Lustmord 1 Read online

  The boy was squatting in the corner of the landing and wiping his bloody nose with the back of his sleeve. There was no stifling the tears by now.

  He heard the door to their apartment open again. Looked up to see Juicer Joe leaning against the door jamb and pointing a shaky finger at him.

  “What was you doin’? Playin’ with matches, boy? How many times I gotta tell you not to play with fire? Wasn’t enough you burned our home down—forced us to have to move to a place like this what we can’t even afford.”

  “I wasn’t playing with matches.”

  “Like hell you wasn’t. What you sittin’ there for like an asshole? Get that old twat in here before she goes out and kills herself!” his stepfather yelled at him, barely able to hold onto the jamb, vomit and blood dribbling down his chin. He had one of his barking large mutts with him on a leather belt, the belt buckle end of which he had a difficult time holding on to.

  “You heard what I said, Pissy? Go get your mother! What are you waiting for?”

  “What can I do? She never listens to me. . . .”

  The father swiped at his chin with his hand, staggered back inside, to reappear a short while later with a beer bottle. Noticed that a good swallow of brew remained. He drained it, and the bottle was hurled at the cowering boy, caught him across the lower back and knocked him off his feet.

  The kid was doubled up on the floor, wincing in pain.

  “You heard what I said, Pissy? Quit your fakin’ and bring that confused tramp in here before she throws herself under a bus. Wouldn’t break my heart none if she did. Trouble is ain’t got no insurance on the bitch. Can’t never scrape enough together to take out a policy on the wretched heifer! Understand what I’m sayin’, boy?”

  Cecil looked up. Could not move from the pain and remained lying on the littered floor of the landing. “And don’t you dare so much as think about runnin’ off to that molester’s place, neither, boy! I catch you again at Turdbull’s I’ll not only waste his sorry ass, but I will slaughter that pet hog of his and be happy to do it! I will! You can count on it, boy! Chop him up into pork chops to sell to the Mex butcher down the street! Ya hear? Ya hear what I’m sayin’, Pissy? I catch you at that pedophile’s again, you little motherfucker, you won’t hardly like what I do!”

  The boy, bothered to his very being, by the ugly and untrue things that were being said about the only kind friend he’d had in the world, didn’t dare respond; didn’t dare utter a word. But then it happened. Couldn’t stop himself. “I would if I could . . . only he’s dead. And you killed him.”

  “What was that?”

  “You killed him, and set his house on fire.”

  “You’re a damned liar, Pissy!”

  “Killed his pet pig. Fed pork chops to your friends. Even made me eat a pork chop before I knew it was Parfrey, then laughed afterwords when you let me know. You admitted as much it was Mr. Turnbull’s pet Parfrey. Only you don’t recall on account you was drunk at the time. You can ask around; ask your redneck friends you get drunk with; ask ma. Go ahead.”

  “Best shut your lyin’ trap, boy. Ain’t nothin’ but a worthless bag of pig waste! Hear what I’m sayin’? Before I give ya another dent in that lop-sided skull of yours to match the one you already own! How’s that, boy? Want a second dent? Cave your temple in to go with what you got when you was still inside your mamma’s belly?”

  “He was an old man and he was my friend; him and Parfrey was my only friends. You stole his money and beat an old man who could hardly walk, J.J. You did! And you burned him down so no one would know it was you done it; you and them redneck billies you drink with. It was you!”

  “Now I know for sure you burned our home down! Was merely guessin’ at it before! Testin’ you out. Ain’t guessin’ no more! Am I? To get back at me! You scurvy little prick! I’ll cripple you and that homely tramp now for sure! Guarantee it! Got my word, Pissy! Free myself! Cripple you both! Be worth goin’ to jail over! Sure would! Give myself the best gift of all: Freedom! Good for nothin; the both of you!”

  The door directly across the way from their unit opened, and the same tired, wasted street whore who lived there stuck her head out.

  “The fuck you want, skank?”

