Jack’s Krew in Rigler County: The Great Coon Hunt

Dan had just settled into his new chair and leaned back on it when Pete burst through the door, grinning.

 

“Man, I just heard about it and I’m so stoked.  You deserve it, bro—I mean, sir!”

 

Dan looked up at the eager, muscle-bound cop and smiled in return.  “Well, I’m only sheriff pro tem.  I’ll be finishing out Waites’ term till it ends in January.”

 

“Yeah, but they ain’t gonna hire anyone else after that—are they?”

 

Dan let his smile edge into a smirk.  “Well—to tell the truth, I just got back from a meeting with Ethan Hobart—he’s head of the county elections office.  Seems that the reason Waites was unopposed in every election for the last seventeen years was because ol’ Ethan’s a big supporter of law and order.  He liked the way Waites did things, but he told me he knew I had pretty much been running the department solo since Waites took ill last spring.  Looks like I got the same deal, come election time.”

 

Pete nodded.  “Shame about the old man; I never knew he was that sick.  At least it was quick.  Sounds like yer gonna be the new sheriff of Rigler County, if Hobart keeps his word.”

 

Dan’s masculine face went cold and hard.  “He’d better, or we’re gonna have to pay him a visit one night.  That reminds me—I can’t be assigning a deputy to my important tasks.  I’ve already started the paperwork to make you my lieutenant.”

 

Pete was literally speechless, unable to express his appreciation in a coherent way.  Dan chuckled.  “Don’t worry about it, son—you done good.  In a way, you’re pretty much the son I never had, and I trust you.”

 

“I won’t let you down, sir,” the new lieutenant replied, his voice husky with solemnity.  Pete revered Dan and would have followed him to the ends of the earth—but Dan already knew that.  The two men had formed an incredibly intense bond based on authority and discipline—and the right way to handle someone who lacked them.

 

Which reminded Dan…

 

“Hey, my cousin’s supposed to be in town tomorrow.  I’ve asked him and his crew to stop by my place in the evening; I’d like you to be there too.”

 

“For the big coon hunt?  Fuck yeah, I’m gonna be there!”

 

“Good,” Dan grinned.  “I been doin’ a little research on what we’re gonna be up against, but we’re gonna need to work out some teams and tactics.  There’s practically gonna be a fuckin’ army of jigaboos comin’ in to pollute our county and we need to make sure we got a plan in place to track down and waste every single one of ‘em.”

 

“I’ll be ready, sir,” Pete said with a matching grin that was seconded by the huge erection tenting his chinos.  The thought of having free reign to hunt down and snuff niggers in his hometown had the lieutenant edging so hard he could barely concentrate for the rest of the day.

 


 

Dan’s place was far enough out of town for the gathering of strangers to go unnoticed.  They’d arrived in two separate groups; Jack, Ed and Hank, all riding their bikes, had arrived first.  Jack straddled a 2012 Harley Night Rod, his tight jeans and twenty-hole Doc Martens wrapped tightly around the hog.  Ed’s ride was a 2013 Harley Fat Boy, while Hank’s was a 2007 Honda Shadow.

 

The boys cruised up the well-maintained drive, their bikes scrunching to a halt in the gravel in front of the house.  Dan was waiting for them.  Leading them inside, he introduced them to Pete quickly, names only, since Mike’s car pulled up just then.  The boys could hear Mike and Frankie’s boots on the porch just as Dan got to the door.  Once everyone was inside, he passed around a twelve-pack of beer and got down to business.

 

“Ok, just so we know where we stand,” he said, looking around at the assorted skinhead killers, “I’m the law around here, and Pete here is my lieutenant.  This operation is under my command.  That means I’m in charge, and if I ain’t around, he is—got it?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack spoke up before any of his crew could object, “Yer callin’ the shots.”  He ignored the baffled looks of his gang, who were unused to seeing their leader take a back seat—but he knew what he was doing.

 

Dan grinned.  “Relax, men; yer gonna like this.  Pete, bring out that map ya brought.  Jack, what didja find out about this ape invasion?”

 

“Mike’s my guy for that—what’d ya find?”

 

Mike stepped forward.  In the dim interior light, his short hair and large eyes both seemed to be of the deepest jet black.  “Coupla coon fraternities from the main campus of the state college.  Not too much about ‘em online, although one was kicked off campus for drugs.”

 

“Fuck, that’s perfect,” Pete said, “Now they’re down here tryin’ to establish a safe base for their drug deals.”

 

“So we’re gonna handle it like a raid,” Dan said.  “Any idea how many monkeys are gonna be runnin’ loose in the woods?”

 

“I was able to access one of the frat’s websites,” Mike smirked, “Fuckin’ cunts don’t know a damn thing about security.  They’re doin’ what they call a Weekend Warrior Weekend where all the apes dress up like army men and play laser tag or paintball or some shit.  At least forty of ‘em are confirmed, and there may be more.  They got three fifteen-passenger vans rented.  Some place called Ranney’s Valley.”

 

Dan’s face darkened.  “Yer tellin’ me there’s gonna be forty niggers runnin’ loose out there?  Fuck.  Fuck.”

 

“What’s wrong?” Pete asked, concerned.  Jack leaned forward as well.

 

“That’s too many.  We can’t leave that much nigger meat out there; it’ll draw too much attention.  And it’ll be too difficult to clean up without some noticeably heavy equipment.”

 

There was a pause, and the room grew quiet.

 

“Not if the meat cleans itself up first,” Pete said, suddenly.

 

Dan looked questioningly at his lieutenant.

 

“You’re sheriff now, so that means you have access to all the county property, right?  Like access to the Poorhouse?”

 

Dan saw the light.  “Fuck yeah, we can herd some of ‘em in there.  And then your boys,” he went on, turning to Jack, “Can have some fun.”

 

“What’s the Poorhouse?” Ed spoke up.

 

“It’s actually an old jail overflow building.  It was abandoned eighteen years ago when the new county lockup was completed.  It’s got about twenty individual cells, and a nice large cinderblock cafeteria with a gallery and catwalk,” Dan responded grinning.  “It’s an ideal deathpit.”

 

“Aw, fuck yeah,” Hank said, “This shit is on!  What’s the plan?”

 

The sudden sense of agreement, of unity, swept wordlessly among the hardbodied testosterone-laden killers.  Their imaginations inflamed with the sheer possibilities, their cocks responded as well; it was inevitable.

 

But release was for later.  Now, plans needed to be made.

 

“Ok, lessee what we got here—Pete, you get a map of Ranney’s Valley in this pile?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete responded, digging through the pile of maps and handing one to Dan, “Here; it’s an old topographical map of everything north of the bayou and west of the Old Randville Road.  Folks at the county office don’t know what they have themselves.  Glad I spotted this; it’s got Ranney’s Valley in detail.”

 

“All right,” Dan said in a brisk, businesslike tone as he spread the map across his dining room table, “Gather round, boys, and we’ll get operation White Knight worked out.  There’s gonna be two squads.  I’m leadin’ one and Pete the other.”

 

He paused for a moment, glancing around the room, looking each of Jack’s crew dead in the face.  If there was gonna be any challenge to his authority, it’d happen now.

 

There was nothing.  They met his eyes, but said nothing; he was the oldest, the strongest, the most experienced.  They accepted him as alpha leader.

 

He relaxed and grinned.  “That’s only because we wanna have an official presence if any of the coons tries to resist arrest.”  He broke into a broad grin which visible eased the tension in the room.  The hardbodied young men turned their attention to the map.

 

“Now, if they’re doin’ some kinda war game bullshit, they’re gonna be split in two themselves, and will have two base camps.  One here on the east side of the valley, and one on the west—even niggers can’t be stupid enough not to realize where the camps should go.  And if they are, there’s plenty of info to tell ‘em so.  At any rate, two gangs of apes, so two squads of men to hunt ‘em down.”

 

“Makes sense,” Jack said, “But we can’t be sure they’ll make a base exactly on those spots, can we?”

 

“No,” Dan admitted, “Which is why we’re gonna hafta start this clean-up op in full stealth mode.  Each squad will start at the top of the valley, here and here, and slowly work its way down until it finds the base camp.  Any coon you come across before you find the base camp, you waste, but it’s gotta die quiet.  Last thing we need is a buncha howler monkey shriekin’ in the woods, yeah?”

 

“Don’t worry,” Mike spoke up, “I can make ‘em suffer and die without makin’ a squeak.”  His handsome face was twisted with an evil leer.  Pete noticed the buff young punk; he hadn’t paid him much attention before, but the confident tone of the killer punk’s voice stirred something.

 

“When you find the base camp, don’t kill the niggers.” Dan said suddenly.  “We’re gonna use them to help gather up and dispose of the dead ones.”

 

“Dispose?  How’re they gonna dispose of them?” Ed asked.

 

“Well to start, they can stack the bodies in one of the vans.  All the vans—and all the nigs, dead and alive—are gonna be driven to the Poorhouse.”

 

“What happens there?” Ed put in again, his interest clearly picking up.

 

Again, Dan slowly glanced around the table, meeting each man’s eyes—including Pete’s.  This wasn’t a moment of challenge, though; something else passed between them as Dan smiled at each in turn.

 

“I don’t care what happens there.  At all.”

 


 

Pete scanned the valley stretching out below him before glancing across to the slope on the east side.  He couldn’t see Dan’s squad, but that was the idea.

 

Dan hadn’t specified any particular dress code, other than telling them not to wear bright colors.  He had emphasized the need for extreme stealth until the base camps were found.

 

“Y’all get a herd of fuckin’ apes screamin’ and stampedin’ outta here, we’ll never hear the end of it.  Each squad is gonna have two shotguns, but they’re for emergency only, hear me?  I don’t care what ya do to ‘em as long as it’s quick and quiet.”

 

Dan had Jack, Ed, and Hank on his squad; they had the east side of the valley.  Pete, with Mike and Frankie, had the west side.  The east side was corrugated forestland with hidden dells and unexpected rock formations; the west side was completely different—it was a gentler slope, smoother and much more wet.  Little rills and streams crisscrossed it, draining into the creek at the bottom of the valley.  The west side was better suited to spreading troops out and would need more men to cover.

 

“Most of the coons won’t go too far from their base on that side,” Jack had said authoritatively, “Niggers don’t like the water.”

 

So now Pete crept through the underbrush, his ears straining to hear over the constant background sound of trickling water.  His tight jeans were tucked into a pair of TideWe sixteen-inch hunting boots, proof against the mud and muck of the rivulets he stalked into.  His olive-green t-shirt was cinched across his broad chest by the strap of a shotgun scabbard that dangled the weapon across his back—out of the way, but easy to reach when needed.  His black hair was covered by a camouflage cap, the brim low over his hard, cold eyes.

 

Wrapped tightly around his waist—around everyone’s waists; Dan had issued them out—was a webbed nylon belt with a sheath holding a combat utility knife, with a seven-inch, double-sided blade.  One side was a simple edged surface, the other was serrated for extra sawing power.  Both were excruciatingly sharp.  Also on the belt was an extendible whip-like baton and a thick heavy bludgeon—the latter were custom made for Dan, a solid lead bar coated in thick latex.  Everyone also had a pair of handcuffs; Dan, Pete, and Jack had several pairs each.

 

Pete and Dan also had radios; cell phones were useless out here.  But radio silence was to be maintained until the coons’ camps had been located.

 

Far off to Pete’s left, he was aware of Frankie’s progress through the boggy woods.  Frankie was taking the only other semi-dry path the descended the west side. He’d stuck to his usual gear of khaki t-shirt, camouflage pants and combat boots; it was perfect for the mission.  Pete couldn’t see Frankie, he could only hear an occasional rustle in the distance.  The sound would me nothing to someone who didn’t already know Frankie was there.

 

Mike followed in Pete’s footsteps, his black engineer boots getting muddy as he quietly made his way across the sodden landscape.  Not much sunlight penetrated the tree cover; his black jeans and t-shirt merged in with the shadows.  Like the others, he had something slung over his shoulder, but in his case, it was a tightly wound coil of nylon rope.

 

Silently and carefully, the three hardbodied young men sought out their prey, inching closer to the kill.

 


 

On the east side, Jack was carefully negotiating his way down a broad gully.  The grade wasn’t overly steep, but it the ground was uncertain and covered with leaves; he had to watch where he planted his calf-high green DMs.  His tight, faded jeans and pale orange tank top weren’t overly noticeable against the fall foliage, but he had no intention of drawing attention to himself.

 

Ahead and off to the right, he could just barely see Hank.  They’d split into pairs and then the pairs split just to the point that they could keep each other in sight.  Hank wasn’t easy to spot; his oxblood Docs were too close to the ground to be seen from a distance and his tight dark jeans didn’t stand out.  Despite the relative warmth of the day, Hank had worn his olive-drab flight jacket.  Only Jack could pick out the tell-tale signs of Hank’s presence.

 

Then Jack picked out more than just Hank’s presence; the skinhead had halted and was making a motion with his arm.  It was a prearranged signal—coon sighting.

 

Hank waited for Jack to approach, slowly and quietly, then pointed it out.  The yard ape was leaning back against a tree, smoking a joint.  It wore a tight black long-sleeve t-shirt tucked into a pair of jeans and a pair of bright red Nike Vandal hightops.  Tucked into its waistband was a paintball pistol.  As Jack and Hank watched, it burned the J down to a roach, which it tucked away in a cigarette pack.

 

When it began to amble away from the tree, it was so high, it didn’t realize that it was being followed until Jack and Hank were less than three feet behind it.  Jack nodded to Hank; the latter, seeing the feral gleam of bloodlust in his leader’s eyes, felt the rush coming on.  Deep in the crotch of his tight jeans, the nigger-killer felt the familiar pressure as his thick white cock swelled at the thought of wasting a coon.

 

He lunged forward, grabbing both of the jigaboo’s arms and pinning them behind its back.  The nigger buck was young and strong; Hank could feel its thick biceps flexing as it struggled against him, but he had no intention of letting the yard ape escape.  He clamped down on it, making it moan in pain.

 

“What the fuck—” It began when Jack stepped in front of it.  It just barely had time to focus on the hardbodied skinhead before the latter spoke, making the dark-skinned nigrah turn ashy gray with fear.

 

“Hey, dude,” Jack said with an ice-cold grin as he slid his knife from its sheath, “What’s a nice place like this doin’ around a nigger like you?”

 

Its eyes widened in panic, but it was utterly unprepared for the speed with which Jack’s hand darted forward and slammed the blade into the angle of the unlucky jig’s jaw.  There was a searing shock of unimaginable agony as seven inches of razor-sharp steel tore through its mouth, slicing completely though the muscle of the tongue at its thick base with ease.

 

It had been a rich nigger; its daddy had owned a number of successful dry-cleaning businesses.  It had lived a cushy life for a coon, and now its mouth was full of steel and horrific pain as it gagged on its own blood.

 

“What’s that fuckin’ stink?  Smells even worse than niggers usually do,” Hank called out, a broad grin on his Aryan face.

 

“Aw, the fuckin’ jig’s pissed itself.  They always do when they die,” Jack responded, then spoke directly to the terrified jungle bunny.  “Yeah, yer dyin’, aintcha, coon?  Hope it hurts, motherfucker.  Hope yer sufferin’, ya black asswipe.”

 

The porch monkey made a horrible gagging sound and spit out its tongue.  It coughed again, this time spewing blood over its outstretched hands.

 

As it stared in bewildered horror at its own blood and meat, Hank swung his heavy bludgeon, popping the nigger on the back of its nappy head.  The latex-covered bar made contact with the cunt’s cranium with an audible crunch, like cracking an eggshell.  The jigaboo fell to its knees, eyes rolled back in its head as shards of its skull slashed through its cerebellum, inflicting massive brain trauma.

 

Its arms tensed up, the hand flailing limply and loosely.  It shit itself, completely losing control of its bowels.  But it still wasn’t dead.

 

“Goddam,” Jack muttered, “They’re gettin’ harder to kill every fuckin’ day.”

 

Hank had to shatter its skull to get it to lie still, smashing the heavy bar into its head until it pulped the coon’s brain.  As he beat it to death, Jack input the location on his phone for corpse retrieval, then both men headed out, fanning out to the east, remaining just within sight of each other, as before.

 

Behind them, the first dead coon of the day continued to twitch quietly as neurons in its pulverized brain matter randomly fired.  Its expensive Nike kicks—it’d waited in line five hours to buy them—jerked repeatedly, carving furrows in the leaves, each one slightly weaker and fainter than the last.  Its heart continued to beat for another hour, but it was nothing more than a pile of nigger meat, lying in the woods.

 


 

Three quarters of a mile to the south, Dan was making his silent, deadly way through the forest.  He’d grabbed a black tactical assault jumpsuit from the department and tucked it into his own pair of ten-inch black lace-up utility boots.  One of the reasons he’d chosen the outfit was for the extra weapon carrying capacity, and he was taking advantage of it now.

 

He’d been attracted by the sound of splashing water and had slowly closed in on a small creek that spilled over a five-foot ledge into a waterfall.  Approaching from the top side, Dan peered down and spotted two niggers lounging around the pool beneath him.  One was fucking around on its phone, trying unsuccessfully to find a signal; it was wearing a t-shirt with a college logo, jeans, and tan Timberland boots.  The other nig had gone full weekend warrior, with combat fatigues and boots.

 

Neither one deserved the name of warrior, Dan thought with contempt.  He was standing in plain sight, but the dumbass monkeys didn’t even look up.  He signaled to Ed, off in the distance, and withdrew from his prominent location to await backup.

 

Ed’s golden buzz-cut hair glinted in the dappled sunlight that broke through the trees.  Wearing a khaki-brown wifebeater that showed off his bulging, tatted biceps, the Aryan punk also sported a tight pair of Diesel jeans tucked into his oxblood Doc Martins.  He closed in swiftly on Dan’s position and soon they both had the enemy in view.

 

Dan and Ed were both experienced killers; no words needed to be said.  Dan nodded at the camo-wearing coon and ran his finger across his throat.  Ed nodded, bent his head at the other one, and did the same thing.  Using his fingers only, Dan counted down from three and they both sprang forward.

 

The jungle bunny in fatigues was farthest from the bank; Dan reached it before Ed reached his target.  The cop had his weapon ready in his gloved hands—a length of piano wire with wooden handles on then ends, a professional garrote.  He approached the ape from behind and, swiftly looping the wire, dropped it over the nigger’s head, cinching tight instantly.

 

“Gak!” the choking coon gagged out, “Grk! Guh!”  Dropping its paintball gun, it began clawing frenetically at the wire sunk into its neck.

 

“What the fuck?” the other jigaboo said, turning in confusion, only to be confronted with Ed, grinning and swinging at him.  Before the buck could react, the powerful Aryan had punched him in the face, hard.  The jig stumbled backwards, reeled, and fell face-down on the bank of the creek, its head over the water.

 

Ed instantly pounced on top and forced its head under the surface.  It thrashed and flailed as the hardbodied nigger-killer lay on top of it and began drowning it.

 

Behind Ed, Dan held on tight as he strangled the young coon to death.  It kept clawing and struggling, as if trying to rise to its feet, but the buff cop kept it down on its knees.  “Think yer gonna come out here and fuck my town, motherfucker?” he hissed at it as he bent over it and choked its life out.  “Fuckin’ die, ya worthless pickanniny.  All you nasty-ass yard apes need to fuckin’ die.  My boys are gonna take out all yer nigger cousins—you all related, right?  Fuck yer own sisters like goddam jungle monkeys, huh?”

 

The young buck couldn’t reply.  Its face was already blacker and lips thicker than usual.  Its huge eyes bulged comically as it gagged and jerked, dying helpless and alone in the woods.  It could see its friend dying, as well.

 

Ed felt the big buck nigger’s taut muscles flexing under him as it struggled to get its head above the water.  He had to clamp down on it, his bicep bulging with the pressure he was exerting to keep the jungle bunny’s head under the surface.  Its Timberland boots kicked out helplessly, scraping up leaves and carving furrows in the dirt.  Its arms splashed frantically in the creek, the sound becoming lost in the noise of the miniature waterfall.

 

No one else could hear the niggers die.

 

It took a while.  Dan’s coon kept swinging and swaying to each side, its struggles becoming weaker and more erratic.  A sudden acrid stench filled the air; the darky had pissed itself, a large dark wet spot forming in the crotch of its fatigues.  By now its tongue, thick and grotesque, was sticking out from between the ludicrously swollen lips.  Its eyes had rolled back in its head and it was drooling like a fucking dog.

 

Hank’s porch monkey was also slowing, its attempts to breathe becoming more and more feeble.  Its hands splashed limply just at the surface of the creek and its boots were not so much kicking as twitching and jerking among the fallen leaves.

 

With a hearty grunt, Dan tightened his wire around the nigger’s neck one last time.  This time, he put enough force into it to break the skin; in fact, the wire sank so deep he damn near cut the coon’s throat.  It hung loosely and limply from the garrote, its hand dangling in front and shuddering convulsively.

 

The sadistic sheriff finally had enough.  He let the cunt drop to the ground, then retrieved his wire.  It was so deeply embedded in the homeboy’s neck that Dan had to brace himself by planting his combat boot on the jigaboo’s chest to yank his weapon from its body.

 

Behind him, Hank finally rose to his feet.  The ape he’d offed was halfway in the water, only its jeans and boots visible.  Its legs still trembled and quivered.

 

“Thin they’re dead?” Hank asked.

 

“Good as,” Dan replied, “They damn sure ain’t gonna be infestin’ the woods anymore.”

 

“This is gonna be easy,” Hank went on, “Fuckin’ animals—ain’t as smart as us humans.”

