The Lost Coast: A Larison Short Story

back. Hurt them, yes, fuck them up badly, but he couldn’t leave any bodies. Acne Boy saw the grin and the fear in his face turned to terror. He dropped his pipe and started to spin counterclockwise but Larison was already on him, swinging the pipe in hard like a tennis forehand shot, the sweet spot smashing into the guy’s leading kneecap and turning it into jelly. Acne Boy howled in agony and collapsed. He rolled onto his back, gripping his ruined knee, and sucked in a huge, gasping breath. Before the breath could be converted into another scream, Larison jammed the pipe down into his face. It caught him in the mouth, plowed through all his teeth, and shut him the fuck up completely.

Larison turned back toward Squeaky, who was on his hands and knees, vomiting. Seth watched, transfixed, then started backing away, plainly petrified. “Don’t hurt me,” he said. “I didn’t—”

Larison came in close. “You didn’t what?”

“I didn’t… I didn’t know—”

Larison blasted an uppercut into his stomach. The breath whistled out of the kid’s mouth and he dropped to his knees, gasping.

Larison walked over to Squeaky, who was puking so hard he seemed oblivious to Larison’s approach. He reminded himself again not to kill anyone. He considered the way he’d just disfigured Acne Boy. It hadn’t been wise — cops would overlook a fight, but mayhem like what he had just done was unusual and would get more attention — but it wasn’t like he could take it back now. Anyway, as long as there was no body, an investigation would only go so far, especially for lowlifes like these. Besides, they had no way to track him.

He stood over Squeaky’s back, avoiding the vomit, waiting for the retching to subside. He thought in for a penny and launched a palm heel into the back of the guy’s skull. It was a knockout blow and Squeaky duly collapsed face-first into the gravel, his brain having just been jostled unforgivably hard within its small cushion of cerebrospinal fluid. Larison took hold of the back of the guy’s hoodie, dragged him face forward over to the strip of concrete a row of cars was backed up against, and placed his open mouth on the edge of it. He stood and stomped the back of Squeaky’s head, a short, controlled shot just hard enough to cause an explosion of teeth and gum matter. Then he jellified one of Squeaky’s knees with the pipe, just as he’d done to the other guy.

Larison walked back to Seth. The kid was still on his knees, trying to recover his breath. Larison looked around. No one was coming. The single scream one of them had gotten off hadn’t been enough to get past the walls and the music playing in the bars within.

“How many?” Larison said, wiping the pipe down on his jacket sleeve.

Seth’s breath heaved in and out. “How many… what do you mean?”

“How many times have you done this? You and your buddies.”

“Never! I mean, I didn’t want to. They made me.”

Larison held the end of the pipe from inside his jacket pocket, wiped a last spot, and let it drop to the gravel. It landed with a heavy thud.

“How many times have you done this? Tell me the truth and I won’t hurt you anymore.”

Seth looked desperate. “Three times,” he said. “But they made me. They made me. I didn’t want to. I’m sorry.”

No. Larison had seen that look in his eyes when Larison had asked him about sharing a joint. No one had forced him to do a fucking thing.

“Which car is yours?” Larison said.

“What… what do you…”

Larison unclipped the Commander and thumbed it open. The weak light glinted along the edge of the black blade. “Which. Fucking. Car. Is yours.”

Seth’s eyes bulged. “The Corolla,” he said, pointing to a dirty white four-door at the end of the lot. “The Corolla.”

Larison took a handful of the kid’s hair and put the knife at his throat. “Get up.”

“Please, don’t—”

“Shut the fuck up and walk with me to your car. We’re going to take a drive.”

Either the kid was too stupid not to know you never let someone take you to a secondary crime scene, or he was too scared to resist. Larison followed him through the passenger door. He made him put on his seatbelt, creating one more obstacle in case the kid came to his senses and tried to bolt, and told him to drive out to the edge of the redwood forest.

“Please,” the kid sobbed as they drove. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for what I did. I shouldn’t have.”

Larison, his hand still gripping the kid’s hair and the knife still at the kid’s throat, didn’t answer. In his mind, he thought, Not sorry enough.

They parked on a dead-end in the shadows of the giant trees, the interior of the car glowing sepia from the glare of a distant streetlight. Larison, maintaining his grip, watched the street for a few minutes. When he was confident no one had seen them, no one was around, and no one cared, he said, “Unbuckle my seatbelt. Then yours.”

“Please,” Seth said. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Seth or whatever the fuck your name really is. It makes me angry.”

Seth undid the seatbelts.

Larison said, “Are you gay, Seth?”

“No!”

“Then why do you like to beat up gays?”

“I don’t like to!”

“So many lies, Seth. So much denial. I used to be the same. Although I never stomped anyone over it. Still, it’s always been a secret for me. A deep, dark secret I would never tell a soul. I’m only telling you because you’re a stranger and we’ll never see each other again. Isn’t that odd? I guess we have to tell someone.”

“I’m not gay.”

The dark, the privacy, the kid’s protests… the post combat aftermath. It was all turning Larison on. A lot.

“I’m going to help you through all that denial now, Seth. And here’s how. You’re going to kiss me.”

“No!”

Larison tightened his grip in the kid’s hair and pressed the knife a fraction harder against his throat. The kid whimpered.

“Lean forward, Seth, and open your mouth.”

The kid was shaking, but he complied. Larison, so turned on his heart was pounding, pressed his mouth over the kid’s, keeping the kid’s head in place with the grip he had in his hair. He pushed his tongue into the kid’s mouth and the kid moaned, in pleasure or disgust or both Larison didn’t know and didn’t care.

Larison broke the kiss and said, “Now stick out your tongue, Seth.” The kid did. Larison sucked on it. The kid tasted of alcohol and fear. The taste made Larison darkly crazy with lust.

Larison broke the kiss again. The kid was panting now. Larison could feel himself throbbing in time to it.

“Now, Seth,” Larison said, their eyes locked from inches apart. “Reach out and undo my pants.”

The kid, panting, said, “Please.”

Larison pressed the knife in and the kid cried out. “All right!” he said. “All right, I’m doing it…”

And he did. In the darkness, the sound of Larison’s zipper was huge.

“Now reach inside, Seth. Reach inside my pants and get my cock out.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Seth said. “Oh, God.” But he did it. Larison could feel the kid’s hand shaking as he gripped Larison’s cock.

“Now lean forward, Seth. That’s right, lean forward. You’re going to suck my cock, Seth or whatever the fuck your name really is. And you better leave me happy. Because if you don’t, I’m going to leave your body in this car. You understand?”

The kid nodded, eager now, maybe because he thought he saw a way out, maybe because he couldn’t help himself.

“You’re going to swallow everything I give you. Every fucking drop. You better make me happy, kid.” It wasn’t just the pleasure Larison was after. He also didn’t want to leave DNA anywhere it could easily be collected.

The kid nodded again and leaned in, Larison’s hand still gripping his hair, the knife still at his throat.