It had been a cloudy, and for Vegas, a cool day, never getting higher than the mid-sixties.  Tooling around in the convertible Benz, Carlos had kept his leather biker jacket on all day.  Now that the sun was setting, he was disinclined to remove it, especially since he was heading into a gay bar.

 

He didn’t want to go in; the sight of so many worthless perverted faggots flaunting themselves in public would enrage him—hell, the thought of slaughtering some of ‘em already had him hard—but Nick had a commission, so he needed a boywhore that was willing to put out on film.

 

Of course, by the time he and Nick were done with the slut, it would be put out permanently.  And Carlos could inflict on it all the suffering he wanted to mete out on all the disgusting assmunchers he was about to endure.  That would make it worthwhile.

 

The bar actually occupied the entirety of a small L-shaped strip center.  The place was only a few blocks west of the Strip, but it was some ways south of the airport.  The main entrance was on the extreme left, under a backlit plastic sign reading “Ruby’s Roadhouse” in red letters, each one of which was outlined a different color of the rainbow.  It was a low, non-descript building with windows lining the front that had either been heavily tinted or simply painted over on the inside.

 

The parking lot was full of a random assortment of vehicles, but the number of California plates indicated that a number were rentals.  This wasn’t the kinda place most tourists knew about, but there were some dudes who could find boymeat in any town.  Carlos’s black harness boots thudded heavily on the asphalt as he made his way between the cars.  There was no line; he walked right in—and had to fork out a cover charge.

 

The hardbodied killer ground his teeth.  Whatever cunt he found better have some cash to make up for it, or he’d take it out of its flesh.

 

As he headed into the bar, he grinned, knowing he’d take it out of the whore’s flesh in any case.

 

He had to cross the dance floor to get to the bar itself.  He shoved his way through the crowd, glowering at the homos and pansies that surrounded him.  The looks they returned were just as intense, if less hostile.

 

The fagkiller was dressed to lure in his prey; under the jacket was a white cotton wifebeater two sizes too small.  It clung to each individual ab on his ripped six-pack and showed off the ink on his bulging biceps where the leather jacket hung open.  Around his neck the thick gold chain flashed brilliantly when a spinning disco light happened to fall on it.  In the darkness, it was difficult to see how much his tight black jeans revealed of his thickly muscled legs and the massive bulge in his crotch; that became obvious only when he emerged into the light.

 

He could feel homo eyes crawling over him like a literal physical sensation; it made him shudder with revulsion in the same way he would if he’d had insects on his skin.  They all needed to die.  Not quickly, with a gun or a bomb, but slowly and individually, each one bleating out its worthless life in Carlos’s hands…

 

Lost in reverie, the buff ex-con suddenly found he’d reached the bar.  He ordered a shot of Jack, tossed it back, and turned around, leaning on the bar and surveying the crowd.  A room full of provocatively-dressed useless twinks, writhing against one another to the pulsing beat of industrial dance music and disco lighting effects—yeah, they all needed to be snuffed, but Carlos didn’t see anyone worthy of bearing their sins on camera.  Then his eye was caught by movement on is extreme left.

 

The boy had been in the shadows next to the restroom entrance.  He’d caught Carlos’s attention by stepping forward under one of the dim overhead lights, but his appearance didn’t provide much information.

 

He was wearing a plain gray fleece hoodie with the hood up, obscuring his face in shadow; all Carlos could make out was lower half, which showed a cocky grin, and a faint golden haze on the upper lip.  The jacket was only zipped a quarter way up from the waist, though, showing that the kid was wearing a tight dark tank top underneath.

 

The punk sported a pair of Nike mid-thigh shorts in Green Bay Packers colors, green spreading out from the thick lump in the crotch to the yellow running down the sides of the legs, drawing attention to how the smooth firm thighs descended to strong calves covered with a golden dusting of fur similar to that on the boy’s lip.  On his feet were a pair of expensive Nike Jordan 4 Breds.

 

Carlos had no doubt he’d found his whore.  He’d want to see it in the light before making the final call but the way the fucker dressed, the way it carried itself—it didn’t get to be that obvious a cumslut without having looks worth paying for.

 

The boy sidled up to Carlos.  Now that he was closer, the buff fagkiller could make out the cunt’s face.  He was young, early twenties at the latest.  His face was strikingly handsome, with regular features, clear skin, a pert, upturned nose and sandy blond hair.  But the boy had the face of an experienced whore; his expression was hard and calculating and his beautiful blue eyes were cold.  As like called to like, Carlos recognized the slut as a predator, looking to prey on anyone he felt was weaker or more stupid than he was.

 

Not that he wasn’t still a faggot.  His long side-eye glances at Carlos were full of equal parts cupidity and lust.  The little cocksucker was obviously torn between the desire to get fucked by Carlos and the urge to rip him off.   To Carlos, though, it didn’t matter; what mattered was him being able to lure the fucker to the warehouse.  To that end, he needed to strike up a conversation, since it didn’t seem like the kid was gonna speak up himself.

 

“You a Packers fan?” he asked brusquely, looking down at the boy’s shorts.