 

“Apes don’t hunt, not with stealth,” Dan observed.  “Gonna make it easier to stop this coon invasion dead in its tracks—literally.  Mark the location so we can get this pile of fuckin’ monkey meat dragged outta here later.”

 

Seconds later, they were back out on the hunt themselves, heading silently toward the partying young jigaboos who were blissfully unaware of the brutal Aryan predators about to ambush and slaughter them mercilessly.

 


 

Back on the west side, Pete was crouched expectantly in the undergrowth; he’d seen movement in the distance and had pulled out a pair of binoculars.  Cautiously and quietly, Mike and Frankie approached him.  By the time they got to him, Pete had spotted what he was looking for.

 

“Here,” he said, handing the binoculars to the first arrival, Mike, and pointing to the west, “See ‘em?  Coupla niggers—and they got drugs.  The Cap—er, the Sheriff—was right as usual.  If we don’t wipe ‘em out now, they’re gonna fuck this place up.”

 

The view through the intervening foliage wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough for Mike to make out the two coons Pete was referring to.  One of them, in a dark t-shirt tight across his broad ape chest, loose jeans hanging halfway off his ass, was rolling a huge fat blunt.  The other, with a crooked ball cap, torn jeans and white Nike hightops, was sprinkling white power into it from a baggie which it replaced into its hip pocket when finished.

 

The second jig was the one that had caught Pete’s attention; its neon-yellow t-shirt was easily visible, even in the overgrown brush.

 

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, handing the binoculars to Frankie, who’d just arrived, “Ya gotta treat ‘em like roaches.  Ya see one, ya know there’s hundreds around somewhere, spreadin’ filth.  Best thing to do is find the nest and wipe ‘em all out—any that get away can breed more.”

 

“Hell yeah,” Frankie said, grinning as he peered at the prey, about five hundred yards to the west.  “Fuckin’ hard to kill as roaches, too.  Ya gotta hit ‘em hard and keep hittin’ ‘em till they ain’t nothin’ but twtichin’ apemeat.”  He paused, keeping one hand on the binoculars and rubbing the swelling bulge in his crotch with the other.  “I ain’t down with this ‘fast’ and ‘quiet’ shit, though,” he muttered.  “I wanna take my time over it.  I wanna hear ‘em beg and scream when they die, fuckin’ jigaboos…”

 

“Time for that later,” Pete said peremptorily, “We gotta get to the camp first.  Once we corral the apes, you can worry about havin’ some fun with whatever’s still alive.”  As he spoke, he could see that the coons had fired up the blunt and were passing it back and forth.  “C’mon,” he said, “Looks like they’re too busy gettin’ fucked up to see us comin’ to fuck ‘em up.”

 

The three aggressive young killers slowly moved forward; Pete, in the lead, making sure they remained undetected.  Even though the prey was getting high, he still didn’t want to take the chance of panicking the jungle bunnies before he was close enough to catch one.  He and Frankie didn’t really have different aims, it was just that Pete, under Dan’s tutelage, had learned the value of Discipline and Authority, and for both, control was needed.

 

Pete was becoming one of the most dangerous of killers, a buff, hardbodied young who got off on inflicting pain and death but had the self-control to pick and choose the appropriate moment to indulge himself.  And he had a badge.

 

He had no problem with lingering over a nigger, making it squeal and suffer before dispatching it to monkey hell, but first, he wanted information.  He wanted to catch one alive and interrogate it, find out where its nest—er, camp was.  He’d waste it when he was done with it, but not before he’d pumped it for all it knew.

 

He was looking forward to making a monkey talk.  His hand slid down to the handle of his utility knife.  He hoped it would resist.  As he unclipped the strap securing the blade in its sheath, his dick started to stiffen.

 

He was still in full control—but he really, really hoped the jigaboo would resist.

 

They burst suddenly out of the underbrush.  “Freeze, niggers!” Frankie yelled.  One did and one didn’t.

 

The coon in the dark shirt, the one who’d rolled the blunt, took off like a shot, earning the name of jungle bunny by scampering through the woods like a wild hare.  Just a swiftly, Mike and Frankie went after him, vanishing back into the undergrowth.

 

Pete was left alone with the jig in the yellow shirt.  It popped up as if to flee, but Pete sprang forward and clamped it in a power hold, one hand tightly over its mouth while using the other to press his knife into its throat.

 

“You can feel that, cantcha,” he said menacingly.  It wasn’t a question.  “I’m gonna ask some questions.  You don’t answer, I cut your fuckin’ throat.  You do anything but answer, I’m gonna cut yer throat.  You dig, nigger?  Ya feelin’ me, tarbaby?”

 

The coon nodded its head.  Clutching the muscled black buck tightly, he could feel it tremble.  In a mix of anger and fear, it was sweating, a nasty niggery reek.  Pete closed his mind to it, thinking the smell was proof that offing these disgusting apes was utterly justified, if nothing else was.

 

“Where’s yer camp, fuckwad?” he asked quietly.

 

“Down dere by de riber,” the porch monkey replied, fear making his coon accent thicker.

 

“How many more guards you got out?  Where are they?”

 

“Homie, I dunno that kinda shit!  We’s jist here fo’ some—” Pete cut it off, clamping his huge strong hand back over its mouth, feeling its thick soft lips crushed under his palm.  He drew the blade across the cunt’s throat—not deeply, just enough to break the skin and leave a thin line of blood encircling the jigaboo’s neck.

 

“Not an acceptable answer,” the hardbodied cop growled, “And you call me homie again and I’ll gut you here and now like a fuckin’ pig, you got me, boy?  Now where are the rest of yer fuckin’ tribe?”

 

The young nigger was almost in tears when Pete lifted his hand this time; it was clearly confused and terrified.  Stupid motherfucker couldn’t figure out what was going on.  Pete felt nothing but contempt and impatience.

 

“Answer me, ya black piece of shit, or so help me God—”

 

“I dunno!! I really don’t!!  I mean I saw Andre an’ Deontay go dat way an’ Marquis an’ Lamar said dey wanted to off an’ do some hits—but I dunno!!” the coonboy wailed.

 

Pete snorted in disgust.  It figured.  He shoulda known better than to expect an ignorant fuckin’ yard ape to talk sense.  He pressed the knife against its neck again.

 

“Yer a worthless sack a’ monkey meat, aintcha,” he muttered and ripped its throat open.  “Doin’ the world a fuckin’ favor.”

 

The razor-sharp blade sliced easily through apeflesh, but once it reached the nigger’s trachea, Pete had to put some pressure on it; it took a little effort to saw through the rubbery tissue.  The jungle bunny had tried to scream as its white deathmaster began the kill, but Pete kept its jaw in such a tight grip that all it could do was give off the despairing bleat of a dying lamb.

 

That changed once the windpipe was penetrated.  The monkey still wasn’t able to scream—the buff lawman had carved its larynx to gristly shreds—but its trapped air burst out in a high-pitched squeal, followed by violent gagging on blood.  It was the sound of a young nigger cunt in mortal agony.

 

Pete let it go and stepped back to watch it die, his dick so hard it hurt.

 

It fell to its knees, blood spewing from the gash in its neck.  It coughed and choked and vomited up blood in stunned shock, holding its hands up to the wound.   Pete chuckled at the dumbass coon, thinking it could hold back the blood.  For a moment it turned to look at him, its eyes wide with sheer terror.  Then, as Pete watched, the nigger’s eyes rolled back in its head.  It pissed itself and collapsed, lying huddled on the ground.

 

The cop had done his duty.  He went in search of Mike and Frankie, leaving behind him a pile of apemeat, struggling convulsively to breathe, its muscled body heaving and wheezing as it bled out in a muddy pool of its own blood and urine.  Its Nikes twitched in the leaves a few times as it died alone in the woods.

 


 

Fifty yards west, Frankie and Mike had come across their prey struggling to free its expensive Air Jordan from a crack in a boulder; the coon had tried to scamper over it and gotten its foot stuck.  It had just managed to get itself free when the hardbodied apekillers burst in on it from the underbrush.  Trapped with its back to the rock it had been unable to climb, it looked at the muscled Aryans and whimpered, its eyes comically wide.

 

“Hey there, spook,” Frankie grinned.

 

“Gonna be a fuckin’ spook by the time I’m done with it,” Mike muttered, drawing the heavy bludgeon from his utility belt.  Frankie had already pulled out his expandable baton.

 

The nigger was a big black buck, well-built and strong.  It was obviously scared but was pathetically trying to brazen it out.  “Wh-wh—” it began, paused and gulped, and then restarted.  “Wh-what you white b-boys want?”

 

What they wanted was to explode and the coon had set the bomb off perfectly.  “Shut the fuck up, ya stupid black ape!” Frankie roared, his young, hard face twisted in rage and his thick cock so hard it was visible in the crotch of his camo pants.  He slashed at the nig’s face with the baton, laughing with malevolent glee as the street monkey wailed in pain.

 

“Goddammit, the piece a’ shit’s makin’ too much noise,” Mike said, stepping forward.  With a single brutal incapacitating blow, he pounded his bludgeon into the jigaboo’s simian face, shattering its jaw into shards.  The nigger made an odd squealing sound, then gagged and retched before vomiting out bloody clots of teeth.

 

As it did, Frankie, who’d torn the fucker’s left cheek open and broken its cheekbone with his baton, shifted to the other side.  Mike stood back for a moment to let him work, watching his brother-in-snuff demonstrate the flexibility of the baton.  Standing behind the coon, he whipped the thin metal rod horizontally against the side of its head.  It had enough give to follow the contours of the skull.

 

When the tip came to the front of the skull, it whipped around and punctured the spade’s eye.

 

It wheezed.  It was trying to scream, but it was trying too hard.  Then it wasn’t trying at all; it was bent over, vomiting uncontrollably.

 

“Well fuck,” Frankie said, smirking at Mike, “That’s kickass!”

 

“Aw, you can to the same thing with an untwisted coat hanger,” Mike said with a grin.  “Here, lemme put it out of its misery.  Mamma always told me to be kind to animals…”

 

His thick-soled engineer boots crunched in the fallen leaves as he closed in for the kill.  The quivering nigger was too overwhelmed with agony to notice his approach.  He was able to walk right up to it and, with his unerring precision of aim, break its neck with a single blow.  The coated metal bar caught the ape just at the nape of its neck, three vertebrae splintering with a loud crunch.

 

The jigaboo twitched violently, twice, then went limp.  It instantly soiled itself.

 

“Jesus,” Frankie said in disgust, “Ya try to do ‘em a favor, and ya end up havin’ to deal with this stench.”

 

“That’s what ya get for tryin’ to do a coon a favor,” said a voice close behind them, making them jump.  They whirled simultaneously to find that Pete had caught up to them.

 

“I take it you got what ya needed from yours?” Mike asked him.

 

“Aw, stupid darkie didn’t know shit,” Pete muttered.  His eyes shifted to the pile of monkey meat lying behind them.

 

“Y’all do know that one’s still alive, right?” he drawled casually, a gleam of humor in his eyes.

 

“Huh?” Frankie blurted.  Mike spun and looked carefully.  Sure enough, it was still breathing.  Shallowly and badly, but it was breathing.

 

“Dude, it’s gotta be dead; it shit itself,” Frankie protested.

 

“Sometimes the spinal cord ain’t severed,” Pete continued.  “I been readin’ up on how to break necks.  Seems ya gotta really work the fucker to make sure ya do enough damage to kill it and not just leave it paralyzed.”

 

“I think we can handle that,” Mike said.  Standing over the nigger, he raised his leg and stomped on its neck, grinding the heel of his big black boot into its spine.  Again and again he stomped it, crushing its throat and leaving no uncertainty whatsoever that the jungle bunny was dead.

 

“So, which way now?” Mike asked, turning his back on the corpse and heading towards Pete and Frankie.

 

“Well, it’s gotta be further east,” Pete replied.  I’ll go this way.  You”—said to Frankie—“go thirty yards north and you”—to Mike—“the same to the south.  If we’re lucky, we should be able to locate their camp soon.”

 

The three men merged back into the underbrush, silently moving forward, on the hunt and primed to kill.

 


 

Dan and Ed were the oldest members of the coon-killing squad.  They had the most experience and the most control.  Dan had divided the groups up knowing that Pete and Jack could handle those with them.  Ed didn’t need to be handled; he and Dan moved on parallel courses, close enough to help each other if needed but not actually coordinating their movements.

 

That’s how Dan happened to be alone when he unexpectedly stumbled across an armed nigger.

 

Dan had decided to take advantage of some of the SWAT tactical gear stored in the back of the new jail.  He’d gone all in black, with a tight-fitting jumpsuit belted at the waist with the nylon utility belt he’d handed out to the others.  The cuffs of his jumpsuit legs were neatly bloused into his SWAT 8” Alpha Fury boots, a black knit cap covered his head and on his hands was a pair of custom-made fingerless leather tactical gloves with metal insets in the palms and brass (well, steel) knuckles sewed into the right glove.

 

Dan was literally dressed to kill, and it saved his life.

 

The jigaboo was leaning back, basking like a lizard in a small spot of sun.  It had a black satin do-rag on its head, an Oakland Raiders t-shirt stretched across its broad monkey chest, a pair of dark, low-slung jeans, Nike Air Jordan IIIs on its feet, and a Newport dangling from its thick lower lip.  If Dan hadn’t been upwind, the smoke would have told him it was there.  As it was, he popped right into the small clearing, making the yard ape jump up and go for its waistband.

 

Dan saw the Glock G17 in its hand; his reaction in the split-second he had before it drew a bead on him was the result of professional training.  He punched the nigger in the throat.

 

The brass knuckles in his glove collapsed the dumb ape’s esophagus instantly with the sound and sensation of crushing a foam cup.  The jig dropped its gun and clutched at its ruined throat, its eyes wider than seemed physically possible.

 

Strange thick sounds came from its blocked windpipe.  “GUK!  GRK!  NGK!”  The porch monkey was too stupid to realize it was dead; it staggered forward, reaching out to Dan as if pleading for help.  Its face was already swelling and becoming congested; tears welled from its bulging eyes as it gagged and choked.  It took another faltering step towards Dan, then fell to its knees, its hands still upraised in a beseeching gesture.

 

“Bad idea to draw on the sheriff, nigger,” Dan said evenly.  “See, yard apes with gats get the death penalty in this county.”

 

It may have even been stupid enough to feel hope when Dan suddenly grinned at it; if it did, it was soon dashed as the muscular, black-clad ape killer reached down and unzipped his fly.  Reaching in, he hauled up his enormous tackle and brandished it, semi-hard in the coon’s face.

 

“Aw, I’m just kiddin’,” Dan said cheerfully.  “Gats or no gats, all you jigaboos are gonna die.  I got death squads out there now, huntin’ yer monkey kin down.”

 

The nigger knew it was going to die now; its tongue was already starting to protrude.  Snot from its nose trickled down to mingle with the drool spilling over its thick dark lips and blood vessels ruptured like fireworks in the whites of its eyes.  A hot, sour smell filled the air as dark moistness spread out from the crotch of its jeans.

 

“Boy, yer a fuckin’ mess,” Dan drawled.  “Here, lemme help ya wash that off.”

 

And with that he started pissing in the dying nigger’s face, the hot, acrid urine splashing over the gagging monkey’s exposed tongue and into its protruding eyes.  Its hands, which hadn’t ceased clawing at its throat, now came up in a weak attempt to block the flow.  They fluttered like dying birds, splashing in the stream of hot piss, before the jungle bunny suddenly pitched forward, face down into the dirt, and began to convulse violently.

 

Dan had a bladder like a barrage balloon.  He kept giving the spade a nice warm golden shower as it kicked its life away, its Nike kicks scraping in the dirt as a puddle of urine formed around the depression where it had faceplanted.  As the stream finally trailed off into a trickle, Dan took a moment to shake the last few drops out onto the soaked do-rag on its head, then tucked his rod back in.  Bending down and retrieving the gun from where the nig had dropped it, Dan left his prey still twitching in its own little sunny spot.

 

He was in a hurry; some inner sense had told him Ed had found something interesting.

 

 


 

 

Ed had.  Crouching behind a huge, moss-covered oak, his gaze was riveted on a wooden shed, about twenty feet square.  He’d seen at least three niggers go in, and the front was guarded by two coons carrying what looked like paintball guns.

 

It was the base camp he’d been looking for.  Deep in the groin of his tight Diesel jeans, his long, thick, white cock stirred with the through of the slaughter that was about to occur.  He needed Dan to put in an appearance, quick, or he was gonna start wasting the fuckin’ porch monkeys on his own.

 

Luckily for his libido, Dan slipped silently out of the undergrowth just in time.  “Lookee here,” the buzz-cut Nazi grinned, “Found the fuckin’ coon nest.”

 

Dan grinned back, the cold, hard grin of an experienced calculating his target’s death.  “How many inside?”

 

“I’d say five to ten, maybe more.”

 

“Ok, here’s the plan…”

 

Dan wanted to reconnoiter the structure before making his move, making sure the one visible door was the only practicable exit.  They agreed to circle around to the rear, Ed heading to the left and Dan to the right, giving the open space in front of the shed a wide berth and moving quietly so as to leave the guards undisturbed—for the moment.

 

The next time they saw each other, they were peering around the back of the shed; it was up against a thickly wooded bank, and didn’t even have windows.  The set-up was perfect; this team of nigs had been stupid enough to set up headquarters in a trap.  As the muscled killers—one a skinhead and one in cop gear—conferred behind the shed, they could head the motherfuckers chattering away on the inside like a troop of apes.

 

“The two in front,” Dan whispered, holding up his knife and making a slashing gesture across his throat.  Dan nodded, and they each began to creep back to the front of the shed, along opposite side, staying low to avoid the windows in the sides.  They reached the front simultaneously, crouching at the corners of the building and scoping out the guards.

 

Two big buff bucks, with their backs turned.  One was in a too-small t-shirt advertising some fraternity event, a pair of tight jeans full of holes and so elaborately patched that they’d clearly been manufactured that way, and a pair of bright blue Nike Air Jordan Flight Varsity hightops.  The other wore the same t-shirt with a black flat peak cap worn backwards, worn but intact jeans and replica white-and-black Jordan 1 Homage sneakers.

 

The jeans and kicks were enough to tell—the one on the right came from money, the one on the left didn’t.  Not that it mattered—they’d both die just the same, hard and ugly.

 

It happened fast.

 

Dan’s boots were silent on the trodden dirt clearing in front of the shed as he crept forward.  Ed’s Doc Martens made faint grinding sounds, but the two coons never noticed.  They’d just finished sharing a blunt and were both higher than fuck.  The whole thing was a game, after all—until it wasn’t.

 

Dan took the one on the right.  His hand, in its fingerless leather tactical glove, clamped tightly across the jigaboo’s mouth.  It just had time to let out a startled grunt before he jammed his knife into its throat, powering up his bicep and punching the blade through any resistance he felt.

 

Ed did the same, but he didn’t stifle his target; as a result, his yard ape managed to blurt out a thick, gagging bleat of agony, unrecognizable as human and nowhere near loud enough to be heard inside.

 

Ed’s coon—the poor one—choked and spat out a spray of blood.  It and the other one turned to look at each other in shock and horror, each clutching their punctured, bleeding necks.  The wealthy one staged forward a few steps after Dan let it go, its thick rubbery lips working as if it was begging for its worthless life, but nothing came from its open mouth beyond the sound of a dying nigger gargling on its own blood.  As it shuffled its expensive Nikes in the dirt, it ruined its expensive jeans by losing control of its bladder.

 

“Aw, fuck, nigger piss stinks,” Dan muttered.  The jungle bunny paused and swayed, its already-huge pupils dilating as it started to lose consciousness.  The hardbodied cop darted forward; catching it as it fell, he dragged the shuddering spade off to the right and dumped it into the undergrowth where it spent its last few seconds facedown in a clump of poison sumac, drowning on its own blood.

 

The poor jigaboo with the replica Jordans had wrapped both hands tightly around its own throat as if it could stop the flow of blood that way.  Lightheaded and panicked, it stumbled ahead and to the left—instinctively trying to flee the danger.  Ed didn’t chase it; he didn’t need to.  As it lurched away, he swung out with the knife, twice, lightning-fast, and caught the black cunt in the throat again each time.

 

It made it three steps before falling to its knees and pissing itself.  Its hands dropped limply to its sides and it tried desperately to breathe, twice.  Both tries resulted in nothing more than grotesque, gurgling wheezes.  Then it fell facedown, its legs kicking spasmodically.

 

Following Dan’s lead, Ed dragged it off to the side and shoved it into one of the small creeks running through the area.  He didn’t check to see if it had stopped breathing yet; it would soon enough anyway.

 

He and Dan then executed perfect stealth approached to the shed.  The front had one centered door with a small window on each side of it.  Dan and Ed sidled along the front to the door, staying low to avoid the windows.  Once the reached it, they paused, flanking it, two muscled warriors awaiting their backup.

 

It didn’t take long for Jack and Hank to catch up.  There was no need to ask how their hunting had gone; the disappointment on their faces was obvious indication that they hadn’t managed to snuff as many coons as they’d wanted.  Dan grinned; once the monkeys were penned up in the Poorhouse, the Aryan punks could torture them to death to his sick little heart’s content.  Fuck, Dan was gonna be glad to help.  But they needed to have them corralled first.

 

The four killers put their heads together and came up with a quick plan of assault—not that the ramshackle shed justified the need of a plan, but the last thing anyone wanted was for a yard ape to escape and go off howling into the woods.  The actual attack was over faster than they would have thought possible.

 

Dan and Jack broke through the door as Ed and Hank blocked the windows from the outside.  The niggers paused, unsure of what was happening; it took the sight of the muscle-bound cop brandishing his shotgun to get the concept of danger through their dense skulls.

 

Then hell broke loose.