  The woman’s eyes were about half open, not that it mattered, because the appallingly bad bleach job that was her hair hung over them. She had on a black bra that was several sizes smaller than it should have been and revealed a far greater amount of the flab that made up the enormous bosom than was flattering. The large, moth-eaten black underpants she wore managed to detract even further from the overall bloated and disagreeable appearance. This was a big woman who easily weighed in excess of two hundred pounds.

  “Can you spare a drink, J.J?”

  “Get your nasty, hog bitch ass back in that smelly sty you crawled out of. This is family business.”

  “Besame culo, pendejo.” She flipped him the middle finger.

  “Who you calling ‘pendejo,’ you tub of shit?”

  John Joseph yelled at the dog to go after her. The woman withdrew quickly enough back into her place, slamming the door shut in time.

  J.J.’s attention was back on the boy. Yanked on the makeshift leash, pulling the dog back, who would not stop barking and tugging on the belt. This was one manic animal. Out for blood. Anyone’s blood.

  “Get up, you little turd! I end up goin’ to jail I’ll know it was you ratted me out! Suspected you’d be no good; felt for sure you’d turn out like this before you was even born! While still inside that dirty street whore’s belly! Sure did! In the womb. Was right, too, wasn’t I? Are you gettin’ up? Best get up. I’ll turn this beast on you, so help me!”

  The canine tugged too hard, causing the drunk to trip on his feet and stagger against the door jamb, driving his face into it, exacerbating the bleeding nose. He cursed. Wiped the blood with the back of his hand. The man gave the dog a few whacks on the head with the buckle end of the belt, then pointed at the youngster.

  “Get him, Mojo! Get the little snivel snot down there! Get him!”

  The dog charged, pulling the drunk to the stairs. Caused him to miss a step, and down he went, falling on his backside and tumbling down the rest of the way to the landing, cursing both: child and dog.

  The boy managed to scramble out of the way in time, crying for help, pleading.

  “Daddy, don’t! Please, Daddy! Please, Daddy, no! I’ll get her! Daddy! Daddy!” Clearly wetting his pants by now.

  John Joseph rose to his knees, hissing, in a rage. “Who you callin’ ‘Daddy,’ Pissy? After what you just said to me? After you done disrespected me with your lies? Daddy? After them foul insults you dared insult me with? If I told you once I musta told you a hunnerd times: I ain’t your Daddy, boy! Just ’cause I married that whore mama of yourn that don’t make me your Daddy! I ain’t nobody’s Daddy! Whore needed management, is all; somebody with know-how to guide her along, show her what’s what, find her tricks, dicks to suck—and I happened to be available at the time. About it! Nothing more to it! So don’t you dare insult my intelligence by implying I was the one impregnated that dumb bitch! You hear? Hear me, you worthless motherfucker!”

  He probed for something to pick up out of the pile of litter to throw at the kid. Settled for a nondescript bottle. Flung it. Found an empty whiskey fifth. Threw that down the flight of stairs at the fleeing boy. Missed. The bottle hit the wall. John Joseph could be heard shouting over the breaking glass.

  “Don’t you never, never, ever call me ‘Daddy,’ boy! I didn’t ask to be your Daddy! Only married the nasty heifer on account I musta been outta my mind at the time!”

  He felt like chasing after the kid. Was in no condition. Only the dog didn’t get that. Kept tugging, and forced the man down to his knees once more.

  John Joseph rose, kicked the animal, then began whacking away at it with the belt buckle, drawing blood. Yanked hard on the makeshift leash, and made it back up the stairs to the apartment door. Went in. Slamm
ed it shut.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cecil Biggs held onto the handrail as he descended the stairs with measured steps and could clearly make out all the commotion his mother was the cause of in front of the tenement: traffic jams and near-wrecks, and the slobbering dog catcher who had married his mother before he was born and given him his name had yelled at him to bring her back; cursed him, thrown the shoes at him, to go out there and fetch her; thrown those bottles at him, threatened to turn one of his dogs loose on him if he didn’t.

  Only how was he supposed to do it? How was he supposed to get her to stop carrying on and come back inside? This was never easy, never even made sense. The only way anyone was ever able to control her when she got this bad was to surprise her from behind and force her into a straitjacket. And since he did not have a straitjacket, nor was old enough or strong enough to get her into one (even if he’d had one in his hands), what was the purpose? Why bother with it?