 

“Naw,” the kid drawled easily, “It’s just a look, y’know?”

 

That got the ball rolling.  His name was Colton—at least, that was the name he gave to Carlos—and he was plenty interested in the ex-con’s porn movie offer.  If, that is, the price was right.

 

“You’ll really pay me a grand?” he asked, his eyes glinting with greed, “For just an hour’s work?”

 

“Sure,” Carlos grinned, repressing his anger and refusing to allow a snarl to form on his face—not that the boywhore would’ve noticed; he was too lost in dreams of incipient hardcore fame.

 

“Cool!” the cunt said eagerly, “You can bill me as Colt.  No, even better—Colt 45!”

 

The convicted killer had to make a major effort not to gag.  “Sure, if that’s what ya want,” he commented blandly.

 

“Hang on, I wanna ‘nother drink,” Colton said, digging into his pockets and pulling out an anemic wad of cash that turned out to consist of exactly three ones.  “Hey, gimme some money,” he said to Carlos.

 

“What?” the muscular sadist asked blankly.

 

“Front me some cash.  An advance.  I ain’t leavin’ this place without at least fifty bucks in my hands.”

 

Carlos looked levelly at Colton for a long while.  Usually, he didn’t mind advancing money to the meat; he always got it back when he was done.  This one, though, wanted to spend some of it.  It wasn’t the loss of the cash that bothered Carlos, it was the principle.  Goddam faggot should be paying him for putting it out of its miserable existence.

 

“Ok,” he said reluctantly, digging into his back pocket.  He pulled two twenties and a ten out of his wallet and handed them to the boy.

 

“Thanks!” the cunt chirped and headed for the bar.  While he was gone, Carlos texted Nick that he’d landed some prey and would be out at the warehouse soon.  As he typed, he occasionally glanced up, keeping an eye on Colton and making sure the fucker didn’t duck out with his money.

 

The rentboy didn’t sneak out, though; he had other plans.

 

“Hey, I wanna run by my place before we go to the set,” Colton said, returning to Carlos with a big bottle of cheap malt liquor.  The ex-con was amused to find a bar selling the shit—at least the cocksucker hadn’t spent much money yet.

 

“What for?” he asked the kid.

 

“I wanna shower before gettin’ nekkid,” the punk said with a mischievous grin.

 

“We gotta shower at the set,” Carlos responded.

 

“…and I wanna change.  And get my poppers.  C’mon, dude, just a quick pitstop.”

 

Carlos’s lips were compressed into a thin straight line when he agreed to run the motherfucker by his apartment on the way out to the warehouse.  This cunt was asking for too much and the more he gave way, the more Carlos’s vicious, perverted combination of rage and lust mounted within him.

 

The meat was gonna pay.  One way or another, it was gonna pay.

 

“Awright,” the convicted killer growled, “Let’s get moving.”

 

The slut chugged his bottle of cheap booze and followed the hardbodied older man out the door.  Carlos wasn’t concerned about being seen; at this hour on a Friday night, the fag bar was packed, with dude entering and leaving constantly.  The heavy traffic hid the fact that the kid in the hoodie was following the leather-clad stud into the parking lot.

 

Carlos slid soundlessly into the driver’s seat of the Mercedes.  The boywhore, clearly impressed at the ride, slid into the passenger seat and gave the ex-con his address.  Soon, they were out of the parking lot, heading north on Las Vegas Boulevard.  Carlos left the top of the convertible down; it was a pleasant evening—and, more importantly, the outside noise was long enough that he didn’t have to hear whatever the meat jabbering away about.

 

Judging by what little he could pick, up, the stupid cunt was blathering about something he was going to do tomorrow—as if the motherfucker was gonna be alive tomorrow.  Well, it would learn its mistake soon enough.

 

Colton’s apartment turned out to be in a squalid little building south of Sahara and east of Boulder Highway, a two-story structure built in the early sixties and not maintained with particularly loving care.   It stretched the width of the narrow block, shaped like a bracket—a long row of apartments with metal stairs and an exterior balcony for the second floor.  The units at each end were turned end-on, forming the short sides of the bracket; in the middle was the parking, entered by either street.

 

The building’s address was on Worth Street; the ground floor unit on that end was the manager’s apartment.  Colton’s was the other end.  Carlos drove to the far end of the lot, avoiding any open spaces, and pulled up next to the building at the far end, well past the parking area—and all the doors and windows.  He figured the faded ocher mark on the crumbling asphalt was a no parking fire line—but he knew damn good and well that cops in this neighborhood had more important things to do than worry about illegal parking.

 

Colton jumped out of the car, heading briskly around the corner.  Carlos got out and slipped off his leather jacket, tossing it onto the floorboards of the back seat, where it was virtually invisible.  He started to follow the whore, when suddenly he heard one of the apartment doors open.  Freezing momentarily, he forced himself to relax and crept to the corner of the building.  Just then, he heard voices.

 

“Hey, Colt, that you, dude?”

