Mac and the Teen Hardman Wannabes

Tim shifted uncomfortably as a chill wind rustled through the trees.  He looked over at Joey.

“Three hundred bucks and two grams of ice per night, right?” he asked.

“You heard ‘im,” Joey replied.  “And an ounce of weed each for both nights.  He plans to get it moved on Sunday.”

Tim grunted and brushed his long straight dirty-blond bangs out of his eyes.  Shuffling his LL Bean camo hunting boots in the leaves littering the forest floor, he zipped up his green nylon flight jacket.  His tight jeans and black cotton t-shirt with a Metallica logo were doing little to protect his lithe, seventeen-year-old body from the cold. 

Joey was dressed similarly, his jeans tucked into a pair of Browning brown leather lace-up boots.  His jacket was nearly the same color as Tim’s, but it was a hooded hunting jacket that he’d kept zipped over his long-sleeved gray t-shirt.

“So…” Tim began after a few moments of silence, “Whaddaya think he’s got in there?”  With a backwards jerk of his head, he indicated the metal storage building they were being paid to watch over.

“I don’t know,” Joey snapped curtly, “and I don’t want to.”  After a pause, he added, “And you don’t either—not if you’re smart.”

The boys were born only a few weeks apart and had known each other for years, having grown up—and still residing in—the same trailer park.  In fact, there were rumors that Tim’s mother had an affair with Joey’s dad, but the latter’s dark wavy hair and dark eyes weren’t compatible with the former’s lank blondish hair and deep blue eyes.

And there were other differences, too.  Tim wasn’t unintelligent; like Joey, he’d hunted in these woods since he’d been old enough to hold a rifle.  He knew them like the back of his hand and knew how to gut, skin, and dress every animal he killed.

Joey, on the other hand, had a subtle intelligence which, combined with his lack of formal education and utter inability to find a job, often led him astray.  Tim would get into problems by getting drunk or high and fighting.  Joey…well, Joey had made the connection with Pedro.

Most of the kids at the Clenmore County consolidated high school—and all the dropouts—had heard of Pedro to some extent; after all he was the source for anything you might need.  You wanted weed, coke or meth, you went to Pedro.  Pills?  Shrooms?  Heroin?  Go to Pedro.

Except you didn’t, not literally.  While everyone had heard of Pedro, almost no one ever actually saw him.  In a pyramidal structure not unlike the Mafia, he had gathered the thugs and the scum of the county to represent him in both sales and collections.  He kept them loyal by supplying them with drugs—and loyal they were.  Several CCCHS students that reputedly had had trouble paying their tabs had disappeared.  Two of them—a fourteen-yeah-old-boy and a sixteen-year-old girl who had come from wealthy and politically connected families in the county seat—caused something of a public reaction, especially since they vanished within weeks of each other and were unlikely to be runaways.

The resulting widespread search by the SBI found the remains of well over half a dozen more teenagers in varying states of decomposition.  Some of the more intact bodies showed clear signs of torture.  A county-wide dragnet was thrown out and three of Pedro’s highest and most brutal henchmen—two of whom actually had been directly involved in the torture killings—came under close scrutiny.

And that’s where Pedro’s efficiency and utter ruthlessness showed itself.  He’d already formed several contacts inside the county sheriff’s department.  Once he learned the identities of the who’d been zeroed in on, they also vanished and were never found.

Everyone knew most of this, but Joey knew more than most.  He’d actually met Pedro and had been taken into his confidence—he was, in fact, being groomed to replace Jacko Malone, one of the three who’d disappeared.

He know a lot, Joey did.  He knew exactly where Jacko and the others were buried, with two slugs each in their skulls.  He knew the metal shed they were guarding had been a meth lab at one point but was now being used to store twenty-five kilos of coke cut with fentanyl and over seven hundred grams of meth, individually bagged. 

There were some other items, though, of which he was unaware.  He didn’t know about the ten forty-two-gallon garbage bags full of the finest weed north of the border.  He didn’t know about the safe in the corner with five Uzis and a quarter of a million dollars in small, used bills.

He didn’t know that as he turned and yanked on the padlock on the shed door to reassure himself, he was being closely watched.

He didn’t know that over the next forty-five minutes, he would suffer a death so nightmarish and agonizing, a visit from Pedro’s enforcers would seem like a blessing.

But then again, he didn’t know Pedro had already undergone his own horrific torture and death.


Mac didn’t usually work on spec, but this one intrigued him.  He always avoided speculating on the identities of his employers, but his brief for the hit on Pedro Albañez included photos of some of the murdered students.  One of the parents was an attorney who had made heavy contributions to the governor’s campaign and had been subsequentially appointed as a county judge.

Not that any of that shit mattered to Mac—what had pulled him in was the immediate payment of a quarter of a million along with the offer to confiscate for his own use any cash in Pedro’s possession.  And drug dealers always dealt in cash.

Pedro had nearly half a million in his home safe.  It took a little persuasion to reveal this, and a bit more to learn how to open it (after which Pedro was left with only three out of his ten fingers still attached to his hands).  Fifteen minutes later—after a lot of knife work—Pedro finally coughed up the existence of the shed and how to access the money in the shed, along with a thick gout of blood.  Seconds later, a drawn-out gurgle in the gangster’s throat signaled his last breath.  He died like a dog in his basement, face down in a pool of his own blood.

And now, the only thing between Mac and the rest of his pay was a pair of teenaged punks who’d signed on to work for an utter scumbag.  Grinning, he felt his massive cock pulse within the confining groin of his tight black jumpsuit.  With his black knit cap pulled low, his black leather tactical gloves and tightly laced boots, he was almost completely invisible in the darkness of the forest undergrowth.

He placed his hand on the grip of his Ka-bar utility knife with its 9-inch double-sided blade—one smooth, the other serrated, and both honed to a truly lethal sharpness—that hung from his webbed nylon belt.  Again, he felt a spasm in his potent shaft of manmeat.

Yeah, it was a job.  But it was a job he fuckin’ loved.  Goddam, nothing felt better than holding a piece of shit guard in your arms and showing exactly how much better a warrior you were, especially if it was young.

Mac was a cold-blooded professional killer.  But that didn’t mean that he didn’t take pleasure in showing little boys who thought they were men what it really meant to be a man—what it meant to die like a man.

You’re playing in the big leagues now, boys, Mac thought to himself, smiling grimly as he crept silently forward, let’s see if you have what it takes.  If I can’t put you both down, screaming like fucking bitches, within the next forty minutes, I’ll donate fifty grand to the asswipe governor’s campaign myself.

But as he carefully planted the sole of his leather combat boot another step forward, he knew that no donation would ever be made.  And yet again, his thick, vein-wreathed member pulsed at the thought of what he was going to inflict on the teens boys.  He was commando—as well as a commando—within his jumpsuit; he’d already learned that it left him less clothing to wash his cum out of at the end of a mission.

He’d been observing the boys long enough to have worked out his strategy based on the power dynamic between them. The dark-haired one was obviously the leader; the blond would be unlikely to be in possession of any pertinent info. 

Which meant his only use was as a psychological tool against the other one.  Mac was about to put their friendship to the test.


Tim was becoming bored and antsy.  He lit a Marlboro—he’d been smoking for several years.  Joey glanced over at him, but his lack of any kind of sentry training or skills didn’t recognize how strong—and undesirable—a signal smoking on guard duty can send.  It ruins any change of concealment and is a profound indicator of amateur status. 

Admittedly, in this instance, it didn’t matter, but if Mac had been a sniper, he could’ve taken them out from a half mile away once he’d seen the spark.  As it was, it only proved that the teens, with their hormone-driven cockiness, were laughably inept.  And it was going to cost them their lives.

“What’re we supposed to be lookin’ fer?” Tim asked as Mac continued his low, stealthy approach, his boots not making a sound on the forest floor.

“Aw, I dunno,” Joey responded. Reaching into the back pocket of his skin-tight Levi’s, he also drew out a pack of Marlboros—but what he pulled from the pack was a tightly-rolled joint, not a cigarette.  He fired it up and immediately had a huge coughing fit. 

“More ya cough, more ya get off,” Tim chuckled, but Joey didn’t seem to hear him.  His response, when he was able to speak again, was to continue his reply to Tim’s question. 

“I mean,” the hardbodied, booted adolescent gasped, as soon as he was able to catch his breath, “who’s gonna dumb enough to fuck with Pedro?”  He took another lung-busting hit but managed not to cough this time.  He pondered for a bit as he slowly released the heavily-scented blue smoke back into the air.

“Still…” he said musingly, “he mighta had some reason.  And it ain’t like we been really guardin’ this place, y’know?”

“Whatcha mean?” Tim asked, turning slightly.

As he did, a sliver of moonlight briefly crossed his face.  Mac was both alert enough and close enough to see the dilation of his darting eyes and a sheen of sweat on his face.  No wonder he wasn’t smoking weed—the kid was high as fuck on meth.

“I mean, we just been standin’ here,” Joey said.  “I mean, what if someone’s tryin’ to break in around the back?  Look, I’ll go around that side.  You take this side, and we’ll meet in the back.  Shouldn’t take more ‘n a minute or so. And take yer gun, dude,” he added, nodding at the rifle Tim had propped against a nearby oak tree.  He already had his own hunting rifle in his hand.  

And with that, Joey headed to the farther side of the shed.  He’d left the nearer side to Tim because it was less encumbered with vegetation; he knew his homie was too fucked up to deal with tricky situations.  As usual, he was going to have to watch over Tim.  When’s the stupid fucker gonna learn to take care of himself? Joey thought.   A swell of an almost paternal love for the other youth filled his heart at such a deep, subconscious level that he was utterly unaware of it; he only felt a warm emotional glow.

It was the last positive emotion he was going to experience in his short and useless life.


As the dirty-blond teen came within arm’s reach of Mac’s ambush spot, his camo hunting boots loudly signaled his approach as twigs snapped and leaves rustled under their heavy tread.  Mac grinned momentarily; the meat was making this too easy.  Then his hard, cold face snapped back in a seriousness that showed his laser-like focus on the task at hand.

He was unaware that he was not only leaking precum at this point, he was leaking so much that a patch the size of a quarter was glistening in his groin.

Mac’s lightning-swift lunge took Tim so by surprise that the adolescent punkmeat never did figure out what exactly happened to it.  Of course, it wasn’t given much time—and what time it was given was completely devoted to terror and agony. 

It started with Mac’s gloved hand clamping over Tim’s mouth with an iron grip that formed an airtight seal.  Simultaneously, his right hand sank his Ka-bar knife an inch and a half deep into the cunt’s back.  The hand over the unlucky youth’s mouth muffled his inadvertent scream of pain into little more than a muffle grunt.

Mac jerked the knife out immediately.  He’d deliberately missed any organ or major blood vessel; this was meant as an appetizer, so to speak.  Something to whet the meat’s appetite for what lay in store.

Dragging the teenaged sentry into the undergrowth, Mac found a small glade, barely five feet across, less than three yards from the building.  This was where it was all going down.

The tall, well-muscled hardman held the boy securely in his arms as it shuddered and writhed.  Its continued grunts told him it hadn’t stopped trying to scream.

Lowering his heard until the three-day scruff on his manly cheeks abraded Tim’s outer ear like steel wool, he whispered hoarsely to the suffering boy.  “Shut the fuck up, asswipe.  You ain’t dyin’—yet.  Here, look at this.”

With that, he held the double-sided blade up in front of the boy’s eyes.  Two things were instantly clear, even to Tim’s meth-clouded brain.  One was its terrifyingly obvious capability of inflicting excruciating death.  The other was that for all the pain Tim was in, he’d only experienced a fraction of that capability.

Somewhere in the back of the barely coherent teen’s mind, a vague sensation of wet warmth on its feet was registered and immediately ignored.  It never knew it had lost control of its bladder as the sight of the blood-smeared blade, its pissed cascading down its leg to where its jeans were tucked into its water-tight boots.

“Hold on, motherfucker,” Mac muttered grimly, “We’re just gettin’ this show started.  Now we gotta what for yer buddy.  Heh, what’s the deal with you two.  You faggots?  Butt-pirates?  Ass-bandits?  Betcha are.  Makes this so much easier.  World’s better off without cocksuckers like you, anyway.”

Mac was edging.  He needed to pull back from the brink or this wouldn’t be up to his professional standards.  So he did.

And for nearly four minutes straight, Tim had to suffer the nightmarish torture of being clamped tightly in the muscular arms of a powerful, anonymous male, a terrible wound in his back, his nostrils full of an overpowering mix of leather, sweat, and the subtle but amazingly strong influences of adrenaline and testosterone.

Worst of all to the seventeen-year-old scumshit was the way it all resulted in an utterly involuntary and uncontrolled erection.  Tim was a muscular country boy, as was Joey.  Both had explored each other during their homosexual stage in puberty; each was a good seven inches long.  Joey only won out in girth; fully erect, his was over two inches in diameter while Tim was left with a nonetheless-respectable inch and a half.

And somehow, in some way, that long slab of boymeat had come to life on its own after he’d filled his boots with piss, responding to Tim’s pain and fear with a swollen, aching erection.  But he was pinned so tightly he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

It seemed to take an eternity for Joey to reappear around the corner of the building—an eternity of terror for pain and of anticipation for Mac.

Placing his brown leather lace-up boots carefully, the adolescent peered around, an expression of concern.  “Tim?” he called out, audibly but not loudly.  “Where ya at, man?”

Within Mac’s inexorable grasp, Tim struggled to respond.  Mac tightened his grip to the point that the punk desisted from sheer pain alone.

