blade into the monster’s crotch, dividing the balls. Blood poured. Another thwack, and Westmore cut Billy’s cock in half. The blood that blew out of the massive erection looked pressurized.
Westmore jumped up, sucked in a deep breath, and drove the ax a final time into Billy’s rock-formation-like forehead. Speckles of blood blasted back, dotting Westmore’s face.
He leaned back, paralyzed with exhaustion. He looked down at the mess on the floor—the cleaved corpse, the long chunk of severed cock, the pool of blood—and almost passed out. Then he staggered to the water valve and cranked it shut.
He took one last look at Billy’s body, then thought, Fuck this shit, man. I need a drink… But there was no time for that. A can of cleaning solvent sat on a shelf. He grabbed it, grabbed the ax, and walked out of the room. It was time to start burning this motherfucker down.
(XV)
Bryant hid out a while, ducking back into the monitor room. In truth, he knew neither he nor Westmore stood much of a chance against such odds, but that realization actually revitalized him. When you wrote off your own life, you had nothing to lose. At first, he thought it must be his imagination when he thought he smelled smoke. Then he looked at one of the screens, saw that it had been switched to the utility room, and saw the hacked corpse of the neurofibromotosis victim. It wasn’t pretty, but Bryant was amazed. I don’t believe it, he fucking did it, he turned off the water and turned that thing into cold cuts. He could see the arrow on the water main valve turned to the closed position. He peeked out the door and saw the faintest veil of smoke hanging in the air. Westmore was taking care of the house, now Bryant needed to take care of Farringworth, wherever he was. Guess I’ll just half to go on a tear-ass, kill Farringworth, get his keys, and try to find Westmore and get out.
Then he thought: Wait a minute!
There he was right there.
Bryant caught movement on one the screens. The bald monk was copulating viciously with a defected victim, and sitting in the corner of the same room, watching it all, was Farringworth. The billionaire sat naked and perfectly still, gazing intently at the horror on the bed, and propped upright between his legs was an obese woman with no arms or legs. She was slowly fellating Farringworth.
Bryant remembered the room, it was where he’d been originally taken after they’d straitjacketed him, when Michaels had let him know the full score. The room was just down the hall.
But when he opened the door to leave for that room, Michaels faced him from the doorway, a pistol in his face. Bryant edged back into the room.
“ Where is your associate, Mr. Bryant?”
“ I got no idea.”
“ It seems he’s running about lighting fires. It’s a waste of time, though. This house has a multimillion-dollar sprinkler system.”
Don’t count on it, Bryant thought.
“ I do hope you’ve been paying attention,” the Englander said next.
“ To what?”
Michaels pointed to the screen. “To the festivities. The monk broke. His spirit is gone. He’s destroying that poor woman. Look.”
Bryant didn’t look; he’d seen enough. “You really think God’s going to show up?”
“ Who knows,” the response seemed to float in the air.
This was a stalemate. Bryant already knew what he had to do so he didn’t deliberate. He simply did it.
He spun, offering the least target space to Michaels, knowing he’d probably be hit. The movement did indeed cause the Englander to fire, then:
Snap!
Clink!
— The small silenced pistol cycled. Bryant was so charged with adrenalin, he didn’t feel the pain. The bullet caught him in the right arm, but with his left he clotheslined Michaels. The gun flew out of his hand when he hit the ground, and by the time he regained his senses, Bryant had retrieved it. Now he was pointing the gun in Michaels face.
“ Give me a reason,” Bryant said, feeling the
Westmore jumped up, sucked in a deep breath, and drove the ax a final time into Billy’s rock-formation-like forehead. Speckles of blood blasted back, dotting Westmore’s face.
He leaned back, paralyzed with exhaustion. He looked down at the mess on the floor—the cleaved corpse, the long chunk of severed cock, the pool of blood—and almost passed out. Then he staggered to the water valve and cranked it shut.
He took one last look at Billy’s body, then thought, Fuck this shit, man. I need a drink… But there was no time for that. A can of cleaning solvent sat on a shelf. He grabbed it, grabbed the ax, and walked out of the room. It was time to start burning this motherfucker down.
(XV)
Bryant hid out a while, ducking back into the monitor room. In truth, he knew neither he nor Westmore stood much of a chance against such odds, but that realization actually revitalized him. When you wrote off your own life, you had nothing to lose. At first, he thought it must be his imagination when he thought he smelled smoke. Then he looked at one of the screens, saw that it had been switched to the utility room, and saw the hacked corpse of the neurofibromotosis victim. It wasn’t pretty, but Bryant was amazed. I don’t believe it, he fucking did it, he turned off the water and turned that thing into cold cuts. He could see the arrow on the water main valve turned to the closed position. He peeked out the door and saw the faintest veil of smoke hanging in the air. Westmore was taking care of the house, now Bryant needed to take care of Farringworth, wherever he was. Guess I’ll just half to go on a tear-ass, kill Farringworth, get his keys, and try to find Westmore and get out.
Then he thought: Wait a minute!
There he was right there.
Bryant caught movement on one the screens. The bald monk was copulating viciously with a defected victim, and sitting in the corner of the same room, watching it all, was Farringworth. The billionaire sat naked and perfectly still, gazing intently at the horror on the bed, and propped upright between his legs was an obese woman with no arms or legs. She was slowly fellating Farringworth.
Bryant remembered the room, it was where he’d been originally taken after they’d straitjacketed him, when Michaels had let him know the full score. The room was just down the hall.
But when he opened the door to leave for that room, Michaels faced him from the doorway, a pistol in his face. Bryant edged back into the room.
“ Where is your associate, Mr. Bryant?”
“ I got no idea.”
“ It seems he’s running about lighting fires. It’s a waste of time, though. This house has a multimillion-dollar sprinkler system.”
Don’t count on it, Bryant thought.
“ I do hope you’ve been paying attention,” the Englander said next.
“ To what?”
Michaels pointed to the screen. “To the festivities. The monk broke. His spirit is gone. He’s destroying that poor woman. Look.”
Bryant didn’t look; he’d seen enough. “You really think God’s going to show up?”
“ Who knows,” the response seemed to float in the air.
This was a stalemate. Bryant already knew what he had to do so he didn’t deliberate. He simply did it.
He spun, offering the least target space to Michaels, knowing he’d probably be hit. The movement did indeed cause the Englander to fire, then:
Snap!
Clink!
— The small silenced pistol cycled. Bryant was so charged with adrenalin, he didn’t feel the pain. The bullet caught him in the right arm, but with his left he clotheslined Michaels. The gun flew out of his hand when he hit the ground, and by the time he regained his senses, Bryant had retrieved it. Now he was pointing the gun in Michaels face.
“ Give me a reason,” Bryant said, feeling the
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