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BONE
Bodies writhed with reckless abandon.
Sour, tangy sweat drenched glistening bodies about the room, which was filled with acrid Gunga smoke and rough, lusty shouts and whimpers.
The smell of Ultimate Vice and Ultimate Abandonment of Redemption permeated every inch of the room like maggots within a festering, rotting carcass.
It was a Sexy Party. An Orgy.
William, called Bill by most of his associates, and Wilhelmina, referred to as Wilma by the majority of her associates, stood on opposite sides of the wide doorway which faced the room at an odd right angle, taking it all in like hounds that had finally come upon an aroma tracked tirelessly across a million endless, empty miles.
Bill was quite still where he stood,his large brown eyes darting
every few seconds across the mass of copulating people who populated the room . He wore a terrycloth bathrobe of deep, velvet maroon. His bald black head reflected rays of dim sunlight that poured in through the single window that looked down into the room. As he watched, his face crawling with an almost primitive form of revulsion, his right hand inched its way toward the belt of his robe. There was a large black .45 jutting from the tight, belted line of his waist.
Wilma, tall, dark, slender, and as brilliant as a dying star in its final beautiful display of power, leaned against the doorpost with her right arm trailing the impressive curve of her right thigh. She wore a skintight leather bodysuit that sparkled with pins, rings, and hoops.
“Another failed attempt, huh Baby?” she said, smiling a bit.
“Another failed attempt, Wilma, you got that right,” Bill said.
His voice was deep,heavy like an ancient, rusting anchor which had seen far too many drops upon the ocean’s craggy, abusive bottom. His voice was calm enough, despite this, but his gaze, a blazing suede lance about the room, was filled with rage, absolute, and unrelenting.
“Ok,” Bill said, his legs splaying in a flash as his right hand drew the .45 from his belt. The tie of the robe was unfurled with the force of the draw, and Bill’s robe fell open, revealing a very scrawny, hairless chest and legs that seemed to quiver with malnutrition. “Let’s clean up this appalling goddamn mess, shall we, Wilma?”
“Well,” Wilma said through suddenly clenched, incredibly white teeth, her formally wandering right hand slipping behind her back and into her own belt, which matched her black leather bodysuit, “I rather enjoyed the first few minutes of this Debacle, but now, well, now it’s just become boring and repetitive.”
She smiled at Bill from the side of her mouth, not really
expecting to receive anything in return, as was always the case.
This time, she more felt it than saw it.
Bill smiled back at her.
“Sex in general, you mean?” Bill asked, and the room exploded with the sound of slow, powerful gunfire.
Blood jetted in determined force onto the room’s walls.
Sweat, now more sour, (for it had been strengthened with Fear, had it not?) flew in a fine mist into the atmosphere of the room like dandelion spores. This gave the room an odd, wispy look.
Bodies rocketed here and there, propelled by the inanimate rage and power of a thirty-five year old .45 caliber handgun. Men and women were pinned to walls, floors, and beds by arrows that whispered across the length of the room, courtesy of a rather elaborate crossbow that Wilma was now firing and setting again and again with effortless grace and style.
It had taken the participants of the sex party precious seconds to comprehend what was going on, but now it was far too late for any realization of any real meaning. As bullets drove bloody channels though skulls and pounded holes the size of fists through chests, Wilma began to grin Quite suddenly, full on laughter exploded from her full, pink lips.
All at once, the almost preternatural beauty she’d held moments before fell away like a cheap disguise. In her laughter and glee, her lips became tight and deeply lined, pulling back from her too white teeth in a grimace of inhumanity. Her curved, sexy thighs became thick trunks that set her into the floor like some ancient death machine. Her hair was a black veil that whipped in an arc through the air. Her arms and eyes flew here and there, mowing down twenty adults in sixty seconds.
Bill simply fired his weapon over and over again. Only his eyes
betrayed his state of mind.
A minute after the fire had begun, silence fell upon the room.
The smell of Death was thick and foul in the air.
“All right?” Wilma said to Bill as she lowered her weapon, looking out upon the Death Room and her former targets. The laughter that had moments ago flowed from her mouth in an insane stream was gone, but the grin remained.
“Peachy Keen,” said Bill, holstering his gun in the waist of his underwear. The barrel still smoked as he did this, and when it touched his skin, the contact produced a sizzling sound like bacon fat in a hot skillet.
Bill didn’t move an inch. He didn’t even wince. He didn’t seem to notice being burned at all.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here and start over again,” he said. “Mebbe we’ll get lucky this time.”
He turned and walked from the doorway and out of sight.
“Maybe we will,” Wilma said, still grinning. “I’m getting quite tired of putting these little sex parties together, and not seeing a damned positive result out of all the hard work at the end.”
She turned and walked from the doorway with not another word. The crossbow hung from her belt, and it bumped and bounced on her rather impressive backside as she walked away.
From amid the blanket of smoke and death that permeated the room, something stirred.
It was a young white woman.
Her dark, long hair was frazzled and stood on end. There were beads of blood and bits of bone and flesh in her hair and on her face and naked body. She breathed like a horse that’d been run and whipped to the absolute edge of physical breakdown.
Tilda Harris had been invited to a Sex Party by a couple of maniacs with a mad mad-on against sex and fun, apparently. Her mind was a hurricane of panic, confusion, and terror. Hadn’t the woman who had tried to kill her (and who had in fact managed quite well in killing her partner and everyone else around her, for that matter) named Wilhelmina been her friend and co-worker for the past year? Hadn’t the two of them shared stories, laughs, and tears over the last year? Had the two of them not been damned near best friends?
‘Time for thought and rationality, later,’ her mind screamed at her. ‘For now, Escape is the Grand Thought.’
Tilda hopped up from the hard, carpeted floor and darted across the room, vaulting over tangled bodies, running through scatterings of bone and clothing, fleeing around Death as He surveyed His prey.
The fleeing, naked woman exited the room, her thin arms beating at the air as she ran.
There was a sudden Whisper upon the air, and Tilda Harris was thrown backward as an arrow drove itself through her throat and out the back of her neck> Tilda was thrown back into the final place of pleasure for twenty people, who had seen only happiness and good vibes in their immediate futures.
Tilda fell backward onto the floor with a meaty crash, fracturing her skull, groping at the arrow that had hit her, gagging on her own blood and terror. As she choked and groped on the floor, a voice seemed to bloom in the center of her brain like a firecracker. “You failed us, Tilda. You failed us, like all the others did, and now, you simply have to die. Don’t take it personally,“ the voice said. “We were friends after all. Cling to that.“
Another arrow plowed through her sweaty forehead, stilling her hands and body, forevermore.
“Thought I heard a rustle,” Wilma said from the
doorway.
And she followed Bill, even as he seethed with rage (and she thought of the best, most articulate way to invite her friend Trudy Wilson to a coke and acid party that she and Bill had been planning for some months) to whatever immediate destination Fate would lead them to next. |
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