Joey rounded the corner to the side he’d sent Tim down.  He paused, looking down at something.  Mac followed his eyeline and saw the rifle Tim had dropped when he’d been snatched.  The jig was up.

“Hey, motherfucker,” the buff assassin called out.  “Wanna watch yer butt-buddy die?  Get yer faggot ass over here.”

Joey heard Mac’s contemptuous, masculine voice and his blood ran cold.  He cautiously stepped forward, his face pale in the watery moonlight.  Something bad had happened to Tim…

The moment the adolescent punk placed his boot into the glade, he froze in horror.  A windblown cloud had blocked the moonlight and he could just make out Tim standing in an awkward position.  There was something over his mouth—and something behind him, something Joey couldn’t identify.  But it scared the fuck out of him.  There was a glint there in the darkness, the faintest glint of icy steel…

Then the cloud cleared the moon, and Joey was confronted by the sight of Tim being held in the iron-hard grip of some guy who looked like a fuckin’ commando.

“Are you fuckin’ kiddin’ me??” The teen blurted out.  In response Mac smiled and held up the blade and Joey instantly saw that the guy wasn’t fucking kidding him.

It was the most wicked knife Joey had ever seen, grotesquely long, obviously razor-sharp—and smeared with blood at its tip.  It took a moment for the stoned guardboy’s fogged brain to accept what it was seeing.  Whose blood was it? 

It was fresh.  It could only be Tim’s, and the tears of pain and terror streaming down his face confirmed it.  But even so—no.  This was a bad scene, but it wasn’t that bad.

And of all the bad decisions and moronic miscalculations of the young asswipe’s useless life, that was undoubtedly the stupidest.

“Drop the heat fuckwad!” the man snarled in the same cold, hard voice Joey had heard before, but the boy merely stood there, motionless and slack-jawed.

Mac knew what had happened. He relaxed a bit, internally—his rigid muscular form itself never relaxing in the slightest.  Not that he was in any way concerned about the course of events, but the main problem in dealing with raw amateurs was the unpredictability of their reactions.  In the case of fight or flight, flight was the least favorable outcome.  There was always the possibility of the target alerting others before being put down.

But a large number of them went the third way, like the worthless piece of shit in front of him now.  The target would simply freeze, its soft, weak mind in a kind of vapor lock.  The question now was, what it would take to get that soggy lump of THC-soaked tissue inside the sentry’s skull working again? 

“HEY!!” Mac shouted.  Joey started and looked him straight in the eye.  Mac’s icy blue gaze locked onto the teen and held him in place as surely as if he’d been physically restrained, and from that moment, he gave up both his own and Tim’s life.

“Drop your fucking rifle, you dumbass cunt, or I’ll cut your boyfriend’s throat.  You’ll like that.  See?”  With that, Mac held the blade against Tim’s throat and drew the blade along the smooth, tender skin.  He only used enough pressure to break the skin, but Tim’s muffled screams almost drowned out Joey’s bleat of despair as he saw blood trickling down his best friend’s neck.  His nerveless hands went slack; the sound of its impact on the carpet of leaves was faint but distinctive. 

Nonetheless, Joey didn’t hear it.  Nor did he feel the warm wet sensation spreading out from his crotch.  He was fully focused on Mac—almost hypnotized, like the old canard about snakes and birds.

“Good,” the experienced merc went on, his tone calm and even.  “Now, c’mere.” 

Joey took another two steps forward.  “Closer, boy.  We’re gonna have a nice little talk, the two of us.”

The adolescent sentry crept forward like a half-tamed deer, his feet cold and wet in his piss-filled Browning boots.  Faint piteous moans escaped involuntarily and almost inaudibly from his mouth, but he managed to bring himself within reach of Mac despite his overwhelming terror at doing so.

“Ok, here’s how this is going down.  I’m gonna ask ya some questions.  You keep answering, you’re ok.  You don’t answer, you lie even once, I’m gonna butcher this cocksucker like a fuckin’ hog right in front of you.  You get me, buddy?”

Joey stared at Mac in horror, his jaw still hanging open.  Tim’s eyelids were tightly clenched shut.  But neither of the teens could power off their senses, or their reflex reactions.  Overpowering adolescent hormones combined in their blood along with the massive amounts of adrenaline and testosterone generated by all three males as they navigated a profoundly critical situation.

So as a trickle of saliva trickled down Joey’s chin from his gaping mouth, the bulge tenting his tight jeans was even larger than the one Tim had been sporting for the last ten minutes.

Despite abject terror having a severely sobering effect, Joey had been so stoned that even now his foggy brain couldn’t seem to generate a response of any kind.  Needless to say, Mac was not pleased.  But he didn’t want to kill the little homo he’d grabbed—yet.  For one thing, it eliminated one of his bargaining chips.  And for another it could send the other pile of boymeat so far over the edge that interrogation would be useless.  He needed to start gently.

The reality was that Mac was well aware that these relatively low-level punk fucks were unlikely to know anything and almost certainly had no info that he’d find useful, or even pertinent.  But he hadn’t become so proficient as a killer mercenary without trying to gather whatever possible intel he could.

And the thought of showing stupid young dumbshits what it meant to play with the big boys always got his enormous staff of manhood as stiff as a girder.

“Hey, dude,” he called out to the free-standing teen, “ya remember what I said about not answering?”  And with that, he stuck the blade into Tim’s throat.

 It only went in half an inch, and Mac was dexterous enough to be able to miss any major blood vessels.  It did what it was designed to do, though, especially given that at the same time he’d momentarily uncovered his hostage’s mouth.

Between Tim’s panicked screech of pain and the minor but visually impressive spurt of blood that spat out his neck, it gave Joey the distinct impression that he’d just seen Tim get killed.  The wounded boy continued to scream.

“SHADDUP!!!” Mac yelled, clamping his hand back over the meat’s mouth.  He turned his face to Joey.  “Fucking pansy crybabies, both of ya,” he sneered.  “Look, the blood is barely trickling now.  Trust me, motherfuckers, if I really have to off you, it’s gonna hurt worse than anything you’ve ever felt.”

Here, he lowered his head and moved it slightly forward, his rough, stubbly cheek once again scraping against Tim’s tear-stained face.  His eyes locking onto Joey’s, he made sure that the young sentry felt the full impact of his gleefully malicious grin.

“You gotta understand, you scumshit,” Mac said in a low, malicious tone, “I’m good at what I do.  What’s more, I enjoy it.  I fuckin’ get off on torturing and killing stupid fuckwads like you two, who think they’re warriors—that they’re real men.  So I’m gonna ask you this one last time, and if I don’t get an answer, I’m gonna use your little butt-buddy here to show you exactly how much a man can suffer before he dies—and if you keep it up after that, you’ll get to enjoy the sensation yourself.  Now, do you fucking UNDERSTAND me?!?”

It worked.  Somehow, the logjam in Joey’s mind broke up.  He gulped and inhaled shakily.  “Y-y-yes, s-sir,” he stammered in such a faint, pathetic voice that I would have moved Mac to tears, if he had had a heart.

But he didn’t have a heart, he had a long, hard cock, and a long hard blade.  And the only way to relieve the ache in the former was to put the latter to work.

“So,” Mac replied, almost casually, “what’s in that shed?  Why did Pablo have you two incompetents out here guarding it?”

“Dude, I don’t—” Joey began but Mac’s glare and a faint twitch of his knife, back at Tim’s throat silenced him.

“Remember what I said about lying, you little asswipe,” the hardbodied killer hissed.

Joey gulped again, more loudly, and started again.  “C-coke an-and meth, sir,” he blurted, “I don’t know how much, really, sir.  I know there’s a shit-ton of both in there but please, I really don’t know how much—please don’t hurt us no more, ok?

“What else?” Mac snapped.

“What-what else?” Joey asked faintly, as if in shock, “Noth-nothing else, man, please, oh fuckin’ God, please let us go!  That’s it, dude, I swear, there ain’t nothing else!!”

The teen boy shriveled as the muscled merc glowered furiously at him.  The cocky adolescent who’d thought himself such a badass was dead; if Joey survived this night, he’d emerge with his psyche so shattered as to appear similar to physical brain damage.

In a sense, then, the fact that he wasn’t going to survive that night was a mercy.  But only in a sense…

“BULLSHIT!!” Mac roared.  “I know there’s a lot more shit in there than that.  And I know Pablo was training you to be his right-hand man, so you gotta know, yeah?”

Joey’s face had gone past white; it had the gray death-like power of abject terror, with large, dark rings circling the youth’s brown, long-lashed eyes. His hood had fallen back, revealing brown hair that had been carefully styled into an untidy mop at one point but was now soaked with sweat despite the chill.

“How do you know about that?” he whispered in terror.  No one knew about that besides Pablo and him.

“Oh, Pablo told me,” Mac replied casually, a jaunty smile on his face.  “That was not too long before I tore his throat out.  Of course, he was as reluctant to talk as you.  More so, in fact—I think my persuasive techniques left him grateful for death.  So you see, dickhead, if you keep pretending like you don’t know anything, I’ll be more than happy to ease your passage likewise.”

Joey fell to his knees, sobbing and pleading incoherently.  Tim had long since made little motion in Mac’s arms.  The boy was breathing normally and trembling, but Mac suspected that this particular piece of guardmeat had checked out some time ago.

That was ok.  He still knew a way to evoke a response from it—and from the other one, too. 

After all, both had to die anyway; that was a given.  The experienced mercenary never left any witnesses.  But it wasn’t enough that he kill them—as far as Mac was concerned, they needed to suffer for their profound presumption into thinking that raw teens could possibly compete with a field replete with experienced professional killers.  And there was yet another reason.

The circles in which Mac moved professionally were not huge; he was among an exclusive tier of hired assassins. It wasn’t the highest tier; Mac wasn’t an international killer.  He preferred to clean his own house first.  But within his level, he was very well-known and well-regarded.  This kill would be advertisement.  Those who knew him would recognize his MO.  He’d already terminated the main target in a way that sent an unmistakable message, so the job was already a success.  Putting these two little pieces of shit down would only enhance his reputation for ruthlessness and thoroughness. 

The moment he rammed his blade horizontally through Tim’s neck, his cock began seeping precum.

Oddly enough, so did Tim’s, even though no one knew it at the time.  Not even Tim; he was too busy dying.

‘GACKPTH!!!” the agonized teenager spat out, along with thick gout of crimson blood, as the razor-sharp steel sliced through tendons, ligaments, veins, and arteries with the ease of penetrating a bowl of gelatin.  The only resistance was when the trachea was pierced, and the knife encountered the rubbery tissue of the larynx.  Mac had done this literally dozens of times before; increasing the pressure on the hilt until the knife sprouted out the other side of the punk’s neck was an automatic reflex by now.

At least three inches of blood-smeared steel had come out the far side of Tim’s throat when Mac, a sneer of utter hatred on his face and his stallion-like dick trickling a steady stream of precum, twisted the blade and reamed out the fucker’s throat, ripping its voicebox into bloody shredded calamari.  Then the sadistic merc sawed the knife out, cutting forward out of the meat’s neck—the knife was sharp enough to slice through everything like deli meat, but Mac knew the slow sawing caused much more pain. 

Placing his knee in the middle of Tim’s back, he shoved the gurgling, blood-spewing teen right into the arms of his best friend.  Still kneeling, Joey half-rose and caught him in his arms before sinking back down and laying Tim on the forest floor.  He instantly found himself retching uncontrollably as Tim’s hot, sticky blood cascaded over him, filling his nostrils with the overpowering and nauseating scent of copper.

“Oh—oh God, Tim, no, don’t’ die!  For fuck’s sake Tim, stay with me!!”

Cradled in Joey’s arms, Tim looked up at him, his face twisted in unimaginable agony and horror. The geyser of blood from his ripped-open throat was starting to slow when the boy convulsed and a thick jet of pinkish foam shot out over Joey, leaving him reeking of alcohol. 

In his death throes, Tim had vomited all over Joey.  But the only contents of his stomach were a six-pack of cheap beer.  Gazing up at Joey, Tim reached up.  He managed to stroke Joey’s face once before his hand dropped limply to his side and he began to thrash violently.  Joey held him tight during his last few nightmarish seconds on earth.

Had either of them know it, it might have helped—on a deeply internal level that neither could have possible even admitted to each other—to know that Tim most intense orgasm of Tim’s utterly useless life happened while he bled out in Joey’s arms.

After all, Joey’s death wouldn’t be in the arms of his latent, repressed crush.

The young sentry had kept his hunting jacket buttoned; now he unfastened it.  Shrugging it off, he staggered backwards from horrifying stench of death.  Amazingly enough, despite the fountain of gore he’d endured, his clothing was clean, aside from some stains on the front of his legs above the knees.  It had also splashed on his face, but he’d already wiped most of it off with the jacket sleeves.

“Now it’s your turn,” Mac said, smiling grimly as he held up the bloody blade.  As he stepped forward, his experience and professionalism showed in the way his tightly-laced black leather utility boots didn’t make the slightest sound on the carpet of dead, brittle leaves.

Mechanically, Joey began backing, matching Mac’s pace.  His eyes, leaking tears, were locked helplessly onto the muscled killer’s steely gaze.  He knew he was going to die—but he didn’t really know it.  He didn’t feel it.

Mac was going to change that.