 

None of the coons had a real weapon, or any kind of hand-to-hand combat training; some had joined in street brawls, but it wasn’t the same.  Ten of the dozen made it out alive—bleeding and bruised, cowed into submission, but alive.

 

One big black buck, clearly the alpha of his tribe, tried to stand up to Dan.  He threw up his fists as if offering to box.  Dan let go of the shotgun, letting the shoulder strap catch it, and grinned holding up his palms.  The bull nigger waded in like he was going to deck the sheriff good and hard.  He drew his arm back, clearly telegraphing his swing, and that was when Dan’s arm shot out like a knife-wielding piston, driving the sharp steel tip of his blade between the jigaboo’s ribs and into its heart.

 

“Gurk!” the monkey cried, its eyes huge as a huge bubble of blood broke on its thick lips.  For a brief moment, its powerful ape body was rigid with shock and agony; Dan twisted the knife inside of it to ensure maximum damage before stepping back.  The nigger trembled, then fell tot the floor in heap of quivering, bleeding monkey meat.

 

At the sight of this, another one, this one young and slim, panicked and leaped head-first through the window.  It managed not only to avoid cutting itself too badly but to maneuver into a tuck-and-roll with an animal-like agility.

 

What it didn’t manage to avoid was Ed, with his bludgeon.  Just as the young niglet staggered to its feet, Ed swung the heavy metal bar against its head, knocking it to the ground.

 

“Hey,” Hank said, “We need to keep ‘em alive, remember?  They gotta drag away the ones we already killed.”

 

“Yeah, but this one’s already damaged,” Ed said.

 

“Don’t look that badly damaged to me,” Hank replied.  Planting his oxblood Doc Martens on each side of the moaning, shuddering pickanniny, Ed bent down and bashed it in the again, twice, his huge biceps flexing with the power he delivered to the crushing blows.

 

Standing triumphantly astride the thrashing nigger, Ed gave Hank a malevolent smile.  “How ‘bout now?”

 

Even Hank had to admit this one was brain-damaged beyond repair.  Hell, he could see its brain.  Ed had cracked its skull open like an egg.

 

Dan and Jack emerged with the remaining coons, their hands up.  Some looked angry and defiant, some looked terrified, and some were openly weeping, snot running down their ape-like faces.

 

“You and you,” Dan said, pointing out two of the darkies with his shotgun, “Grab the bodies.  Well, what the fuck are ya waitin’ for, nigger, another slave auction?  Yer on fuckin’ corpse detail; move it!”

 

The porch monkeys’ panic was amusing to watch; they scrambled about in terror, falling over each other in their hurry to obey their new master.  Within minutes, the four white men were leading their captive coons back uphill towards the ridge.  Dan brought up the rear, his gun pointed at the line of ape in front of him—and especially at the ones dragging their dead homies, just to make sure they didn’t lag.

 

They were near the top when the sound of a shotgun blast echoed across the valley, from somewhere high up on the other side.

 

The Aryan brothers looked at Dan.

 

“Get ‘em into the vans,” he said curtly, unlocking the rear doors of the two vehicles the coons had left, then spent a few moments peering across to the slope on the far side of the valley.

 

“See anything?” Jack asked.

 

“No,” Dan answered, “But Pete and his team must have found the other camp.  And Pete knows how to take care of himself.  Are they loaded?  Good.  You take the other van .  We’re gonna go over and see what’s going on with Pete.”

 

Having loaded everyone into the vans the niggers had so thoughtfully brought with them, Dan began the five-mile journey to the nearest crossing.

 


 

Twenty minutes later, when Dan pulled up to far side, where the third van was parked, his lieutenant had already corralled his group of niggers.  The sheriff gave no outward sign of his relief except for a slight, almost unnoticeable relaxation of his taut muscled body.  He opened the door and slid out of the van, about to ask what had happened, when he noticed that a couple of the coons were toting the corpse of one of their kin that was missing most of its head.

 

The buff young lieutenant followed the gaze of his superior officer and grinned.  “Yeah, one of ‘em tried to make a break for it.  Got the jump on one of my guys.”

 

Pete said nothing about who or made any kind of indication, but the fiery flush on Frankie’s face made it clear who the peccant nigger-killer was.  He and Mike were overseeing the loading of the third van, packing the live darkies in with corpses like cattle.  Dan and Pete ambled over to make sure everything was settled before heading out for the Poorhouse.

 

“You got all the bodies?” Dan asked, “Last thing I want is some redneck out frog-giggin’ stumbling over a dead porch monkey and making me waste time on a fake investigation.”

 

“Yeah, we got ‘em all, but these homies are fuckin’ scared as shit of dead bodies,” Pete growled, “Fuck, the one I shot panicked when he touched one and slugged—well, you get the idea.”

 

If Dan didn’t get it, it was soon openly demonstrated for him.  There were already ten living coons in the van, but Pete’s crew had rounded up a dozen.  The last two were carrying the headshot ape.

 

The youngest—he looked too young to be in college—stumbled and fell to his knees about five feet from the van.  Immediately Pete and Dan stood up straight and began moving towards the downed jigaboo; the look on their faces made the other one move double-time, dumping its dead buddy into the van before scrambling in over the corpse.  It wanted to be out of the way of whatever was about to happen.

 

It was Pete who got there first.  The teenage niglet, in boxy low-hanging short, pale Timberland boots and yellow sleeveless Lakers LeBron jersey, peered up at the hardbodied cop looming over him and snarled, “Black lives matter, motherfucker!” in an agony of defiant fear.

 

Dan was there by now.  The two men exchanged a look, and a malicious grin.  Nothing was said or needed to be said; Dan simply handed Pete his own latex-covered lead bludgeon.  Pete gripped it lightly, testing the balance, and turned back to the kneeling pickanniny.  When he spoke, his voice was calm and even.

 

“Boy, I’ve taken shits that mattered more than your worthless nigger existence.”

 

With that, he swung the baton into the punk’s mouth, shattering its jaw and knocking out half its teeth.  It rose up instantly, hands clutched to its mangled, bleeding face, and Pete hit it again—in the same place.  There was much less damage to its face this time; the bones than snapped like twigs were the ones in its hands.

 

It bent forward, thick gouts of blood—and a few teeth—spewing from its mouth as it sprayed and gurgled.  Mike and Frankie found themselves having difficulty; as much as they were enjoying the show, the mutterings and weeping from their vanload of spades meant that the natives were restless and needed watching as well.  Fortunately, it didn’t last long enough for a revolt to start.

 

The agonized coon coughed up a thick gob of bloody phlegm, then tilted its head back—and that was when Pete delivered the death blow, smashing the baton horizontally across the jig’s throat, completely destroying its esophagus in one swift, devastating impact.

 

The young monkey’s eyes bulged and it fell to its knees again, its shattered fingers flopping uselessly at its crushed throat.  Its already dusky face, or what was left of it, swelled and blackened.  Then it pissed itself, acrid urine running down its smooth dark thighs.

 

“Get one or two of ‘em back out to move this one,” Dan called back to Mike and Frankie just as the baby ape pitched forward on its face and thrashed violently.

 

It was still shuddering and trembling as its terrified pack members reluctantly dragged it into the van.  They tried to avoid touching it as they climbed in; in fact, all the coons showed a distinct aversion to being anywhere near the still-convulsing corpse.

 

“Hasn’t even shit itself yet,” Mike remarked conversationally to the niggers as he locked them in with it.

 

Frankie, Hank, and Ed each climbed into one of the vans to keep and eye on monkeys.  Dan, Pete, Mike, and Jack met in the area between the vehicles to coordinate.  They’d already reviewed the maps.

 

“You’re five minutes behind me, right?” Dan said to Pete.  “And use the radio if there are any problems.”

 

“Five minutes, yessir,” Pete responded, then grinned.  “And if you’re referring to the cargo, sir—there won’t be any problems we can’t handle.”

 

Dan returned the grin.  “I know, Lieutenant.  Still keep your eyes open.”  He turned to Jack next.

 

“You’re five minutes behind him.  Need to get anything?  Any special equipment?”

 

Jack replied with a grin no less shark-like than those of the cops.  “Naw, my and my boyz, we specialize in improvisin’.  ‘Specially if there’s a lotta shit lyin’ around.”

 

“This was the old county overflow jail.  It’s falling apart, but it’s got plenty of debris and old tools that can be put to inventive use,” Dan said.

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!  What are we waitin’ for?  We bagged us some coons; time to take ‘em back and gut ‘em!”

 

He scrambled eagerly into the van; it was the signal to depart.  Dan pulled out first; Pete obediently waited five minutes, then followed, with Jack trailing along the requisite five minutes after that.  Three vans, five Aryan brothers, two cops, twenty-one live niggers and at least a dozen dead ones, all heading out for a killing pit.

 

Once the dust from the vans settled, the valley was still and quiet again.  The piss-soaked terror, the bloody agony, the brutal slaughter wasn’t over—it was just being moved to a more convenient location.

Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 2

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

 

They’d turned on him, the motherfuckers.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

What happened next happened fast.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

It was about to go down.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

“Good goin’, son.  I’m proud of ya.”

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 


 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Pete got him.

 

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

 

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

 

“Could be twenty to thirty.”

 

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

 

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

 

“Nice,” Pete grinned.

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

Loose Ends and Burnt Ends, Part 1

The dark and crowded bar presented something of an obstacle course to anyone carrying a pitcher of beer, and especially to someone of Pete’s broad-shouldered, muscular build, but he managed to get back to the table without spilling any of the golden, frothy liquid.  Seating himself, grinning, he expertly poured a couple of glasses without generating an overflowing head.  He then slid one of the glasses across the table to Dan.

 

Pete had been working out heavily, as per Dan’s instructions, and it showed.  The younger cop was much more built now than he was when they’d first met.  This was the first night in two weeks that they’d both been scheduled off together, and they took advantage of the fact by going out to celebrate.

 

It was just sheer chance that Brody was in the same bar.

 

They’d kept up their surveillance of him; the pair of bulked-up cops hadn’t forgotten their pursuit of drug traffickers, but there’d been little movement in that area.  On the other hand, there hadn’t been much movement from Brody either.  Ever since he’d wasted the teenaged faggot, he’d laid low; they knew that because either Pete or Dan had spent part of virtually every day trailing him.  Not that they’d intervene if he initiated another snuff; Pete was still waiting for the signal, and Dan hadn’t given it yet.

 

Tonight, though, was for relaxing and celebration.  Both men had dressed down in plaid western-cut button-down shirts; Dan had rolled up the sleeve of his, showing off his furry forearms.  Both men also wore very tight, very worn jeans and boots—Dan’s was a pair of steel-toe Rocky western ropers while Pete sported a comfortable pair of Wolverine Moc Toe 8-inch workboots.  They pretty much looked like the other country guys in the bar—which was likely why Brody never saw them, even though they weren’t in stakeout mode.

 

It was Pete who first noticed him.  “Well, I’ll be goddammed!” he said in amazement.

 

“What is it?” Dan asked.

 

“Look over there, Cap—ain’t that Brody?  See, next to that buff, dark-skinned dude at the bar…”

 

Dan squinted into the crowd.  “Yeah, it sure is.  Well ain’t that a coincidence.  And here I thought we were givin’ him the evening off.”

 

For a time after that, they ignored the rogue killer; after all, he wasn’t gonna kill anyone in public.  Dan was congratulating Pete on his physical progress, letting the younger man know how proud he was and suggesting some further areas of improvement, but Pete kept noticing how the captain’s eyes were wandering back to Brody.

 

Finally, his curiosity got the better of him.  “Ok, Cap, out with it—what’s he doin’?”

 

Dan shook his head.  “Naw, it ain’t him.  It’s the guy he’s talking to.  I swear I seen him somewhere recently.  Or maybe his picture.”

 

Pete craned his neck to see the guy better, but his view wasn’t as good as Dan’s; all he could make out was the guy’s back.  He seemed to be a well-built Latino in a yellow t-shirt, torn, stained jeans and a pair of black Timberlands.  His blue-black hair was nearly shoulder length and while he was older than most of the fags Brody went for, Pete could see the attraction.

 

“Yeah?” he asked, “Think we should keep an eye on them?”

 

Dan looked Pete levelly in the eyes and said, with little fanfare, words that made the young hardbodied acolyte’s heart leap with joy, “Yeah, we should.  You’re ready, boy.  You can take ‘im if ya hafta.”

 

 

Within ten minutes, Brody and the Latino man got up and headed for the door.  With little fuss, Dan and Pete left their table as well, keeping close to their prey but not close enough to be noticed.  Outside, it was even easier to stay in the shadows; while Brody headed for his truck, the cops headed for Dan’s.

 

The moment he was behind the wheel, Dan snapped his fingers.  “Tony Rodrigues, that’s who he is,” he said.

 

“Who, Brody’s new fucktoy?” Pete asked.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, grinning.  “Came across the wire a couple of days ago—he’s wanted in Calabesa County on suspicion of raping and murdering seventeen-year-old Billy Webber—his stepson.”

 

Pete whistled, his eyes wide.

 

“Yeah,” Dan chuckled, “Looks like we’re might have us a rasslin’ match tonight ‘tween these two.  So much the better.”

 

His grin took on a darker hint that was mirrored in Pete’s face when he glanced at the younger man.  “Loser’s gonna take us on.  No matter what happens, Body’s goin’ down tonight.”

 

Pete felt his powerful muscles tighten in anticipation.  The feeling of rigid hardness penetrated his entire body, as the thick, pulsing bulge in his crotch proved.  “So we’re gonna be there for the kill?  How’re ya gonna manage that, Cap?”

 

“Easy,” Dan grinned.  “Who’s working the east side tonight?  Mike, yeah?”

 

He got on the radio and called out to Mike.  It seemed that nothing much was happening on the east side tonight and Mike was glad to do the Captain a favor.  Providing him with Brody’s plate number and a description of his truck, Dan asked Mike to delay the driver.

 

“Ya just want me to hold him for a few minutes?”

 

“Yeah, Mike—I just wanna check out a hunch without a possible suspect around.  I appreciate it.”

 

“No problem, Captain—glad to help!”

 

Pete looked at the older man questioningly.  “What was that for?”

 

“That’s how we’ll be in on the kill,” Dan replied, “We’ll get there first.  We’ll be there watching as it goes down.”

 

“Aw, fuck yeah!” Pete chuckled.  “Damn, that’s good.  Watchin’ one snuff the other so we can be on the spot to waste the one left alive.  Fuckin’ hot as hell!”

 

“You ready for this, boy?” Dan asked, his face serious for a moment.  “You ready to end a man’s life, to feel him die in yer hands?”

 

“Yeah,” Pete responded in a strained voice, “I been fuckin’ ready since day one, man.”

 

Dan didn’t have to see Pete’s huge erection straining the worn denim of his jeans to know that the younger cop was eager.  The question was—was he able?  Tonight, Dan would learn for certain just how far he could trust Pete with his plans for the Rigler County Sheriff’s Department.

 

And some of those plans were…extreme.

 


 

Brody was in a foul mood as he slowly maneuvered his pickup up the rutted gravel road towards his trailer.  He’d have to talk to Dan about that cop who pulled him over.  Pure fuckin’ harassment.  He wasn’t drunk and he wasn’t fuckin’ acting like it, either.

 

On the other hand, the dude was with was drunk; in fact; the fucker was totally bombed.  He was laying back in the passenger seat, slurring out boasts about his sexual prowess and leering at Brody.

 

Dude seemed to have no idea he was gonna be the one taking it up the ass tonight.  He’d learn soon enough, though. Maybe he’d put up a fight.  Brody kinda hoped so; his internal rage needed a good venting.  Beating the shit outta this drunk muscled faggot would feel damn good.

 

He shut off the truck.  “We’re here,” he told the guy—couldn’t remember his name and didn’t care anyway—and jumped out of the driver’s seat.  The other guy fumbled at the door handle, got it open, and managed to get out of the truck without falling.  Staggering, he followed Brody up the steps.

 

The buff killer had headed to the bar straight after work; he was still in his work clothes—torn, stained jeans tucked into his laced, untied Redwing construction boots and a white tank top clinging to his huge hairy chest.  As he mounted the steps, though, he could feel the gaze of the hardbodied homo behind him and knew that it was centered on his ass.  He grinned; if the motherfucker thought he was gonna be shagging Brody, it was gonna be a pleasure to teach him otherwise.

 

Brody was all man.  He didn’t take dick from nobody.

 

Neither did Tony.  At least, he never had before and had no plans to change that, but he was too fucked up at the moment to consider the matter at all.  He’d never had a problem getting hard even when he was drunk; his seven and a half inches of thick, vein-wrapped manmeat was already stiff as he watched the trailer trash stud climb the steps in front of him.

 

Brody flipped the light switch as soon as they entered.  Tony’s first drunken thought as his glance swept the trailer’s dark and dingy interior was that he wouldn’t be caught dead in such a place.

 

Then Brody turned towards the kitchen and the sight of his firm, rounded ass covered in the soft, faded denim, filled Tony’s mind with other thoughts.

 

Brody grabbed a beer from the fridge.  He didn’t ask, or care, if his guest wanted one.  As far as Brody was concerned, it’d be a waste of a good beer. Drunk homo wouldn’t be around long enough to finish it anyway.

 

“Bedroom’s in there,” he grunted, nodding towards the partially open door on the other side of the clothing-strewn living room.  Popping the top of his beer, he took a long swig, then noticed that the motherfucker was still standing there, swaying slightly.

 

“Whatcha waitin’ for?” he snapped.  “G’wan, get in there an’ strip.  Get on the bed.”

 

Tony finally picked up on the instruction, without picking up any deeper meaning in the stud’s harsh tone.  By now, he’d absorbed all the alcohol that had still been in his stomach when he left the bar—he wasn’t just drunk; he was stupid drunk.  Grinning inanely, he staggered into the bedroom.

 

Behind him, the buff killer polished off his beer and crushed the can in his fist.  He peeled off his dirty t-shirt, baring his powerfully muscled torso.  The gleam of his sweat-slick skin under the dim overhead light was matched by the faint twinkle of his thick gold necklace, half-hidden in the dense fur that swept across his massive chest.

 

He was looking forward to this.  The piece of faggot shit in the other room might think it was a top but by the time Brody was done with it, it’d know its true place on earth—or in it.

 

Grinning maliciously, he reached down and unzipped his fly, then slowly extracted his formidable shaft.  Once free of the confines of his jeans, it pointed straight at the bedroom, so hard it ached.

 

It knew its prey was in there, and Brody wasn’t one to deny it.  He headed for the door with his rod jutting in front of him like a weapon; the thud of his boots was muffled by the threadbare carpeting.  He was intent on the kill and didn’t look back.

 

If he had, he might have noticed the way the guest bedroom door was being slowly and stealthily opened.

 


 

In the bedroom, Tony had at least been lucid enough to strip off his clothes; his t-shirt and jeans were piled sloppily on top of his Timberlands.  His hairy, muscular body was the first thing Brody could see when he entered.  The drunk Latino was grinning stupidly and hard as a rock.

 

“C’mon, man,” he slurred, “C’mon an’ suck it.  I got it ready for ya.”

 

Brody’s answering grin was colder and more malicious.  The dumbass actually though he was gonna be driving.  The psycho clenched his fists so hard his knuckles cracked.  This was gonna be fun.

 

“Get on the bed, faggot,” he said, the cold steel in his voice cutting through the haze in Tony’s alcohol-soaked brain.

 

“Huh?” the buff Hispanic chirped, peering blearily at the larger man.  “Wha’, ya wanna suck me off on the bed?  Naw, get on yer knees.’

 

Brody didn’t bother to conceal the line-drive punch that he aimed at Tony’s head.  The nude furry fag saw the powerful blow coming at him but was too wasted to dodge it.  He took the full impact in his face, falling back, stunned, onto the bed.

 

Stunned and wasted, yes, but not incapacitated.  Tony wasn’t quite as tall and powerful as Brody was, but the difference was minor.  He was strong, and he’d been caught off guard to the extent he’d had no clue that he was about to be attacked.  He rose up off the bed before Brody could approach him.  A hurt anger glowed in his red-rimmed eyes as he wiped his busted lip with the back of his hand, leaving a bloody smear.

 

“Wha’ th’ fuck, man?” he demanded.  His voice had the slightest hint of a whine in it; just enough for Brody to hear, and to spark his contempt.

 

“Get back on that bed with yer fuckhole in the air, ya worthless pig,” Brody barked, “I’m gonna jam my rod so far up yer ass you’ll be gaggin’ on it from the inside.  Bend over, bitch—now!”

 

Tony’s drunkenness meant that his reaction was more stupefaction than anything else; it soon shaded into amusement.  “Aw, naw, dude, I fuck—I don’t get fucked,” he laughed easily, as if he’d entirely forgotten that he’d been punched in the face two minutes earlier.

 

Brody decided to remind him.  He kneed Tony in the crotch, driving his hard patella into the Latino’s hairy, low-hanging nads.  As he grunted, painfully and viscerally, and crumpled, Brody jerked his leg up again, this time planting his knee deep into Tony’s flat, firm belly.

 

The buff Hispanic expelled the air in his lungs with a forced wheeze and fell straight to the floor, gasping and shuddering at Brody’s feet.  The tall redneck killer squatted down and, placing one knee on Tony’s back, leaned forward.

 

“Guess what, asswipe,” he hissed menacingly, “You’re already fucked.”

 

He stood erect and drew back one foot, then drove his steel-toed Red Wing boot crushingly into the heaving, gurgling fag.  Brody’s cock visibly pulsed and stiffened at the wet snapping sounds caused by two of Tony’s ribs shattering under the brutal impact.