 

“Uh, yeah, hey, Denny…I, uh, I don’t have time—”

 

“’S’cool, man.  Just wanted to tell ya Buddy’s been lookin’ for ya.  He sez he gotta great batch of quality meth, but you ain’t gettin’ nothin’ till he gets the fifty bucks back, ok?  Said he’d be back latter for it.  Gotta run, yo.  Peace!”

 

There was the slam of a car door, then Carlos saw a small foreign car with a make indistinguishable in the darkness—there were no lights on the apartment building and on the other side of the parking area was a featureless wall of concrete blocks three stories high.  The car headed away, towards the street.  Deciding it was a bad idea to wait any longer, he dashed around the corner, his boots pounding on the pavement, and got to Colton’s front door just in time to keep the whore form slamming it his face.

 

“I changed my mind,” the kid said, struggling to shove the door shut, “I ain’t goin’.”

 

Carlos’s fury didn’t impair his intelligence.  He was able to put the conversation he’d just heard together with the fucker’s request for fifty bucks in the bar and realized the piece of shit had never intended to accompany him to the set.

 

He thought he could rip Carlos off for drug money and just walk away.  The goddam little motherfucker actually thought that.

 

Colton must have seen something in Carlos’s eyes; his efforts to close the door, which had been energetic, suddenly became frenzied—downright panicked, in fact.

 

They didn’t do him a damn bit of good.

 

Carlos force himself through the door with such violent intensity that the inside door hand was buried in the sheetrock and Colton was flung halfway across the room.  The kid landed flat on his back on top of a brass-and-glass coffee table that had been the height of Eighties fashion but was by now so decrepit that Colton’s weight reduced to a pile of bent metal and razor-sharp shards.

 

Groaning and rubbing his face, Colton looked up to catch the muscle-bound ex-con grinning sadistically as he pulled the door free of the wall, closed it, and locked it behind him, maintaining eye contact with the kid the entire time.  There was something deliberately malicious about the actions that filled Colton with an almost overwhelming fear.

 

The room was small.  Colton lay on the floor between a loveseat and an easy chair.  The loveseat had been an expensive piece at one time, but now its blue-and-gold brocade was worn and split, with tufts of soiled stuffing peeping through.  The easy chair, with its ottoman was brown velour, stained and rubbed bald in spots.  There was a spindly side table with a thrift-store lamp; on the other wall, a large LED TV completed the living room furniture.

 

The kitchen was the far end of the room, just beyond the loveseat.  There was no dividing line, just a small fridge, a single sink and what almost looked like a miniature electric range lining the far wall with about two square feet of tiled counter.

 

The place was so small, Carlos could see the grout missing between the tiles from the front door.

 

To the left, just past the TV, was a doorway that presumably led to a bedroom and bathroom.  At least, that was what Carlos assumed when he noticed the way Colton’s eyes kept darting towards it, as if he was calculating his chances of making it.

 

And that’s exactly what the terrified little rentboy was doing.  Colton was a greedy, drug-addled slut, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to think he could make it into the bedroom before the muscular psycho reached him.  But that didn’t mean he couldn’t maneuver himself into a position that tilted the odds in his favor…

 

His hood fell back, revealing a sandy blond disheveled mop.  Carlos’s eyes narrowed as he watched Colton’s tight, fur-covered calves shift and his Nikes dig into the carpet.  He knew exactly what the fucker was trying to do, but he wasn’t worried.  This little wad of fagmeat wasn’t going anywhere except to its grave.

 

Suddenly, Colton sprang into movement, exactly as the experienced boykiller expected.  The only thing Carlos hadn’t specifically foreseen was the direction of Colton’s flight; instead of breaking for Carlos’s right or left, the homo tried scrambling right over the loveseat.  Carlos reached out to grab him and caught a firm grip on the edge of his hoodie.

 

Colton fumbled frantically with the zipped; as he did so, in his fear, he kept straining to get away from the hulking sadist.  When, quite by chance, he managed to get his zipper undone, he was so overbalanced that instead of breaking for the kitchen, he simply tumbled over the back of the loveseat onto the floor.

 

He braced his palms on the thin, scratchy carpet, lifted his eyes—and before he could get level, found himself confronted with Carlos’s black leather harness boots.

 

Colton didn’t want to keep raising his eye, but he was somehow compelled.  The Latino convict’s jeans did nothing to hide his thick thigh muscles and firm calves, but once Colton got the bulge in the sicko’s groin, the kid had to pause.

 

His faggot pig interest in the powerful older stud had been subdued by need for cash (he wouldn’t let himself go far enough to recognize the meth addiction that caused the need for cash) but Carlos could see the look that now crept over the cocksucker’s face.  Grinning with malignity, he reached down to his crotch and slowly slid his zipper down.  Then, with equally dramatic pacing, he extracted his massive tube of thick, potent manmeat, laying his pulsating rod out for the worthless pansy to admire.

 

Colton, in his tank top and shorts, rose onto his hands and knees.  Looking up, he reached out for Carlos’s throbbing hog.  “Dude, I want that in me—”

 

“Too late, asswipe,” Carlos snarled, and kicked him in the face, snapping his cheekbone and knocking out two teeth.  “Ya tried to rip me off, motherfucker.  Ya need to learn whadda real bad idea that was.  Betcha startin’ to figure that out, huh?  That was lesson one.  Here’s lesson two, cunt.”  Raising his foot, he stomped hard on Colton’s head, driving the thick sole of his boot deep into the boy’s cheek, leaving a deep, livid bruise that matched the tread pattern perfectly.