“You want this, don’t you?” he said in a low, almost seductive tone as he held his gore-stained serrated knife up.  “Look at it, asshole.  Look at how hard it is—how long.  You want it inside of you, don’t you?”  His leer was suggestive and somehow hypnotic.  “I stuck in your boyfriend.  Does that make you jealous?  I thrust it in hard and fast, right up to the hilt.”

Here his eyes flicked downward, too quickly to break their mesmerizing spell on the mind-raped teenager.  It was enough to confirm his suspicions.  “You’re hard, boy.  Miss your little faggot butt-buddy, huh?  Well, you’ll be joining him soon.”

Joey could only sag against the tree behind him and whimper.  He was, quite literally, mindless with terror, unable to form a single lucid thought.  And yet—and yet, some fragment of his hatefucked mind was still painfully aware that his thick young boycock was not only erect but was straining so hard as to cause physical pain. 

At that moment, though, Joey was much more aware of something else.  Mac had finally reached him.

Mac pressed his hard, firm body up against the kid, pinning him to the tree.  Reaching around to force his hand between cunt’s head and the tree trunk, he gripped the boypunk’s head from behind like a clamp to keep it still.

After all, this next part was going to be so agonizing that the sentry was going to thrash violently.  Meat always did when it died—especially teen meat. 

For a moment, a memory flashed before Mac’s eyes.

It was right before he’d wasted Pablo.  The motherfucker had passed out under interrogation and Mac had been looking for something to amp up it’s pain when it woke back up—he was excellent at this kind of improvisation.  Before finally lighting on a pair of garden shears, Mac had found some insulin pen needles—evidently the thug was diabetic, something of which Mac would permanently cure him within the next hour.

Anyway, they were too small to do any damage, but a phrase on the side of the box caught his attention—“lubrication designed for gentle injection”.

The sadistic assassin chuckled malevolently.  There wasn’t going to be anything gentle about this injection—and the only lubricant was going to be the blood of a dumbfuck teenage boy.

Mac placed the tip of the blade against the soft, tender flesh of the trembling guard’s underjaw, three inches behind its chin, which was just beginning to sprout with downy, adolescent fuzz—the sign of an incipient manhood that would never have the chance to blossom to its full state of twisted criminal growth.

This was what the aroused hardbodied killer loved—this intimacy.  The way his target writhed beneath him as he watched its utterly worthless life drain from its eyes, the helpless bleating of despair and agony…this was what he needed.  It wasn’t enough to off the scumshits—they needed suffer, and he needed to make goddam sure they did.

As he began to slowly increase the pressure, driving the knife up into the sentry’s mouth.  Almost immediately, a loud screech came from the meat.  It didn’t matter—there was no one else to hear the stupid teenager scream out the last nightmarish minutes of its life.

“Shh,” Mac whispered tenderly, perhaps even lovingly, “You’re gonna love this shit, dude.  You already know you need it and deserve it.  Fuck, you want it.  I can feel your dick, faggot.  It’s rubbing against mine.  You want me to cum, yeah?  You want to try to make my spunk as you unload your death wad?  That’s exactly what you’re gonna do, fuckwad—fuck yeah, let’s get this shit on!!!”

The next stage was more horrifically excruciating than anything in Joey’s life—beyond anything the boy could have possibly conceived.  In fact, even though he would never know it, it was worse than anything Tim had ever experienced as well.

And that included having his throat ripped out.

Mac’s movement was swift and brutal.  In so many words, he stabbed the teenager in the sinus.

From below.

In doing so, he drove the wicked serrated blade up through the muscles on the underside of the jaw.  Entering the oral cavity, it continued upwards, pinning the tongue to the roof of the mouth.  When Mac encountered the resistance of the palate, he applied more pressure.  The bone cracked with an audible splintering sound, allowing the sharply honed steel to penetrate into the sinus.  As it did so, completely bisected the unlucky boy’s tongue, neatly as the midpoint.

Even as the front half of its tongue flopped forward, beyond control, it was still attached to the meat’s mouth by the frenulum.  It was unable to eject the large wad of ungovernable muscle in its mouth.  The young guard could no longer articulate, it could only utter wordless shrieks and drool blood.  Even so, as Mac was well aware, it maintained its erection.  Fucking deathpig, it wanted this so bad, and Mac was more than happy to help.

“Fuckin-A,” he murmured into the boy’s ear, “Salt and copper, yeah?  That what you’re tasting?  That’s blood.  That’s what death tastes like, motherfucker!”

Joey knew that by now.  In fact, it was all he knew now.  His entire existence, his entre awareness, had (with one exception) focused on the sharp point of the blade that was slowly impaling his cranium.

“It’s called skullfucking, asswipe,” Mac hissed at the trembling kid, his eyes glittering icily with erotic hatred, “Ya get it?  I’m fuckin you up bad, right through the skull.  Now the fun’s about to start—next thing I’m fuckin’ up is your worthless brain.”

Joey could hear; he could hear every word.  The words seemed to be a faint echo from down a long hallway, true, but he still heard them.  He could still feel the knife slicing upwards through his oral and nasal cavities.  That pain didn’t stop.  But what happened next didn’t cause him any pain at all.  There are no nerve endings in the brain.

Instead, the dying teenager suffered the impacts of gradually worsening traumatic brain damage.  Mac knew how to kill almost instantly with a knife to the brain—jam up in through the back of the neck, up through the foramen magnum, the hole through which the spinal cord exits the cranial vault.  You get the knife into the brainstem and grind it around in there a bit, and you’ll  stop its heart and/or lungs in, well, in a heartbeat. 

Or you could do it the way Mac was doing it now, but instead of shoving the blade straight up, you angled to the rear and hit the cerebellum, incapacitating the target loss of motor control and inducing overpowering nausea.  You could get the same effect going in through the ear.

These methods turned a dangerous professional armed guard into a twitching pile of manmeat within seconds.  Mac reserved them for worthy opponents.  This worthless sack of shit was going out the hard way.

That meant slashing straight up into the cerebellum, deep into the parietal lobe, the sharp steel tip lodging directly into the insular lobe.  It took a lot of skill to be able to get the blade to exactly the right spot, but it was one of the first Mac had acquired—it was one of his favorites.  He had done this so often in the past that the ability was almost reflexive at this point.

With the knife in this precise position, Mac had blocked the punk’s sensory inputs and interpretation.  With certain slight movements, he was able to control what it felt.  He wasn’t a neurosurgeon and had no interest in the specifics involved, but he was able to manipulate what it felt in terms of pain and pleasure, both in volume and intensity.

This always worked the best on these stupid young guns.  Their very youth helped them fight through the massive trauma-induced shock.  Its senses would be all fucked up, but it could still hear and see and smell.  Mac didn’t know how well—it would have pleased him to know that it produced so painfully exaggerated sensations.  But it definitely could still feel.

This was what the stupid young fuck needed to cure its cockiness.  This was what happened when boys pretended they were men.  This was how they learned their place.  A real man could have posed a threat.  A real man wouldn’t have let his emotions control him—he would have watched his comrade die in the blink of an eye.  These teens had to die hard—because they made it too easy.

And because Mac enjoyed it.

He knew he’d placed the knife correctly when the boymeat made an incoherent gurgle and wrapped it hands around his thick, tense biceps, clutching them tightly.  Its dark eyes, ringed gray with shock and as wide open as seemed humanly possible, suddenly dilated.  Mac inched closer, his utility boots bracketing the meat’s brown leather hunting boots as their groins ground together, long hard cocks rubbing against each other through the killer’s black tactical jumpsuit and the dying guard’s piss-moist jeans.

“Now, boy,” Mac whispered, his almost loving tone belied by the ferocious look of mingled hate and lust in his hard, scruff-covered face, “It’s almost over.  Only a few more seconds.”

He was close enough for the full strength of his masculine pheromones and testosterone to be carried by the tang of his sweat past the kid’s blood-streaked upper sinus.  The way the blade was placed in the insular lobe massively exaggerated the effects these had on the impact of the adolescent’s nervous system, already overstimulated and rampant with adrenaline and teenage hormones.

The only thing that prevented Joey from oragasming on the spot was that the tiny bit of lucidity that still clung on despite the mind-bending agony and terror was still there—fear is a great cock-blocker.  So the sheer awareness of onrushing death was enough to curb the sexual reflex.

What it needed was just a tad of stimulation—a mere soupçon.  What it got was a devastating explosion, and all Mac had to do was just twist the blade inside the teen’s brain ever so slightly…

What Joey experienced would be difficult to describe in words.  It was as if a huge nuclear weapon had been set off in the center of his brain.  Except…except it was different.  A sudden explosion of white light that began to fade.  A deafening high-pitched tone that replaced all other sounds.  A burst of unbearable heat that slickened his lithe adolescent body with the cold sweat exuded under conditions of overwhelming pain.

Because there was pain.  Holy fuck, there was pain, so far off the scale that it merged imperceptibly into the most profound, intense pleasure that Joey’s firm young frame went rigid in searing, agonizing ecstasy.

He didn’t know he was ejaculating.  What little of his mind was left could only interpret the sensation as one of molten lead being pumped up out of his balls and through his hard dick, excruciating, boiling heat accompanied by a powerful shock.  Mac knew what was happening, though.

Finally.  This was it.  This faggot cocksucker finally learned its proper place in the world, and that was enough.  This had happened so many times before that Mac had trained himself to undergo some of the most massive orgasms in his life without making a sound.  The only signs he gave off were a sudden ragged increase in his breathing and a mild tremor in his rock-hard limbs—and a glistening spot in his groin where his hot seed, potent as any weapon, had spewed out in such volume as to soak through his clothing. 

None of was strong enough to prevent him from jerking the knife grip back towards himself and upwards, rotating it around its center of mass like a pivot.  This swung the back of the blade downwards, its tip making an arc along the inside of the rear of the cranium.

And that was the end of Joey.  As the steel knife sliced down into areas that controlled more basic bodily functions, the gray connective tissue parting like a curtain all the way down into the brainstem, the few surviving specks of Joey’s personality, his being itself, faded to black.  The last thing he felt was the grotesque pain of his still-spurting deathload.

Not that the convulsing teenmeat was dead.  Its respiration and heartbeat both became rapid and highly irregular, signs that it had suffered fatal brain damage  The eyes rolled back in its head and a grunting, bleating sound emerged from its throat in tempo with its gasping for air.  Again, Mac handled it like a professional.  Finishing the job, keeping the target silent and immobilized until its violent death throes slowed enough that he knew it wouldn’t attract any notice.  There wasn’t anyone around to notice, but it was important to do the job right, no matter what.

And as he clamped his gloved hand across its mouth to muffle its final death gurgles and pressed the dying punk against the tree with his own body, Mac took advantage of the situation by allowing the last few convulsion of the youth to massage his crotch and milk the last two loads of his own semen out.

And then that was it.  The convulsions slowed, the breathing reached a crescendo, then trailed off in a long-drawn out gargling sound deep in the throat.  It was literally meat, random limbs shuddering as nervous system misfires continued for a few more minutes.  Mac yanked his gore-streaked blade out of its head and wiped it carefully on the dead kid’s sweat-darkened shirt.  Then he stepped back and let the corpse slump to the floor like a rag doll.

It had been less than four minutes since the other fucker had squirted its own deathwad.  In fact, a little over ten minutes ago, both Joey and Tim had been blissfully unaware of Mac’s presence.

Eminently satisfied with a job well done, the hardbodied assassin left the glade without so much as a backwards glance.  The fact that he’d seized a moment to enjoy his job didn’t mean he didn’t take it seriously.  And besides, the rest of his pay was waiting for him.

Behind him, the chill wind cut through the glade, lowering the temperatures of the pair of already-cooling corpses.  Splayed on its back, the sac of meat that had gone by the name of Tim had stopped kicking; all that remained were the rapidly decreasing spasms that made its fingers curl and its boots twitch.  Joey’s remains were a few minutes behind in the grisly dance of death.  It was still digging a furrow in the leaves with its right bootheel—the left leg had folded up under it in such a way that the only motion its left foot could make was to pivot up and down silently at the ankle.

 Mac had already forgotten them.  Not literally, of course, but his laser-like focus had shifted elsewhere.  He’d gotten into the shed with little difficulty.  The safe would be as easy but would take a little time—and precaution—to pull off.

Some time ago, he’d come across some pilfered military gear while on a job.  He managed to acquire a decent amount of PE-4, the British equivalent of C4, along with a gross of detonators.  Needless to say, knowing that he was going to tackle a safe, he brought some along.  He’d deliberately learned this skill not so much because his job called for it as because he thought it was a useful ability to have.  He didn’t do it often, but he had been expertly trained.

That training included, as well as determining the right amount and placement for various types of safe, the effects of sound and blast damage to the surroundings.  As far as sound was concerned, Mac had no worries.  It was the blast damage that prompted the precaution.

He scanned the interior of the shed with his flashlight.  Half of the space was stacked floor-to-ceiling with trash bags full of weed.  There was barely any scent from them, and none had been noticeable outside.  Mac had expected this; at some point Pablo had babbled that the shit was old and dry and he’d been trying to find some sucker to unload it on.  The sadistic killer had only been interested in that the stuff could be dry enough to become tinder—but even then, it would likely only smolder.  Otherwise, he neither used nor sold drugs.

It was the stuff his light revealed on the other side that really worried him. Meth is definitely flammable and ignited heroin can be explosive; luckily, those packages had been placed in such a way that, as Mac noted when he finally located the safe in the far corner, were shielded by the meth. 

After all, Mac didn’t give a shit if the shed exploded as long as he wasn’t inside getting the cash when it did.

