed killer to drain his scrotum, but the adolescent meat was still trembling and jerking as he did.  Its left foot, still tightly laced into the Converse sneaker, seemed to be deliberately kicking at the wadded, cum-stained bedding.

With a grunt, Rocko withdrew his still-leaking tool and got to his feet, his hairy, well-muscled torso wet with sweat and the dead teen’s cum.  Goddamit—why did they always have to spurt their useless fagseed onto him?  Stupid goddam motherfuckers…

He headed to the bathroom to clean up, soaking a towel in the sink to wipe himself down and tossing the sodden, semen-soaked mass into the bathtub when he was done.  His boots thudding heavily onto the floor, he headed back into the bedroom.

Without so much as a glance at the corpse, Rocko began to rifle the room.  His own belongings didn’t take long to deal with; his few items of clothing easily fitting into his carryall.  He’d already grabbed the homo’s hidden cash; now he went through its wallet and removed the few bills left in it.  More importantly, he found its stash of weed.  It went into his bag as well; he could sell it, easy.  Satisfied he now had everything of value, he headed for the door.  He opened it slowly and silently, carefully putting his head out.  No one was in sight—good; that meant there would be no witnesses as he left.

Then, and only then, did he turn back and survey the room.  In a sense, the scene kinda surprised him—it was mostly intact.  Beyond the destroyed bathroom door, little violence had been done to the furnishings.

The same couldn’t be said of the dead teen whore sprawled across the bed.     

It was so bruised and mangled, it looked like it had been run over by a semi.  The damage to the left arm wasn’t obvious, but the right hand didn’t resemble anything human.  Its chest was black with bruises through which the red welts of the belt lashing were visible.  The face had been bashed in so badly that visual identification of the body wouldn’t be possible.

The belt was still around its neck.  It had been so deeply embedded in its throat that Rocko hadn’t bothered to try removing it.  It was probably the most gruesome part of the scene; the total circumference of the neck under the belt couldn’t have been more than two inches—and that two inches included the spine and the remains of the larynx, compressed into a solid wad of cartilage.

Smirking, Rocko armed the doorknob lock.  Once it closed behind him, he strolled jauntily to his Crown Vic, carefully parked at the back end of the lot, basking in the satisfaction of a job well done.


“You the manager, right?  What’s yer name again?”

“Harold.  Uh, look, officer—”

“Detective.  I’m a homicide detective.”

“Uh, yeah, sorry.  But look, can we get all…all this out of here?  I mean, you must understand how bad for business this is…”

The cop looked around the room with a sneer.  “Yeah, I’m sure the Kardashians are gonna cancel their reservations if they see a patrol car parked out front.  Anyway, we ain’t goin’ nowhere till the morgue van gets here.  That gives you plenty of time to go over the details again.”

The manager, a small, rodent-like man with a pursy mouth sighed in irritated dismay.  “Fine, fine.  Like I said, I hadn’t seen the kid coming or going in a couple of days, so I had the maid check.  It wasn’t the day for the room to be cleaned, but I wanted to make sure he hadn’t skipped out.  He still owes more for last week’s rent—to say nothing this week’s…”

“Yeah, you ain’t getting’ that now,” the detective said coarsely, “Anyway, are ya sure it’s the same kid?”

The manager went pale.  “I, uh, I think so—I mean, that face…it’s so very hard to tell…”

“Yeah, he got the fuck beat outta him.  Gonna need dental records to ID him for sure.  Got fucked in the ass, too.  Real hard.  What, was he some kinda fag whore?  Bring home lotsa guys?”

The rat-faced manager went from white to an angry red flush.  “This isn’t that kind of place.  That is—I mean, he occasionally brought men home.  But the past few weeks I think he had someone staying with him.”

An eager expression crossed the detective’s face.  “Yeah?  Who?  What’d he look like?”

The manager appeared crestfallen.  “I-I don’t know.  I never really saw him.  Maybe Angelita, the maid…”

“Yeah, we’ll ask her too.  Doubt we’ll ever catch the guy, though.  Not that it matters.  Far as I see it, he did us a favor, whoever he was.  Took another worthless faggot off the streets.

The manager glared at him disgustedly, but something outside had caught the detective’s eye.

“Aw, good.  ME guy’s here.  I’ll let them clean this mess up.  Me, I got more important work to do—crimes against real humans, y’know?  Anyway, don’t leave town without letting us know—someone from the department may be in touch if we need ya later.”  He headed out but paused in the doorway and turned back.

“Wouldn’t hold my breath on that, though.  No need to cancel yer vacation plans, if ya get my drift.” 

He smirked and left.  The manager shook his head resignedly and turned to deal with the men from the morgue.

2 thoughts on “Rocko Breaks Up

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