 

The young punk, stunned by the repeated impacts to his cranium, moaned and shuddered on the floor as Carlos stood over him, sneering.

 

“Didja like that, faggot?  Betcha did; you little cumsuckin’ pansies love it when a real dude lays a good hard beatdown on ya.  Every goddam homo I wasted died with a hard-on and you ain’t gonna be no different.”  He stopped to spit on the groaning whore.

 

Colton was in a lot of pain.  He’d been beaten before; sometimes, he even got paid for it.  And sometimes, the other guy had been really trying to hurt him, but somehow, this time was different.  He head was still reeling, too much to for him to analyze anything—but he knew he had to get away from this nutjob, or he was gonna die.

 

He began to climb to his knees, slowly.  He was well aware that Carlos was standing right next to him, watching his movements, but whatever happened, he wasn’t gonna be in a position to do anything if he was still on the floor.  So he got up.

 

As the boy rose shakily to his feet, his eyes, desperately avoiding his tormentor’s massive, jutting cock, skipped up to the Hispanic stud’s ripped abs, clearly visible through his skin-tight cotton wifebeater, and furry, muscle-bound torso.  For a moment, his gaze was caught by the glimmer of the thick gold chain around Carlos’s neck—like any good whore, gold could distract him even in times of crisis—but he had to look away once he reached the ex-con’s handsome face and found the cold, contemptuously amused smirk waiting for him.

 

His next glance was at the killer’s thickly-muscled arms, writhing with ink, but he had to look away from them, too.  It was an instinctive reflex; it meant he didn’t have to consciously acknowledge the sheer physical power capable of being unleashed upon his lean young body.

 

Carlos knew the little slut was gonna run.  They always thought they could get away.  Maybe he should warn the motherfucker; he didn’t feel like chasing the meat—just pounding it.  “Don’t even try, you stupid little—”

 

Colton bolted.

 

He fled like a startled deer and was through the doorway on the side of the room, Carlos hot on his heels.  It was another instinctive reaction for the boy; he had a vague idea of locking he bedroom door behind him, buying enough time to get out the bedroom window.  But when he turned into the tiny L-shaped hallway that led to the bathroom one way and the bedroom the other, he was confronted with the fact that he’d closed his bedroom door.

 

He was sweaty with panic, and his palms were slick.  The few seconds he spent fumbling with the doorknob were enough for Carlos to catch up.

 

Colton had no way of knowing the details of what was happening to him; he felt a violent whipping sensation followed by a bone-jarring impact that seemed to tear at him.  A fraction of a second of weightlessness was followed by an impact of such intensity that he lost consciousness.

 

Back in the hallway, Carlos snarled.  In his rage, he reached up to his collar and without thinking about it, ripped the thin cotton top like wet paper, tearing the shreds from his ripped, muscled torso and tossing them on the floor behind him.  Throwing the fucking cunt through the closed door had whetted his rage, not diminished it.  He barged through the open doorway, dislodging the remaining pieces of the door that still clung to the twisted hinges—mute evidence to the violence of Colton’s impact.

 

The kid was huddled on the floor near the head of the bed, moaning and twitching in a pile of splintered particle board that had once been a cheap nightstand.  Carlos flicked on the overhead light as he entered; under its bleak glare, he could see the heaving fuckmeat stirring and regaining consciousness.  Its smooth, youthful skin hadn’t yet started the inevitable roughening that was the natural result of drug addiction, but blood was trickling from a number of lacerations across its back, chest, and thighs.  Some of the cuts had been inflicted by a porcelain lamp, the shattered remains of which could be seen spread around Colton’s body.

 

The kid was vaguely aware of Carlos’s approach.  His vision was blurred, and his swollen eyes didn’t want to open.  When they did, he was confronted with a familiar sight—and one that filler him with despair.  Some part of his faggot soul thrilled at finding himself at floor level with a muscular stud’s harness boots, but he already knew that Carlos’s proximity meant pain.

 

He had no idea how right he was about to be proved.

 

The dazed slut had been aware that Carlos had picked up something behind him.  The powerful killer’s grunt indicated that he was putting effort into something, but even when the bent and stripped base of the lamp fell to the floor in front of him, Colton still hadn’t figured out what Carlos was up to.

 

Not that it mattered; he’d learn in good time.  In any case, the fagkiller’s next action put that lamp right out of the boy’s mind.

 

Colton was still mostly face-down; Carlos pressed his boot down on the nape of the fucker’s neck, pinning him to the floor.  Casually reaching down and grabbing the collar of kid’s tank top, he proceeded to rip it off the whore as easily as he’d torn his own off.

 

Standing back upright, looming over his victim, Carlos looked down at the pathetic faggot huddled shirtless on the floor.

 

“Get up, motherfucker.  Now, goddamit!”