He did, however, remove the two gallons of acetone left over from the shed’s days as a meth lab that had been placed on top of the safe.

After that, the safe itself presented no problems; it was prepped and opened within five minutes.  The cash was easy enough to grab and stuff into a specially-designed pouch attached to his webbed nylon belt—twenty-two stacks of five hundred used twenties, along with some loose bills—two Benjamins and a Grant, also used.

The guns, however, posed a problem for him.  He didn’t give a shit about the drugs, but the though of those Uzis falling into the hands of someone he might have to go up against.  He didn’t use automatic weapons often—he was more a hands-on killer—but they were handy at times.  He already owned a couple of Uzis.

But the contents of the shed gave him an idea.  Stuffing the safe as full of the heroin packages as he could, he placed the remainder around it, then walled it in with the meth.  Around that, he dragged as many of the weed trash bags as he could until he’d filled in enough to reach the entrance.  Standing outside, he emptied the first bottle of acetone he could reach, then used the other to create a train out to a safe distance, making a crude but powerfully effective time bomb. 

He lit it with a lighter he carried with him—just in case—and silently vanished back into the forest, his muscular shadowy form melting into the darkness, never to be found.

By the time the shed detonated, felling several nearby trees and sending up a small but very noticeable mushroom cloud up over the forest, all movement had ceased in the teens’ corpses.  It took an hour for emergency personnel to arrive at the scene, and the bodies weren’t discovered until nearly three hours after that, by which time they’d become so stiff that the ME had a hard time getting them into his van.

The news of their deaths caused little to no public interest—or, indeed, among their own families, who considered them wastes that they were collectively better off without.  Even law enforcement ignored them beyond associating the incident with the ruthless torture and brutal murder of Pablo Albañez, which they were far more interested in investigating.  After all, he had a very long list of high-profile enemies.  And some with not so high profiles with cartel connections.

And so, three weeks after the murders and a week and a half after the families declined to claim them, the bodies of Tim and Joey were donated to science under a law that permitted the county to avoid paying for the disposal of an unwanted body.  As a result each one ended up at different anatomical education institutions.

After that, the only thing they shared was falling into the hands of male medical students who, alone in the med labs at night, cut the teens open and enjoyed their corpses just as much as Mac had enjoyed making them corpses.

Blackie Goes Dark

Sighing with boredom, Blackie leaned back in the doorway and took a swig from the flask he’d stowed in his pocket.  It was a warm night and the mouthful of body-temperature Johnny Walker burned his throat on the way down.  It didn’t bother Blackie, though, he was used to it.  And he’d deal with being bored so long as he could get tanked.


Didn’t mean he couldn’t get pissed off, though, for having to stand out here in the hot humid night air just to earn a coupla extra bucks.  Damn Uncle Clayton, he grumbled inwardly, Coulda done more.  Coulda gotten me a better job.


Actually, Clayton Chambers had already done far more for his nephew Hayden (Blackie to his disreputable friends and, reluctantly, his family) than the strung-out young punk deserved.  Simply getting him into the police academy hadn’t been difficult—a matter of a word or two places with the right cronies in city hall, getting Blackie’s criminal record buried too deep to find—but number of strings the old man had to pull to ensure Blackie’s graduation was a different thing altogether.


The boy hadn’t had any issues with the physical parts of the course; he was twenty-three and his body was a hundred and fifty pounds of firm, strong muscle.  And, to everyone’s surprise, he turned out to be an excellent marksman.  But that was where his appropriateness for the police academy ended.


It wasn’t just that Blackie got violent when he drank—and he drank a lot—it was that he was stupid.  It was a stubborn stupidity that successfully resisted all attempts at improvement, making him sullen and ungrateful.  His innate arrogance and sense of entitlement had made him a pariah in his graduating class and universally loathed on the force.


The annual salary of a rookie cop wasn’t much, but it was more than enough for most young men his age to live on.  Blackie, though, continued to party like a teenager and his lack of responsibility naturally led to lack of funds.   Hence his moonlighting as a security guard—and his attitude towards doing it.


Fuck it, at least I can still get fuckin’ drunk, he thought and took another swig.


The night was still, but not quiet; the warehouse he was patrolling, a small metal building set back from the street by a parking lot, was only a few blocks from the highway and a couple of major thoroughfares.  The sounds of the city rose and fell like waves from all sides; even in the dead of night, it wasn’t silent.


Blackie checked the time; it was half past midnight.  He sighed petulantly and began his perimeter walk; there were stickers placed at points along the perimeter that he had to scan with his phone by a certain time, to prove to his employer that he was actually doing his job.


Another fuckin’ indignity.  Bastards couldn’t just trust him.  Of course, if they had, he wouldn’t be patrolling the property; he’d likely be too drunk even to walk.  As it was, he was having trouble keeping his feet.  The thick soles of his heavy workboots made loud scuffling sounds as he staggered his way along the perimeter fence.


His figure, silhouetted by the parking lot lights, wasn’t a bad one; he was just under six feet tall and despite his dissipation, his build was tight. The hip styling of the black hair that gave him his nickname—buzzcut on the sides and rear with the longer hair on top spiked at the front—was offset by the heavy dark scruff of four days’ worth of growth shadowed his cheeks and his chin.  If it weren’t for the dark blue short-sleeve button-down and tight chinos that were the required uniform of the job, he’d have looked exactly like what he was—an ex-high-school party boy several years past his glory days and rapidly going to seed.


Broad-shouldered and built, stupid and drunk, Blackie was already fulfilling his highest contribution to society—not as a cop, at which he was utterly incompetent, but as bullet-bait for a cartel-owned warehouse.


Blackie didn’t know that last part, of course, and if he had he wouldn’t have given a shit.  He also didn’t know that he was steps away from a nightmarish world of torture and terror that would end only with his agonizing death.


There was an oak tree in the far corner of the parking lot.  Massive and ancient, its limbs stretched up ninety feet and its vast umbrella of shade was more than sixty feet in diameter; the few cars that ever parked in the lot tended to crowd under the oak on hot summer days.


Tonight, the blackness under it was damn near impenetrable.  But there was a sticker he had to scan on the corner post, back behind the tree.  Squinting in the dark, the drunk young guard stumbled in his heavy boots but continued to plod sullenly forward.


The first hint that anything was off was also his last chance to save his life, but he was too fucked up to take it.  His police academy training had taught him how to recover from being blindsided by a blow like the one that sent him stumbling into the tree, but he could only clutch drunkenly at the rough bark to keep from falling to his knees.


The most dangerous aspect of Blackie’s employment on the police force was that it gave him an excuse to carry a gun 24/7.  He had one on him now, in a hip holster, but he was too stunned to even think of reaching for it.  And then a hand clapped over his mouth, a hand in a leather glove that had no fingertips, to allow for a tactical grip—like the one sealing Blackie’s lips with an iron grasp.


He couldn’t see the glove on the hand over his mouth, of course—but he could see his mate.  It was right in front of his face, holding the wickedest Ka-bar knife the young thug had ever seen.  At least seven inches of serrated carbon-steel blade glimmered faintly in the darkness, three inches from his eyes…


…eyes.  He could see eyes.  The face across from his was masked; there was an opening for the mouth and one for both eyes, across the bridge of the nose.  The rest was a hood of black material that completely covered the head.  Some self-preservation instinct tried muzzily to jump-start his training; the inebriated punk was able to get at least a vague idea of his attacker.


The Other Dude was all in black—some kind of jumpsuit, with soft-soled boots.  It made it harder to tell.  He was slightly larger than Blackie—and definitely stronger—and judging by the wrinkles around the eyes, somewhat older, perhaps early thirties.


But that wasn’t what Blackie noticed most about the eyes.


The knife vanished but instantly Blackie could feel its tip pressed against his stomach.  It was a pinprick, just barely there on his firm flat belly three inches above the navel.


“You feel it?” hissed the Other Dude—softly and abruptly.  The pressure on Blackie’s mouth eased.


“Uh-huh,” he muttered shakily.


“I ask.  You answer,” the Other Dude continued in a brisk, business-like manner.  “If you don’t…”


The sentence wasn’t finished.  It didn’t need to be.  Blackie could see the end of the sentence in the Other Dude’s eyes.  They were pale blue, opaque as deep-set ice.  The intoxicated punk had never seen eyes so cold.


He knew that the moment his usefulness ended, so did his life.  It scared him so bad he lost control of his bladder.  The hardbodied young punk was forced to stand, pinned against a tree, as warm piss ran down his firm legs and pooled in his boots.


He was utterly helpless, utterly alone, and utterly in the Other Dude’s control.  And he knew it.


“Y-yessir,” the young thug said, speaking to an older man in a respectful tone of voice for the first time in his life.  It had taken a knife pointed at his gut to make him do it, but he did it.


“Ok,” the Other Dude said evenly, “Where’s Ramirez?”


“Who?” Blackie asked blankly.  The hand clamped down on his mouth like a bear trap and then—


—and then it was inside him oh fuck the pain the knife was inside


“Relax,” the Other Dude whispered, pressing his full body weight against the shuddering punk, steadying him up against the tree, “It ain’t even penetrated yer abdominal cavity.  Yet.  Every question you don’t answer, it goes in another inch.”


Cold despair seized Blackie as he realized that no matter how willing he was to cooperate, it wouldn’t save his life if he honestly didn’t know the answers.  Tears rolled down his cheeks; he’d have begged for his life if the Other Dude wasn’t still handgagging him.


“Now tell me where Ramirez is,” the black-clad figure hissed menacingly.  He released Blackie’s mouth.


“D-dunno any Ramirez,” Blackie sobbed frantically.  It didn’t help; the Other Dude clamped down on his mouth again.


“That didn’t answer my question,” he snarled and sank the blade in another inch.  Blackie, his mouth sealed by the leather glove, moaned and shuddered.  “Ya feel that, bitch?” the Other Dude sneered, “I’m already through yer gut muscle.  Next one, yer gonna start feelin’ in yer bowels.  Answer me, ya fuckin’ sack a’ shit, or I’m gonna stick ya like a pig.  Who’s in the goddam warehouse?”


His eyes wide, Blackie frenetically shook his head.  The Other Dude let go.  “I-I-I hons-onestly don’t know,” the panicked young thug gabbled, “I on-only been inside a cup-coupla times…”  His hoarse, husky voice trailed off into broken weeping.


“Aw, bullshit!” the Other Dude spat out and rammed his blade up to the hilt in Blackie’s flat, firm belly.  Leaning forward, he pressed his face up against that of the suffering punk, whispering quietly into his ear.  Blackie could feel the Other Dude’s mask scraping against his own facial scruff as the cold, hard words penetrated his ear.


“I scoped it all out.  Yer a fuckin’ cop–I’ve seen you in uniform.  Ya gotta be in on this deal—Ramirez has too many contacts in the department.  You ain’t playin’ innocent, motherfucker—ain’t nothin’ worse than a crooked cop.”


The Other Dude leaned back again, his features becoming lost in the darkness.  Suddenly, he placed his hand in the middle of Blackie’s chest.  What happened next would have made him scream had the unexpected blast of agony not put him in shock first.  The Other Dude ripped the blade back out of Blackie’s stomach.


He didn’t twist the blade; he didn’t need to. The sudden brutal extraction of the serrated blade inflicted more physical damage than all of the initial thrusts had done.  The exterior wound wasn’t very large, but Blackie felt like his abdomen had been ripped open.  He clutched his bleeding gut, his eyes huge and dull with shock as the Other Dude held the bade up for him to see.


“Lookit that,” the vicious killer smirked, “See those shreds of meat danglin’ from my blade?  That’s yer guts, boy.  That’s what yer innards look like.  Know what the best part is?  You ain’t dead.  Fuck, son, we could getcha to a hospital and save yer life even now.  Good surgeon might have ta cut out some a’ yer bowels, but you’d live.”


Then he was back, the musty smell of leather flooding Blackie’s nose as the hand slammed down on his mouth again.  This time, though, the Other Dude momentarily sheathed his weapon; the prey was already sufficiently dominated by pain and wouldn’t put up any resistance.


Blackie blinked and flinched as the Other Dude ripped the young guard’s shirt open.  With the buttons of his short-sleeve uniform shirt torn off, it fluttered open, revealing his broad, smooth chest, nipples jutting from his pecs into the humid night air.  The Other Dude yanked his knife up out of the sheath and placed the tip of the blade two inches above the left nipple.


Even though he was in pain and terror—and still drunk, for that matter—even an idiot like Blackie realized that the knife was aimed directly at his heart.


“You get a second chance, asswipe,” the Other Dude said calmly.  “And this time, I’m goin’ slow, ya get me?  So you’ll have time to think about it when ya lie.  But after this, ain’t no fuckin’ doctor gonna be able to save yer worthless ass.  Tell me the truth or die, fucker.”


The tip pierced his flesh; the merest prick—just enough to let a tiny rivulet of blood trickle down Blackie’s smooth, rounded pec and drip down his torso.  He’d have pissed himself again if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder.  He was alone, helpless, and on the brink of death.


“Ok, buddy, ya don’t know Ramirez—and I’ll betcha say ya don’t know Andros either, huh?  But you been inside.  That I believe.  So where’s the safe?”


The contemptuous tone of the Other Dude’s voice was matched by the shove he gave the knife; not enough to actually wound Blackie, but more than enough to remind him it was still there.  Just in case he’d forgotten.


Blackie froze.  Safe?  What fuckin’ safe?  He’d never seen a safe—


“Where?  Back office?  Upstairs?  Answer me, fucker!”


