sometimes he could get a little carried away. One time he’d picked up this little truckstop whore at the Bonfire. He slapped her around a bit first, and then he gagged her when she started to get too noisy, stuffed a big wad of toilet paper in her yap, then tied one of her stockings through her teeth.
Then he got to really punching her up.
He beat her face down to pulp—it looked like a busted open blueberry pie by the time he was through—then he got to giving her a good reaming. Only problem was she all of a sudden got real loose back there, and when Blackjack flipped her over to see what was wrong, he saw that the busting up he gave that pretty face of hers must’ve been a bit much ’cos she was stone-cold dead. Oh, well. In fact, he’d wound up killing several gals in the past—all accidents, kind of. And his part-time partner, Jake Rhodes? Now there was a dude who really went for the busting up, killed plenty of gals, and on purpose, too.
Funny, though, now that Blackjack thought about it, he hadn’t seen old Jake for damn near a month.
Probably out roustin’ more junkies, he figured. Lookin’ for a kick.
That’s all Blackjack wanted: a good kick. And this Creeker gal, all fucked-up like she was, that would make the kick extra special…
Blackjack was fully boned when the bighead kid’s truck pulled up an unpaved incline and stopped. Up ahead, against the woods, Blackjack saw the house, a big whitewashed old place with a long wood porch and sagging roof. The wash took on a kind of gray glow in the moonlight.
Okay, Bighead, what’s the scoop? Blackjack thought when he got out of his own truck.
The kid seemed to be staring up at the house.
“Hey, man? What now?”
“Oh, just go on up, walk right in,” the kid said.
“Where’s the girl?”
“She up there. She’ll be waitin’ fer ya in the front room.”
Blackjack’s rattlesnake boots crackled up the drive. The house looked weird—actually it looked ethereal, but Blackjack himself wasn’t the type to conceive of such a notion—the ghostly white wood glowing, fireflies blinking swarms of tiny lights. Oil lamps seemed to glow in the narrow windows, the haloed moon radiating high up in the crystalline sky.
There she is, he thought when he stepped into the foyer. The four-titter. My oh my, am I gonna put a busting on this bitch but good.
To his right, a long hallway extended into darkness. He heard a distant thumping sound, then what seemed to be a muffled grunt. A tall grandfather clock ticked hypnotically at the rear of the foyer. Tick-tick-tick. Tick-tick- tick.
Oil paintings hung on the walls, but their faces were so dusty and old they looked smeared.
To his left a flight of banistered stairs rose, and halfway up stood the Creeker girl. A plain, very sheer nightgown made her hourglass body appear shrouded in mist. In her seven-fingered hand she held a brass oil lamp.
She didn’t speak—of course not. She probably couldn’t, not with that tiny, dowel-hole mouth of hers. Instead she gestured him to follow with her other hand, which sported eight fingers.
Blackjack took the stairs up, his groin thumping with his heart. He was getting antsy to put a good busting on her, and a good tweaking to those four little tits. On the second-floor landing, another more narrow flight of stairs led upward into pitch dark, from which heat seemed to eddie down.
“What’s up there?” he asked.
The girl, naturally, didn’t answer. She took him down the second-floor hall and turned into the first room.
A big old four-poster bed sat right in the middle. The walls, dark with moldy wallpaper, displayed more blotchy paintings. The girl set the lamp down on an ancient nightstand as Blackjack closed the door.
click
“You’re right pretty for a Creeker,” he said and promptly ripped the nightgown off her body. She trembled only vaguely. The lamp cast indistinct shadows on her paperwhite skin. Blackjack stood back to look at her, and smiled. Yeah, she was a cute little thing, and damn near perfect except for that tiny mouth, them fucked-up hands, and the four tits. But to Blackjack, those traits only increased the kick—they made for a better meal to feast on. Her ink- black hair shined, and those fishblood-red eyes of hers—they just looked at him.
Blackjack cracked her hard across the face with his open palm; he wore fingerless leather mitts that gave an extra snap! to the blow. The girl reeled back, her eyes rolling like little red marbles, and fell on the bed.
“What’sa matter, honey? Bighead outside said it was okay to put a bustin’ on ya,” he guttered. “And damned if I ain’t, what with the green I put in his fucked-up paw.” Blackjack’s eyes focused to pinpoints; his gaze painted her flesh. “Yeah, your bighead pimp, he told me I could do anything I wanted, ’cept cut ya or kill ya. Well, that leaves a lot in between, don’t it?”
He jumped on her.
He plied her breasts. He squeezed them like little bags. Each small breast had another breast underneath, like one pancake lain over another. The nipples were large and dark—pulpy. He bit into the top two, and the girl made a neat squealing sound. Then he lifted the top breasts and bit the more tender nipples on the two beneath. The girl bucked under his weight.
Blackjack liked that. It gave his loins the spark he sought. Her bare, pretty legs splayed beneath him; her flesh was suddenly chaos. It was soft, tender. It was wonderful. Her bristly plot shined like slivers of onyx.
Then those big mitted, boat-hook-sized hands of his girded the girl’s slender throat and began to squeeze. He watched her very intently. Each time he squeezed, her little red eyes bugged. Then he let go, and she gasped through her tiny mouth. He did this for quite awhile, pawing her double breasts each time she blinked away. Squeezing a sponge in a pail of water, then releasing it to let the water soak back in—the sponge was her brain.
He stood up. She lolled on the bed, her face looking like a limp freak-mask. Maybe I’ll bust that little mouth of yours, he made the serious contemplation. But then he thought better of it; he remembered what the bighead kid outside had said. If he busted her up too bad, Natter would be pissed, and Blackjack sure as shit didn’t want that.
“How they feed ya, hon, through that teensy Creeker mouth? What, Bighead outside, he let ya suck pigslop up through a straw? Bet he does. And I bet he puts a good fucking on ya, too, anytime he wants. Bighead out there, he gotta big dick?” Blackjack laughed. “Shee-it, I’ll’se bet he got two, just like you got four tits.”
So he slapped her in the face again.
Whap!
Then he rolled his big hand into a fist and punched her in the face.
Whap, whap, whap!
She moaned as best she could, her eyes fluttering.
“Like that, sweetheart? Bet’cha do. All women do, just they never tell ya. I know the only way ta get any of ya hot is ta beat the shit out’cha.”
He punched her a few more times, enlivened by the sound. The girl was barely conscious, so he bit into her nipples again, one at a time, until it put some jump back in her. Couple of times, he bit into them big meaty nipples like ta bite ’em clean off. Give her somethin’ to remember old Blackjack by. Yeah, that would be a trick, wouldn’t it? Just bite off all four of her nips and eat ’em like big, sweet gumdrops…
Then he flipped her over.
And dropped his jeans.
“Now, hon, I’m gonna choke you out full, and when ya wake up, I’ll be giving you an assin’ like you never dreamed. And don’t tell me ya don’t want it, ’cos I know ya do. All you floozy bitches do. Ya act like yer all highfalutin’ and snotty, but watch’cha all really want is a good ass-fuckin’ after ya been choked out by the Blackjack.”
Gonna be kinda like corin’a apple, he thought. Then a different thought ganged up on him.
Just like my daddy cored me…
She lay docile on her belly. Blackjack straddled her, and slapped his big hands about her throat. Then he squeezed down.
She bucked at first, then kind of shook.