 

Colton heard and knew he had to obey.  He tried, he really did, but only managed to make it to his knees before Carlos lost patience and grabbed him by the throat.

 

If Colton had been an impartial observer, he would have been impressed with the sheer physical strength it took to lift his strong young body one-handed and hold it aloft, arm ramrod-straight, with no other support.  Colton, of course, was not an impartial observer; in fact, given that his entire body was now dangling from a powerful hand clamped around his windpipe, he was starting to choke—and it was terrifying.

 

He did himself no favors.  His panic only made him kick his legs, his Nike 4 Breds swinging inches above the thin beige carpet, as Carlos tried to yank his shorts down.  If he’d kept his legs still, it would’ve been over faster—but then, Carlos wouldn’t have enjoyed an early preview of the punk gagging as his face darkened with asphyxiation.

 

Once Colton had nothing left on but his socks and kicks, Carlos tossed him onto the bed, then paused and waited for him to recover.

 

He wanted the meat to be fully awake and aware for what happened next.

 

It didn’t take long; the fucker was awake and scrambling much faster than Carlos would have given him credit for; the muscular fagkiller pounced on the bed with the swiftness of a tiger, not letting his prey have the opportunity to escape.  After a quick tussle, Colton found himself on his back with the Latino’s heavy, powerful body straddling him.

 

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere yet, cunt,” the tattooed convict snarled at the boywhore trapped helplessly underneath him.  Colton struggled, but Carlos was kneeling on his arms.

 

“L-look, dude, I, I didn’t wanna—” the kid started, but Carlos bent down over him.  The Hispanic ex-con, face to face with the young meth whore, shifted his right leg, reaching down and pulling Colton’s left arm free.

 

“Shaddup,” the hulking sadist growled, “What you want don’t matter anymore.  Yer gonna learn, asswipe; yer gonna learn what happens to thieving little faggot whores.  Good with stealin’ shit, are ya?  Got light fingers?  Tell ya what—let’s see if we can make ‘em a little lighter!”

 

He held Colton’s hand up into the kid’s face, wrapping one of his own huge hands around the boy’s smaller one, clutching it tight, with the fingers point straight out.  With the other hand, he grabbed the kid’s index finger and began bending it backwards.  Slowly.

 

He wasn’t trying to break the finger, he’d grabbed it far too close to the first knuckle to break the bone.  Instead, he slowly and relentlessly torqued it so far back he separated it at the knuckle joint.

 

Colton’s eyes began to bulge as his sinews and tendons began to rip free like cast-off mooring lines.  When the finger finally came loose with sickening gristly cracking sound like a chicken wing being torn from the carcass, the boy began to shriek.

 

Carlos reacted instantly—the walls of this shithole were too thin for him to enjoy the meat’s screaming.  A few line-drive punches straight to the fucker’s face shut him up, with Carlos emphasizing the point.

 

“Shut [WHAM] yer goddam cocksuckin’ mouth [WHAM] and take it, motherfucker [WHAM]!”

 

As Colton flopped back on the bed, Carlos, still straddling him, reached down and buckled the thick black leather belt that encircled his tight waist.  Pulling it gently free, he wound the end without the buckle around his right hand.

 

“Fuck, son, looks like yer daddy didn’t beat ya enough.  That the problem, huh?  That why yer a thief? That why yer screamin’ like a girl?  That why yer takin cock up yer ass like a girl?  I can fix that, you sick piece a’ shit.  I can fix you for good.  But first, I’m gonna beat ya like yer daddy shoulda.”

 

The metal edge of the buckle made a mean whistle as Carlos whipped it though the air.  The thud of metal on flesh was erotic as fuck, while Colton’s shriek of pain was glorious.

 

The belt buckle left a huge red welt on the punk’s smooth chest.  As the hulking sadist raised his powerful arm to land another blow, the whoreboy raised his left arm, index finger dangling uselessly, to try to ward off the impact.  With a snarl, Carlos batted it out of the way and began lashing the cunt.

 

The first two blows hit Colton on the face, the metal edges of the buckles splitting the skin, leaving the kid with a pair of slashes on his right cheek, trickling blood as the skin underneath turned black and puffed up with the intense bruising.   The boy kept yelling and crying; Carlos needed to keep him quiet, given the thin walls of the cheap apartment.  That was easily done—he pounded his fist into the slut’s face a few times, leaving the boy dazed and groaning as the vicious fagkiller continued to lash at him with the belt, leaving the punk’s smooth flesh severely marked with the evidence of a brutal beating.

 

Finally, heaving with the effort, his huge muscular body glistening with sweat, Carlos tossed the belt down.  He’d worked off his current surge of anger, but meth whores are tough meat and need a bit of tenderizing.  The cunt might need a few more love taps…

 

Colton was in a deep fog of physical agony and fear.  His entire body, from his impaled asshole to his pounded face, seemed to pulse with indescribable pain.  He’d stopped thinking coherently and was just enduring, holding on.  Never good at rational thought to begin with, the stupid little slut could only sink into the state of a dumb beast and try to weather the storm.

 

And yet through it, all, Colton was vividly hyperaware of his own inexplicable, humiliating erection.