 

If the hardbodied Mexican had been able to catch his breath, he would have screamed; he’d broken bones before, but he’d never endured the pain of sharp jagged shards tearing open his left lung.  And suddenly, regaining his air became much, much harder.  The pain cut through the alcohol-induced fog in his brain like—well, like a sharp knife.  As he writhed, nude, on the filthy floor of a stranger’s bedroom, Tony understood that he was in trouble.  A lot of trouble.

 

Brody, on the other hand, was filled with satanic glee; his uncouth backwoods brain full of a barely controllable mix of red-hot lust and white-hot rage.  The faggot was learning his place.  But if this was kindergarten, Brody was ready to accelerate the lessons to post-graduate level.

 

“C’mon, motherfucker,” he sneered as be bent down and grabbed Tony, “My dick it gettin’ cold and I wanna warm it up in yer guts while I jack you up.”  Brody locked his hands around the moaning homo’s upper arms; they weren’t quite big enough to encircle Tony’s thick, strong biceps, but they were close.  He hoisted the Hispanic dude in the air and held him close—their chest fur bushed and tangled together—while he looked Tony straight in the eyes.

 

“Ready to get what’s comin’ to ya, spicmeat?  Fuckin’ wetback pansy—ready to get what ya deserve?”

 

Tony still couldn’t speak clearly, but he didn’t need to.  Much to his horror, he felt his long, thick tube of manmeat slowly but visibly growing rigid.  Since Brody was strong enough to hold him dead-arm straight at eye level mere inches away, within seconds the two hard cocks were practically jousting with each other.

 

The look of triumph in Brody’s eyes was cold, hard, and terrifying.  Dominance had been established, but in this pairing, there would not be an alpha and a beta.  There was only an alpha and a null—soon to become a negative.

 

Tony already knew he had to act fast if he was going to leave this room alive, but his vicious assailant’s inherent sadism worked against him in more ways than one.  He figured he might be able to scramble away once he was tossed on the bed.  Brody, however, had other plans, and he put them into action with a blindingly swift maneuver.  Letting go of Tony’s right arm, he grabbed at the fucker’s throat, his left hand clamping around it like a steel trap.

 

He was then free to ball up his right hand into a fist and slam it like a wrecking ball into the left side of Tony’s torso—exactly where his boot had landed.  The Hispanic homo had recovered enough breath to scream, but his throat was cinched off.  He could only gurgle and writhe, his toes curling in agony barely an inch above the dirty carpet.

 

When Brody tossed him onto the wadded pile of stained, yellowed sheets, Tony was less concerned with escaping and more concern with trying to breathe without shrieking.  He was about to find out it didn’t matter if he shrieked or not—no one would care.

 

It wasn’t that there was no one else nearby; it was just that those who were nearby wanted to hear him scream.

 


 

Pete crouched in the doorway with Dan right behind him.  As close as they were, the captain could sense the raw sexual excitement surging through his buff young deputy.  It emanated into the hazy atmosphere of the darkened hallway—an electric aftertaste, a whiff of cordite, something hot and powerfully charged.

 

The two men watched silently but intently as Brody beat Tony into submission before raping him.  They did nothing to intervene.  They were representatives of the law, but it was an artificial law, a human construct.  This situation was under the jurisdiction of the law of the jungle—a much older and more primitive law that gave to the strong the right to do whatever they desired to the weak.  It was the law by which all four men lived their lives—even Tony, who had used it to his advantage with his stepson.

 

Problem was, Tony met someone even stronger.

 

But four aroused hardbodied males within a fifteen-foot radius, all pumping out pheromones in an area already permeated with mansex, were adding fuel to a raging fire.  And the brutality Brody was inflicting on the Mexican fag was nothing compared to the explosion of violence that was soon to come.

 


 

As Tony wallowed in pain on the bed, Brody’s towering presence suddenly loomed over him.  In his agony, the well-built Latino had lost sight of the vicious bastard who’d inflicted it on him—until Brody was there, his shadow thrown across Tony’s muscular body.

 

 

For a moment, the battered boykiller glanced up at his assailant.  It was a terrifying sight—the hulking psycho standing over him, huge muscles gleaming with a light sheen of sweat and an angry, jutting erection that would intimidate the most submissive bottom whoreboy.  The glint of the thick gold necklace nestled in Brody’s wiry, luxuriant chest fur naturally drew Tony’s gaze up to the sadist’s hard, masculine face, covered with dark, unshaven scruff and filled with such hate and lust that Tony almost lost control of his bladder.

 

He had to get out of here.  Now.

 

Despite the pain it caused him, he managed to roll over onto his belly and begin to squirm away.  He might not have been as bulked-out as Brody, but he’d been powerful enough to waste his stepson without breaking too much of a sweat; he might stand a chance against this loco motherfucker if he could just beak away—

 

—and then Brody was on him, a sudden crushing weight as the hardbodied killer landed on his knees on Tony’s back, pinning him face-down on the bed.  The startled Latino reached out for the side of the mattress, seeking something to grip so he could pull himself out from under, but Brody stopped that maneuver cold.

 

He shifted his weight, keeping one knee in the middle of Tony’s back and placing the other in the middle of the spic’s right forearm.  “You ain’t going nowhere, ya fuckin’ wetback,” he snarled, his redneck voice thick with racial hate, “Not till I’m done with ya.”

 

He laid his right hand on top of Tony’s and curled his fingers between those of his victim.  In another setting, the gesture would have been intimate, even loving.

 

Here, it just gave Brody a better grip, letting him use greater force as he jerked Tony’s arm back with enough power to break it at the point where his knee was placed.

 

The thick, almost gristly double snap of the radius and ulna shattering simultaneously was drowned out by Tony’s screech of pain.  His escape plans evaporated as he stared incredulously at the way his useless right arm hung at a bizarre angle.  His muscled body heaved and twitched; Brody rode it out with a vicious grin, his thick meaty cock slapping on Tony’s bare back as the cunt flailed.

 

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about, cocksucker,” the sadistic top crowed, “Lissenin’ to yer bitch ass squealin’ like a fuckin’ pansy turns me on.”  Still kneeling on Tony’s back, he silently unbuckled his belt and snaked it out from around his waist.  Beneath him, the furry, muscled spicmeat was still bucking and jerking in pain.

 

Tony never saw Brody double the belt up; her never had the chance to flinch from Brody’s upraised arm or to try, however uselessly, to ward off the impending blow.  He never knew it was coming until it was there.

 

Then it was all he knew.

 

Instead of holding the ends of his thick leather belt, Brody held it in the middle, leaving the ends—including the large metal buckle—to cause the actual strike.  As a result, the power of his blows was instantly doubled.  The end with the leather strap left vicious welts that added to the agony caused by the buckled end tearing at Tony’s taut manflesh.

 

The first lash was almost as painful as the broken arm, a searing slice across his right shoulder blade, as if a butcher was making a preliminary cut before slicing off a specific cut.  The next one came before the fiery agony of the first had subsided, and from that point on, Tony only remembered that his arm was broken when his mindless thrashing ground the jagged ends of the bones together.  And even then, it didn’t matter.  What mattered was that the sheer excruciating torture of Brody’s insanely violent attack convinced Tony that he was being flayed alive.

 

He wasn’t that lucky.  Death would’ve come sooner that way.

 


 

Pete’s bloodlust was near the boiling point.  Dan couldn’t blame the younger man; he was no less full of testosterone and cum than Dan himself.  And the scene playing out in front of them certainly wasn’t cooling them off.  Two hardbodied males on the bed, one screaming in pain, the other grunting with the muscular effort of inflicting pain…

 

They could see well enough; Dan had decided it was safe enough to crack the door open a little wider.  The two motherfuckers in the bedroom were too engrossed in their own relationship, so to speak, to notice much of their surroundings at this point.

 

And so the pair of buff lawmen crouched with erect, straining cocks, as Brody beat the screaming Mexican to a pulp, whipping the thrashing faggot until he drew blood, then moving on to a different spot.

 


 

After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually closer to ten minutes, Brody stopped swinging his belt.  Still straddling the fagmeat, he could feel it twitch and shudder beneath his firm muscular thighs.  It moaned and sobbed quietly, as if it already knew that begging was useless and that its best choice was to accept what was being done to it.

 

It expected to be hurt again; some deep dark area of its brain, walled off by battlements of denial, even expected death.  What it didn’t expect was Brody’s long swollen shaft rammed brutally up its virgin hole as the violently powerful redneck mounted it from behind and took it like a bitch.

 

Tony was a top.  He’d enjoyed the fuck outta raping his teenaged stepson.  He’d never felt any desire to take it up the ass, and this new source of agony somehow transcended the pain of broken bones and lacerated skin.  It was…invasive, somehow, in in the way nothing else had been.

 

And despite his suffering, the memory of Billy’s snuff flooded into Tony’s traumatized mind.  From nowhere, the thought flashed through his head that he’d inflicted exactly this pain on the teenaged punk.  Adding to the effect caused by Brody’s cock grinding against his prostate, it created an involuntary physical reaction.

 

To his horror, Tony found himself with a raging hard-on while he was getting viciously assraped.

 

Again, he screamed at the top of his lungs—but not at top of his vocal cords.  He’d been shrieking and crying so long that his already hoarse voice cracked.  The sounds he gave off now were guttural and grating.

 

Brody found it instantly annoying.  He liked his meat screaming, but he didn’t like it gargling.  He’d never let go of his belt, even when he’d plowed his tool into the pansy’s asscunt; he’d intended to use at some later point.  The noise the spic homo was making decided him; that point was now.

 

If the fucktard wanted to gag, Brody would give it a goddam good reason to gag.  He looped the belt over its head, then switched the ends in his hands so that it crossed at the back of the neck.  After that, all he had to do was lean back and jerk on the reins.  By easing up on the belt (or vice versa), he controlled if the meat breathed or if it choked, if it gasped for air or if it gagged in suffocating horror.

 

The hairy, muscled wetback was his fucktoy, a sack of meat to enjoy as it died on his cock.

 


 

Tony, of course, didn’t think of himself that way, but nobody gave a shit what he thought.  And by this time, lucid ratiocination was beyond his abilities.  With a monstrous cock up his ass and a thick leather strap cinching off his windpipe, self-preservation took up more of his mind than self-image.

 

But some part of him was also recalling Billy’s violent convulsions as the teenaged punk had died.  Tony had strangled him with a belt.  He’d forgotten that.  He’d raped his stepson and choked the boy to death with a belt.  Now it was happening to him.

 

The inside of Tony’s head felt like it was going to start spewing out of his ears; the pressure and the pounding were unendurable—but he could only claw ineffectually at the thick strap with his one good hand.  He couldn’t move; he was pinned to the bed by what felt like a telephone pole being reamed up his ass.  He couldn’t even scream aloud anymore.

 

And that was the point when Tony lost his Alpha card.  He was suddenly flooded with remorse for what he’d done to his stepson.  Now that he was suffering the identical agony he’d put the little cunt through, he developed a rudimentary sense of empathy.

 

It came too late to redeem him as a human being; it just made his last few minutes on earth as thrashing fuckmeat even more painful.

 


 

From behind, Brody couldn’t see the spic’s face.  He didn’t get to watch the way his bitch was drooling, or the way its eyes bulged and its face darkened from purple to black, but he didn’t need to.  He could feel its asshole working his dick, massaging the full length of the thick, throbbing shaft as he plowed it into the fucker’s guts.

 

The more brain damage the homo suffered, the harder its fagcunt stroked Brody’s rod.  The hardbodied redneck pumped his massive hog faster and faster into the dying shitsack, feeling beneath him its powerful muscles clenching and relaxing involuntarily as it started to lose physical control and coordination.

 

One thing it hadn’t lost yet was consciousness.  Brody didn’t know how he knew it could still hear him—but he knew.  He bent down to whisper into the motherfucker’s ear, so close, his rough, unshaven cheek brushed against the faggot’s head.

 

“Stupid fuckin’ wetback,” he hissed, “Still drunk, asswipe?  Still so drunk ya think you can fuck me?  Only thing yer good for is sinkin’ in th’ swamp after you die and milk my load outta me.  Ya hear me, boy?  Work my dick, faggot, work it good!”

 

With a snarl, Brody rose up and jerked brutally on the belt, his hands tightly gripping the ends as the thick bands of muscles in his biceps strained visibly under the skin.  The pressure on the dying pansy’s throat was inexorable.

 


 

Tony both felt and heard his esophagus collapse.  It was a soft crunching sound, like some crushing plastic foam, with the snapping of the hyoid bone adding a moment of punctuation.

 

When it happened, Tony shot his load.  It was an instinctual and uncontrolled reaction—the reflexive response of hypersexual manmeat to overwhelming physical trauma.  Since he was pinned face down on the bed, no one knew he’d spunked.  Not even Tony.  What he’d felt was an excruciating ache, as if his scrotum had been turned inside out, and in a way, it had.

 

In other circumstances, it would have been his best orgasm to date; he unloaded more sperm onto Brody’s stained sheets than he’d ever shot before.

 


 

It wasn’t how the meat’s dick reacted to a mortal wound that interested Brody so much as how its rectum did.  And the spicmeat’s ass was handling the buff killer’s engorged member like it was deliberately jacking him off.  The faggot’s fuckhole seemed to have a mind of its own, one not affected by lack of oxygen—one that wanted the alpha’s seed.

 

“Oh fuck,” Brody grunted, dropping the belt, “Oh fuck!!”  With a loud, inarticulate cry, the muscular killer leaned forward and wrapped his powerful arms around the corpse’s head.  His hips pumping at a frantic tempo, the redneck stud gave a massive grunt and twisted his arms.

 

The movement was quick and brutal; he wrenched the spic’s head off its spine.  The top two cervical vertebrae shattered with a popcorn-like burst, clearly audible outside the bedroom.  The sound damn near made Dan and Pete cum.  It did make Brody cum.

 

He jerked and heaved, his muscle-bound form shuddering violently as he hosed the dead fucker’s guts with his semen.  As the dead man continued to kick and twitch on his cock, Brody hunched over and spewed jet after jet of seething sperm up the corpse’s ass.

 

Gasping and heaving, he finally slowed.  Gingerly, he began to extract his still-oozing manhood from the dead faggot when the door was kicked in.

 

Brody looked up, angry and confused, as Pete and Dan piled into the room.  Pete had his shirt off, baring his huge furry chest; Brody hadn’t realized how pumped up Pete had gotten.  Behind him, Dan just finished unbuttoning his shirt and was slipping it off.

 

Then Brody realized that Pete’s fly was open. and his enormous tackle was hanging out.  And hard.

 

It happened in the blink of an eye.  “Take ‘im, Pete!” Dan barked, and the younger man threw himself at Brody.

 

Brody might not have known why it was happening—but he knew what was happening.  It was gonna be a fight to the death.  And if he lost, he was gonna take it up the ass.

 

 

 

RCSS–Going Rogue

Dan sat in the cab of the pickup, his buzzcut blond hair glinting the in rays of the setting sun that came in through the passenger window.  Even though the hot and steamy day was becoming an unpleasantly humid evening, the cop kept the engine off and the windows down.  He was watching.

 

It wasn’t an official stakeout; he was in his personal vehicle.  Backed off the road into the brush, he was keeping his icy blue eyes pointed to a spot a couple of hundred yards down the road where a gravel track branched off, leading back some distance.  At the end of the track, well out of sight, was Brody’s trailer.

 

Dan knew that Brody was gonna make a move tonight.  He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew.  It had been Pete’s day off, but like a loyal young soldier, he’d kept an eye on the place until Dan left the sheriff’s office for the day and headed out to meet him.

 

“Yeah, he left once,” Pete had reported.  “When down to the corner store an’ got gas and beer.  If he’d gone any farther, I’da called, but he went back home.  So ya really think he’s gonna be up to somethin’ here soon?”

 

“I did a little research on this Josh Perez punk he says he’s gonna question.  Kid’s a worthless little faggot with a couple of public lewdness charges, but if he has anything to do with the drug trade in this county, it’s as an end user.  And Brody knows it.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

“’Cause Brody was arrested along with Josh on one of those charges.  No charges ever filed, though—not enough evidence.  Seems Brody never actually exposed himself.  And Josh was so damn drunk he didn’t remember any of it, according to the file–claimed he didn’t know or recognize Brody.  So nothing happened.”

 

“Brody already knows Josh,” Pete said—a statement, not a question, muttered in a tone of disgusted betrayal.  “Son-of-a-bitch…” he muttered slowly.  “But you think he’s gonna make his move soon?”

 

“Yeah.  I can feel it.  It’s Friday night, it’s hot and humid and there’ll be a full moon—look.”  He nodded to the eat where the moon already hung over the horizon, pale and huge in the waning sunlight, already starting to slide under a cloud bank that had bubbled up from nowhere.  “Prime rutting season for a rogue predator male.”

 

“Uh, look, Cap,” Pete said, almost bashfully, “If anything, um, comes up—you’ll call me?  I mean you said yerself he could take us individually.”

 

“I said we’d have a hard time with him individually—but don’t worry, dude,” Dan said smilingly, “I’m just watching, no matter what he does.  I’m just going to watch him and see how he handles himself.”

 

Pete gave him a quizzical look.  In response, Dan said, “Don’t forget—he’s supposed to let me know he’s going out after the kid, but he could simply forget that.  I want to see what he actually does with Josh.”

 

The younger cop’s scruffy, boyishly handsome face twisted into a leer.  “You’re gonna watch him snuff that fag.”

 

Dan’s answering smile was colder and grimmer.  “Why not?  Whatever else happens, at least it’ll be one less homo in my county.”

 

A few more parting civilities and Pete headed off to the gym, intent on relieving his physical tensions with a demanding workout.  Dan was left, watching and waiting, no less intent on relieving his suspicions about a possible psycho fag killer.

 

After all, Dan didn’t mind a dead faggot or two, especially if he was the one who made them dead, but there was a limit.  There had to be control.  There had to be Authority, and Brody was flying in the face of Authority.  Loose cannons were dangerous and had to be disposed of, quickly and effectively.

 

The buff police captain sat and watched for his mark, his huge, muscle-bound body tense and ready for action at any time.  No matter when Brody appeared or what he attempted to do, Dan would be prepared.

 


 

He didn’t have long to wait.  Dusk didn’t last long at this latitude; with the clouds closing in quickly, darkness closed in even more quickly—and darkness was what drew the predator from his lair.  Dan spotted a pair of headlights bouncing down the potholed gravel drive, but kept his cool, not starting his engine until Brody was almost a half mile down the road towards Corrington.  After that, it was easy to follow him, at least until he got into the town itself.

 

Corrington was a small place, but on Friday night, everyone from the outlying villages and farms came into town to get drunk.  Brody’s black pickup could have been easily lost in the sea of other big black trucks on the streets, but he’d jacked it up high enough to stand out.  Dan followed it discreetly into the parking lot of The Well.

 

Dan had no intention of following Brody into the bar; his face would be instantly recognized—by the bouncer and bartender, if no one else; he was the local law, after all.  He decided to just sit and wait, parking at the far end of a row where he could keep an eye on the back door—the way Brody had entered the place—without being immediately seen by anyone leaving.

 

It took about forty-five minutes.  Dan had been prepared to wait much longer; he was rather surprised at how quickly Brody and Josh came out.  He was also surprised at Brody’s brazenness, practically dragging his victim out the door.  And his victim wasn’t going quietly.

 

It wasn’t that Josh was resisting; on the contrary, he was drunk and vocally horny.

 

Josh was young—far too young to be in the bar; he wasn’t yet twenty.  He got around that handily enough by sucking the dicks of the bouncer and the bartender and anyone else inside who might cause a problem.  He had some money; for this little burg, he was considered a rich kid.  His dad managed one of the larger farms, located about fifteen miles northwest of town.

 

Josh was known for coming into town on Friday night and not making it back out to the farm until late Monday morning—afternoon, sometimes.  His father kept getting pissed and threatening to put him to work, but never got around to it; largely because he knew his faggot son’s uselessness.  It’d kill the boy’s mother to hear about it, though, so he kept his mouth shut.

 

Dan was well aware of the details of Josh’s life; having reviewed all available info in the files, he knew the kid was a worthless waste of human flesh.  But he also knew that the cocksucker didn’t have the ambition to get involved in any kind of drug trade.  He bought some shit all right, but nothing like China white.  He was into party drugs–molly, X, even roofies.  Fentanyl wouldn’t be his thing; it’d kill the mood.

 

Josh was evidently on something now, given the way he was staggering across the parking lot with Brody, although he could have just been drunk.  He had taken off his shirt—presuming he’d been wearing one—and his strong but not overly-muscled torso was smooth and shiny with sweat.  His dark, almost blue-black hair had been brushed up from his forehead at one point but was now disheveled and slick with perspiration; he had a patch of hair on his chin that was the same color.

 

Below the torso, he wore a pair of tight, worn Levi’s with a thick belt of brown, uncured leather circling his tight waist; he’d shoved a pair of Timberland boots on, leaving them half-laced and completely united.  It was easier to kick them off when he was ready to get fucked.  And the way his large, dark, bloodshot eyes kept turning to Brody, it was obvious that Josh was ready to get fucked.

 

Of course the little faggot was drawn to Brody.  The older dude was dressed similarly in faded skintight jeans and his half-laced Redwing construction boots.  Above, the buff sadist sported a sleeveless compression t-shirt in some dark shade that wasn’t clear in the uneven lighting of the parking lot.  He strode steadily and purposefully towards his truck, Josh following him with the eagerness of a puppy.

 

Dan knew that Josh didn’t have an address in town and figured it was unlikely that Brody would take his prey back to its own home.  Instead, he’d probably head back to his trailer, but Dan wanted to make certain.  Once the redneck alpha pulled his truck out of the Well’s lot, Dan started his engine and began following.  As soon as he confirmed that the big black pickup had turned onto the county road in the direction of Brody’s trailer, he fell back.  No sense in making the psycho paranoid.