This time, he intended it to hurt.  Exercising complete professional control over both his weapon and his victim, the Other Dude expertly drove the sharp steel tip of the blade into Blackie’s pectoral to a depth of one inch, as promised.  It parted the young thug’s pec muscle like a steak knife through hamburger, the thick, firm tissue peeling back with no resistance.


Blackie’s scruffy, dissolute face was a mask of pain and shock.  He could feel the muscle shearing apart and the blood spurt from the chest wound.  It hurt worse than the gut stab—far worse.


The Other Dude knew it.  “Just gettin’ started, cunt.  Yer gonna regret not answerin’ me.”


Blackie tried to speak, but he couldn’t make his mouth work right; all he could do was moan and gibber like an idiot.  He wanted to tell the Other Dude that he just didn’t know, please, stop the pain, don’t kill me I’d help you if I could oh please fuck no—


“Where is that goddam safe, motherfucker?!?”


Somewhere in the back of Blackie’s mind, some part of him realized how his own stupidity and irresponsibility had led him to this point.  If he hadn’t been such an entitled, drunken fool, he would have learned the skills needed to avoid this situation.  Problem was, it had taken the terror of impending death to sober him up enough to realize it.


By now, it was way too fucking late.


The Other Dude shoved the knife into Blackie again—this time with much more force.  It was needed; the professional killer’s bicep flexed with the effort required to drive the steel blade through the ribcage, snapping one rib and almost literally sawing through another.  Even so, he still retained enough finesse to halt the progress of the knife before it hit the pericardial sac.


Blackie’s face was contorted into a grimace; deep in his piss-flooded boots, his toes curled in agony.  He didn’t—couldn’t—scream but was emitting a high-pitched keening sound of extreme suffering.  His entire body was stiff, rigid with pain.


He held the pose; he had to.  There was a knife in him, millimeters from his rapidly beating heart.  His chest was sliced open.  Oh holy fuck, he couldn’t move…


The Other Dude’s face came in close; once again the mask brushed his carefully sculpted facial scruff.  “This is it, fuckwad.  Yer last chance.  Tell me where the safe is.  Now.”


And that was when Blackie remembered.  He had seen a safe.  He’d never left the front room, but he’d seen it through an open door.


“It’s in the back.  It’s embedded in the concrete.  About five feet tall,” he said, gabbling it all out at once, then started sobbing. “Please don’t hurt me no more.  I dunno anything else, I swear.  I promise.  Please—” he broke down into tears.


“Now see, that wasn’t so hard, now was it?  Cheer up, punk; I’ll make it stop hurtin’,” the Other Dude said with a wide grin.  With a sudden final shove, he rammed the knife into Blackie’s heart, popping it like a water balloon full of blood.


The hardbodied young guard grunted in mortal agony, gripped by a pain so intense he was unable to think or act—he could only feel and suffer.  As his spasming heart pumped itself to shreds on the shaft of sharp steel, Blackie stared with horror and betrayal into the Other Dude’s cold eyes.  He tried to breathe, but he couldn’t; there was fluid in his throat.  The terrified young man gagged and retched, coughing up a gob of thick, coppery blood.


“Don’t worry, pal, it’ll stop hurting here in a sec.  Gotta go; catch ya on the flip side,” came the soft, mocking voice.  Blackie felt a deep tearing from within his vital organ as the Other Dude yanked his knife back out of the dying punk and, stepping back, vanished into the darkness.


Blackie sank to the ground, his face frozen in a look of stunned agony as his life drained away.  He still didn’t know who the Other Dude was or why he was dying; he could only feel the excruciating chill of death drawing him into nothingness.  He was terrified and suffering…and alone…


And then there was nothing left but a pile of manmeat, twitching in the darkness, its bootheels digging furrows around the oak’s roots as the corpse shuddered in its death throes.


The Other Dude had been right—the hurtin’ was over.


In the aftermath, Blackie’s body wasn’t found for more than six hours, by which time it was stiff with rigor.  The investigating cops recognized him but let him be carted off in the meatwagon as a John Doe.  His corpse was in the morgue three days before they got around to matching his fingerprints; no one had bothered to report him missing.  The body was reluctantly claimed by family.  With no public service—or even any death notice—Blackie vanished as if he’d never existed.


He wasn’t missed on the force.  It was noticed with sneering contempt that for all his bullshit horseplay with his gun, he’d let himself be tortured and murdered by a single assailant without even unholstering his weapon.  His name was stricken from the ranks with relief—and silent applause for the killer.

Family Matter

Vinnie Simonini and his young brother Frankie strolled casually and coolly down lower Fourth Street. It was obvious they were brothers, just by looking at them. They both had a knockoff “Jersey boy” look with their spiked black hair, black sleeveless muscle tees and shiny track pants; they’d even managed to score identical Air Jordans.

Vinnie was about twenty-one and clearly spent a lot of time in the gym. His body was hard and thickly muscled and he stood just short of six feet. Frankie was eighteen and a little shorter, about five-nine. He wasn’t quite as developed as his brother, but he was getting close.

They were cocky to the point of arrogance—the kind of arrogance that comes with stupidity. They were about to make a terrible mistake, and they were going to pay dearly for it.

Their mistake was entering Sal’s Pool Hall. Sal Pistoli, the owner, saw them and knew what was coming. He didn’t know the Simonini brothers but he had anticipated their purpose. Sal was in his seventies and had owned the pool hall for nearly forty years. He’d come to learn early on that lower Fourth Street was a boundary line between two of the many families that ran the city. Since the boundary was arbitrary, it wasn’t always steady. Sometimes, he paid his protection money to one gang, sometimes to the other.

For the past few years, lower Fourth had been the turf of the Dei Rossi family. Rumor on the street, though, was that Angelo Dei Rossi was getting old and weak. Sal had figured that sooner or later someone from the Giancotta family would show up and demand that the money be paid to them instead. Sal was concerned; if old Angelo wasn’t as weak as everyone thought, he’d be in serious trouble. Having the pool hall torn up would be the least of his concerns. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

Sal’s reasoning was correct in all but one detail. Vinnie and Frankie were indeed there to demand the payoff for the Giancotta family—but the family was completely unaware of the fact. The brothers were looking to get themselves in good with the Giancotta by performing a little free-lance enforcing.

Vinnie had been hanging around the Giancotta since he was sixteen. Frankie was fourteen when Vinnie drew him in; not a lot of persuasion was needed, since Frankie idolized his older brother. Together, they’d performed a number of commissions for the family, but it had all been low-level work—delivering cash or drugs for the most part; occasionally roughing up someone who’d incurred the displeasure of the Giancotta in a minor way. The Simonini brothers were anxious to move up in the ranks and they thought their experience with beating up helpless old men would enable them to tangle with the Dei Rossi.

They were about to find out otherwise.

Sal approached them. “You’re Giancotta? I been expectin’ ya. I’ll meet you in the basement soon as I get someone to cover the bar. I don’t do this kinda business in public. The stairs are through that door. When you get down there, go to the room on the left. And don’t fuck with the door on the right; that’s where I store the booze and I got an alarm on it.”

The boys slouched nonchalantly to the door Sal had indicated. As they left, Sal shook his head at their naivety. The stupid little fucks were actually following his directions. There was no cure for that kind of dumb. Oh well, not his problem anymore.

Vinnie made his way cautiously down the dimly-lit stairs with Frankie trailing him. At the bottom was a small space lit by a single 40-watt overhead bulb. There were doors on the left and right and a brick wall in front of them. They obediently turned to the left and Vinnie’s hand had just grasped the doorknob when the door behind them suddenly opened. Vinnie had no time to turn before there was a blast of pain at the back of his head. He crumpled unconscious to the floor, unaware that Frankie’s lights had been put out as well.

Vinnie came to slowly, in a haze of pain and confusion. He didn’t remember getting clocked; the last thing he could remember was starting down the stairs. He became aware of his situation gradually. He was sitting in a folding chair, his hands tied behind his back. His legs had been tied to the front legs of the chair; he was completely immobilized. He was also completely nude. His rank socks had been balled up and shoved in his mouth and were kept in place by a strip of duct tape.

Vinnie slowly lifted his head. He was in a circle of light cast by another overhead bulb. The rest of the room was so dark he couldn’t have seen anything if he tried. But he didn’t try. His attention was focused on Frankie, who was bound to a chair and gagged in the same manner. Frankie was facing him; fear shone in his wide eyes.

Two figures stepped out of the dark. Vinnie recognized them as Dei Rossi mooks, both mid-level enforcers. They were wearing dark blue jumpsuits and work boots. The significance of the clothing didn’t escape Vinnie; it’s hard to see blood on dark blue fabric. These were cold hard men who’d killed before.

Vinnie knew that he and his brother were fucked.

The goon on the left spoke. “Ok, punk, lissen up. We’re gonna ask you just one question and you’re gonna answer it or else. And we’re gonna use your buddy here to show you what we mean by ‘else’.”

Frankie’s eyes darted frantically. He struggled violently in the chair but was too well bound than to do more than to jerk it a few inches around on the floor. He tried to beg, but the reeking socks in his mouth muffled the cries. He stared desperately at Vinnie, pleading silently for help. His fear grew stronger when he saw that Vinnie was crying. Vinnie knew he was going to watch his kid brother die and he couldn’t do anything about it. He could only hope to save his own life by giving these men the information they wanted.

The man on the right pulled a glittering object from the pocket of his jumpsuit. It took Vinnie a moment to realize that it was a staple gun. He stared in horror as the enforcer pressed the gun against Frankie’s smooth hairless pec and squeezed the handle. Frankie jerked in pain as the long sharp staple pierced his flesh and penetrated his muscle. His scream was audible despite the gag. It didn’t seem to bother the goons. No one could hear it down here.

The session with the staple gun went on for a while. Stapled were embedded in his arms and legs, in his belly and on his face. Each one left tiny trickles of blood; each one made Frankie jerk and scream. He was already sobbing uncontrollably when his torturer moved the gun to his scrotum and shot staples into his balls and the head of his dick.

Snot clogged Frankie’s nose and he began to turn blue. The man with the staple gun noticed. “Ok, party’s over. Time to say goodnight.” He stepped back as the other enforcer moved back into the light. He held a long knife with a viciously serrated blade. “Hold his head up. Make him watch,” he said to the torturer, jerking his head at Vinnie. The he spoke directly to Vinnie, a cold grin on his face. “Looks like your pal is havin’ a little trouble breathin’. What say we open up his airway a little?”

Vinnie’s head was clamped in a vise-like grip and pointed straight ahead. He had no choice but to watch the executioner stand behind Frankie and jerk his head back by the hair. He stared Vinnie right in the eyes as he started sawing Frankie’s throat open.

Frankie’s piercing scream ended in a gurgle. Blood gushed from the gaping throat wound, spurting over Vinnie. A drawn-out spluttering, like someone blowing out a mouthful of water, came from the terrible gash—Frankie was trying to cough up the blood he was aspirating.

Frankie’s short, wasted life came to an agonizing and brutal end. The fountain of blood became a sluggish stream before it ceased altogether. His struggles slowed to a stop and the smell of piss and shit from bowels gone loose in death filled the room. The only sound was Vinnie’s gagged attempt to call his brother’s name.

“All right, punk, tell me one thing and we’ll let you go. You can tell those Giancotta bitches what’ll happen to ‘em if come into Dei Rossi territory. Capice?”

Vinnie nodded. The hitman snatched the tape off Vinnie’s face, ripping out his light facial hair by the roots and pulled the balled up socks out of his mouth. “All I want is the name of the motherfucker who sent you here. He’s gonna learn a lesson about keeping his hands off our property.”

Vinnie exhaled in a shuddering sob, “No one sent us, it was my idea, oh fuck please don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone anything and I’ll tell the Giancotta to stay away, please, just don’t fuckin’ kill me!”

“Aw shit, ya little bitch, are we gonna play this game? We ain’t got time for this. Tell me his name or I’m gonna whack ya and leave the both of ya’s stretched out in the middle of the street for the Giancotta to find.”

Vinnie started sobbing and babbling hysterically. He knew he was about to suffer horribly and die through his own stupidity. He really had thought it up on his own; there was no name to give. These guys were on a high enough level to know the names of their counterparts in the other family. Vinnie, on the other hand, wasn’t. He hadn’t even been a foot soldier, just an errand boy. They’d know he was lying if made something up and they wouldn’t believe the truth.

There was no hope. He was going to die in agony in this basement and no one would care. The Giancotta would spit on hearing his name when they realized he’d started a turf war; they’d drag the bodies off the street because it would look bad but he and Frankie would end up rotting in an unmarked shallow grave out in the swamps. Vinnie pissed himself in terror.

“All right, you stupid punk, I warned ya.” The killer grabbed Vinnie scrotum and thick cock and began slicing them off—slowly.

The pain was so intense that Vinnie couldn’t breathe. He sat bolt upright, eyes dazed and mouth gaping as his junk was sawn off. When the enforcer stepped back, Vinnie took a deep, shuddering gasp. It was the opening the killer was looking for. With a single swift motion, he jammed the bleeding mass of flesh into Vinnie’s mouth. As he gagged on his own dick, Vinnie was peripherally aware that the goon had a massive erection tenting his jumpsuit. This wasn’t just a job for him; he was getting off on it.

The killer suddenly drove the knife into the right side of Vinnie’s chest, slicing through the pectoral muscle and puncturing the right lung. A quick twist and the knife was yanked back out. Vinnie trembled in shock and the knife was plunged into the left side of his chest. It missed the heart but penetrated his other lung. This time the executioner caught the knife on a rib while twisting it and had to rip it out of Vinnie’s body violently. The goon moaned and shuddered while grinding the knife in the wound. The sadistic bastard had shot his wad in his shorts.