 

Carlos was aware that he’d thrashed the meat too hard and that he was losing command of its attention when the whore’s fuckhole began to loosen up on his shaft.  It happened sometimes; the really stupid ones had some kinda mental breakdown at the concept of imminent death.  They’d never tried to conceptualize the end of their own existence, and they simply couldn’t handle it.

 

He wasn’t getting off that easy.  The mindfuck was half the fun.  And the one sure way to snap the fucker back to reality, as Carlos knew by experience, was to snap one of its bones.

 

Colton could see the hardbodied killer leaning over him, the thick gold chain dangling down as Carlos reached for his right hand.  As the powerful sadist began bending his right thumb backwards, the kid, realizing he was getting the same treatment as earlier, pulled himself out of his self-induced trance.

 

“No…w-wait… pl-please wait—AAIIIEEGHHughph!”

 

This one was like pulling a drumstick loose.  It was tougher; there were more tendons and ligaments to rip apart.  Carlos paused in the middle to quiet the kid’s howl of pain by popping him hard, once, in the jaw, then returned to pulling Colton’s thumb out of its socket.

 

By the time the sick fagkiller let go of the boy’s hand, Colton was through.  He lay back on the bed, limp, his eyes wide and surrounded by huge circles of shock so dark they almost looked like makeup.  He was used up.  There was no fight in him.  He wasn’t retreating into an inner world, he was just there, riding the Hispanic’s thick cock like an inflatable sex doll.

 

Well, that was an easy fix.  Reaching into his back pocket, Carlos pulled out something he’d tucked away earlier—the power cord he’d ripped out of the bedside lamp after he’d thrown the cunt through the door.  Smiling gently, he held it out, letting it dangle in front of Colton’s eyes.  The boy looked at it blankly, with virtually no curiosity.  Its significance utterly escaped him.

 

He didn’t retain the luxury of ignorance for long.

 

The moment Carlos looped the cord around his neck, Colton began shaking his head.  Dumbass meth head that he was, even he knew what it meant as the hypermasculine fagkiller cinched the plastic-covered wires around his throat.

 

“No…no, don’t, no no NOOOOackgth—” his final plea for his life ground to a choked gurgle as the muscled hardman tightened the cord.

 

The whoreboy choked and gagged, his eyes boggling incredulously as his oxygen supply ceased.  Instantly jerking and twisting, he began clawing desperately at his throat, his fingers—at least, the ones that were working—frenetically trying to dig at and under the vicious ligature.

 

Carlos grinned triumphantly as the boy writhed beneath him, feeling the kid’s smooth, firm body pressing desperately against his own heavy muscled bulk.  “Yeah, cunt, that’s it!  Show me how bad it hurts to die, motherfucker. Work my rod, you worthless whore, jack me off as you kick yer useless faggot life away, bitch!”

 

The cord had sunk too far into Colton’s neck for the slut to be able to grasp it; all he was doing was tearing and abrading his own flesh trying to reach it.  He transferred his attention to the next available thing: Carlos himself.

 

As an experienced whorekiller, Carlos knew that the meat would turn on him at some point.  Once the punk’s maimed hands flew up into the air, the sadistic psycho jerked his head up and back, keeping his face out of reach of the homo’s flailing fingers.  Colton brushed the tip of his chin a couple of times, then went for his chest.

 

Carlos’s furry torso and hard, sculpted pecs easily withstood the dying cunt’s onslaught, but the little fuck was spiraling into blind panic.  As the pressure increased inside Colton’s head, he could feel his eyeballs and tongue swelling.  It was fucking excruciating; his head felt like it was gonna pop like a balloon.  The was a crushing and fiery pain in his chest from his aching lungs and his heart was pounding faster than seemed possible, the frightening tempo slamming though his confused, congested skull.

 

And through the entire ordeal, he could still feel his innards being reamed by the muscle-bound ex-con; the enormous head of the Latino’s cock seemed to tear through his guts like a plumber’s snake, shredding him from the inside.  Yet despite everything, his own dick was still painfully hard; as it was compressed between his sweaty flat belly and Carlos’s ripped furry abs, he could sense the hot precum leaking from it…

 

In blind pain and terror, he clawed and scratched at Carlos, his fingers digging into the older man, leaving long red marks on his skin, running down his chest.  With a loud grunt, the convicted killer neatly shifted both ends of the cord to his left hand without loosening the hold on the kid’s neck.  This freed his right hand for necessary control measures.

 

“Keep yer hands [WHAM] to yer fuckin’ self, [WHAM] ya stupid cocksucker! [WHAM]” Punctuating his demand with his fist, Carlos watched the boy’s hands drop to his sides.  He’d gotten his message across.  The meat was learning its place.

 

It took a little longer for him to get the lesson across; the meth whore didn’t die easy.  Its eyes, huge and bloodshot, stared with blank horror into its killer’s face as thick, foamy drool bubbled out past its black, protruding tongue and ran down its smooth cheeks.  The lithe young body, slick with the cold sweat of massive physical crisis, jerked and thrashed against Carlos, the smooth skin rubbing erotically over his thick fur.