 

And that’s exactly what Brody was to Dan, a psycho.  A killing machine, responsive only to transient emotions and sensations, not to reason.  Something easily distracted and overwhelmed by rage and lust.

 

Something blind to the value of Authority.

 

But he had to know.  He had to be sure.  He knew that, whatever happened, the odds of him overpowering the muscle-bound redneck in any physical altercation were at best fifty-fifty.  So he let Brody’s taillights vanish in the distance, giving the guy time to get home.  Time for Dan to watch him in the act.

 

Then, once his suspicions were confirmed—and only then—would he bring Pete on board and let him in on his plan.  No sense getting the kid mixed up in the messy details until Dan was certain they’d be needed.

 

By the time Dan got to the turning for Brody’s trailer, the latter was already home.  Turning off his headlights, the off-duty Captain slowly and carefully eased his pickup down the rutted gravel drive.  He stopped inside the tree line, about a half mile off the road, and walked the rest of the way.

 

As he approached the dilapidated single-wide trailer, he could hear music coming from inside.  Dance music—not Brody’s choice, surely; he preferred country.  Dan crept closer for a better look, but needed some help.  Even at six and a half feet, he wasn’t quite tall enough to look into any of the windows.  Glancing around, he spied exactly what he needed—a cinderblock.  Placing it below the living room window, he stood on it, carefully shifting his scuffed roper boots to maintain balance.

 

The window was covered with cheap plastic miniblinds; they had been closed, but they were warped and a number of them were broken.  By bending down slightly—he was too tall now—Dan was easily able to peer into the living room.

 

What he saw got his dick hard instantly.

 

Brody was leaning back in an old recliner.  Josh had stripped down to nothing his scuffed Timberlands and a pair of fire-engine red boxer briefs that clung to his groin like they’d been painted on, perfectly outlining his bulging package and erect, straining cock.  The boy had his arms up and his hands on the back of his head, arcing his back.

 

Little fucker was drunkenly giving Brody a lap dance.  Even from the window, Dan could see and easily interpret the gleam in Brody’s eye; the gyrating cocksucker was even closer, but was either too fucked up to notice—or just didn’t care.  As the cop watched, Josh reached down towards Brody’s lap, then quickly jerked his hands upward, pulling the buff older man’s compression t-shirt off over his head.  He tossed it idly to the side.

 

The boy was clearly indulging himself, writhing on the muscle-bound sadist’s lap, running his hands over Brody’s rock-hard pecs and lacing his fingers in the stud’s chest fur.  Dan shifted his boots on the cinderblock from time to time to keep the circulation flowing to his feet.  At the moment, it tended to pool near his aroused dick…

 

As the teenaged punk ground his taint over Brody’s bulging groin, he seemed to get more and more aroused himself.  The tentpole that formed in his skintight red boxers showed the dimensions of the homo’s dick; it wasn’t very long, but it was thick and meaty.  Already, a dark moist spot had formed on the thin cotton that covered the big bulbous head of his cock.

 

Brody’s trailer was old and hadn’t been top-of-the-line when new.  All the windows were single-glazed; sound penetrated them easily.  Josh started speaking, and even over the dance music, Dan could hear his words clearly.  “C’mon, man,” the punk whined, “I need dick.  I wantcha in me.  C’mon, gimme it, fucker!”

 

He climbed unsteadily off Brody’s lap and shut off the music coming from his phone, then grabbed Brody’s arm off the recliner and began tugging at it.  “C’mon!” Josh insisted, his dick all but visibly pulsating inside his boxers.  The boy’s eyes were lit with an intoxicated lust that was no less intense for not being rationalized.  He’d said all there was to say—he needed dick.

 

Brody stared evenly at him for a moment, then reset the recliner and rose to his feet.  As Dan watched, the horny young cocksucker allowed himself to be led into the bed, the smirk on his face telling Dan everything he needed to know.

 

For example, he knew he needed to move if he wanted a continued view of the action.

 

Dan hopped off the cinderblock, his boots hitting the gravel with a faint crunch that would have worried him had Brody not already closed the bedroom door behind him.  He moved down to the next window, but its blinds were closed and evidently there was something hanging over them on the inside; not even a crack of light emerged into the dark humid night.

 

Concerned, Dan prowled around the end of the trailer, which was no help—only a small, high window; this was the bathroom.  He continued around to the back, where he struck gold.  There was a small window into the bedroom that not only had the shades up, it was also perfectly positioned.  It was near the head of the bed, and separated from it only by the width of a nightstand.

 

Peering in, Dan realized he was less than a yard from where Josh was already flat on his back with his feet in the air.

 

The window was dirty—Brody never bothered to wash them—so the view wasn’t particularly clear; on the other hand, Dan realized that the film of dirt worked both ways.  He could practically press his face up against the glass and not be seen.  As it so happened, he didn’t need to get quite that close to be able to see what he wanted to see.

 

The bedroom was filthy, but the piles of clutter didn’t seem to have been there long.  Dan figured that Travis, despite his known uselessness, must have kept the place in some kind of order.  Evidently Brody needed a new house bitch.

 

Mounds of dirty clothes lined the walls.  One was directly opposite the window; on the top of a pair of filthy oil- and mud-stained pair of jeans was a pair of ten-inch Justin work boots, the tan leather uppers equally as mud-spattered.  Folded receipts and papers, some with Brody’s semi-literate scrawl on them, cascaded over the dresser, mixed with loose change, junk mail and unopened bills.

 

The dim yellow light in the overhead ceiling fan made the room look small and dingy.  The battered walls glared bleakly at each other across the confined space.  There was no sign of covering or pillows on the bed—the cheap stained fitted sheet was repelling, the thin, pale blue rayon becoming a downright repulsive shade.

 

It was clear, though, that Josh wasn’t there for the aesthetics.

 

The kid had already ditched his boxer briefs.  He was nude, his cock rising from a mass of black tangled pubes.  His slim, strong body was already slick with sweat that reeked of testosterone; the adolescent punk was so oversexed he seemed on the verge of losing control of himself.  His tan boots hung in the air as he pleaded with the hulking alpha.

 

“Lemme see it,” Josh was whining, intoxication adding a petulant tone to his usual uncontrolled horniness, “Whip that bad boy out an’ lemme see whatcha got.  I know a hunk like you’s gotta have a big ol’ dick…”

 

Brody, standing near the foot of the bed, only smiled mirthlessly and reached for his zipper.  He lowered it slowly and theatrically; it was obvious to Dan that he was enjoying himself immensely.  When Brody pulled his massive rod out of his jeans, the cop, having seen it before, already knew what to expect.

 

Josh didn’t.

 

“Holy fuck,” he whispered; even in his inebriated state, the faggot twink could tell that this enormous shaft was more than he could handle.  Not that he wasn’t willing to try.  “Dude, you gotta go slow with that.  Ya got any lube?”

 

Brody’s malevolent grin should have been both answer and warning enough; for the randy little homo hungry for cock, it was neither.

 

The older man climbed slowly onto the bed, his thick, throbbing rod dangling between his legs.  “Hey, boy, wanna hear somethin’ funny?  I’m workin’ with the cops—practically a goddam deputized po-po myself—and this is supposed t’ be an interrogation.”

 

“What?” Josh asked fuzzily, wondering what the hell Brody was going on about.

 

“See, I’m supposed to be askin’ ya about yer drug use…” Brody went on.  Josh looked confusedly up at the handsome redneck’s face.  In his bewilderment, he didn’t notice how the enormous dripping head of Brody’s cock was already pressing against his asshole, but Dan, with his ringside point of view, could see it perfectly.  He knew better than the faggot what was going to happen next.

 

“An’ I kinda wanted to go all good-cop bad-cop on ya,” the grinning muscular alpha continued, “But fuck, everyone knows yer a worthless druggie faggot—so, fuck, might as well spare the cops the trouble an’ just handle the whole thing myself.”

 

“Huh?” Josh blurted out, his face betraying the first signs of fear.  It was too late.  Brody launched himself at the prone twink, slamming his balled-up fist into the boy’s face while simultaneously spearing kid’s ass with his dick, shoving ruthlessly past the tight sphincter and sinking his shaft as deeply as he could into Josh’s guts.

 

The sudden attack even surprised Dan; the powerful redneck was good.  He hadn’t signaled his moves at all.  The Captain felt that his decision not to handle Brody alone was validated; he and Pete would need a plan to take out this strong-ass motherfucker.

 

If Dan had been surprised, Josh had been literally stunned.  Moaning, eyes rolled back in his head, the slim, firm body of the semiconscious faggot jerked as Brody thrust his cock inside it with long, brutal strokes.  For the moment, the boy was a living meat puppet, with the pumping of another man’s dick as its only moving force.

 

Dan gripped the windowsill tightly, forcing his hands to remain where they were and not seek out his painfully erect rod.

 

Brody bent over the limp, sweat-slick youth and slapped his face.  “C’mon, ya pussy, wake up.”  Josh groaned faintly, but gave no other response, so Brody backhanded him, harder.  The punk gave a louder groan and began blinking his eyes, a sign he was coming to.  “Jesus, whadda fuckin’ pansy,” Brody sneered, “You grow up the way I did, faggot, ya learn how to take a punch.”

 

Josh’s ascent to consciousness was more or less a climb into horrible torment.  His head pounded and ached from the blows he’d endured, but that was nothing next to the searing agony in his torn and bloody rectum.  Long before he was fully awake, the teen homo was sobbing with pain.

 

“S-st-stop!” he begged unable to get his bearing in the sea of agony he was foundering in, “F-fuck’s sa-sake, stop!”

 

“Aw, shaddup,” Brody sneered and bitchslapped the suffering teen.

 

Despite Brody’s derision, Josh had dealt with a certain amount of violence in the past—being an open cockwhore in a rural area had its risks and the boy had taken a certain amount of abuse.  He’d even been raped once, when he just happened to run across the team captain of the county high school’s baseball team one night after the dude had broken up with his girlfriend and gotten drunk…

 

But then again, he’d kinda known about the breakup.  And where Frank would be at that point.  And he’d enjoyed it.  This was different—much, much different.  It took a moment to catch his breath, but once he did, he made his displeasure known.

 

“HELP!” he screamed at the top of his lungs, “HELP!! POLICE!!”

 

Dan knew perfectly well—and knew the Brody did too—that there wasn’t another inhabited residence within a mile.  But it still seemed to piss Brody off.

 

The look of vicious rage that contorted his roughly handsome face was terrifying.  Josh had experienced pain and fear so far this evening, but the expression on Brody’s face inspired sheer terror.  If he’d ever seen this look on the dude’s face he’d never have gone anywhere alone with him—and now here he was, overpowered and helpless, pinned to a bed by the gigantic dick of a heavily-muscled psycho.

 

But the flash of awareness came too late to save Josh from the brutal effects of Brody’s anger.  From his vantage point, Dan, with the keen instincts of a predator himself, had recognized the erotic look of fear in the faggot’s face.  Now his dick pulsed and ached as he witnessed how that fear was justified.

 

In his rage, Brody lost any control he ever had over his accent.  “Ah tole you to” (here he balled up his fist, drew it back, and drove it into Josh’s face, his huge bicep twanging like a bowstring as the helpless teen grunted out “huk!” loudly, involuntarily) “SHUT” (WHAM, grunt) “THE” (WHAM, grunt) “FUCK” (WHAM, moan) “UP!!” (WHAM, faint bleat).

 

Brody paused for a moment, on his knees, towering over the prone youth, his dick still firmly planted in the unfortunate faggot’s ass.  The sadistic alpha shook his hand out, grinning contemptuously down at the semiconscious adolescent.

 

Dan admired the fucker’s style.  It was a shame Brody was going rogue; he’d have been a great addition to the elite squad that Dan was planning to recruit.  But still, there was nothing without Authority, so he had no choice but to see that the redneck was put down like rabid dog.

 

Plus, the thought made him hard.  Well, harder.

 

But right now, he had a snuff to watch.

 

Brody bent back over the boy, planting his hands palm down on the bed beside the kid’s shoulders and began plowing his ass, reaming the punk’s fuckhole.  Each time the huge engorged head of the muscular alpha’s dick ground ruthlessly over Josh’s prostate, the boy moaned loudly, a deep, guttural sound.

 

And even though the rest of his lean, lithe body was limp, his cock not only remained stiff, it pulsed with each brutal thrust of Brody’s hips.

 

Dan was watching the scene intently but he was far too good a hunter to allow his attention to be completely absorbed.  He was aware of a faint flickering and could feel just the slightest hint of a breeze.  He withdrew mentally from the view in front of him just long enough to feel, rather than hear, a very faint rumble.  There was a storm brewing.

 

The Captain turned back to the window.  He wondered if Josh would live to see the rain.

 

Inside, Josh appeared to be starting to recover.  It was hard to tell, though; his face was battered and both eyes blackened and swollen.  The viciousness of the beating he’d received had left distinctive evidence on the boy’s face.

 

He brought his hands up to his face for a moment, then unexpected, shoved both arms up into Brody’s face and turned away, a uselessly feeble protest against the assault he was enduring.  Brody wasn’t having it.  He wrapped his thick muscled limb around Josh’s strong but overpowered right arm and with nothing more than an angry sneer and a quick, brutal jerk of his bicep, violently dislocated the kid’s elbow.

 

Josh screamed as tendons and ligaments tore, a high, thin screech, the raw sound of human suffering pushed past the point of endurance.  The lean, lithe punk writhed on the bed, the heels of his Timberland boots tracing furrows on the thin sheet as his legs flailed in agony.

 

As Dan watched, hard and leaking, Brody raised himself up over Josh.  Pinned to the bed, the boy looked up, his dark, puffy eyes awash in tears.  From this angle, the hard-muscled, furry torso of the older man filled his field of view; Josh had a close-up of those huge hairy pecs and thick jutting nipples that had enticed him so much, but now all that power was being used to hurt him.  He didn’t understand…

 

“W-why?” he managed to blurt out during his uncontrollable sobbing, “Why?”

 

As an answer, Brody punched him in the gut, his fist sinking deeply into Josh’s smooth, flat belly.  “HOOG!” the teen bellowed involuntarily, rising up into a near-sitting position as the air was forced out of his lungs, then flopping back limply.

 

There was a brief moment when Josh was still too stunned to even try to inhale; he merely lay on the bed, his mouth opening and closing like a dying fish, as he stared incredulously at Brody, his eyes as wide as their swollen lids would allow.

 

“Why?” Brody said, “Cause it gets me off, that’s why.  Hurtin’ dumbass little fags like you gets me hard, motherfucker.  Killin’ ya little cunts makes me cum.  That what ya wanted to know, boy?  I figured I wanted to drain my balls tonight an’ I picked you to drain ‘em into.  Now don’t that make ya feel special, queerboy?”

 

Josh’s face was a mottled purple as he choked and wheezed, then inhaled loudly and deeply.  As the leanly muscled adolescent suddenly convulsed with violent coughing, Brody, still on his knees looming over the prone youth, leaned back and guffawed loudly.  “Aintcha glad ya asked, boy?” he chortled with malevolent glee.

 

Josh was locked in a cycle of sucking in lots of air, only to expel it in a spasm of coughing.  His alcohol- and hormone-sodden brain was barely functional enough to handle Brody’s words, but he’d picked up enough to know that the searing pain in his asshole and the hot throbbing ache in his face were only hints of something worse.

 

He was right.  He managed, surprisingly quickly, to regain control over himself and stifled the coughing.  He needed to do something, think, something quick—

 

And that was when the flash lit up the room, overpowering the dim overhead light with the intense blue-white light of an electric arc.  Josh had turned his head to the side, straining away from Brody, so that while Brody was looking down at him, he was looking at the window.

 

In that split-second white-hot flash, Josh and Dan were staring each other directly in the eyes.

 

Then, as the thunder cracked like a pistol shot overhead, Brody’s big strong hands wrapped around Josh’s throat and squeezed it shut.

 

Panic seized Josh as his air was cut off.  He knew who Dan was—he’d lusted after the hulking police officer since he was fourteen—but the cop wasn’t doing anything.  He was just sitting there…watching…

 

Josh clawed at Brody’s hands, his fingers digging uselessly at the older man’s vise-like grip.  Once or twice, he reached out towards the window, his helpless fingers clutching at the empty air mere inches from Dan’s face.  The teen’s mute plea for help kept the cop’s dick achingly hard.

 

Brody, wrapped up in his bloodlust, ignored Josh’s movements.  In the hot, airless room, he pressed his heavy, sweat-lubed body onto Josh’s.  As Brody pumped his ass and throttled him, the slim teen felt the alpha’s powerful muscles working within his body as he raped and strangled the boy; even the thick, wiry chest fur that Josh had found so hot was painfully abrading his skin like steel wool.

 

“Yer a lazy piece of ass for a faggot,” Brody sneered, “Goddam homo don’t even know how to work a real man’s dick.”

 

The hardbodied redneck had pinned him to the bed and was using his body like a disposable fucktoy and there wasn’t a damn thing Josh could do about it.  And the more time went on, there was less he could do at all.

 

His handsome young face had already been beaten out of recognition; now, it was a hideous black mask.  Josh could barely see; his eyelids were horribly swollen and through the tiny slits that he was able to force open, his whites were starting to turn red with hemorrhaging blood vessels.  Convulsive movements of his enlarged tongue made him cough up white, foamy drool that trickled down his chin and lodged in the sad excuse for a soul patch on his chin.

 

His youthful body, flooded with adrenaline, kicked and thrashed in a frantic attempt at survival.  The impulse, which originated in the primitive brainstem, bypassed all rational thought.  If Josh had been capable of rational thought, he would have realized that raking and pummeling Brody’s taut, firm asscheeks with the heels of his Timberlands wouldn’t help him much.  It did help burn the oxygen in his bloodstream, though.

 

Brody knew what was happening; he’d so gotten off on snuffing Travis that every detail of death was engraved in his memory.  “Gettin’ close, aintcha, boy?” he whispered, bending down his head till his long, dark hair fell forward and brushed Josh’s black swollen cheeks.   “I can tell cause yer dick’s still hard,” the sadistic alpha chuckled and wrapped his massive, powerful hands even tighter around the suffering teen’s throat—he was able to lock his fingers in back.  Outside,  Dan had to strain to hear  Brody’s words over the rising breeze that swept up around him.

 

“I’m done, faggot,” the buff older man muttered hoarsely, the strain of holding back on orgasm telling in his voice, “Time to die, asswipe.  Gonna fuckin’ hose yer guts with my manseed, you piece a’ shit fag—AAARRGHHH!!!”

 

It was as if every muscle in his over-developed body went rigid at once.  His powerful legs tensed as he spewed a searing jet of spunk deep into Josh’s asshole.  At the same time, his hands clenched spasmodically, crushing the teen boy’s esophagus into a solid mass of gristle with a loud, cracking crunch.

 

Josh’s tongue was forced out of his mouth in gush of foamy spittle and his sperm was forced out of his cock in a geyser of pearly cum.

 

FUCK!” Brody roared, shuddering and spunking, “GODDAM CUNT!  FUCKIN—UHH!”

 

His hands tightened again, but this time was cracking sound was more brittle.  Brody had not only crushed Josh’s hyoid bone, he’d shattered the C-3 cervical vertebra, the razor-sharp shards of bone slicing through the helpless adolescent’s spinal column.

 

The boy only felt one final nightmarish shock that ended an eternity in hell; he never knew that the horrible pain had been one last explosive orgasm triggered by the massive trauma to his nervous system.  His entire body suddenly contracted around Brody as the arms, flung wildly around the alpha’s head and his legs, wrapped around Brody’s waist, convulsed and tightened inexorably.  The corpse’s feet kicked and shuddered so violently that one of Josh’s Timbs flipped off and tumbled onto the floor under the window.

 

Dan clutched the windowsill tightly, desperately ignoring the nearly irresistible straining in his groin.  Brody screamed again, loudly and inarticulately, as he shot another load up the dead kid’s ass and Dan let go.  He maintained enough control to remain rigid and upright as he creamed his jeans—

 

—then the sudden flash of lighting that burst overhead startled even him, and the cop toppled sideways off the cinderblock to the bare turf below.  Simultaneously, the apocalyptic explosion of thunder, so loud it rattled the windows in the trailer, showed how swiftly the storm had approached.  It was almost on top the them.

 

Lying in the weed-strewn yard, Dan cursed for a moment, only for the sky to light up again.  As it did, he looked up at the window that had let him watch Josh get snuffed, and his heart skipped a beat.  Brody was standing there, looking out.

 

Or, rather, looking up.  He was staring at the sky, his handsome white trash face twisted into a smirk.  The fur on his broad chest, illuminated by the flickering lighting, was thickly matted with spunk.  He stood with his hands on his hips, his still-erect cock jutting out in front—and still dripping.  And Dan had inadvertently put himself in the position of prey; his view of Brody towering over him was nearly identical to that of the buff alpha’s victims.

 

When the redneck killer turned away, Dan got to his feet and quickly circled the trailer.  As he ducked through the woods, he could hear a faint but increasing patter as the rain started to fall.  He was lucky enough to make it back to his truck before the downpour started.  He sat in the driver’s seat, pondering for a moment.

 

He had no real fear of Brody, but there was deep concern.  The cop knew it was his duty to take out the rogue killer before he could imperil Authority in Rigler County—but Dan wasn’t in a position to act with impunity.  He wasn’t sheriff—yet.

 

This needed to be done discreetly and when Brody started putting up a fight—no ‘if’, just ‘when’—Dan would need to make certain that the hardbodied psycho could be contained quickly.  Unquestionably, he would need Pete’s help.  What was open to question was how much Pete could help.  The boy was young and buff, incredibly muscular—but would it be enough?