Vinnie leaned back in the chair, losing the fight to breathe as his lungs collapsed. His cheeks bulged obscenely with his severed manmeat; he could taste his own piss. He could see the man who’d had the staple gun slicing Frankie’s package off and stuffing it into his ripped-out throat, a semen stain barely visible in the crotch of his jumpsuit.

They had been such badasses; they were gonna own this place and get the recognition they deserved. Vinnie’s last conscious thought was that their mutilated corpses were going to be dumped like garbage; his last emotion one of pathetic bewilderment. Then death took him down and all that was left was twitching nerves and shredded flesh.

“Killer Party, Dude!”

Todd stumbled unsteadily on a root and staggered into a tree. He was very drunk and very high. He was drunk and high most nights; tonight, on his eighteenth birthday, the only difference was in degree. He was shitfaced.

The sounds from the clearing behind him had grown faint. He was far enough away to take a leak. Eddie and Jimbo and Mario were back there around the fire, partying without him. He wanted to get back quickly.

Todd grinned goofily, remembering Jimbo pulling up in his truck and telling him to climb in. “C’mon, dude,” he’d said, “We’re gonna go get you completely fucked on your birthday. I got a whole half-ounce of wicked weed here”— he slapped the half-laced construction boot his jeans were tucked into—“and some shrooms in the other boot. Gonna be a killer party, dude.”

On the way out of town they’d picked up Eddie and Mario. Each of them had snagged a case of cheap beer. The beer was warm, but none of them minded. It was a chilly night; the beer would cool. Besides, warm beer never stopped any of them from getting their drunk on.

Jimbo was the oldest, at twenty-one. He’d known Todd for years—in fact, when Todd had been thirteen, Jimbo had gotten him high for the first time and taught him how to jack off. Eddie and Mario were both nineteen and hung around with Jimbo a lot, so Todd had gotten to know them as well. They were always the ones with alcohol—if one of them couldn’t get it, the other could.

They spent all their free time together—they were worthless little punks, so they had plenty of free time. They had lots in common—they dressed similarly, they all lived in basements and converted garages because their families didn’t want them in the house, and their highest ambition was to get as wasted as possible on whatever they could get hold of.

Todd, who idolized Jimbo, tried to dress just like him. He wore the same tight jeans tucked into boots—but Todd’s boots were ropers. He wore the same black ball cap, white t-shirt and leather jacket—but Jimbo’s jacket was black and plain, while Todd’s was brown with black fabric cuffs.

The resemblance ended there. Todd was short and slim, with curly brown hair. Jimbo was taller and more muscular with shoulder-length black hair and a faint black moustache.

Eddie was muscular as well, but slightly less developed than Jimbo. He wore the same unofficial “club uniform” with his own individual touches. His jacket was denim and his cap was white. He had combat boots on. He had dirty blond hair and a tuft of down on his chin that he pretended was a goatee.

Mario had a lean swimmer’s build like Todd but was more than six inches taller. His boots were ropers, too, and his cap was dark blue. His black leather jacket was identical to Jimbo’s—they’d actually gone out together and stolen them at the same time. Mario was Mexican and his hair was black and short. He’d gelled and spiked it (and had taken shit from the others for doing so).

Another thing they had in common—they were all well-hung and knew it, the same way they knew Mario’s thick tool was uncut. They made a lot of noise about the chicks they’d banged, but all the girls in town knew that they were useless and spent whatever money they could grab on booze and drugs. Despite their tough talk and hard bodies, they were shunned.

For release, they turned to circle jerks. A lot. There would undoubtedly be one tonight, more likely two. They were horny boys full of testosterone and semen and the thing they wanted to do most was get their rocks off while tripping balls.

They drove to a place they’d partied at before. Off the state highway south of town was a dirt road. It was actually a maintenance road that ran alongside a line of electrical towers that marched across the landscape. They pulled over at the fourth tower and went north into the woods. After about a hundred yards, they came to the spot they were looking for. It was a clearing about thirty feet across. There was a large fire pit in the center, ringed with stones, with logs laid around it as a kind of seating.

They’d found it several months ago—they damn sure weren’t smart enough to build something like this. They’d come back several times and had seen no sign of use, so they felt it was a safe place to get high and beat off. They didn’t want anyone else around—they might get the wrong idea. It’s not like they were faggots or anything, just having a little fun…

They dragged in brushwood and lit a fire. Ben passed out beers and Jimbo pulled the pot out of his boot. “Best place to hide it—who’s gonna look in your smelly boots?” He rolled a joint for each of them—Todd first, for his birthday—and the party got started.

They knew what was coming—they’d talk some about the latest action movie and how they’d waste the villain if they ever ran across him. Then the conversation would swing around to chicks. They talked longingly about the chicks they wanted to bang and told elaborate lies about chicks they had banged. Their cocks would be throbbing and straining in their jeans the entire time. At some point Jimbo would give the signal by rubbing his hand on the bulge in his jeans. They would all do the same for a few minutes, looking back and forth at each other in silence.

Jimbo would be the first to pull out his rod. Then they would sit together gipping the cock of the one to the right while their own was grabbed by the person to the left.

Since it was Todd’s birthday, he would get to sit on Jimbo’s left. Jimbo would have assaulted anyone who said he was queer, but it was an open secret among them that they all wanted his dick and sitting on his left was an honor.

And it had all gone as planned until Jimbo began rubbing his crotch. They’d already worked through one case of beer and Todd realized he had to piss. This was the first time he’d been allowed to jack Jimbo and he didn’t want to embarrass himself. He muttered “gotta take a leak” and sprinted into the woods. Mario had been to his left and would be “handling” Jimbo till he got back. He wanted to return before Mario finished Jimbo off.

Todd was happy and severely intoxicated, but like his friends, his dick was painfully erect and would remain so until release. It was too hard for him to piss. He stood facing the tree, staring down at his hard cock with a blissful grin on his face. The savage blow that slammed him face-first into the tree took him completely by surprise.

Todd reeled back, bruised and bleeding. His upper lip was split. His dick was still hard despite being scratched from contact with the rough bark of the tree. A gloved hand tightly gripped his mouth and he felt the edge of a blade against his throat. A harsh voice whispered in his ear.

“Make a sound and you’re dead, motherfucker. Nod if you understand that.”

Todd, stunned and terrified, didn’t move. The hand clenched his face viciously and the knife was pressed to his throat, just breaking this skin. A trickle of blood ran down his neck.

“Do you understand?” The voice was slower and colder this time. Todd nodded.

“Ok, here’s what’s gonna go down. I’m gonna ask you some questions. You’re going to answer them very quietly. If you make any other sound, I’m gonna rip your throat out and leave you to die like a dog. You got that?”

Todd nodded again. The hand was slowly removed from his mouth but never moved more than two inches away from his face.

“Ok, bitch, how many of your friends are back there and what the fuck are you doing?”

Todd replied in a tear-choked whisper, “Please, sir, there’s only four of us sir. It’s my birthday and we’re just having some fun. Please don’t hurt me, sir, please!”

The hardman holding him gave a grim chuckle. “A birthday party, yeah—that’s why your fly’s open and you got a hard-on. Bad place for a party, punk. I got some business here tonight and you’re in the way.”

The hand clamped down hard on Todd’s mouth but the knife was withdrawn. For a single second, Todd thought he was safe.

Then the knife was slammed into the side of his throat, the tip puncturing through and out the other side with one blow.

The blast of pain caused Todd’s muscles to go rigid. At the same time, a flood of adrenaline was dumped into his bloodstream. The combined result was that Todd’s engorged cock began spurting out thick, ropy stream of cum.

Todd could feel the knife being violently twisted inside him, the razor edge carving and slicing his larynx and esophagus. With each twist came another burst of agony and another blast of sperm.

The pain of his death orgasm was so completely overwhelming that Todd never realized that the knife had been removed from his throat and his killer had left. He was coughed up a great gout of blood. It ran down his chin, splattered down his leather jacket and onto his boots. He stared in horror at the blood on his hands, not comprehending what was happening to him. It spilled on his still-spurting cock. Blood and semen covered the tree trunk in front of him.

Todd sank to his knees as he bled out. His mind had shut down; the only sensations he was aware of were pain and orgasm. He pitched face first onto the ground, struggling to rise again, not knowing that he was a dead man. For a few seconds, his boots scuffled in the dirt. They slowed to an occasional spasmodic kick as life ebbed out of him. Then there was nothing but a quivering corpse with its face in a muddy puddle of blood and sperm. Todd had died without getting his chance to beat Jimbo off.

Back in the clearing, the circle jerk was in full swing.

Jimbo moaned softly. Sweat ran down his face as he looked down at Mario’s hand working his thick shaft. The cholo punk was tugging his meat hard and his balls had drawn up close to his body. Mario’s uncut cock was being yanked by Eddie, whose dick was throbbing in Jimbo’s grip.

Jimbo was close to shooting his wad but something was off. He let go of Eddie and knocked Mario’s hand away. “Lay off, dude,” he snapped, “Todd needs to be here. Dude, it’s his birthday and we need to get him off.”

“We’ll get him the next time round, when you break out the shrooms,” said Mario.

“Nah, I want him here for both.” Secretly, Jimbo had been waiting for this day for a while. He felt it was a rite of passage to let Todd handle his enormous rod. Todd was becoming a man.

He had no idea Todd’s cooling, stiffening corpse was less than a hundred feet away.

“I got an idea,” Eddie said suddenly. “Let’s split up and look for him. Keep your dicks out. If you find him first, you get to make him beat you off.”

“He’s gonna beat me off whether I find him first or not,” growled Jimbo. His hormones were in full flow and he had gone into full alpha-male mode. “All right, let’s go find the little fuck. Stay here, Mario; if he comes back first, he can jack you till we get back. Eddie, go that way; I’ll look over here.”

They vanished into the underbrush, leaving Mario at the fire. He dug down into his boot and pulled out the butt of his joint. He lit it and inhaled deeply, idly stroking his erection.

A gloved hand gripped his chin, another clamped on the top of his skull and his head was jerked violently. Mario gave an involuntary grunt as his cervical vertebrae splintered and shattered with explosive cracking sounds. His body felt a massive shock, as if he was being electrocuted. A stream of liquid fire ran the length of his uncut cock and erupted in a single massive spurt of cum.

He collapsed in a nerveless heap, his dazed eyes staring across the clearing into the treeline. Mario never heard his killer approach or leave. Someone out of nowhere had snapped his neck like a twig—he hadn’t even had time to exhale his smoke.

But Mario wasn’t dead yet. His head was propped against a log, which kept it raised above the ground. He was paralyzed from the neck down. His heart was still beating and his lungs were still working—but breathing was difficult. Every gasp of air was a struggle; a rasping, choking sound accompanied the white foam that emerged from his gaping mouth. As it oozed down the side of his face, the foam was tinted pink by the small trickle of blood that leaked from his nose. He couldn’t feel the semen drying in his coal-black pubic hair, but he could smell the piss and shit that had flooded out of him when he lost control of his bowels.

With immediate medical attention, Mario would live—as a quadriplegic on respirator, only able to communicate by moving his eyes. Without it, he was dying slowly and painfully by respiratory paralysis. Each breath was a little shallower and the awareness of impending death grew stronger.

The single thought in his brain was that Jimbo would find him. Jimbo would fix things; he could fix anything. Paralyzed and dying, Mario could finally admit his worship of Jimbo to himself. It didn’t matter what anyone thought. Jimbo would save him. Jimbo wouldn’t let him die.

There was a rustling in the bushes just beyond Mario’s line of sight. His sprits rose, thinking that Jimbo had returned, but it was Eddie who staggered into view, blinking blearily at the fire. His dick was still out, preceding him like a flagpole, but since he too had stashed a joint down his combat boot and had hotboxed it in the two minutes it took to convert Mario into a helpless pile of meat, he was too stoned to see his buddy’s quivering body lying next to the log.

Mario could see him, though. And Mario could also see the shadowy figure dressed in black that had slipped from the treeline behind Eddie. His vision was starting to fade, but he clearly saw the firelight glinting on the long serrated knife in the figure’s hand. He tried to call out to Eddie, but he was losing control of his diaphragm muscles. His entire will to live was focused on breathing; speaking was too great an effort. Mario realized he was going to watch helplessly while Eddie got dropped.

Eddie never saw death coming for him. The knife that ended his life was inside him before he could react. His scream of pain was an automatic response, and the gloved hand over his mouth stifled it effectively.

Mario saw it all.

The knife had swung up in a swift arc and slammed sharply upward at a point just below the angle of Eddie’s jaw. The hitman had pulled Eddie’s head down to the left to allow the blade to slice a straight line into the brain through the opening at the base of the skull by which the spinal cord entered. The blade was so long that its tip struck Eddie’s cranium near the back of his head just above his left ear—from the inside.

Eddie’s world ended in a blast of agony. The physical reaction to massive brain trauma was instantaneous. He went up on his toes, spunk flowing out of him as if someone had pulled a plug. He began to convulse violently, each spasm flinging his cum out in a wide semicircle.

The killer shifted Eddie’s body to get a better grip. He brutally ground the knife inside Eddie’s skull, hacking his brain into quivering chunks and slashing away the spinal cord. The body went as limp as a rag doll, the flaccid penis still a good five inches long, semen glazing the head. The killer lowered Eddie to the ground as a gush of piss soaked the corpse’s jeans.

