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There Aint No Justice 011
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*-* TTTTTTTTTT AAAAAA NNNN N J *-*
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*-* T A A N NNNN JJJJJ *-*
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*-* There Ain't No Justice *-*
*-* #11 *-*
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*-* Phoenix Modernz Inc. 908/830-8265 *-*
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-Blood Lust 02: The Consumation-
by Anonymous Bosch
I awoke to the smell of blood. I'd grown pretty used to that recently, but
this time there was something different. Somehow, it no longer elated me.
In fact, I was becoming decidedly nauseus. Opening my eyes, I looked down
at the mutilated remains of what was once a beautiful young woman. My
stomach, which contained only more blood, splashed her corpse with more
red. I leapt from the bed, and into the bathroom, where I finished voiding
my stomach while trying to come to terms with what had been happening to
me.
I crawled out into the living room, but there was no help to be found
there. Another woman lay scattered in pieces around the room. Someone
(could it possibly have been myself?!) had cut her like a fish, draping her
intestines around the room like a model train set. My stomach had nothing
left to give, so I merely paused for a moment before entering the kitchen.
The kitchen was "safe". No blood, no bodies, and a refrigerator that
contained, wonder of wonders, Mountain Dew! A purse on the counter
contained cigarettes, one of which I lit and drew a deep toke from. First
order of business, I thought, was find out where I am. Searching the purse
revealed the mother's drivers license, telling me I was in San Bernadino.
Switching on the TV, I was greeted by Katie Couric's face & voice,
describing the declaration of Martial Law in the Greater Los Angelos area.
She went on to show pictures of the rioting, caused by the public's outrage
over the police being unable to capture the "Dracula Killer". I was
unsuprised when my face was shown next, and the show cut to a recorded
interview with the chief of police and then later to an interview with my
last girlfriend.
Great, I thought to myself. A statewide manhunt, my picture on national
TV... There's noplace on this continent I can run to now. Its only a matter
of time before they find me, and then its all over. In the back of my mind,
I could recall killing... a red haze of joy and ecstasy punctuated by pure
pleasure. The thought of turning myself in occurred to me briefly, but I
rejected it. I'd killed cops in the last week. After the King riots, I'd
never survive to stand trial.
Not knowing what else to do, I holed up in the apartment for the next day
or so. While reading the newspaper, something in the personals caught my
eye. It was a small, one line ad, that read "Did she smile when the end
came? Call us! 555-0666" I remembered.... she had smiled. On an impulse, I
dialed the number. The voice that answered was neither young nor old, but
sounded... experienced, in some odd and inexplicable way. All she said was,
"The lust has left you. It will return. When you are ready, come to us.".
CLICK.
Six months later, I was on a mountainside. The air was good for me. Kept my
head clear, and it gave me lots of time to think. Months of living off the
land had strengthened me, made me skilled in stalking my prey; months of
hiding had made me cautious. What few people I did see were simple hikers,
not search parties. I'd been working my way north, hoping to make it to
Canada before the snows came in earnest. The knives I'd used to kill so
many of my fellow humans now were used solely for skewering fish, and for
skinning rabbits. I was doing fine until one November afternoon, when quite
by accident, I cut himself while gutting a deer.
As before, my attention was rivetted by the sight, and the smell of my own
blood. And, try as I might, I could not fight the urge to bring my hand up
to my lips, there to taste the redness... In an instant, I was filled once
again by the vision of blood. This was what I craved, not meat, not
potatoes. Give me BLOOD! I switched my grips on the knives, and began
tearing at the deer's carcass, ripping bloody gobbets of flesh loose and
eating them raw. When I had eaten my fill, I looked at the moon (which was
full, and high in the sky) and I howled. Not the howl of a wolf, but the
cry of a tortured soul about to be set free. Sniffing the air, I could
smell a town to the east. Somewhere down there, my senses told me, was
fresh, warm, human blood.