 

Dan started the truck and eased his way down the gravel track, creeping along at five miles an hour till the county road was in sight—he left his headlights off and avoided using the brakes as much as possible so as not to give Brody any kind of alert.  He drove directly home, thinking long and hard about how to proceed.  He’d need to talk to Pete tomorrow.  And in the meantime, he needed to wash the dried cum out of his jeans…

 


 

Dan needn’t have worried about drawing Brody’s attention; the powerful stud was otherwise occupied.

 

He’d instantly decided that the easiest way to dispose of the pile of still-quivering fagmeat was to wrap it up in the bedsheet and just dump it.  He wasn’t concerned about this one being found—fuck, he was workin’ with po-po, wasn’t he?  Of course, that didn’t mean he wanted it found in his crib.

 

Brody went into the living room and gathered up Josh’s discarded clothing.  He carried it back into the bedroom and tossed it onto the corpse.  He took a quick look around and, satisfied that he’d taken care of the evidence, began to loosen the sheet from the mattress.  After prying it loose on one side, he walked around to the other.

 

That was when he noticed the fag’s Timberland boot lying on the floor.  Snatching it up, he tossed it, too, onto the body, where it landed with a moist thump.  Gathering up the corners of the sheet, Brody took one last look at Josh.

 

The dead teen was on his back, with his head turned to the left, as if he’d spent his last few seconds on earth staring beseechingly out the window.  His grotesquely swollen face had faded from black to cyan blue, but the tongue protruding thickly from hit puffy, split lips was still a congested purple.  The homo’s corpse was still jerking; the spasms were far apart and getting farther, but one of them had caused the bundle of clothing to roll off his torso and lodge under his arm.  As a result, his boot had landed in the middle of a huge mass of half-congealed cum that had pooled on his chest.

 

It was hot and Brody felt his massive hog twitch at the sight.  Josh’s own dick, slowly—very slowly—receding from its profound erection, was still oozing pearly beads of lukewarm spunk.

 

Enough.  Brody brought all four corners—or as close as he could come with a fitted sheet—to the center and tied the whole thing into an enormous bundle.  As the sheet tightened around it, Josh’s corpse rolled to one side and curled into a fetal position around the Timberland boot.

 

Brody hefted the bundle easily and carried it out to his truck.  It was pouring rain as he stepped out the door, but it felt good.  Cool and soothing.  He threw the sack of fagmeat into the bed of his truck, then stood for a moment in the pounding rain, feeling it flow over his bare chest and wash the teen’s jizz out of his chest hair.  A brilliant flash of lighting and a low grumble of thunder recalled the redneck killer to himself.  He jumped into the cab of his truck, his skin-tight, sopping jean making a squishing sound as he sat in the driver’s seat.

 

With his headlights on, he was able to reach the county road much faster than Dan had been able to.  Like the Captain, he too, turned towards town—but Dan didn’t live in Corrington.  Heading towards the highway, the cop had sped past the intersection of the county road and the town’s main street.  Brody didn’t.

 

Pulling over just past the intersection, the buff, half-nude redneck got out of his truck, still indifferent, if not oblivious, to the downpour.  The rain had intensified to the point that it was almost blinding.  When Brody bent over the bed of the truck to haul the body out, he could see that the thin rayon was virtually transparent, clinging to Josh’s corpse like wet newspaper.

 

A flash of lighting, so close that it illuminated the scene in polarized hues of blue-white and blue-black, played about the sick alpha’s head as he loomed over the dead teen, grinning with evil pleasure at the memory of snuffing him.  He reached in and hoisted the sodden bundle of fabric, boots and boymeat out of the bed, then turned around.

 

Directly behind him was a drainage ditch that ran parallel to Main Street.  About four feet deep and equally as wide, it passed under the county road in a culvert formed from a concrete pipe, slightly smaller in diameter—about a yard wide.  The ditch was already half full, water rushing madly past its grassy banks towards the culvert.

 

Yeah, that’d work to dump the cumdump.

 

With a quick heave of his powerful arms, Brody tossed the teenager’s raped and murdered corpse into the swiftly-flowing channel.   It sank like a brick, the water backing up momentarily before washing around and over it.

 

As Brody headed back to the truck, his Redwing boots sank in the mud.  When he got to the road, he paused and scraped his soles on the edge of the asphalt; he didn’t want to track filth into his truck.  After all, he’d just thrown a pile of filth out of it.

 


 

Both Brody and Dan made it safely to their homes that night, but Josh was not the only one who didn’t.  The storms grew stronger overnight, resulting in flooding in several parts of the county.  The highway was clogged with enough accidents that the state police had to be called out.  The sheriff’s department was inundated with requests for help.

 

Just before daybreak, Dan was woken by his phone; he was needed.  The call was particularly tragic; a family of five in a minivan had pulled off the highway for gas, gotten lost, and had driven into high water on one of the low-lying roads on the west side of the county.  The vehicle had been washed off the road before help could arrive; Dan had to superintend its retrieval from ten feet of water some two hundred yards downstream of the road.  Immediately after, he was given word that the county rest home was flooding…

 

It was like that everywhere across the county.  As a result, it wasn’t until late that afternoon that a county road works truck arrived at the intersection of Main Street and the county road to investigate what had blocked the drainage and caused water to back up over the crossroads.  The discovery of the corpse of a young male, evidently washed down the ditch and lodged in the culvert, let to a call to the sheriff’s office; the fact that it seemed to have been sexually assaulted and murdered, was entered into the long list of events that the officers needed to process.

 

As the body was being wheeled into the morgue, the report on its discovery landed on Dan’s desk, two flights up.  By this time, it had been identified—Josh’s wallet, with his driver’s license and seven dollars in cash had been found in a pocket of the jeans.  Dan didn’t bother to read it; he knew more about it than what would be in the report.

 

He leaned back in his chair and sighed.  It was late—past nine in the evening—but he was waiting to see Pete.  The younger cop had been assigned the second shift rotation that started today and was out on a call, but Dan expected him back soon.  They had both been too busy during the day to speak; in the same way Dan had worked late, Pete had been called in early.

 

As if on cue, Dan heard the heavy tread of Pete’s Danner Tachyon boots on the tile out in the hall.  After a quick double tap at the door, the buff, dark-haired cop entered, his face somewhat hard with the stress of the day.

 

“So?” he asked abruptly, “What happened last night?”

 

Dan tossed him the file he’d just gotten.  “Here.  That’s what happened last night.”

 

Pete looked at the Captain curiously, then read through the file.  “Damn.  Dude got rough.  This is exactly what the fuck happened to that first one.”

 

“Travis, yeah.”

 

“You saw it?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

A lascivious leer crossed Pete’s face.

 

“Wipe that grin off your face, boy,” Dan snapped, “This was done in direct contradiction to orders.  He has disrespected Authority, and that makes him a murderer.”

 

“Yes sir!” Pete responded, his own respect for Authority plainly obvious.

 

Dan slowly rose to his feet.  Placing his hands flat on the desk, he leaned over it, his powerful body straining his khaki button-down as he looked Pete directly in the eyes.  “We need to take him down.  Just us, you and me.  And even with two of us, it’s gonna be tough.  He’s strong, boy.”

 

He paused, but Pete could tell he wasn’t done talking yet.  There was something about Dan’s manner that made Pete feel as if the older cop was trying to break something to him tactfully.

 

“Frankly, Pete, you’re good—but I need you better.  I need you bigger.  I need you stronger.  When we finally take this motherfucker head-on, I need to know that you’ll be prepared to back me up.  Do you understand?”

 

Pete did, actually.  He’d admired the sheer physical strength that had allowed Dan to enforce Authority properly and had already increased the number of workouts he was doing during the week.  Now, he decided, he’d intensify the workouts themselves.

 

“Good,” Dan said, not needing a reply; he’d seen Pete’s acceptance in his eyes.  “You got two weeks.  You’re nearly there, man, but we need to be certain we can overpower him when the time comes.”

 

An evil grin flashed over Dan’s face, identical to the one Pete had displayed earlier.  “Then we can show that sick faggot-fucker what’s what.”

 

Pete returned the grin with no fear of contradiction this time.

 

“In the meantime,” Dan said offhandedly, “If you get some time during the night, go down and take a look at Brody’s handiwork.  Motivate yourself for what you need to do.  I’m heading out, but I’ll be on call if I’m needed.  Looks like the worst of the flooding has subsided, at least.”

 

With that they parted, Pete heading downstairs as Dan locked up.

 

Dan had been right—the flooding had died down; the rest of Pete’s evening was quiet and mostly confined to completing reports.  He was able to leave at the end of his shift, and true to his word, headed down to the basement and the morgue.  Since the whole building was considered secure, there was no particular guard on the morgue itself and everyone on the force knew the code to the door lock.

 

It was just a few minutes past midnight.  The place had been fairly full earlier but a number of funeral homes around the county had sprung into action; at one point in the afternoon, there had been five hearses in a line, waiting for their place at the loading dock.  The  morgue—more a cold storage locker; actual autopsies were done at the Medical Examiner’s office—was still something of a mess.

 

The far end had nine of the traditional old-fashioned sliding drawers in three tiers of three; half of them were part-way open and all of them were empty.  Much of the floor space was taken up with gurneys, mostly bare, with an occasional empty body bag dangling limply off the sides.

 

Two of the gurneys were occupied.  There was one immediately to the left of the door; from where he stood, Pete could clearly read “Jane Doe” printed on the tag connected to the black plastic body bag.  He crossed to the other cart—it was located closer to the rear of the room, on the right side, up against the wall.  Pete had to move a couple of empty gurneys out of the way to reach it.

 

He unzipped the bag and opened it out, inverting down over the sides of the cart, leaving Josh’s abused body nude and exposed under the glaring fluorescents.  The teen’s corpse was now dry by now and rigor had passed, leaving it rag-doll limp.  The dead boy’s skin had paled but his lips and fingernails were still dusky shade of blue.  A milky film had formed over the half-lidded eyes.

 

The Timberland boot was still in the center of Josh’s chest; his body had curled around it, giving it some protection in the water.  The rest of his clothes, along with the remains of the sheet, were off to the side.

 

Pete could see the damage done to Josh’s throat.  It looked like the faggot had gotten his neck wrung.  It was obvious that the kid’s trachea had been crushed to gristle…and thinking about it, about the power needed to do it, about being able to wield that kind of power…

 

Pete felt himself getting hard.  Fuck yeah, he realized, this was what he wanted.  He wanted to be able to force little homos like this to obey Authority, the way Dan did.  The way Brody could, if he had the proper respect.

 

The hardbodied young cop scratched the wiry black scruff covering his left cheek—then lowered his hand to his zipper.  Lowering it, he pulled out his  throbbing dick–slowly, as if hypnotized…

 

He could see the scene now, not with Brody as a villain, but with himself as a hero, the squealing cocksucker foolishly resisting, bringing down the justifiable use of brute force on itself.  Pete stood over the corpse, one hand running over the cold flaccid flesh, the other stroking his huge, pulsing cock.  He was almost unconscious, lost in his own fantasy of physical strength righteously devoted to terminating criminal scum.

 

He imagined what the sensation of crushing the teen’s windpipe would feel like, what the look in the boy’s eyes would be as it suffered its well-deserved punishment.  His hand traveled down to Josh’s smooth thigh, his fingers scraping off fleck of dried cum.  Simultaneously, as he milked his long thick shaft furiously, the memory of driving a knife into Robbie Clebbs’ neck flashed before his eyes and the erotic joy of boysnuff, of watching the punk gag and die in the name of the law tripped Pete’s trigger.

 

“Fuck!” he shouted in a tight voice as a jet of cum shot from his pulsating rod and fell across Josh’s inert form.  Then the buff cop bent over and jerked spasmodically.  “GODDAM!  FUCK!!!”

 

As he cried out, he spewed a thick, ropy geyser of manspunk all over the adolescent’s body, from the face to the crotch.  Pete’s sperm pooled in Josh’s unseeing eyes, spattered across the tan Timberland boot still on his chest, and fell in thick pearly beads onto the kid’s matter pubes.

 

Pete staggered and fell back against the gurney behind him; luckily, the wheels on this one had been locked, so it held him up as he recovered his breath and his balance.

 

Fuck yeah, he was motivated.  He wanted to be able to do this to worthless criminal bitches.  He wanted to get off on snuffing for the good guys.

 

Unlike Brody, he was also aware of the need to remove evidence of his presence.  Not that he was worried about the consequences of his cum being found of the corpse; Brody had actually gotten it right in assuming that Dan could fix such things.  But Pete didn’t want Dan to need to do that, so he began to clean up.

 

He hadn’t expected to shoot a wad all over the corpse when he went to the morgue; he hadn’t thought to bring anything resembling a cumrag.  Glancing around, his eyes lighted on the next best thing—Josh’s red boxer briefs, still damp with ditchwater.  Pete carefully scrubbed his spunk out of the dead teen’s eyes and wiped down the Timb’s tan leather to remove the cum spots.  He finished up by wiping down and patting down the punk’s thick pubes, then balled the cotton boxers up and stuck them in his pocket.

 

Stuffing his tool back into his chinos, Pete carefully re-sealed the body bag, then left the morgue, flicking off the lights on his way out.  The sheriff’s department provided a gym; it was at the other end of the basement.  No one would be using it at this hour, but Pete was determined not to waste a moment in living up to Dan’s and his own expectations.

 

As he headed down the hall, Pete added a reminder on his phone to speak with Dan as soon as possible the next day.  While he didn’t want Dan to have to explain about his bodily fluids on a murder victim’s body, he had no qualms about asking the Captain to remove the reference to boxer briefs being found with the corpse.  He knew—correctly—that Dan had no problem with that; after all, the Captain had sent him there in the first place.

 

Freshly drained and fired up, Pete headed eagerly in the direction of the gym.  Brody was a monster, and it takes a monster to fight a monster.  Pete was looking forward to the encounter.

Rigler County Snuff Squad–the Inception

It was past five at the end of a long slow day of paperwork and Dan was uptight.  Too long at the desk tended to do that to him; he was a man who craved action.  Right now, he needed something to break the tension before driving home.  Three days ago, he’d busted a low-level weed dealer and confiscated his pot—there were still several rolled joints in his desk drawer.  Unlocking it, he pulled it out and extracted one of them.

 

He had no qualms about lighting up in his office; no one would dare enter without knocking.  And anyway, the building was practically empty.  The first shift had left and second was out on its rounds.  Cooper was manning the duty desk on the other side of the building, and Schumacher was tending the two drunks in the basement cells.  Only other person around was Pete, and he—

 

There was a rap at the door.  “C’mon in, Pete,” Dan said.

 

The heavily-muscled deputy entered the room and sniffed.  A conspiratorial grin spread across his handsome, hirsute face, and he eagerly accepted a toke from the smoldering jay Dan handed him.

 

“You wanted to see me, Cap?” he croaked, trying not to exhale too much of the sweet-scented blue smoke.

 

“Yeah,” Dan said, taking the joint back and tossing him a manila folder full of papers instead.  “Here, before you get too high, read this an’ tell me what ya think.”

 

“What is it?” Pete asked, then answered his own question by reading the header on the first page.  “Autopsy report?  Whose?  And who’s this Dr. Herrera?”

 

“Herrera is the county medical examiner.  Corpse is some kid from Corrington.”

 

“Corrington?  That’s south of here, isn’t it?  Not far from the Quail County line?”

 

“Southwest, yeah.  Little podunk place—you ever been there?”

 

Pete, who had moved to Rigler County recently, shook his head.

 

“It was the original county seat,” Dan continued.  “The old courthouse is still down there, but there ain’t more than three or four thousand folk down in that whole southwestern corner now.  That’s what makes that report so interesting.”

 

Pete turned his attention back to the autopsy.  “Lessee, Caucasian male, late teens to early twenties…found partially submerged in moderate state of decay…proximate cause of death, traumatic dislocation of spine between first and second cervical vertebrae…”  He turned back to Dan, who was proffering the joint again.  “I don’t get it,” he said, “So we got a dead kid with a broken neck.  So what?”

 

“Keep goin’,” Dan replied complacently.

 

“Ok, Pete said resignedly, “Where was I…oh, here we are…broken fingers on left hand…shattered right patella…nose broken…what the—?”

 

“Find something interesting?” Dan asked innocently.

 

“Crushed esophagus indicative of violent manual strangulation…clear evidence of sexual assault…sperm recovered but likely too degraded for local analysis; recommend the State Bureau of Investigation be involved…”

 

Pete paused for a moment; Dan spoke up.

 

“Body was ID’d through fingerprints.  Twenty-three year old waste of human flesh called Travis Egerton.  Couple a’ rednecks out frog-giggin’ found him floatin’ in a swamp.  Thought we might take a ride out to Corrington tomorrow, yeah?  I wanna find this guy—for several reasons. I really wanna find him.”

 

There was something in Dan’s smile that made Pete’s dick stiffen until it tentpoled his tan chinos.  “Me too, Cap,” he replied, his broad grin lighting up his youthful face, “Me too.  Count me in.”

 


 

The county road was poorly maintained; Captain Dan’s pickup bucked and rocked on the crumbling, pitted asphalt.  Pete, grateful for the four-wheel drive, peered at the paperwork again.

 

“Where is the place—this 1805 CR 83 west?  I couldn’t find it online.  Who are we looking for?”

 

Frowning with concentration, Dan gripped the steering wheel tightly, his high glossy boots working the pedals carefully as he maneuvered the truck around the worst of the potholes.  “It’s where that Travis fucker was stayin’.  I did a little research after you left last night—turns out our dead meat was a known associate of that other dead piece a’ shit, Robbie Clebbs.”

 

As Robbie’s name was mention, an image flashed briefly through Pete’s mind—the look on the teen cunt’s face when Pete knifed him in the throat.  Instantly, the groin of his tight chinos was bulging as the erotic pleasure of the memory warmed his blood.  A quick, surreptitious glance at Cap’s crotch showed he hadn’t been immune to the power of flashback.

 

“Anyway,” Dan went on, grinning, “That gave me enough to roust Judge Wheeler outta bed early this mornin’ an’ sign a search warrant for the dude’s last known address.”

 

“Awful long—” Pete started when the truck hit a deep pothole with a resounding bang.  Dan cursed under his breath.  “Awful long way to come for this,” the deputy continued, “We coulda done what the ME suggested and called in the SBI to test the cum in the punk’s ass.”

 

“Yeah,” Dan admitted, “We coulda done that.  But I wanna keep control of the situation.  I wanna decide what to do when we find this guy…”  His voice trailed off and he seemed to grow contemplative for a moment before returning to himself.  “He clearly has certain…talents that might come in handy.  If the state’s involved, there’s nothing I can do, you got me?”

 

“Yeah, I think I do,” Pete replied thoughtfully.  “You thinkin’ about hirin’ another deputy?”

 

“We’ll see,” Dan said.  “Depends on his attitude towards Authority.”

 

Pete, who understood and shared Dan’s dedication to Authority, said nothing more until Dan swung off the road onto an even more rutted dirt track.  Several hundred yards off the road, they came to halt in front of an old single-wide trailer with a jacked-up black pickup parked in front.  They got out of their vehicle and mounted the shoddily-built wooden stairs to the front door; Pete noted how the thin wood steps gave under his Danner Tachyon boots.

 

Dan found it necessary to bang repeatedly on the hollow aluminum door before he got any kind of response.  At long last, the door was slowly—and, it seemed, grudgingly—unlocked.  It opened a crack and a bleary, scruffy face looked out.

 

“Whatcha want?”

 

Dan held the search warrant up so the dude could read the name on it.  “That you?” he asked.

 

“Yeah,” Brody said with a deep sigh as he opened the door and reluctantly let the cops in.

 

They stepped inside the dimly-lit space.  The trailer had an unhealthy, musty smell comprised equally of stale beer, manscent and the taint of formaldehyde-treated plywood.  Neither cop minded the smell, though, they were both looking intently at Brody.

 

He was a little large and a little older than Pete—and, by the same token, younger than and not quite as muscular as Captain Dan.  He was wearing nothing but cutoff jean shorts, white tube socks that covered his meaty calves, and a pair of untied Redwing construction boots.  Even in the low lighting, it was impossible to miss his ripped abs and broad, hubcap pecs with jutting erect nipples.

 

Brody ran his eyes over the two men standing before him, his gaze magnetically drawn to the older cop’s trooper boots, admiring the polished brown leather.  The other one was younger, his scruffy face somehow intriguing the well-built redneck.

 

Then Dan began.  “You know a kid named Travis Egerton?”

 

“Yeah,” Brody replied with elaborate nonchalance.  “He lived here for a coupla years, but he ran off a few weeks ago.  Dunno why and don’t care; little faggot wasn’t pullin’ his weight ‘round here anyways.”

 

“So he just left?  Didn’t leave any forwarding address?  Did he have a job?”

 

Brody’s face assumed an expression of impassive reluctance; he was clearly uncomfortable speaking to them.  “Yeah, like I toldja—he just left and I don’t know where.  And yeah, he had a job—kinda.  Worked part time at the Kum ‘n Buy up the road.  But they don’t know where he is either, I already asked.”

 

Pete was learning his trade quickly.  Like Cap, he’d picked up on Brody’s discomfort.  “Thought you said you didn’t care what happened to him,” he put in.  “So why’dja go ask about him?”

 

“I wanted them to gimme his last paycheck,” Brody snapped, his eyes hooded and cautious, “Motherfucker owed me back rent, so I figgered it belonged to me.  Fuckin’ chink bastard who owns the place wouldn’t give it to me.”