The silence of death was broken by Mario’s labored breathing. The killer looked straight at him, but all Mario could see of his face was a cold stare, calculating the level of threat. The rest of the face was hidden by camouflage paint.

Before anything could happen, the sound of a branch snapping burst from a point behind the hitman’s left shoulder. He quickly dragged the pile of meat that had been Eddie off in another direction, disappearing into the woods fifteen yards from the point where the sound had originated. Mario was alone again.

Not for long. It was Jimbo who came out of the woods next, pausing like Eddie had done when he entered the clearing. The swelling of hope that Mario felt was punctured by the fear that Jimbo would be attacked too. But Jimbo approached him without interference.

Jimbo was higher than any of the others had been—as unacknowledged leader, he’d kept the bag of weed tucked down inside his boot and had dipped in numerous times. The fact that Mario was lying on the ground in a twisted heap had no significance in his drug-fogged mind. He grinned foolishly as he walked towards Mario.

“Has that little faggot come back yet? Shit, I bet Eddie found him and is getting’ whacked off right now. Fuck, dude, when he gets back, I’ll make him lick my dick. Make a man of him,” growled Jimbo, massaging his dripping pole. He blinked and peered at Mario’s face.

Mario was facing away from the fire and Jimbo was unable to see the tears of relief which oozed from Mario’s eyes. But he could see—uncomprehendingly—the look of horror that came over Mario.

He couldn’t see the thin wire that had descended in front of his face, but he could damn sure feel it.

The slicing pain that circled his neck was excruciating but the inability to breathe that accompanied it was terrifying. Jimbo struggled to free himself like a fish on a line. The garrote tore into his flesh—the leaking blood made Jimbo’s hands slick as they scrambled frantically at his throat. It was no good. He couldn’t get a grip on anything.

Jimbo’s mind was aflame with panic, trying to understand what was happening to him. The concept that someone had just walked casually out of the woods and started killing him never occurred to him The world was fading and it hurt so bad, it hurt worse than anything else this is what death feels like it’s slow and it hurts Mario help me…

Mario watched Jimbo die, knowing that he was watching his own death. Jimbo was going to save him. But Jimbo was dying and Mario couldn’t help. He could only watch as Jimbo was slowly strangled.

Mario watched for a long time. Jimbo was young and hard and fought viciously for his life. But he was an ignorant redneck punk who spent most of his time stoned and drunk and he was in the hands of a professional killer. He never had a chance.

The hitman forced him to his knees. Jimbo could feel the killer’s strong, thickly muscled legs at his sides. He could feel something long and hard against the back of his head as his head was forced back into his killer’s crotch.

“On your knees, kid,” Jimbo heard whispered in his ear, “I’m gonna let your friend watch you get snuffed before I put his lights out for good.”

Mario looked up into Jimbo’s blackening face and his mind snapped in terror. He had never seen anyone strangled before. In all the action movies he’d seen, the victims had gone limp in thirty seconds and looked like they’d fallen asleep.

Jimbo didn’t look like that at all.

His eyes bulged horribly. It was impossible to tell if they were red because if bust blood vessels or because he was utterly baked. His face was a livid purple color and his tongue protruded grotesquely. Spittle leaked from the corners of his mouth and dangled from his chin. His hands, bloody from clutching his throat, grasped weakly at Mario, just out of reach. Jimbo was dying like a dog, his life being mercilessly choked out, slowly and painfully.

The last conscious thought in Jimbo’s failing brain was questioning. He was aware that he was being killed, killed by someone stronger and more bad-ass than himself. But who? And why? All he’d wanted to do was have some fun, to get fucked up and then get his rocks off…

And then, as the darkness dragged him down, he could feel that he’d done both. The most painfully intense orgasm he’d ever experienced overwhelmed him as death overcame him.

Jimbo’s spunk sprayed directly into Mario’s face. Mario, catatonic in terror, didn’t blink as cum splashed into his eyes and open mouth. Jimbo’s death cum splattered into Mario’s black spiked hair. It so completely covered his face that it ran down the back of his neck.

As Jimbo lost the battle for his life, he shot one last enormous wad of cum directly into Mario’s mouth. The hitman released the wire and Jimbo collapsed. Mindless spasms jerked in the legs, scuffling Jimbo’s loose construction boots in the dirt. Then all was quiet.

Mario stared blankly at the killer. There was nothing left inside him now. He had seen his savior, his idol die horribly in front of him and knew that he was next. So his mind simply stopped functioning.

He didn’t feel the hitman’s boot on his head, grinding semen into his hair with the tread. He didn’t smell his killer’s ripe combat boot that clamped his head into place while he bent down and grabbed Mario’s arm. He did feel a blast of pain when the hitman jerked his arm, causing his spinal cord to completely sever and a small trickle of cum to leak from his dick. Then there was nothing else to feel. Mario’s eyes stared dully, clouded by Jimbo’s spunk.

The killer crouched over Mario’s body, listening intently to make sure no one else was around, before he dragged the corpses into the woods. No one would find them for months, especially if he went back and moved the truck. He needed to hurry, though. He had business to attend to.

Todd spent the night of his eighteenth birthday rotting in the woods. It had been a killer party, dude.

Stealth Speed Kills

Tom stood alone in the dark and lighted a cigarette. He was cold and slightly bored but he had a job to do. He was standing guard.

No job for a professional, he thought. He was a hired killer, not a sentry. But the pay was good and all he had to do was make sure that no one went down the dirt track he was watching. He didn’t know why he needed to watch it and he didn’t need to know.

All he needed to know was that he was to kill anyone who appeared on the dirt road from which the track led. Someone wanted some privacy.

Tom wore jeans over black tactical boots. He had on a leather biker jacket, zipped up against the cold. A black knit cap fit tightly over his head. With a rifle in his hands and a knife in his boot, he felt ready for anything.

He had a hard, fit body to match his hard, cold mind. Tom was in his early thirties and had killed many men in many ways. He was familiar with sudden violent death and had watched men gasp away their last few seconds in shock and pain.

Someday it could happen to him. But not if he kept on his toes. And tonight, Mike was watching his back. He’d worked with Mike before and trusted him.

Mike had gone to check out the surroundings a little further down the road. His appearance was similar to Tom’s—same age, same cold face and hard body. His jeans, boots and cap were like Tom’s too, but he wore an olive green nylon jacket. He was as experienced a killer as Tom and could take care of any problems quickly and efficiently.

Tom took another drag on his cigarette. He wouldn’t be smoking if he thought there was a chance for some action, but he knew there was no one but Mike around for miles.

But for once his killer instinct let him down. As he took a third drag, he was unaware that he was being stalked and set up for a kill.

When it happened, it happened fast. Tom barely knew what hit him.

A gloved hand clamped over his mouth, crushing his lips. At the same time, a knife sheared through his leather jacket and plunged into his kidney in a burst of agony.

Shock flooded Tom’s body. He went up on his toes and bent backwards to escape the pain. He could feel the muscles of his killer’s chest against his back and hear his ragged breath in his ears. But the pain was what held him frozen—the pain and the adrenalin shock.

The killer’s arm held Tom like a steel trap as the knife was twisted viciously in the wound. The gloved hand sealed his mouth, his screams of pain reduced to muffled groans.

Then the knife was removed and the hand was grabbing his chin. Tom could open his mouth but deep shock prevented him from doing more than gasping. He felt himself pulled backwards so that his chest was exposed but he had no control of his body and was powerless to stop it.

He saw the gloved hand holding the blood-smeared knife a split second before the knife was slammed into his chest. It punctured him with such force that his breath was expelled in a long rattling moan.

Tom stared dully as the hand twisted the knife into this wound. The killer was grinding it, trying to cause as much damage as possible. It also caused as much pain as possible. The injury to his kidney was nothing compared to the searing agony of his quivering heart slicing itself to hamburger on the probing knife.

Tom’s wide, panicked eyes dilated and he lost control of his bowels. The air reeked of piss and shit and sweat—the smell of a dying man. He sank slowly to the ground. His killer left as silently as he had come. Tom twitched on the ground for a while, his eyes glazing into dull terror. He come up against someone who was a better killer than he was and experienced the same violent and painful death he’d dealt out himself.

The faint moans Tom had made in his death agonies hadn’t been heard by Mike. The first clue he had of trouble was his leg being kicked out from under him and his arm being twisted behind his back. He was on his knees with a razor-sharp knife slashing at his throat before he could react. The killer sliced Mike’s throat to ribbons, multiple slashes in a quick burst, cutting deeply through the larynx and esophagus. Then the killer was gone.

Mike knelt in the road, his eyes wide and his face white. His hands clawed in horror at the gaping flesh of his ripped-out throat. A rhythmic jet of blood pulsed from his neck, splashing his hands and the ground in front of him. The gurgling and hissing of his breath in his shredded windpipe grew more frenzied as pink foam bubbled out of the hole in his throat.

Suddenly Mike pitched forward into a pool of his own blood. He struggled for life for a few more seconds, slowly blinking his uncomprehending eyes, opening and closing his mouth as if he was still trying to speak.

His killer was long gone as Mike shuddered to his death alone on the dirt road. The hardman was left to rot in a sticky puddle of his own blood and piss.

Casual Hit

Ricky eased his seat back and rubbed one hand on his crotch. He was very, very high and horny as fuck. He wasn’t sure he’d have enough time to jack off, though. Jeff had gotten out of the van a couple of minutes ago—to go take a piss, he’d said.

Probably just beatin’ off, thought Ricky. No telling how soon he’d be back. He and Ricky had banged the same chicks, so Ricky had heard some things. Like how Jeff would shoot his load at the slightest touch when he was super-randy. Either way, he’d be back before Ricky could rub one out.

That was ok, though. Jeff was the one with the weed. And Jeff had cut him in on this gig when he didn’t have to. He was getting a hundred bucks for just sitting here. Well, that and not asking questions. Something weird was going on with this job and high as he was, Ricky was a little nervous.

He’d originally just had his usual Saturday night plans—go get fucked up and try to get laid. That meant finding someone to get him drunk or high—he was nineteen and well-known as a worthless little punk in his little town. Jeff was his best friend and was twenty-one. If he didn’t have any pot, he could always buy the booze, so Ricky went looking for him.

Ricky had dressed to show off his body; anything to help his chances of getting some pussy. He was a country boy so his tight jeans were faded and the ropers they were tucked into were scuffed. His white t-shirt was clean, at least, and was tight enough to highlight his well-developed chest. Ricky earned what little money he made by doing odd jobs on local ranches and physical labor had given him a lean, hard body.

Ricky didn’t own a car. The autumn chill filtered through his denim jacket as he walked into town. The wind had picked up and the baseball cap covering his short brown hair didn’t protect his ears. He felt lucky when Jeff pulled up next to him. Jeff said he needed some help and it would be easy money, so Ricky climbed into the van.

Jeff had been hunting. His tight jeans were also tucked into boots, but they were camouflage patterned combat boots. There was camo pattern on his t-shirt, too, as well as on the cap covering his red-gold hair. He wore a simple brown leather jacket and there was no trace of bright orange anywhere—which meant he’d been on someone else’s land, illegally.

Jeff had said he’d been approached by a couple of guys—strangers–when he’d got back to town. They’d offered him two hundred dollars to transport them and their motorcycles that night. He wanted Ricky’s help loading and unloading the bikes and would pay him half and get him high. Ricky jumped at the offer.

The first part of the gig had gone smoothly enough. They’d each smoked a joint on the way to the pickup spot, which was on an isolated back road in the state park to the north of town. This was where Ricky got a look at the two men.

Both of them had hard, grim faces. They were well built and quiet, almost emotionless. Each was in black, from their tight knit caps to their combat boots. Ricky caught sight of a knife in a boot sheath as he was helping to place a bike in the back of the van and wondered what he’d gotten into.

As they settled into the back beside their bikes, one of the men spoke, issuing orders in a gruff voice. They were to proceed to a specific point to the west and unload the bikes. The men would leave on the bikes while Jeff and Ricky waited. When they returned, the bikes would be placed back in the van and they would be driven back to this spot.

Ricky was worried. These guys looked like commandos. What the fuck was going on? Not that he’d ask—there was something in the cold faces of these men that said questions were a bad idea.

So they’d driven to the point they had been told and stopped at what seemed like random on a dirt road. The men had ridden away and Jeff had rolled more joints. Ricky had gotten high enough to forget his concerns and get horny.

He quickly jerked his hand away from the ridge in his jeans where his hard cock was throbbing—Jeff opened the driver’s door. “C’mon,” he said, “they’re back. I can hear the bikes.”

The two men seemed a bit less tense when they returned. Clearly whatever they had planned had gone well. They remarked that they still had a little “cleaning up” to do and they wanted to get it done with. The drive back to the park was made in silence.

Ricky was relieved when they pulled to a stop and Jeff turned the van off. The thought of money prompted him to speak. “You dudes need anything else or are you gonna pay us now?”

“No,” replied one of the men over Ricky’s shoulder. He was crouched right behind the passenger seat. The other was similarly poised behind Jeff. “Your job is done. We don’t need you anymore.”

And before Ricky was aware it happened, a nylon cord was whipped around his neck and pulled taut.

In his heavily drugged state, it took Ricky a couple of seconds to react. He knew that Jeff was thrashing in the driver’s seat, his hands flailing at the steering wheel and his boots jerking and catching the pedals. Ricky’s hands moved instinctively, trying to release the crushing pain in his throat.

