pulp.
(XIV)
This is too easy, Westmore thought. He snuck about the house for over an hour before he actually found the utility room he’d seen on the monitor upstairs. The mansion was labyrinthine, under-rooted by a basement level running with narrow corridors. Eventually he found one door that read GARAGE and was not surprised to find the steel-framed door deadbolted. I’d need a fuckin’ howitzer to get through that. But then he found the utility room and almost did a rebel yell.
It was right there staring him in the face. A red-painted valve and a plaque that read MAIN WATER SHUT-OFF. Yeah, this is too fuckin’ easy, he thought again and lit a cigarette. There was even a convenient fire ax in a glass case right by the door. He smashed the glass, removed the ax, and hefted it in his hands. If Bryant doesn’t get Farringworth and the Brit, I will. They’ll have the keys to that exit door, he knew. I’ll cut both their fuckin’ heads off if I have to, but I’ll GET those keys.
The plan was simple and the only one available. In a moment he’d close the valve to the central water main, which would render the sprinkler system useless. Then he’d start to light the place up. Sure, it was risky, and, sure, the chances of escaping were ultra-slim, but after seeing what was going on here? Westmore agreed wholeheartedly with his associate. They couldn’t let this go on. A place like this should never exist, and Westmore would be pleased to help remove it from the face of the earth.
No time like the present, he thought.
He reached for the main water valve, was about to grab it with his hands, but—
Two other hands grabbed him.
Westmore didn’t have time to shout. He was thrown to the other side of the room as if he were a bag of packing curls. Above him, the deformed shadow loomed.
At first, Westmore thought his attacker must be the Devil himself, but if anything it was uglier. It was Billy Meyers: huge, naked, sweat dripping off his misshapen muscles. Jacked up on madness and jacked up even more on Metopronil, his warped eyes beamed. His elephantine penis was gorged as if fit to burst, big as a tube of chalk with veins stout as I.V. line. The extra teeth crammed in the grin looked caked with shit. The neurofibromotosis had turned his head into a turret-like growth with eyes, one blue, one green. He reached down with his elbowless left arm and pawed Westmore’s face, leaving a smear of excrement.
Billy’s intentions were all-too-clear. He was all over Westmore, the gorged cock thumping against the photographer’s chest, testicles heavy as plums. The thing continued to paw Westmore’s face, dry-humping him. But Westmore was pinned to the floor by the other hand, which easily girded his throat; the grip felt like a slowly tightening clamp.
Not like this, not like this, Westmore pleaded, but who was he pleading to? God? The angel? Or his own bad karma? He knew he was going to die, and he didn’t really even care. He just didn’t want to die like this. Sex-fodder for a genuine monster.
Now Westmore couldn’t breathe. His vision dimmed. This was it, this was the end. In a moment he’d be dead…
He heard a thwack! And then a high, whinnying sound that couldn’t possibly be human but was nonetheless. The monster rolled off, shuddering, feeling desperately for something at his back. In his last moments, driven more by reflexive instinct than volition, Westmore had managed to grab the fire ax and sink it into the small of Billy’s back. The pillars of muscle that were his legs thrashed on the floor. Westmore pulled away, but the malformed hand found his collar and yanked.
Clack, clack, clack!
Billy’s double row of teeth snapped, just a half inch away from Westmore’s face, then he yanked him closer. Westmore jammed a thumb into the green eye a split second before he would lose chunks of face.
Another whinnying howl, when the photographer dragged the ax out of Billy’s back and heaved the
(XIV)
This is too easy, Westmore thought. He snuck about the house for over an hour before he actually found the utility room he’d seen on the monitor upstairs. The mansion was labyrinthine, under-rooted by a basement level running with narrow corridors. Eventually he found one door that read GARAGE and was not surprised to find the steel-framed door deadbolted. I’d need a fuckin’ howitzer to get through that. But then he found the utility room and almost did a rebel yell.
It was right there staring him in the face. A red-painted valve and a plaque that read MAIN WATER SHUT-OFF. Yeah, this is too fuckin’ easy, he thought again and lit a cigarette. There was even a convenient fire ax in a glass case right by the door. He smashed the glass, removed the ax, and hefted it in his hands. If Bryant doesn’t get Farringworth and the Brit, I will. They’ll have the keys to that exit door, he knew. I’ll cut both their fuckin’ heads off if I have to, but I’ll GET those keys.
The plan was simple and the only one available. In a moment he’d close the valve to the central water main, which would render the sprinkler system useless. Then he’d start to light the place up. Sure, it was risky, and, sure, the chances of escaping were ultra-slim, but after seeing what was going on here? Westmore agreed wholeheartedly with his associate. They couldn’t let this go on. A place like this should never exist, and Westmore would be pleased to help remove it from the face of the earth.
No time like the present, he thought.
He reached for the main water valve, was about to grab it with his hands, but—
Two other hands grabbed him.
Westmore didn’t have time to shout. He was thrown to the other side of the room as if he were a bag of packing curls. Above him, the deformed shadow loomed.
At first, Westmore thought his attacker must be the Devil himself, but if anything it was uglier. It was Billy Meyers: huge, naked, sweat dripping off his misshapen muscles. Jacked up on madness and jacked up even more on Metopronil, his warped eyes beamed. His elephantine penis was gorged as if fit to burst, big as a tube of chalk with veins stout as I.V. line. The extra teeth crammed in the grin looked caked with shit. The neurofibromotosis had turned his head into a turret-like growth with eyes, one blue, one green. He reached down with his elbowless left arm and pawed Westmore’s face, leaving a smear of excrement.
Billy’s intentions were all-too-clear. He was all over Westmore, the gorged cock thumping against the photographer’s chest, testicles heavy as plums. The thing continued to paw Westmore’s face, dry-humping him. But Westmore was pinned to the floor by the other hand, which easily girded his throat; the grip felt like a slowly tightening clamp.
Not like this, not like this, Westmore pleaded, but who was he pleading to? God? The angel? Or his own bad karma? He knew he was going to die, and he didn’t really even care. He just didn’t want to die like this. Sex-fodder for a genuine monster.
Now Westmore couldn’t breathe. His vision dimmed. This was it, this was the end. In a moment he’d be dead…
He heard a thwack! And then a high, whinnying sound that couldn’t possibly be human but was nonetheless. The monster rolled off, shuddering, feeling desperately for something at his back. In his last moments, driven more by reflexive instinct than volition, Westmore had managed to grab the fire ax and sink it into the small of Billy’s back. The pillars of muscle that were his legs thrashed on the floor. Westmore pulled away, but the malformed hand found his collar and yanked.
Clack, clack, clack!
Billy’s double row of teeth snapped, just a half inch away from Westmore’s face, then he yanked him closer. Westmore jammed a thumb into the green eye a split second before he would lose chunks of face.
Another whinnying howl, when the photographer dragged the ax out of Billy’s back and heaved the
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