  But he did as told, tears streaming down his dirty face, tears brought on by fear of what she might do to herself this time, tears brought on by fear of what John Joseph would do to him later if he failed.

  His back hurt. Made walking a task.

  He proceeded down the last flight of stairs to the lobby. What’s the use? It won’t work. Never did. He was stuck. Nowhere else to go. No one to turn to. If he ran away, where would he go? End up where? Rollers would catch him and bring him back and make it worse for him, like before. The straitjacket seemed to be the only answer, not that he wished the assholes in their white coats would appear and do that to his mother again as they had in the past. Ma had never liked being taken away this way, not that anyone could blame her. She always screamed and kicked and did her best to resist and fight back. And if it was painful for the boy’s mother, it was painful for the boy as well to see it happen.

  He paused there, leaning against the mailboxes covered in graffiti, the pain in his head and back forcing him to take a breather. He didn’t have to bother with what they’d written about him and his family, he knew it from memory. You see something enough times it sticks with you. He wished he could have blocked it out, only there it all was:

  WHAT’S FRUITY ALL OVER & got NUTS In-side? J J Biggs with A MOUTHFUL OF TESTICCLES pissy-the-sissy drips urine in his PANTIES J.J. pimps his WIFE COCO GARCIA IS A HORE & Got Penis Breath PISSY IS A PUSSY CHARLETT BIGG IS A DIRTY STANKY HOAR J.J. IS HER PIMP JOHN JOSEF BIGG is a Di-generate wife beat(HER) BLOw JOBS R US/see CHARLOTTe BuGGS, plus JJ BIGS IS A turd & Dirty Dog Napper - QUEER 4 SURE

  There was something about Cecil’s misshapen head; there always would be. Kids never stopped teasing him about it. Their favorite label for him, other than “Pissy” was “Football Head.”

  Sissy the Pissy FeLL OUT of bed and PUT a DENT in his HEAD / I’d rather be DEAD than be like “FOOTBALL HEAD”!!

  Never mind that it had nothing to do with any kind of accidental fall from a bed that caused it, but J.J. battering his pregnant mother before she gave birth to him, and then picked up where he’d left off once he’d been born to spite her for not having listened to him and aborted him. The oval-shaped indentation above the right brow, very near, but not quite as high as the hairline was the result of those assaults.

  There was more graffiti. The words ran together after a while, blurred. The way he preferred it. Had trained himself over time for it to happen this way.

  He wiped his eyes, but the pain would not let up. He winced, gritted his teeth. Looked up. Moved to the center of the lobby. Continued looking up between the banisters to see John Joseph glaring down at him from above with a gun held loosely in his hand and clumsily being aimed down at him.

  “Should bury you both . . . is what I should do.”

  The boy heard him retch, and stepped back in time to avoid being rained on by the bile.

  He made it across to the entrance. “What am I supposed to do? He’ll shoot me if I don’t do what he says.” He might. He’s threatened to lots of times before, pointed a gun in his face and pulled the trigger . . . only the gun never had bullets in it.

  This time could be different. Could be he means it this time.

  How do I talk her into coming back inside? How do I bring her back to the apartment before the men in the white coats show up? She wouldn’t pay any attention to me.

  His mother always liked to laugh hysterically when she got like this; was either laughing or cursing out everybody, sometimes both: laughing and cursing at the same time, and it embarrassed him, always.

  He knew his pants were wet and that was something else he couldn’t do anything about.

  CHAPTER 4

  The boy walked outside, stepping into the blinding East LA sun, and could see his mother a short distance away, on his right, standing on the sidewalk of this busy street, bending over for everyone to see whatever it was they wanted to see: she seemed to be saying that all those people in passing cars could kiss her big naked butt as far as she was concerned—and then she rose and shook her large breasts at them, thrust her chest out that way and shook it all very well for them, and Cecil’s face remained flushed as he shook his head, wanting to talk to her, wishing to communicate with his mother, wishing to tell her to stop, to please stop and come back inside.