He turned helplessly to Jeff and saw that he was being strangled. The cord was buried deep in his throat above the adam’s apple. It was tight enough to pucker the skin around it. Jeff’s face was a mask of pain and shock. He batted uselessly at his assailant. His bulging eyes stared at Ricky and foam drooled down his chin.

Ricky panicked. He was being killed, they were both being killed. They had been going to get fucked up tonight and get their dicks wet. He couldn’t be dying. This couldn’t be happening. Ricky screamed in terror but the only sound he could make was a frenzied grunt.

“Shut up,” muttered his killer into his ear, “this ain’t personal. Just tying up the loose ends. Shhhh. It’s almost over.”

It was almost over with Jeff. Despite his overwhelming panic and the progressive damage to his oxygen-deprived brain, Ricky was aware that he was watching Jeff die.

Jeff was convulsing violently in the driver’s seat. His bloodshot eyes gazed into nothing. His dying spasms thrust his pelvis up, his erect cock clearly straining inside his jeans. Spittle trailed from his blackened, swollen tongue.

The sound of death filled the van—the drumming of the victims’ boots against the floorboards, the labored breathing of the hitmen, the faint gagging sounds emerging from clamped-off throats.

Jeff’s body suddenly went rigid, bending backwards and thrusting his hips up. A dark stain formed in his crotch and the writhing of his cock could be seen through his skin-tight jeans. He remained in that position for what seemed like a long time, groin in the air and streams of spunk soaking his jeans, spreading through his pubic hair and onto his thighs.

Jeff went limp. The large dark spot on his jeans grew larger as his bladder emptied. The corpse shuddered in the pool of piss that collected in the seat.

Jeff’s death was the last thing Ricky saw. His vision became obscured by silent fireworks. The insane racing of his heart filled his ears. His tongue was agonizingly huge—it had forced his mouth open and he could feel it protrude. He could still feel lots of things.

He could feel that he was drooling uncontrollably. He could feel snot and tears running down his face. He could feel pain—crushing pain in his throat, burning pain in his chest and a fiery pressure in his engorged cock.

As more of Ricky’s brain shut down, more of his world disappeared. He could see nothing and the pounding in his ears was now a faint and irregular throb.

That’s my heart, he thought in a dim confused way; it’s stopping. Why am I dying? Why is this man killing me?

The pain swallowed him. Darkness and agony rushed over him in a tide. The pain in his throat, the pain in his chest—the pain in his dick.

Then that’s all there was. The final sensation in Ricky’s worthless life was the burning of molten metal as thick gobs of cum erupted from his dick. As his brain shut down and his heart failed, his seed spewed desperately out of his swollen shaft.

The hitman kept the cord cinched tightly around Ricky’s neck for another two minutes. By the time he released the corpse, the death throes had stopped. Ricky was nothing but dead meat soaking in its own piss.

Once the hitmen had removed their cords, they discussed what to do with the bodies. The longer it took to find them, the better. They’d reconnoitered the area thoroughly and knew there was a deep ravine in the woods, several hundred yards to the northwest.

Hoisting the cum-and-piss soaked bodies over their shoulders and carrying them uphill to the ravine was tough. The corpses were dumped in unceremoniously. Jeff stared up with dull glazed eyes from the bottom of the ravine. Ricky lay across him; face down, one arm twisted back behind him.

They were left to bloat and rot. There was a chance they’d be cover with snow soon and wouldn’t be found till spring. There wouldn’t be much left of them by then.

The hitmen drove the van to a spot on the other side of the park and left on the side of the road, keys in the ignition. They had finished “cleaning up.” Time to go…


Travis took a huge swig of Jack before handing the bottle to Ryan and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. As he tightened his grip on the steering wheel, Ryan turned around and passed the bottle to Justin in the back seat. Justin returned the favor by handing Ryan the joint he’d just rolled.

“This weed’s pretty weak,” commented Justin after he’d swallowed a mouthful of the whiskey, “but we should be able to afford some good shit once we get paid.”

“Gotta do the work to get paid,” replied Travis. “Don’t get too fucked up. Sanchez said there might be some trouble tonight. Dunno what he’s heard, but he’ll treat us right if we keep everyone away from his field. And you know Sanchez’s weed is good. I got half an ounce in my boot now. We keep an eye on his grow operation and he’ll make sure we got plenty to smoke. Now shut up and let me drive. These logging trails are fuckin’ hell.”

Travis leaned forward and squinted, trying to make out the next turn the dirt road made. Travis was about twenty-five with long brown hair and a mean look on his acne-scarred face. He wore a black leather aviator’s jacket over a white t-shirt. His tight, ripped jeans were tucked into a pair of black harness boots, where a baggie of pot pressed against his ankle.

Travis was the town “problem”. Dropped out of school at sixteen, got by by selling drugs and doing odd jobs. He’d tried the biker lifestyle for about three days before he got so drunk he managed to end up ditching in the river. He never could remember how he’d done it, but he couldn’t afford another bike, so that was it for his crotch-rocket days.

Of course Ryan and Justin had gravitated towards him; he was their epitome of Cool. Ryan was twenty-one, with dark curly hair and a tuft on his chin that he thought of as a goatee. He wore a black t-shirt and gray jeans, with a white baseball cap. The work boots on his feet were clean because he didn’t do any work. He still lived with his folks, decent working-class people who had no idea that their son was a waste. He lived with them and ate their food, but he didn’t ask them for money because he got most of what he wanted by theft.

Justin, in the back seat, was the youngest at nineteen. He had more of a skater-rat look, with wavy auburn hair, skinny jeans and a hoodie, red skate shoes on his feet. He was nothing more than a small-time delinquent trying to gain some street cred by hanging around the local toughs.

They were headed out to Sanchez’s field—actually, a small clearing in the state forest. Sanchez had been growing his weed there for a while, using random occasional labor—Travis had done a lot of it; Sanchez had been his supplier for quite a while now.

Tonight, Sanchez had asked Travis to round up a couple of guys and keep an eye on the field. He didn’t say why. Evidently he had heard something—Travis thought it likely that a rival was going to make a move. He didn’t know what to expect, but he didn’t expect much. He’d chased off other growers before; they were pussies. Nothing to break a sweat over.

None of them knew they were going to die in excruciating pain in a very short time.

At a seemingly random place in the road, Travis pulled over and shut off the car (Ryan’s mother’s car, borrowed for the evening). They all got out. Travis turned to Justin.

“Dude, you stay here. Text me if you see or hear anything. We’re gonna go keep an eye on the field itself. You set up ok?”

Justin, who’d rolled himself three joints out of Travis’ stash, nodded. Travis and Ryan turned away and disappeared into the trees on the west side of the road. Justin leaned back against the car, fired up one of the jays and slipped his earphones in. In no time at all, he was groovin’ and flyin’, utterly unaware that he was being sized up for a kill.

The mercenaries crept forward silently, keeping their focus on the road. They had been hired to destroy a marijuana grow op. They were prepared to terminate any defense they encountered, by whatever means necessary.

There were two mercs, in black body suits and hoods, black tactical boots, black camo on their faces—absolutely invisible in the shadows of the forest. They had approached through the woods from the next logging road to the east, three miles as the crow flies. Justin was the first guard they came across and they were gonna make damn sure he didn’t have the chance to alert anyone.


Travis and Ryan split up when they reached the field. Ryan stayed on the east side of the field, closest to the road. Travis made sure Ryan was set up well and had a couple of jays tucked inside his boot too. The he made his way across to the west side. The clearing extended to a couple of acres, so when Travis got to the far side, he was some distance from Ryan.

Each of them was going to die alone.

Even if he hadn’t been rocking out, it’s unlikely Justin would have heard the faint crunch of the merc’s rubber-soled boot as he approached from behind. The kid had just taken a lung-busting hit off his joint when a kick to the back of his knee brought him down. A hand in a black leather fingerless glove clamped down over his forehead, middle fingers digging into Justin’s eyes. He gasped as his head was yanked back sharply.

He didn’t get the chance to exhale before the seven-inch serrated steel blade ripped his throat open.

Justin stiffened as the knife slashed mercilessly though his flesh and into his larynx. His involuntary scream of agony became a bubbling hiss, the coppery smell of blood blending in with the sweet scent of the smoke that had been trapped in the boy’s lungs and was now escaping through the gushing hole in his esophagus.

The merc held on tight as Justin kicked and jerked. Soon more primal smells prevailed—a dark stain spreading in the punk’s groin as the realization that he was dying pervaded his drug-fogged brain—Justin was pissing himself in terror. He could feel the terrible gash in his throat, could feel the blood filling his lungs with each desperate, gasping breath. He was dying, it hurt, it was going on so long…

When the merc let him go, Justin staggered to his feet, grabbing the terrible gash in his throat with both hands, feeling his blood pouring out around his fingers. He stumbled forward two steps, and then fell face-down in the road. He spent his last half-minute on earth inhaling mud made of the dirt road mixed with his own blood. In Justin’s last seconds, he was aware of the two dark figures that crossed the road and had a vague idea of demons. Then everything faded to gray.

Justin’s eyes glazed and his body continued to twitch and jerk for a few minutes. In the silence surrounding his corpse, the loudest sound was his red shoes scuffling in the dirt as neurons fired at random. Then there was nothing but a pile of cooling meat.


Ryan rubbed the bulge in his groin. He wasn’t particularly horny; he was just hard most of the time. He’d had a fair amount to drink tonight, though, so he didn’t think it was going to be an issue.

He’d already pulled a joint out of his boot and smoked it. He was thinking that Justin had been smart to bring some tunes; he wished he’d thought of it. He wasn’t given time to think of anything else. The cord that appeared out of nowhere, whipped round his neck and cut off his air also cut off whatever limited ability for rational thought that Ryan had ever had.

The boy fought hard for his life—harder than anyone who had seen him waste it would have thought warranted. He kicked and jerked like a trout on a line, thrashing about in a futile attempt to break free of the unknown force that was choking him to death.

As he struggled, Ryan reached back behind him in an instinctive drive to stop whatever was attacking him. He could feel the powerful muscles of the man behind him and heard his ragged breathing as he and his killer fought against one another. But Ryan was fighting without air–and was doomed.

As great dark patches appeared in his field of vision, Ryan could feel his face swelling with the terrible pressure that was building up. His eyes were starting to protrude and he could feel his tongue forcing its way out of his mouth. That wasn’t the only thing swelling, though. Vaguely at first, but growing more insistent, Ryan could feel his cock starting to strain as well.

It was surprising how it made a greater impression as his brain began to die. Ryan lost contact with various parts of his body as his nervous system began to shut down but the swelling and strain in his dick kept growing.

On the outside, the kid was drooling, ropes of foam dangling from his chin. His eyes stared frantically, the whites hemorrhaging to red. His thick, purple tongue extended grotesquely past his swollen, blue lips. He shook convulsively, his boots digging furrows in the dirt.

On the inside, it was all dark explosions, deafening in their silence. A fire burned in Ryan’s crotch, a blaze raging out of control until it erupted like a volcano with molten lead flowing from the caldera…

As Ryan died, he blew his load and shit his jeans simultaneously. His bowels went slack as he poured a dying load of semen into his shorts. The cord became embedded in Ryan’s neck so deeply the merc had to brace himself by planting his boot on the back of Ryan’s head to pull the it out.

He ground Ryan’s puffy black face into the dirt.

Two down, one to go. The mercs pushed quietly through the field in a direct line to the final target. There would be plenty of time afterwards to spread a few chemicals around and make sure this grow op was finished.

Their mandate didn’t include corpses. The bodies would be left where they fell. The mercs didn’t give a shit; they would be long gone by the time the bodies were found.

Travis stood facing the field, leaning against a tree with one hand, fishing a joint out of his boot with the other hand. He had drunk more than the others, so he was at even more of a disadvantage than the others when it came time to fight for his life.

The moment he stood upright, a hand clamped over his mouth and a sharp hard blade was slammed into his right kidney. Travis’ bloodshot, half-lidded eyes dilated in shock. He stiffened involuntarily, his body snapping upright and rising up on his toes. The merc twisted the knife, then ripped it back out of the wound, causing Travis unspeakable agony.

But it was nothing to the pain that came next, when the merc pulled Travis’ head back and stuck the knife into the soft flesh of the bottom jaw, behind the chin.

The tempered steel blade tore upward through the bottom jaw and pierced the tongue, pinning it to the roof of the punk’s mouth. The blade continued up through the soft palate, penetrating the sinuses, passing behind the eyes and severing the optic nerves, shredding the brain tissue in its path.

The tip of the blade came to rest in the pleasure center of the brain, which was why Travis began spewing huge amounts of spunk out of his dying cock.

Travis was locked in a blinded world of loud noises and the most phenomenal pain possible. The brain trauma sent a shockwave through his entire central nervous system. His body seemed to flow in waves from the mangled brain matter down his spine to his dick, where his entire life seemed to flow in great white gobs of cum out of his unnaturally engorged tool.

Travis fell back into the strong, ruthless arms of the merc, thrashing with massive brain damage, his entire existence reduced to the solid stream of semen his shorted-out cerebrum was forcing out of his rod in a final agonizing, involuntary orgasm.

The stoned fucker slumped to the ground, still twitching and convulsing. Long after the mercs had done what they needed to do, Travis was still jerking, cum oozing from the head of his flaccid cock.

The moon rose long after midnight. It shed its slivery beams down on three young men getting hard in the wood. But these boys were getting hard all over—in fact, they were downright stiff.

Good meat never goes to waste in the forest.