 

“So he left without picking up his last paycheck,” Dan mused aloud meditatively.  “Did he ever mention or hang around with another kid called Ronnie?  Eighteen, slim, kinda curly black hair, not quite as long as yours—ring a bell?”

 

“Yeah, I heard ‘im mention the name a coupla time.  Thought it was just another one of those little pansy friends of his.  Never met the queer.  Anyway, why are ya askin’ all this shit?  What’s goin’ on here anyway?”

 

Dan paused for a moment, letting his ice-cold, ice-blue eyes roam over Brody’s physique, noting the redneck’s overdeveloped musculature.  Then he glanced up into the redneck’s deep dark eyes and told him about the discovery of Travis’s corpse and the autopsy report.  Brody not only took it in stride, he barely blinked.

 

Dan’s suspicions were confirmed.  He glanced at Pete and they locked eyes only for a second, but it was enough for the Captain to understand that his protégé had been quick enough to pick up on the same signals.  Pride flowed through his huge, powerful body—he’d make something of Pete yet.

 

But they had other fish to fry at the moment, and the first thing to do was to land the one that had already swallowed their bait.

 

“Little homo got himself fucked to death, huh?” Brody jeered.  “Can’t say I’m surprised; the bitch was a major cockwhore.”

 

The tone of his voice and the look in his face made both Dan and Pete more certain in their convictions.

 

“Yeah?” Dan said evenly, “Y’know, the Clebbs punk went out the same way.  Naw, his neck wasn’t broke, but he got it good up the ass and then he died—hard.  We’re, uh,”—and here he glanced sideways at Pete—“we’re goin’ on the theory that it’s drug-related, maybe gang work.”

 

Brody’s reaction to Dan’s words was an immediate relaxation that was so abrupt as to be almost physically tactile.  And with it came something else.  Even before another word was spoken, there was something electric in the air between the three men; something dark and primal.

 

It might have had something to do with the massive wood all three men were sporting as they discussed the rape and murder of a couple of twinks.

 

“So anyway,” Dan continued, “We’re lookin’ for any of Travis’s associates—anyone you can think of that was into the same scene and might have some info for us.”

 

Brody paused for a moment.  “You want someone like Travis…” he muttered sotto voce, as if speaking only to himself—then a broad grin spread over his ruthlessly handsome face.  “Yeah, bro, I got the dude for ya.”

 

Dan nudged Pete, who whipped out his phone and began to take an audio recording.  Brody was never asked for permission or advised of his rights; this was a strictly extralegal procedure.  Nothing that was said would be given in evidence.

 

“His name’s Eric,” Brody went on eagerly, “Eric—hell, I can’t remember his last name.  But I think he was the one helping Travis to esca—er, get high.  An’ I ain’t talkin’ just weed; I know they was doin’ meth.”

 

“Ever hear them mention the words “China white”?” Pete inquired.  Brody shook his head mutely.

 

“You know where we can find this Eric?” Dan asked.  “Can you take us to him?”

 

As Brody stood facing the two cops, a large bead of transparent fluid ran down his thigh from underneath his shorts.  Both Dan and Pete noticed it.

 

“Yeah, I can take you to him.  Thought about makin’ a visit there myself, but with you guys comin’ along…”

 

He didn’t need to finish his sentence; the huge viscous drop of precum that had leaked out of his throbbing cock onto his thigh pretty clearly showed his opinion of making an unexpected house call on that little cunt Eric in the company of two armed and heavily-muscled studs.

 

Today was gonna be epic.

 


 

After he’d snuffed Travis, Brody had accessed the dead kid’s email and had managed to retrieve some of his deleted texts; as a result, he had quite a lot of info on Eric.  He was able to lead the cops directly to the punk’s house.

 

The kid rented one side of a tiny duplex on a gravel road on the other side of Corrington.  He was a bartender at The Well, a little dive bar that was known to law enforcement for occasional arrests for indecency in the men’s room.  Pete didn’t have Dan’s familiarity with the place, but he’d heard of it.

 

As they all headed over in Brody’s truck—Dan’s idea; he didn’t want to spook the kid by pulling up in a police vehicle—the redneck sadist told them some of what he’d learned.  Like how Eric’s pay wasn’t enough to cover his rent, his car payment, and his drug use, so he supplemented it with some pay-for-play activities with dudes in the parking lot of the bar.  He refused to do anything inside the bar, though; he said he didn’t want to get fired.

 

“So is he into the drug scene big-time here in Corrington?” Pete asked.

 

“Well, I dunno about big-time,” Brody replied, scratching his rough, unshaven cheek, “With him, it’s more a matter of variety, y’know?  He likes coke, meth, and weed, but he’ll do whatever’s available.”

 

“Good.  If there’s a possibility that he knows anything about China white comin’ into this county, I wanna hear it,” Dan growled.  “And I ain’t takin’ no for an answer.”  The angry gleam in his eye showed his seriousness; he wasn’t kidding.  He wasn’t going to have his county become the epicenter of an outbreak of fentanyl overdoses—even if he had to kill to make sure.

 

In fact, it’d be a pleasure.

 

They pulled off the road and parked behind an old Ford Focus with oxidized paint by the side of small structure of gray weathered clapboard.  There was a single porch with two doors; the door on the left had a metal letter “A” nailed to it, as the one on the left had a “B.”  Brody’s Redwing boots thumped loudly on the deteriorated floorboards as he crossed the porch and knocked loudly on the left door.

 

The door swung open and revealed a young man, shirtless, in jeans and sneakers.  His hair was deep blond and fairly short, like a golden aurora around his head.  His large eyes were pale blue and ringed with long lashes; a spattering of freckles ran across the bridge of his slightly-upturned nose.  Below lush, full lips, there was a large dimple in his chin.

 

The boy’s smooth chest was broad and muscled.  His build wasn’t of the caliber of the three men who confronted him, but was more like that of a high school quarterback, in keeping with his youthful face.  His firm, flat belly, barely covered with a fine down like peach fuzz, vanished into the waistband of jeans so tight they looked as if they’d been painted on.  The denim clung with such faithfulness to the punk’s package that it was damn near possible to pick out individual veins on his dick.   The jeans left little doubt as to the musculature of Eric’s legs as they descended to the checkerboard Vans hightops the kid was sporting.

 

Dan, Pete, Brody—all three—were able to take all this in in a split second.  It was all that was allowed.  The moment Eric’s eyes landed on Brody’s face, they widened with fear and he slammed the door.  One thing Brody hadn’t counted on was that Eric knew as much about him as he did about Eric.  Travis had kept his friend informed of the escalating violence in their relationship, and while Eric didn’t know that Travis had been murdered, he suspected Brody in his disappearance.  He was terrified of the older man.

 

“Go away!  I know who you are!  I’m gonna call the cops!” he screamed through the locked door.

 

“Dude, I got the cops here with me,” Brody responded.  “They wanna talk to you.”

 

There was a pause, then the sound of the bolt sliding back.  Opening the door cautiously, Eric peered out and, for the first time, sighted the two massive alpha studs, uniformed and booted, standing beyond Brody.  In spite of his nervousness, the kid felt his dick stir; in his tight jeans, the reaction was obvious to all three men.

 

“Well, uh, okay,” Eric said hesitantly, then stepped back to let them in.  “But I, uh, I gotta leave for work in an hour or so.”

 

Dan looked at Pete with a grin on his face, then turned his icy eyes back to the blond faggot.  “That’s ok, boy,” he said, “I think we’ll be done with you by then.”

 

The front room was small and dark, with blankets nailed up over the windows.  The air was thick and nauseatingly sweet with the scent of weed, crack and incense.  It was also uncomfortably warm; the window AC unit roared like a jet engine off on one side, but made little difference in the ambient temperature.

 

With four muscled male bodies—two already half nude—crammed in a room barely ten feet by fourteen feet, the acrid odor of mansweat began to take precedence.  And Dan was determined to make Eric sweat some more.

 

“Ok, wh-whaddaya want?” the kid said defensively, his eyes darting between the three men.

 

“Siddown,” Dan ordered him, “I’m gonna ask you some questions.”

 

“Um, okay,” Eric said, sitting on the battered black leather loveseat that was the only article of furniture in the room besides the TV stand.  The three hardbodied alphas all stood in front of him, Pete kicking a game console that was sitting on the floor in front of the TV out of the way.

 

“Hey!” Eric yelped, “Dude, careful with that thing!”

 

“Shaddup!” Dan barked.  Eric’s jaw snapped shut as if he’d been slapped.  He stared silently up at Dan, his big blue eyes wide—more with anxiety than fear.

 

Dan smirked down at the little punk.  The fear would be there soon enough.

 

“You’re Eric, right?  Bartender at The Well?” he began.

 

“Uh-huh,” Eric answered quietly.

 

“You know Travis Egerton?”

 

Now fear appeared in Eric’s eyes as he shifted them quickly to Brody.

 

“Yeah, I know ‘im, but I ain’t seen ‘im around in a while,” the kid admitted.

 

“Where did he get his drugs?”

 

The blunt nature of the question startled Eric, who had no intention of admitting drug use to a cop.  “I, uh, I don’t know…” he muttered, looking away.

 

“You lie to me, you little cocksucker, and I’ll fuck you up worse than your little brain can imagine,” Dan snarled.  Eric’s face drained of all color as he stared up as Captain Dan in utter shock.  Almost mindlessly, he turned and looked at Pete.

 

“You’d best tell him, boy,” Pete grinned, “Or he ain’t gonna be the only one who gets to fuck you…up.”

 

Eric caught the slight pause at the end of Pete’s sentence.  It’s unlikely his shallow, drug-addled mind would have understood the significance of the remark if he hadn’t already been sitting at eye level with the muscle studs’ groins.  Even in his sudden fear, the randy young faggot couldn’t help to notice how each man in front of him had a visibly throbbing bulge in his crotch.

 

It was almost like a scene from one of Eric’s favorite porn flicks…so why was he so scared?

 

“C’mon, you little fuckwad,” Brody snarled suddenly, “You heard the man.  I know you and Travis were fuckin’, an’ I know he toldja all kinda shit.  So you better start tellin’ this here cop what he wants to know—an’ I mean the right stuff—or I’ll stick my dick up yer fuckhole and show yer little faggot ass what a real man feels like.”

 

Eric was a strung-out little cocksucker, but even his limited intellect picked up on the emphasis in Brody’s words.  He understood the message.  He could blab all he wanted about Travis buying drugs, but the moment he mentioned the shit Brody had done to Travis—well, his mind didn’t go any further down that path.

 

“Well, uh—” the kid faltered.  He still didn’t want to admit to anything that would get him in trouble.  “I dunno.  Seriously, bro, I dunno where he got his shit.”

 

“Not good enough,” Dan said calmly, then sighed, as if what he was about to do made him sad.  The bulge in his groin belied that.  “Guess we’re gonna have to do this the hard way.  Get him, boys.”

 

As if choreographed in advance, Pete sprang up and grabbed Eric’s left arm as Brody pinioned his right; together, they yanked him up off the couch.  Trapped in the painful grip of the two muscle studs, the kid boldly looked Dan straight in the eyes, but the paleness of his youthful face showed his fear plainly enough.

 

“You gonna tell me where Travis got his shit?” Dan asked, a note of final warning in his voice.

 

Eric gulped, his throat making a dry clicking sound.  “Well, I—uh…he bought weed from Charlie Baler and his brother Eddie…”

 

“And?”

 

“And what?”

 

“And where’d he get the rest of it—coke, meth…China white?” Dan watched the boy’s eyes closely, noting the way they darted downward, trying to avoid his gaze.

 

“I dunno,” Eric replied sullenly, “I dunno ‘bout that stuff, bro; I don’t use.  I mean, I did, but…I don’t anymore.”

 

“Bullshit,” Dan snorted with a contemptuous laugh that was echoed by Pete.

 

Eric’s fear momentarily spilled over, giving him a fleeting and spurious sense of courage.  He began struggling, his smooth sweat-slick skin pressing tight against Pete and Brody.  As he tried to free himself, the thick, snake-like muscles in his arms pulsed and bulged, but were utterly useless against the more massive strength of both Pete and Brody.

 

In his desperation, Eric made a mistake.

 

“Whaddaya gonna do, beat it outta me?  Fuck, bro, I’ll sue the fuckin’ county for millions—”

 

“Hey, Cap,” Pete broke in, “Y’know, we got a civilian here too.  Not like he’s a county employee.”

 

Eric stopped talking, his face ashen gray and his jaw hanging open.  Dan grinned in his face and stepped quickly to one side.

 

“C’mere,” he told Brody, “I got ‘im,” as he reached out and grabbed the punk’s wrist, keeping his arm twisted painfully behind his back as Brody stepped directly in front of Eric and peeled his shirt off.

 

“There ya go, faggot,” the sadistic redneck sneered, “Gave ya some eye candy, huh, ya worthless cocksucker?  Haw!”

 

Despite having heard tales of Brody’s capacity for violence, Eric was still unable to keep his gaze from locking onto the buff killer’s well-built torso.  His eyes slid down the broad hairy chest, following the dark trail of body fur down the washboard abs until it disappeared beneath the waistband of the shorts.  Still entranced, the kid kept going, noting the ridge in the denim and tracing it down to the thick purple tip just peeking out below the cuff of the shorts.  He watched a thick transparent bead ooze out and fall, splattering on the toe of Brody’s untied construction boot.

 

It was instinctual.  Eric had no control over the fact that he suddenly had a raging, almost painful erection.  He also had no control over being such a homo whore that he’d gotten hard fast enough for the movement in his groin to be visible.  Brody noticed it.  So did Pete, who’d been looking down over Eric’s shoulder.

 

“Hey, Captain,” Pete said eagerly, “I think we need to unzip the perp’s fly.  Looks like he may be carryin’ a weapon—or maybe just somethin’ that’s achin’ to get into the open air.”

 

Dan guffawed.  “Go ahead,” he chuckled, nodding at Brody, “Unzip ‘im and lessee if the little pansy-ass junkie likes gettin’…interrogated.”

 

“I ain’t no junkie!” Eric squawked as Brody stepped forward with a broad grin and jerked down his fly.  Reaching in with one big beefy hand, he hauled out the kid’s dick—long and thick, but nothing to impress any of the three men surrounding him at the moment.

 

“Wonder how long he can keep it up,” Pete said casually to Dan.

 

“Well, that’s what we’re here to find out,” Dan replied with a dry chuckle.  “You know what to do, I guess,” he said to Brody.  “I’m gonna ask questions.  He’s gonna give answers.  You’re gonna make sure he gives answers.”

 

“Yeah,” Brody said abruptly, staring Eric in the eyes.  The broad grin never left his face and he fondled his crotch as he spoke.

 

“All right, you worthless little fuck, where did Travis Egerton buy his coke from?  His meth?” Dan hissed viciously into Eric’s ear.  Even though his cock was hard, the boy was scared, very scared.  But he still scared of the wrong things.

 

“Tim Ventnor, ok?  Lemme go!  He got the coke from Tim Ventnor.  Meth too, when he didn’t get it from Hector Casias.  Ok?  That good enough for you?”

 

Eric wasn’t in a position to see the signal that passed between Dan’s and Brody’s eyes, but it was so quick and so subtle—an almost imperceptible flicker of that deep-seated flame of lust and rage in their eyes—that it’s unlikely Eric would have understood or even noticed it if he could have.

 

What Eric could see was the way the deltoid and bicep on Brody’s right arm bulged, swelling almost grotesquely as he pulled the arm back.  The helpless, struggling twink had a split second to notice, to appreciate the sheer force and power contained in those muscles before they released with the relentlessness of a coiled spring and drove Brody’s fist deep into Eric’s gut.

 

“HOOG!” the kid hacked out as his abdomen absorbed the blow, shoving his diaphragm up and violently expelling all the air from his lungs.  His entire body bucked and jerked, his exposed cock swinging and bobbing wildly—but staying erect.

 

“Fuck yeah,” Pete said happily, his face beaming, “That’s how you conduct an interrogation!”

 

“You lied, you useless sack of shit,” Dan said flatly.  “Ventnor’s been in jail on a weapons charge for six months.  And Casias left the state.  So since yer such a fuckin’ dumbass, I’ll start nice an’ slow, ok?  Where—did—Travis—Egerton—get—his—coke?  Think you can answer that one without too much strain on yer pathetic faggot brain?”

 

Tears streaming from his eyes, Eric gasped helplessly, trying to regain his breath.  Despite his blurred vision, he could see what effect his suffering was having on Brody’s cock—and it scared him.  The guy was oozing precum like a soaker hose—after a single gutpunch.  How far was this actually gonna go?

 

Pete, picking up on Eric’s fear, reached around and grabbed the latter’s chin, his powerful hand clamped on the punk’s jaw with the inexorably rigidity of a bear trap.  The buff young deputy forced the faggot’s head forward, bending his neck until the kid was looking directly into Brody’s face.

 

“Look at him,” he told Eric coldly.  “Look into his face, ya homo cunt.  You see what he wants to do to ya?  Only reason he can’t is cause we’d stop ‘im.  And if ya don’t quit lyin’—we ain’t gonna stop ‘im.  Ya feelin’ me, asswipe?”

 

Eric moaned, a faint pathetic sound of despair.  Dan was proud of his protégé; the boy was learning the art of first-rate questioning, and he had clearly taken his lessons to heart.

 

The older cop motioned for Pete to come back and resume restraining the perp.  Dan moved slightly to the side to get a better view of Eric’s face, his enormous cock visibly swollen in his chinos.

 

Ain’t nothing more erotic than a round of bad cop/bad cop.

 

“Ok, you worthless waste of flesh,” Dan sneered, “I gotta name.  I want you to tell me all about him.”

 

Still breathing heavily, Eric glance dully at Dan, then lowered his gaze.

 

“Robbie Clebbs.”

 

In a flash, Eric’s head was back up.  “Aw, I don’t nothin’ about that!” he wheezed out excitedly.  “I ain’t seen him in months!  Bro, I dunno jack shit about him gettin’ offed like that!”

 

Dan smiled grimly.  “Then yer about to learn somethin’ about it.  And I ain’t yer bro, you queer-ass fuckwad.”  He turned to Brody and said, “I ain’t heard an answer to my question.  Back to you.”

 

His face alive with malevolent glee, Brody took time drawing back for the next blow, giving Eric time to anticipate the impact.  The hulking redneck watched the kid quiver in fear for a moment before driving a roundhouse blow straight from his shoulder to Eric’s sternum.

 

Eric couldn’t breathe.  At all.  It was like being hit by a car.  He wasn’t given time to fully process the situation, though; in quick succession, Brody landed three more blows, battering the boy’s flat, smooth belly and firm chest.

 

Realizing Eric wasn’t in a position to resist at the moment, Pete let him go.  The young slut slumped to the floor like a sack of dirty laundry, gagging and dry-heaving.  Dan kicked him in the ass, the worn denim of his jeans offering little protection against the steel toe of the cop’s trooper boot.

 

“Now, where were we?” Dan asked conversationally.  “Oh, yes, Mr. Clebbs.  Robbie.  I wanna know what kinda shit you got from him.  And I wanna know where he got it from—I know you know.  Start talkin’.”

 

Still gagging, Eric raised his head feebly from the floor, a stringer of drool dangling from his chin.  He tried to speak but went into a coughing fit that left him dry-heaving again.  It took him several minutes before he regained enough control to speak clearly.

 

“I-I…ain’t s-seen…R-Robbie in thr-three, three months…”

 

“See, this is what happens when these fuckin’ faggots come into my county,” Dan sighed.  “Little cumguzzlin’ pansies get all drugged up and get the gangs in.  And then they fuckin’ lie about it!”

 

These last words were said in a crescendo of rage that managed to penetrate Eric’s suffering.  He already knew what was coming—but he was unaware that his dick knew, too, and was giving an entirely different signal.

 

“N-no, p-p-please…” he begged, “Tellin’-tellin’ the truth…”

 

His plea went unheard, overridden by Pete’s raucous laughter.  “Look, Cap, lookit the faggot’s dick!” he chortled.  “I swear, the moment you yelled at ‘im, the cunt got all hard again!”

 

“God, n-no,” Eric sobbed, still drooling and wracked with fits of coughing, “S-swear ‘m tell-tellin’ the truth!”

 

“Goddam,” Dan muttered, “Pathetic little faggot crawlin’ on the ground and he still ain’t gonna tell me what I wanna hear.”  He paused for a moment and looked down at Pete, then looked over at Brody.

 

“Hey, dude,” he said to the white trash alpha, “You warned the homo perp that you’d show ‘im what a real man in his ass would feel like.  You still up to making good on that threat?”  There was no need to answer; a single quick glance at the thick tube of manmeat that hung, pulsing and oozing, out of Brody’s shorts.

 

Brody answered anyway.  “You know it man—I always back the blue.”  Grinning wildly, he kicked Eric viciously so that the moaning punk rolled onto his back.  From that position, it was easy for the hardbodied redneck to bend down, clamp one hand around Eric’s throat, and deadlift him straight into the air.

 

Both Dan and Pete were impressed with Brody’s strength—Dan could have done the same, but Pete wasn’t there yet.  The fact that Brody was almost as strong as Dan himself was a mark in his favor.

 

Still holding the choking homo aloft by his throat, Brody carried him down the dark, narrow hallway to the tiny bedroom at the back of the house. Blankets dyed jet black had been nailed up over the windows; most of the room was bathed in the vivid ultraviolet of a blacklight.  There was a bedside table that held a small lamp—off at the moment—and an enormous bong in elaborately-blown glass.

 

In the center of the room was a twin bed—a twisted pile of dirty sheets on top of an old, stained mattress.  All three men—Eric was no longer defined as such—filed into the room; then, without a word needing to be said, Brody stood aside so that Pete had enough space to quickly shove the bed linen to the floor with a single sweep of his arm.