 

“You’re on yer way out, motherfucker.  Hope yer enjoyin’ yer last few seconds on Earth, faggot, cause you were gonna die tonight anyway.  I was gonna snuff ya on camera.  All you fuckin’ pansies are good for is drainin’ my load as ya die on my cock, but I’d’a made ya famous. But ya had to try to rip me off—what a fuckin’ moron.  Now, yer gonna be just another junkie whore strangled in a cheap rat trap.”

 

The meat was no longer fighting against Carlos; as its body began seizing, it clutched at him as if seeking something to brace itself while it convulsed.  Each jerk of the body tightly clenched the cunt’s colon and the torn remains of its sphincter; it was like the dying homo was trying to jack Carlos off with its asshole.

 

“Get it, bitch, get that load,” the muscular ex-con snarled as he pulled on the lamp cord, the veins in his thick biceps starting to bulge, “C’mon, faggot, milk my spunk, motherfucker!”

 

Most of Colton was dead.  His legs flailed randomly, his feet jerking and drumming so violently the lost the Nike in his left foot, kicking it to the floor.  On the inside, there was nothing left but a red fog filled with a high-pitched whine.  But as Carlos felt his balls pucker and an electric tingle at the base of his enormous shaft, he gave one last powerful tug to the cord.  With a loud, thick crunch, the whoreboy’s hyoid bone snapped and its esophagus collapsed, crushed inwards into an impenetrable wad of bloody, mangled gristle.

 

The sound and sensation penetrated the whining fog.  Somewhere deep within Colton misfiring brain, some last shred of the fag’s personality recognized the sound as the signal for the end.

 

It was ok.  He could stop fighting.  He’d always known, down inside, that it might come to this someday—getting wasted by a psycho john.  But until this moment, he’d never let himself realize that he’d always deserved this—it was why he did what he did.

 

He needed this.  The young cunt needed a strong, powerful man to put an end to his worthless existence.  He was getting exactly what he deserved.

 

At that moment, his ass was flooded with hot potent manseed.  It was the trigger for release—the release of the punk’s load, his life, his soul.

 

Colton died spewing a solid jet of thick boycum.  As Carlos pumped the meat full of sperm, the kid’s DNA and life poured of his body simultaneously in a geyser of semen that smeared across their chests as their shuddering muscled male bodies intertwined, once in orgiastic ecstasy, one in convulsive death.

 

Carlos lay on top of the meat for a few moments, his sweaty flanks heaving as he caught his breath.  As he finally peeled himself stickily from the corpse, it was still shuddering violently, spread-eagled on its back with one sneaker off and its grotesquely swollen face jet black.  He paused to admire his work for a moment—and then he heard something.

 

Someone was knocking at the door.  Loudly and insistently.

 

“Hey Colton, open up!  It’s me, Buddy!”

 

More knocking, rattling the knob.

 

“I know yer in there, asshat.  I want my fuckin’ money, ya hear?”

 

Now it was banging, the thin door barely withstanding the impacts.

 

“Goddamit, if you ain’t in, I know ya got that leather jacket worth fifty…”

 

The next sound wasn’t from the door, it was from the window in the front room.  A very faint tinkle of glass—just enough to let Carlos know that this Buddy fucker was breaking in.

 

Looking around quickly, the buff killer, still shirtless with his cock out and dripping cum decided the closet was his best chance to take the newcomer by surprise.  He slipped in, pulling the door behind him until it was open just a crack.  Just in time, too, as a shadow darkened the doorway.

 

 

---

 

 

Buddy knew exactly where Colton kept that hot leather jacket.  If that cheap piece of ass didn’t pay his debts, buddy had no hesitation in helping himself to even the account.

 

Buddy was a twenty-two-year-old thug, and looked it.  His build was similar to Colton’s but he was leaner and wirier, and slightly shorter.  He kept his dark hair trimmed short and his goatee was remarkably like Carlos’s in shape and color, if not effect.

 

Carlos looked hot and erotic with his goatee; Buddy just looked scuzzy.

 

He wore an Oakland cap under a pulled-up sleeveless hoodie in blue fleece.  He was shirtless underneath, the hoodie vest unzipped down to his navel to reveal his smooth chest and his flat belly.  His black mid-thigh gym shorts displayed his firm thighs and furry calves; on his feet were Adidas Entrap hightops.

 

Weasel-like, his dark eyes flitted form side to side as he made his way through the window and into the apartment.  With no lights on, it took him a moment to adjust to the dim ambient lighting that was tricling form the bedroom.  Once he did, it became obvious that something had happened.

 

His first presumption, on seeing the smashed furniture, was that he wasn’t the first person to come looking for Colton’s valuables tonight.  Well, he damn sure didn’t want to run into any trouble.  Hopefully, the other dude was gone.

 

Creeping around the corner, the young drug dealer was too high himself to notice the remains of the bedroom door.  Buddy was in the doorway before he spied the inert form of Colton spread out on the bed, luridly lit by the stark overhead bulb.

 

“Colt?” Buddy asked hesitantly, “Th-that you, mang?”  He stole forward, bending over and poking the still-warm body.

