Trigger Warning: Extreme Horror: Contains Strong Sexual Content, Violence, Drug Use, and Language. (15 page)

“You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah…I just…got really fucked up last night.”

Sunny laughs. “Remind me to party with you next time.”

When we pull into town, onto Main, the sun is already setting. A drunkard stumbles out of The Hades Bar and in front of the Sunny truck. The driver slams on the brakes and mutters: “Piece of shit.”

I watch the drunkard stagger back onto the sidewalk and feel my eyes and nostrils burning.

When Sunny pulls up to my house, he asks me if I need any help, and as I stagger out of the truck, I tell him to, “Fuck off.”

“Fuck you too, buddy!” Drives off.

I hobble toward the front door. Push the doorbell.

No answer.

I shiver.

Try the knob.

It’s unlocked.

The house is quiet, dark, empty.

I force myself up the stairs, toward the bedroom.

Cindy is already in bed, her back toward me, and I lie down next to her…break down crying.

“I fucked up, honey. I’m so sorry. I love you. I really do. There’s, uh, no excuse for my behavior, I guess. I’m just…really fucked up, you know. I have…a lot of problems. When all you see is shit, and all you hear is shit, and all you know is shit, you tend to live like shit. You become shit. This world beats you, rapes you, and then expects you to be nice. And I try…but I can’t. I’ve done terrible things and I don’t know if I can live…with that knowledge anymore. I…I…I’m so sorry, Cindy.”

Giggling.

Cindy turns to me…and I see her…but it’s not her. Someone (some
THING
) has snipped her face from her skull and is wearing it as a mask.

“You’ve been a bad boy,” the thing says in a high-pitched voice, and giggles.

Fuck fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

And then the (thing), whatever, whoever the fuck is lying next to me in these sheets, yanks the Cindy-mask off his/her/its face and I can’t tell who or what the fuck is under the mask because the face is dripping with blood and all I can do is scream until my throat is raw.

…10 YEARS AGO (1999)

The warehouse was big and empty and I pushed the nigger inside, pointing the pink Glock .40 at him.

“Please, stop! I didn’t do anything!” the nigger cried.

“Did I tell you you could talk, nigger?”

I hit the nigger hard in the face.

Crying. “Please!”

“Shut your fucking watermelon-hole!”

“Please, I have a wife and kids.”

“Yeah. I have a wife too. Plan on having kids someday. Need to protect them from niggers like you.”

“I didn’t do anything, man.”

“You were selling drugs.”

“Please, man. I’m just tryin’ to support my family. Please. I won’t do it again.”

“What are you going to do? Get a real job? Get saved or some shit?”

“I already am saved, man. I swear. I’m a Christian. I just…got mixed up in some bad shit. I love Jesus, I swear. It’s just…it’s tough out here.”

“My dad was a cop. He busted a nigger, just like you, selling crystal. Got shot. My mom…she couldn't handle life without him. So she cut her wrists and arms in the bathtub. I was the one who found her body. Had to move in with my Grampa and Gramma when I was eight. They were fuckin’ pecans. Constantly talking about the end times, about sinners and hell. But my Gramma taught me one important thing: everyone, everything is shit. The world is shit. And if you can’t handle shit, the world will eat you alive.”

“I’m sorry, man, but…I didn’t kill your family.”

“You’re right, but I don’t care. You have the mark of Cain. It’s in your nature to rape and kill. It’s encoded in your genes. You’re a stupid fucking nigger and that’s all you’re ever going to be.” I put the pink Glock to his head. “Say it! I’m a stupid fucking nigger!”

“No, please, man, please.”

“SAY IT!”

Crying. “I’m a stupid fucking nigger.”

“Thanks…Dexter.”

I pulled the trigger.

POW!

Blood exploded from his black head and he hit the floor at my feet and I spat on his corpse.

…LATER

I was at PUSSY CATS and the strippers were stripping (jiggling their titties and shaking their G-strings) and I was in a private booth, drinking whiskey, when two girls walked by (girls I now know as Jennifer and Erica), and I called out to them: “Hey whores!”

They turned to look at me.

“Yeah, you. Who the fuck else would I be talking to?”

I slapped money down on the table. Benjamins.

“Both of you. Give me head. Double team my cock with your tongues.”

Jennifer and Erica looked at each other…took the money, got on their knees, and performed their womanly duties.

“You know what I did today?” I asked them, knowing they wouldn’t respond, because they were too busy licking the crown of my dick. “I killed a nigger. I took E. I had four shots of tequila and now this here bottle of Jack. And now…I’m mouth-fucking you two lovely ladies.”

I smiled, held up the bottle of Jack Daniels.

“If only you could see me now, Gramma. If only you could see me now, you ol’ bitch.”

…NOW

I’m on the floor and the Thing has a wire around my neck, choking me. I scratch at the wire, but cannot pull it away; I only succeed in gathering scraps of neck-flesh beneath my fingernails.

My eyes pound in their sockets and I feel blood gathering heavy in my face and I swear I can hear her, Gramma, whispering in my ear: “Oh, but I can, Robbie. I caaan.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Raptor lives in Fargo, North Dakota, with his wife and two cats. He was born in Kagoshima, Japan, where his parents served as missionaries. Raptor self-published and promoted his first book,
Mystery Man
, while still in high school. He is also the author of
Hell High
,
Revenge of the Cannibals!
,
Pete: A Novel of Extreme Insanity
,
Bloodlust
, and
Sinner
.

For John Raptor updates and news, click the
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@JohnRaptor1029

Research & Special Thanks to:

John Ramsey Miller’s article “
The Smell of Cordite in the Air of Inaccuracy
” at
Kill Zone Blog
.

Kill Zone Blog and its contributors do not endorse this novel (
Trigger Warning
) or its author (John Raptor) in any way.