 

Even then, Brody didn’t release Eric.  He held him up, his maniacal grin still lighting up his face, and stared the kid straight in the eyes as Eric’s checkered Vans kicked and flailed five inches above the warped wooden floorboards.

 

His heart and his head pounding in frenetic syncopation, the strangling punk clawed at Brody’s fingers.  Everything Travis had ever told him about Brody came back to him and suddenly it took every fiber of his being to fight off the cold panic that rose inside him.

 

“Chill out, bro,” Brody whispered seductively, the grin never leaving his face, “We’re jest gettin’ started.  Here, lemme make ya a little more comfortable.”

 

Reaching down with his free hand, he unbuttoned Eric’s jeans, then reached down and pulled the zipper down.  Once that was done, a single quick jerk dropped Eric’s jeans to his ankles; as they fell, Eric’s cock sprang up like a jack-in-the-box, making Dan and Pete grin and Brody  chuckle derisively.

 

Brody lowered Eric just to floor level, then placed his big Redwing boot between the kid’s legs, on the jeans.  Bearing down on Eric’s throat, Brody jerked the boy upwards, keeping his foot in place; the movement was swift and violent, but it effectively pulled Eric’s jeans off over his feet, leaving him nude with his kicks still on.

 

Brody’s grip on his windpipe left him in agony too, but no one else gave a shit.  With a satisfied grunt, the redneck tossed the flailing punk onto the bed.  As Eric writhed and gagged, Brody slowly hiked up the cuff of his shorts, exposing more and more of his massive erect dick.  He didn’t see the need to get any more undressed; he could plow his shaft into this faggot without bothering to go to that much trouble.

 

“Hang on a second there,” Dan suddenly commanded.  “Maybe you can fuck the truth outta him, but if he lies, he needs to learn to respect Authority—and that means us.  Pete, get up there and haul out yer junk and every time this little sack a’ shit gives me a bad answer, I want you to stick yer meat down his throat until he chokes on it—and not let go until I tell ya.  You got that, deputy?”

 

“Sir, yes sir!” Pete responded happily.  Scrambling up onto the bed, he got up on his knees, unzipped the fly of his chinos and extracted his huge, throbbing cock.  “Ready for duty, sir!” he cried, with a mischievous wink.

 

“Awright,” Dan barked, “Phase two of the interrogation.  Start now.”

 

Brody wasn’t used to taking orders, but he had no problems obeying this one ASAP.  He reached out and grabbed at Eric—and missed.  Eric had twisted to the side to avoid him.

 

It wasn’t as if Eric had a hope of escaping; he moved instinctively.  He’d been too busy fighting to breathe to hear every detail of Dan’s words, but he’d been able to make out the gist of it.  Earlier, the thought of getting plowed by these muscle studs had gotten him horny; now, it just got him scared.  This wouldn’t be a fun fuck.  These dudes were gonna hurt him—and if half of what Travis had told him was true, Brody was gonna like hurting him.

 

Eric had been used like a whore and slapped around, but he’d never had to deal with anyone who got off on causing prolonged human suffering.  The urge to dodge Brody’s hand was as involuntary at it was useless.

 

“Where the fuck you think yer goin’?” Pete demanded as he caught Eric’s upper arm and forcibly rolled the kid onto his stomach.  Once the punk was in that position, Brody, still standing at the side of the bed, grabbed Eric’s hips and dragged him around until the kid’s fuckhole was aligned with his thick, throbbing shaft.  At the same time, Pete maneuvered himself to Eric’s head.  Still on his knees, he snatched a handful of the boy’s short blond hair and, pulling his head up, slapped Eric’s face with his swollen cock.  Each blow landed with a wet smacking sound and left a spatter of precum on Eric’s face.

 

“Okay, ya worthless little faggot, when was the last time you saw Robbie Clebbs?” Dan snarled, bending down over Eric’s face, inches from Pete’s engorged member.

 

“Th-three months ago!” the boy wailed, his quavering voice cracked with fear.

 

Dan sighed as if upset but the gleam in his eye and the bulge in his groin said otherwise.  “Ok, boys,” he said evenly, “Motherfucker keeps on lyin’—y’all know what to do.”

 

They did.  Before Eric had time to brace himself, he was rammed so full of cock it hurt.  Badly.  In fact, it was fucking agonizing.

 

Brody’s enormous rod, thickly wreathed in veins, forced the faggot’s sphincter to open wider than it ever had before, and it didn’t happen slowly.  Eric would have screamed at the slashing, razor-like pain in his asshole as his delicate rectal lining was torn like wet newspaper—except that Pete’s long, leaking tool was jammed so far down his throat he couldn’t breathe.

 

The boy’s hands beat wildly at Pete but the buff young deputy simply swatted them away.  He laughed, a deep but boyish sound of amusement, as he watched the lean blond homo suffer and choke.

 

“Awright, deputy, stand down.  Gotta give the perp a chance to talk.”

 

Pete was having fun with his dick down Eric’s throat, but he obeyed the Captain unhesitatingly.  He pulled the punk’s head up off his shaft and shoved it aside like garbage.  As Eric coughed and gagged, the deputy unbuttoned his khaki short-sleeve shirt and, reaching to the side, tossed it onto the dresser.  His white cotton t-shirt soon followed, leaving Pete’s broad furry chest, already glistening with sweat, exposed to the open air.  The acrid scent of testosterone in the air increased.

 

Dan noted it and smiled approvingly.  “You know the drill now, asswipe.  You gonna tell me what I wanna hear?” he hissed at Eric.

 

The smooth, slender faggot was moaning and sobbing; he was too focused on the horrific pain in his rectum to be able to answer Dan, although he not only heard the words, but finally understood them.  It didn’t matter that the last time he’d seen Robbie really had been three months ago—that wasn’t what this psycho wanted to hear.

 

Dan, meanwhile, had turned his attention to Brody.  “Think you can make him talk?”

 

“Fuck yeah,” Brody grinned and began plowing his huge rod into Eric’s ass; it was as if a motor had been shifted into high gear.  Eric’s eyes widened; his expression was that of utter helpless pain as he screeched in a high falsetto.

 

Dan, standing next to where Pete was kneeling, drew his fist back, his bulging bicep stretching the cuff of his short-sleeve button-down.  “I said talk, not squeal like a little girl, you useless fuckin’ bitch!” he barked and punched Eric in the face.

 

All but unconscious, the kid went limp.  He was in a gray twilight haze, but he could still feel his asshole getting rammed with the brutal relentlessness of a steam piston.  He had to speak.  He knew it; if he didn’t speak, he’d be dead.

 

“L-l-l…” he tried.

 

“I think he’s tryin’ to say somthin’, Cap,” Pete said.  Dan lowered his head to hear better.

 

“Las-last w-w-week,” Eric groaned.  “S-saw him l-last we-week…”

 

“Well, now we’re gettin’ somewhere,” Dan said.  “All that fuckin’ trouble just to get one honest answer outta ya, you lyin’ piece a’ shit.  I gotta lot more to ask you, boy, so you either better start tellin’ the truth—or hope your little twink body has the stamina to finish the interrogation.  You feelin’ me, cocksucker?  Cause I know yer damn sure feelin’ my buddies here, ha!”

 

Then the smile vanished from his face.  “Okay, then, next question.  Who was the Clebbs fuckwad gettin’ his drugs from?  Who was helpin’ him bring the fentanyl in?”

 

Eric—who didn’t know the term “China white”—despaired.  He had no idea who Clebbs was buying from and this was the first he’d head of fentanyl.  But he also knew that if he didn’t come up with satisfactory answers, he was likely to get fucked to death.  And as much fun as that would have sounded as little as an hour ago, Eric now knew from personal experience that if he didn’t tell these hardbodied sadists what they wanted to hear, he was gonna suffer—a lot.

 

“R-Rusty Tur-Turner,” the young fag squealed, his voice forced into a staccato rhythm by the brutal repetitive force of Brody’s ass-pounding, “Rust-Rusty and J-Josh Perez, man, that’s wh-who he was buyin’ from!”

 

Eric didn’t know if either Rusty or Josh knew Robbie; they were just a couple of dudes who came into The Well from time to time and had sucked him off on occasion.  But he needed names, and he needed them fast.

 

“Yer lyin’ again, cocksucker,” Dan snapped, “I can tell.”  But he noted the names down carefully anyway; it certainly would hurt to have a few of the fag’s friends to interrogate as well.  Once you start turning over rocks, all kinda insects start scurryin’ from the light.  “Hey, Pete—make sure he’s tellin’ us everything.”

 

Pete didn’t need to be told twice.  Jerking Eric’s head back up, he looked into the boy’s frantic eyes.  The look of desperation on the youth’s face make his cock throb so hard he could barely stand it.  The deputy spat contemptuously into the homo’s face, then forced Eric’s head remorselessly into his crotch, shoving his oozing dick inch by inch down the helpless punk’s trachea.

 

As the engorged, precum-lubed head slipped slowly down his windpipe, Eric had to call on all his strength—strength no one who knew him would have supposed he possessed—to stave off panic.  The struggle was partly physical, and Brody was the one who benefitted by it.

 

“Oh fuck yeah,” the muscle-bound redneck alpha grunted as his hips pumped his swollen member rapidly and rhythmically up Eric’s ass, “Little cunt’s startin’ to get into it now.  Toldja I’d fuck the right info outta the cum-guzzlin’ pansy!”  The huge purple head of his dick ground relentlessly over the slut’s prostate, keeping Eric in an involuntary and excruciatingly constant state of erection.

 

Dan, standing next to Pete, slowly unbuttoned and peeled his own shirt off.  Like Pete, he tossed it and his cotton undershirt onto the dresser.  The next time Eric looked up, his entire field of view was taken up by the Captain’s massive chest, his dark blond chest hair glinting with beads of sweat.  “Hold ‘im there,” Dan ordered, and Pete, his thick tool so completely blocking the lean punk’s airway as to choke the kid, obeyed immediately.

 

As Eric flailed, thick gagging sounds erupting from his closed-off throat and large tears rolling down his darkening cheeks, he heard the sound of a zipper.  It was another couple of seconds before he felt the blow across his face; it was like he’d been hit with an iron bar.

 

His bulging eyes were too blurred by tears to see that Dan had hauled his monstrously large cock out of his chinos and had dickslapped Eric with it.  But the sheer weight and size of Dan’s member left a bruise on Eric’s blackening face.

 

“Ok, pull it up and let it talk,” Dan said in a tone of derisory amusement.  His change of pronoun was noted by the others, but not by Eric—which was probably for the best, since he would have shit himself in terror if he’d known what it signaled.

 

Dan had what he wanted.  He’d milk the cunt for any more information he could get, but it was just about time to dispose of the disgusting little pervert.  Dan had plans for this one, though.  He’d done some research and wanted to fine-tune this snuff.

 

Or, rather, he wanted Pete to fine-tune it.  It was time to break the boy in, pop his snuff cherry. Dan hadn’t planned on a civvie being present for this, though; he was still concerned about Brody’s presence.  Sure, the hyper-masculine hick knew how to handle faggots, but did he respect Authority?

 

The question was, did he have the discipline that Dan was looking for?  It was a very rare, quality, this discipline; Pete was the only one he’d met so far who understood it—except for may Pete’s uncle.  But there it was; it was hereditary in his deputy.

 

But that all passed through his mind in a fraction of a second.  Pete had pulled Eric’s head back up; once again, the kid was coughing and gagging, long streamers of drool running down his chin and drizzling onto Pete massive, glistening cock.

 

“J-J-Jo-Joey B-Bes-Bessemer, Wa-Wade Pl-Pl-Plymouth…” the faggot managed to retch up between the wracking coughing fits that caused his whole body to clench and give such obvious physical pleasure to the muscle-bound cracker alpha whose cock was buried in his ass.

 

Dan smiled—a cold, sharp, mirthless smile that Eric could barely make out but which still chilled him to the bone.

 

“Yer sayin’ Robbie got shit from Joey and Wade?” he asked sneeringly.

 

“Oh God,” Eric suddenly sobbed, “Pl-please stop this…I-I can’t…no-no more…c-can’t…”

 

“Answer me, motherfucker, or I’m gonna jam my own cock down yer faggot throat and shoot so fuckin’ hard you drown in my cum, you hear me, you pansy asswipe?

 

“R-Robbie got h-his outta t-town sh-sh-shit from-from Wade,” Eric wailed helplessly, “T-Travis tol’ me he g-got his co-coke an’ shit like-like that from Jo-Jo-Joey…”

 

Dan stood straight, a satisfied smile playing across his features.  He had four good leads.  “So tell me about Joey,” he said.  “Think he was the one who killed Travis?”

 

Despite everything he’d already endured, Eric’s reaction to this statement was extreme.

 

“Travis is dead?” he gasped in horror.

 

“We hauled him outta a swamp a few days ago.  He’d been beaten, raped, strangled and his neck was broken.”

 

Suddenly Brody’s pumping intensified; Eric’s was being rammed so hard he felt like he was literally being fucked in half.  Despite the nightmarish agony in his reamed-out colon, he struggled to speak.

 

“N-n-no!  Th-they…no…n-not AHHH MY ASS not them…” he sputtered.

 

Brody tensed, his huge muscular body on high alert.  This was one of his hottest fantasies; snuffing a helpless faggot.  The fact that there were a couple of cops helping him intensified the eroticism more than he could have imagined—but as hot as it was, he had no intention of being revealed as an already-experienced murderer before two members of the sheriff’s department.  His next movement was a deliberate as it was cum-inducing.

 

Jerking Eric’s head up, Brody slammed his fist into the back of the faggot’s neck—a donkey-punch with the power of hate- and contempt-driven muscles behind it; Eric never had a chance.  His cervical vertebrae shattered like glass, bone shards shearing mercilessly through the twink’s spinal column.

 

Dan realized what was happening.  “NO!” he shouted, but it was too late.  Eric had gone rigid in his death agony; the searing chemical-electric bolt that overwhelmed his nervous system locking his lean, hard young body into the perfect position to receive Brody’s manmeat.

 

No one was in a position to see the twink spew his deathload but the intense pain of his boysperm being violently and involuntarily expelled was one of the last sensations Eric experienced in his short, useless life.

 

As the corpse convulsed and flailed, Brody’s face twisted into a grimace of pain and pleasure.  “FUCK!  AW YEAH, FUCK!” he screamed as his huge tube of manmeat pulsed and pumped more than a quart of steaming hot manseed up the dead kid’s ass.

 

Pete had been too close to unloading to stop once Brody took over; as Eric’s head was jerked up off his cock, Pete began to squirt uncontrollably, his swollen shaft spurting gush after gush of thick, milky cum over the dying punk’s head, the pearly geysers of manspunk jetting upwards, only to fall back in thick ropy strands on Eric’s congested head.   Under the deep ultraviolet hue of the blacklight, the huge creamy spurts of hot sperm were illuminate with a surreal glow.

 

“FUCK!!” Dan cried, partly in orgasm induced by watching the worthless faggot die, partly in frustration, as his enormous rod spewed his steaming, potent manseed over everyone involved.  The reactions were telling; Pete gloried in wearing his Captain’s spunk—Brody shuddered and quickly looked for something with which to wipe it off.

 

The three alphas laid back, an unspoken mutual agreement to catch their individual breaths.  It had been an intense—and as far as Dan was concerned, fruitful—interrogation.  The dead fag had provided useful info.

 

“Awright,” Brody said, grabbing one of Eric’s soiled t-shirt from off the floor and using it to first swab the sweat off his hard muscled body, then ground it into his crotch to soak up his cum, “So who’ve we got?  Joey Bessemer…”

 

“He’s dead,” Dan responded quickly, “OD’d a month and a half ago.  Cunt was lyin’ about him.”

 

“So we got Wade Plymouth and Josh Perez, yeah?  I know where Josh hangs; I can go question him for ya…”

 

Dan had some deep concerns about Brody, but he decided to let the situation play out on its own.  “Ok,” he said, quickly shoving his thick cock back into his chinos, “Lemme know what he tells ya—remember, dude, I need names, yeah?”

 

“I gotcha,” Brody said confidently, stuffing his massive, cum-smeared cock back down inside his jeans.  “I’ll letcha know anythin’ I find out, yeah?”

 

“Um, yeah,” Dan said hesitantly.  He knew the score; he knew he was dealing with a faggot serial killer.  He also knew that if he let Brody realize he knew, his own life might be forfeit.  He thought he could take Brody in a fight to the death if he had to, but this was neither the time nor the place.

 

“Awright, then,” the Captain said, turning to Pete, “We’ll head out later this week and, er, “talk” to Wade.  C’mon, deputy, get yerself cleaned up; you’re a disgrace to the department.”

 

Although this last was said tongue-in-cheek as Dan ran his eyes over Pete’s muscled torso, glistening with sweat and carpeted with dark body fur, Brody took the words literally and smirked as the buff young cop selected another cast-off item of Eric’s wardrobe and used it to swab his chest and abdomen.  Dan had already done so; by the time Pete tossed the rank, cum-smeared pair of jeans to the floor, the Captain had already slipped his undershirt back on and was buttoning his khaki shirt.  He nodded Brody out of the room as Pete completed dressing.

 

When the deputy had finished, he took one look back at Eric’s splayed-out corpse.  The blond’s body was face down with a thick milky trail of cum leaking out of its asshole.  It was still jerking, random nerves firing through the remains of its shredded spinal column.  As Pete watched, one of the dead twink’s feet twitched violently, the sole of its checkered Vans hightop scraping audibly against the mattress as a muscle in the firm smooth calf spasmed visibly and frenetically.

 

The image and the sound were enough, if not to get Pete hard (he still was that), to keep him erect and further, to make him stiff in the crotch every time he recalled the scene later.

 

When he got back to the tiny living room—which, thanks to the lackluster AC, was approximately two degrees cooler than the bedroom—Brody was leaning against the door with his eyes closed and a beatific smile on his face.  Dan had one foot up on the couch and was polishing the high shank of his trooper boot with a handkerchief.  His expression seemed grimmer than merely focusing on his task would require.

 

“Ready to go?” Brody asked, opening his eyes at the sound of Pete’s boots crossing the wood floor.

 

“I am,” Pete said, looking at Dan.  Silently, the Captain stood up and nodded, then all three left.  Dan was the last one out; he knew he’d have to leave the deadbolt undone but he turned the latch on the doorknob itself to leave the door locked behind him.

 

When he got out, the others were already in Brody’s truck.  The drive back to the trailer was quiet.  Brody was relaxing in his “freshly fucked” after-sex glow, Dan was tense and worried, and Pete, sensing his superior’s mood, kept his peace.

 

Dan finally spoke once they arrived back at Brody’s.  “Remember,” he told the buff redneck, “Don’t go back there.  Let someone else find the body.  And remember this—you contact me before you go out to Perez’s place, you hear me?  It’s possible I may have some new information and I may have some specific questions for him.  You got that?”

 

“Sure, I got it,” Brody said nonchalantly as he swaggered towards the trailer.  Dan and Pete watched him, his heavy Redwing boots thumping as he climbed the set of wood steps up to the front door.

 

“Get into the truck,” Dan said quietly.  Pete didn’t need to look at the Captain; the tone of his voice alone was enough to command obedience.

 

It took another ten minutes—by which time they were speeding back down the county road toward town—for Pete to work up the courage to question his superior.  “What’s goin’ on, Cap?” he asked shyly.  “I thought you were gonna offer him a job.  He was the one, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Dan replied stonily, “He was the one, all right.  Snuffed this faggot just like the other one.  I had…I had plans for this one, but that don’t matter; I’ll make sure that gets taken care of.  The problem here, deputy, is that this psycho fucker don’t respect Authority.”

 

“He sure seemed like he wanted to help.”

 

“Lemme ask you this—if he thought he could make a quick buck by squealin’ about our interrogation method, do you think he would?”

 

Pete sat in silence, unable to answer.

 

“Ok, lemme put it this way—do you trust that he wouldn’t?”

 

This time Pete shook his head, silently but decisively.

 

“Ok then, we’re gonna need to keep an eye on this motherfucker.  Let’s see what happens with the Perez cunt.  Tell ya what the first clue is gonna be—he ain’t gonna gimme a heads-up before he goes out to question him, like I told him too.  Now reach into the glove compartment and fire up that thick jay I brought.”

 

Pete lit the huge joint, inhaling deeply, and handed it to Dan.  As he exhaled the cloud of fragrant blue smoke out the window, he turned back to the Captain.

 

“So what’re we gonna do if he does that?  If he goes out there and gets ahold of Perez without letting you know?”

 

“Well, we ain’t gonna lose any info–Perez was in county lockup for three weeks, remember?  He ain’t got nothing to do with Clebbs or his China white.  Joey Bessemer might, though.”

 

“I thought you said he was dead!” Pete protested.

 

“Naw, he’s alive, but I don’t want this Brody dude goin’ near ‘im.  I wanna find out what he knows myself.”  Dan took a deep hit from the joint.

 

“Ok, I get it,” Pete said, “But how are we gonna handle this Brody dude?”

 

Holding his smoke, Dan waited a few moments before exhaling and replying.  “I don’t know,” he said flatly.  “A lot is gonna depend on the situation.  It may be dangerous; this guy is strong.  He ain’t a match for us together, but we’d have a hard time with him physically on an individual basis.”

 

Pete nodded but said nothing.

 

“I’ll be honest,” Dan said in a quiet tone, “This guy is a serial killer and a loose cannon.  We’re gonna hafta do somethin’ about him—but I damn sure don’t know what.”

 

As the harsh sunset faded into indigo, the big truck headed back to the sheriff’s department, its cab redolent with weed and echoing with the silence of the two men lost in their own thoughts, wondering what it would take to bring down the hulking, hardbodied redneck.