Fifteen

Posted by rache on July 04, 2007 at 20:18:00:

Fifteen
by Ken Randall

The sun was cooking the Nevada sands; highway 158 was a cast iron pan, shimmering with heat. Kent was afraid to stop the car when he saw the abandoned taxi a few dozen yards off the shoulder. The tires would melt.

"Ready for this, big guy?"

His dick made no reply. It never did. But that didn't stop him from talking to it now and then, ever since he'd gotten the tattoo. The hooker talked him into it, her and Jimmy Beam. The bottle was empty by the time the ink was done; Kent was feeling no pain at all.

"One Elvis Presley penis tattoo, circa 1958."

"Viva Las Vegas…"

Kent bent his dick left and right admiring the work, far too drunk to feel ashamed about getting hard in another man's hands.

"I get to fuck Elvis! I get to fuck Elvis!" the hooker giggled, clapping her hands.

The hooker was long gone, but Elvis remained. He was as good a partner as any, since Jake had been killed. So Kent talked to Elvis.

“Flies. Christ almighty, where do they come from?”

He could hear them buzzing from the road. He flicked a handkerchief from his pocket to cover his mouth.

The head would be missing this time. He’d found stiffs without hands, arms, feet, legs, torsos—there weren’t too many options left. And there was always a clue, a postcard with geographical coordinates on it, a paperback novel with certain words circled.

He’d figured out the latest clue an hour before—a newspaper with holes cut through it and lines drawn across it. There it was, like a Mad Magazine fold in: a taxi, a cactus, the number 158, and a pointing finger. The guy was nutty. What kind of sick fuck would dismember people while they were still alive, walk away with their body parts, and then spend the next week putting together clues to where he would hide the body after the current murder?

There in the car was victim number 14, minus a head.

“You believe this shit?”

His penis didn’t answer.

The rear window was rolled down. Blood everywhere. The interior of the taxi was painted stinky, murky, splattered, rusty brown. No wonder the place was covered in flies. Seat cushions were ripped. A couple fingernails were gone. He’d kicked off a shoe in the struggle too.

“How friggin’ hard you gonna fight with someone sawing your head off?”

“Mister…” someone said, coarse and raspy. Kent jumped. He spun around.

A woman in a wedding dress. She was beautiful. Deep dark eyes, long black hair, curves that would stiffen you and melt you at the same time. Tall too. Looked half-dead though.

“What the fuck?”

Again his penis didn’t answer.

“Please… water… car broke down… been … for hours… please.”

She fell into him. He caught her.

“Come here,” he said. “This is a crime scene. You can’t touch anything.”

He pulled her toward his car, feeling her firmness through the satiny white dress. She had big beautiful tits, and a nice peachy round ass, but she was muscled pretty good too, like she could take your head off if she punched hard enough.

“I got some water in the car. Come on.”

“So… thirsty…”

He pulled the bottle from under the seat and gave her a drink. He poured it on her face too, and dabbed at her sweat with his handkerchief. That’s when he noticed the bruises.

“Looks like you been in a fight. You alright?”

“I am now,” she said, and suddenly her hand was on his cock, stroking, fondling.

“What the fuck?”

But he was getting hard. He couldn’t help it.

“I’m so glad you found me,” she said. “I thought you'd never get here.”

She looked delirious, her eyes rolling around in their sockets, and then she laughed, cold and witchy. He let her go. She staggered a bit and then laughed some more.

“Nice package you got there, Kent,” she said. “It’ll be perfect.”

She knew his name. What the hell was-

She had his gun! What the goddamn hell?

He moved toward her and she popped off a shot between his feet. The echo died in the hot wind.

“Don’t.” And she fished a pair of handcuffs from her dress, tossing them to him. “Roll down the window and lock yourself to the door. Open it.”

He stared at her, scrambling to think of some way out of this, but her next shot blew his left foot to pieces and he was suddenly scrambling and screaming, locking himself up as fast as he could.

There were tears in his eyes, but he was angry; he wanted to kill the bitch. She pouted cutely like a little girl who’d spilled her milk.

“Sorry ‘bout that, sweetie, but I already got a left foot.”

“Guys were calling you Frankenstein for a while,” Kent said. She peeled the front of her dress down, exposing her healthy round tits to him, making his cock twitch. Why was she doing that? She played with her nipples while she spoke, lifting them to her mouth, sucking them to hard pink points.

“You were silly to come out here all by yourself. That’s why I chose you, Kent. You’re smart with the puzzles, but with common sense, well you’re just stupid enough to get your dick tattooed for a hooker, aren’t you? A good man is hard to find though. Sometimes a girl’s just gotta… build her own.”

She pulled a saw from under the Kent’s car. And a hammer.

What was the hammer for?

It was Kent’s last coherent thought.

BAM! The hammer fell.

He woke a few minutes later and found her sucking his cock. He was sprawled on the sizzling hot asphalt, naked now, dizzy and bleeding, barely able to lift his head. But he could feel her mouth and hands pleasuring him, even through the searing agony; she was amazing at it.

“What a wedding night this baby will make! Yummy!” And she went back to her eager suction.

But the bitch didn’t even let him come. When he was fully hard, she pulled the saw around, winked at him, and then started cutting. Kent screamed. He writhed, and kicked, and spit, but she’d tied his knees together while he was out. Minutes later he was no longer a man.

“Well, sir. It looks like the King has left the building.”

And she walked away into the shimmering heat with another witchy cackle.

end