  On the verge of tears all over again, he stood and watched and found it unbearable.

  “Ma. Please, Ma. Ma . . .”

  Charlotte Yvonne Biggs paused long enough in place to look down as a heavy stream of urine poured out of her. Once finished, the expression on her face was clearly one of great satisfaction and she resumed with the shouting and laughing, cursing and weaving, and she was off the sidewalk now and running down the middle of the busy thoroughfare causing more near-wrecks and congestion.

  “MA!”

  The woman was in a world of her own. People in cars did their best to avoid slamming into her without slamming into other cars or utility poles and streetlights.

  Ma, don’t, he felt like yelling out again. When he opened his mouth to call out to her, warn her that she could get run over, traffic noise drowned him out: bus and truck horns and even a jackhammer going strong not far from there with plenty of dust everywhere and it made it difficult to see what was going on at the end of the block with the DWP street crew where his mother was headed. A yellow panel truck appeared from the left, made every effort to go around her, to swerve and prevent the inevitable. There was no way this time.

  The boy screamed with all that he had in him, yelled to his mother to look out for the truck, to get out of the way, not to do what she was about to. And he knew that it would not do any good, that this would be it, the one time finally that she would succeed.

  It had been her wish for so long. He’d witnessed her suicide attempts before (only somehow each and every time she had failed; come close—but failed.) This time she would do it for sure.

  The panel truck slammed into her, hard, and his mother’s body went flying into the air like a human rag doll, and as she dropped back down was struck by a black sedan coming from the opposite direction, was propelled back up, and finally came down, bounced and rolled on the ground near the street crew, knocking some signs and barricades over and was swallowed up by dust and the incredible noise created by the jackhammer.

  This is what she had wanted. A way out. To die.

  CHAPTER 5

  In his recurring nightmares thirty some years later, everything was not always crystal clear as the jackhammer operator had remained obscured by a good deal of dust and diesel exhaust, but Cecil Omar Biggs remembered the intermittent glimpses of the jackhammer operator’s goggles, the hard hat, the sleeveless khaki shirt, the mud-caked Levi’s and construction boots, and his mother’s blood spattering, covering the workman as the bit continued to bore into her and tear apart her skull and chest. And in these flashbacks, Cecil Omar Biggs saw himself as a young boy standing there and screaming his lungs out, trying to stop it, screaming so hard that his guts ached, his own skull throbbing to such a point tha
t he felt it would surely explode, screaming and shedding rock-hard teardrops and running toward the slaughter that did no good at all, as the bit continued its dirty work down across his mother’s upper body, tearing it open and drawing that bloody mess out, that whole sickening, tangled mess.

  Not that he understood it or even had a clue why it was happening, but he could’ve sworn he saw the man curse/shout over the din, words like: “Bust up my marriage, will you? Ruin my life, will you?”

  Cecil had no real idea what it meant, what the jackhammer operator was exactly in a rage about, all he wanted was for him to stop doing what he was doing to his mama, just stop it, not that Cecil’s tears and wailing phased the ditch digger any; on the contrary, he appeared to be getting his kicks: determined as well as demented, his jaw and face, and then rest of his head seemed to undergo a type of surreal/fluid-like transformation to that of an eyeless/skinless human skull from which blood poured from both eye sockets, nose cavity and jaw, while he continued to drill with maniacal fervor.

  “DON’T DO IT! PLEASE DON’T! YOU’RE HURTING MY MOM!”

  “Your mother?” the psycho with the death skull said through clenched teeth and a mouth without lips, while looking up momentarily. “This whore? She’s a whore. GET IT? WHORE.” He was back focusing on the very mayhem he was the cause of. “Why’d you have to tell my wife? Why?” The ditch digger resumed boring through the body at his feet, all the while his fly swelling and his rigid groin bursting forth, literally tearing through the zipper. The thing had a head on it the size of a doorknob from which blood spurted, then flowed as if from a garden hose, rained down on the spattered, mutilated body of Cecil’s mother, finishing her off. It was then the crimson that flowed from the man’s penis turned to sparks, fire; fire shot from his member and engulfed what used to be Charlotte Yvonne Biggs.