 

Then, with a sick grin on his face and a quick glance back at the doorway, he began fondling the dead boy’s still-oozing cock.

 

With his free hand, Buddy reached down and pried his own stiff rod free of his shorts; his dick bobbed in the air, already throbbing with excitement.  “Always knew someone’d fuck ya up right, motherfucker,” he whispered hoarsely as he jacked himself with one hand and let the other roam over the cum-glazed corpse.  “Goddam, wish I coulda been here to see ya get what ya deserved.”

 

Glancing down, he suddenly noticed Colton’s cast-off Nike 4 Bred on the floor next to the bed.  His grin broadened and got more perverse as he bent and picked it up, then held it up to his face.

 

For a brief moment, Buddy was in heaven, huffing the dead whore’s sneaker as he jacked off over the corpse.  Then he heard a noise behind him.

 

What happened next, happened fast—fast than Buddy could comprehend.  He never truly knew what hit him.  At the sound, he whirled around, still inadvertently clutching the Nike to his face.  He had one brief glimpse of Carlos emerging from the closet, but since they were less than four feet apart to start with, he didn’t have time to register anything beyond a huge, tatted, muscle-bound stud, shirtless and with his huge cock hanging out.  Then Carlos was on him.

 

Seething with rage at the faggot perversion he was witnessing from the closet, the sadistic killer launched himself at the thug cunt, slamming one hand into the sole of the shoe Buddy still had pressed to his face.  At the same time, Carlos’s other hand shot past the dealer’s head and circled back, anchoring the back of his skull.

 

With swift, vicious brutality, the ex-con crushed the Nike into the boy’s face, then twisted his head more than one hundred eighty degrees.

 

The snapping of the punk’s neck was a loud as popcorn in the silent bedroom.  As Buddy’s vertebrae became shrapnel, ripping through his spinal cord, the massive trauma to the nervous system sent a shock through his already-stimulated scrotum.

 

The last thing Buddy saw as everything went white was Colton’s black, congested face.  He never felt the spontaneous, hands-free geyser of spunk that he shot all over Carlos at close range.  Thick gobs of semen splattered on the toes of the fagkiller’s boots as the already-dead thug fell with a dull thud, a boneless sack of meat.  His Adidas kicked twice, violently scuffing on the floor, then trembled and became still.

 

Carlos looked around for a moment and spotted a t-shirt on the floor in the corner.  He used it to scrub the cum of two dead boys off his chest and belly, then tossed it back on the floor.  He’d left his belt on the bed next to the whore; kicking the dealer’s corpse aside, he retrieved it and slipped it back around his waist.

 

He turned back at the doorway, taking a last look.  Colton, of course, hadn’t moved.  He was still splayed on his back, legs spread like the whore he’d been.  Huddled on the floor next to him, Buddy’s face stared grotesquely backwards, the jaw agape and the eyes rolled back in the head with only the whites showing.  The Nike he’d coveted had rolled a yard away when it was dropped by his nerveless fingers in the seconds before the rest of him hit the floor.

 

All in all, Carlos felt relatively satisfied.  Since the door was still locked, he decided to leave the apartment by the window, after checking out the scene to make sure he wasn’t observed.  Slipping his jacket on when he got in the car, he started it up and crept out of the lot in first with the headlights off.  He was halfway down the next block before he switched them on and sped up.

 

One thing was still bothering him.  He’d told Nick he had a boy.  Well he’d had two, but hadn’t managed to get them on film.  Reaching for his phone, he decided he might as well break the bad news to his business partner.

 

Just then, as he was approaching the intersection with the highway, he caught something out of the corner of his eye.  Or, rather, someone.  A dude…just a glimpse.  But it might be something.

 

He put the phone down and made a U-turn.

 

 

---

 

 

“Aw, fuck,” Schweitz cried in disgust, “Not another garbage run.  Hey, Nuñez, will ya lookit this shit?  More dead fags.”

 

“Yeah,” Nuñez sighed, “I heard.  Let’s just get it over, huh?  Sooner we get done here, sooner we can get back to workin’ real cases.”

 

“Ain’t gonna make sergeant handlin’ fuckin’ animal jobs like this…ok, the one on the bed, rough play with faggot boyfriend.  Got what he was askin’ for.  The one on the floor—I dunno.  Don’t really care, neither.”

 

“Think he offed the one on the bed?”

 

“Maybe.  But he didn’t twist his own fuckin’ head off.  Wish I knew who did.  I’d shake the guy’s hand and give him a medal—”

 

“Hey, detective, the ME guys are here,” interrupted one of the patrol cops outside from the living room.

 

“The meatwagon?” Schweitz barked, “Great.  I dunno, we’ll say some jealous homo killed his pansy and the fag fucking the pansy.  Deep-six the file as killer unknown.”

 

“Fine by me,” Nuñez replied, nodding to the ME techs as they entered to collect the corpses.  “Tag ‘em, bag ‘em, and drag ‘em the fuck outta here, boys.  It’s time for lunch.”

 

By three that afternoon, both detectives had had three beers and forgotten they’d had a double murder case that day.