Later the next day, I came to a small town nestled in the valley between
two mountains. I picked my vantage point carefully, and watched the
townsfolk go about their business while I waited for it to grow dark.
I had chosen the house because it was at the end of a cul-de-sac, and
because the owners didn't have a dog. It was unusally warm for an November
night, so they had left their screendoor open, though latched. My knife
parted the fiberglass screening like butter. Searching the house, I came
upon the son's room first. I stood over the boy, who couldn't be more than
10, and swiftly cut the boy's adam's apple, silencing any screams he might
make.
*** The boy's eyes widened with terror as his the strange man began to cut
away his pajama top. Wishing he could scream, soft gurgling sounds were the
best he could mamage. The man bent over him and looked into his eyes...
something in those eyes made him lie very still as the man brought his face
down over his neck to gently dip his tongue in the small pool of blood that
had gathered there. Something in those eyes blocked the pain of the man
cutting his stomach, and scooping out his insides and stretching them out
on the bed beside him. He could feel his insides stretching, tearing, but
the man's eyes held him rigid, numb to everything that was happening. Those
eyes shone like stars in the dim light of his room. He was still transfixed
by those eyes when the man brought something red and pulsing to his lips,
and the boy's last thoughts were: "Hey, is that my heart...?"
I sat there awhile, drinking my fill of the young child's lifeforce. The
rush, the feeling of invulnerability were back. No longer would I be the
hunted, I would be the hunter! As I crept up the stairs, I could hear
someone moving in the kitchen. In the light of the refrigerator, I could
see the boy's father reaching for the carton of milk. I took the stairs in
groups of three, clearing the top of stairs in a flash, catching the man by
suprise. So suprised was the man, that as he opened his mouth to cry out,
he was rewarded by having 18 inches of surgical steel shoved thru his soft
palette and into his brain. He never felt the blade that punctured his left
lung. As he slumped to the floor, I watched my shadow in the light from the
refrigerator, as it sillouetted the sight of me licking the blade clean of
his blood.
Turning away from the father, I was suprised and pleased to see the
childseat positioned on the kitchen table. Within was strapped a cooing
infant, waving an empty bottle at me. I filled the bottle half full of
milk, half full of blood, and gave it to the baby. "Now don't go away..." I
said, as I turned and began to search for the master bedroom.
The moonlight siloutted her blonde hair where it lay against the pillow,
spilling like a waterfall across the silver satin sheets. Her full, pouty
lips were curled in sleep, giving her a slightly mischevious look. The
flannel pajamas were totally out of place, so those would have to be the
first to go.
*** She could hear the baby crying, but she was used to that. She felt her
husbands side of the bed sag, and she felt a hand carressing her arm,
stretching it out and over her head. But, her husband's hands were not
nearly so rough, and why were his hands so wet? Her eyes snapped open as
the weight beside her shifted, and another rough, wet hand grabbed her
other wrist, and pulled that above her head. In the moonlight, she could
see a bearded face, darkly smeared with some liquid, clenching a knife
between his teeth. She opened her mouth to scream, but then the stranger
looked deep into her eyes, and she shut her mouth with a snap. Through the
satin sheets, she could feel his erection pressing against her thigh. A
drop of blood splashed onto her cheek, and the scent of it sent a shiver
throughout her body. The stranger held both of her hands together with one
hand, while the other opened the nightstand drawer beside the bed. As he
drew forth the velvet covered handcuffs, she wondered for a moment how he
could have known, but something in those eyes knew all her secrets. She
sighed as he cuffed one hand, and then the other, looping the cuffs through
the railing of the headboard. He climbed over her to the other side of the
bed, pulled away the sheets, and gently began to cut at the material of her
nightgown, shearing it away and revealing the milky white skin beneath. He
took the knife from between his teeth and tossed it onto her stomach, and
then he began to remove his own clothing. She could see where the blood had
run from his mouth and down his neck, intermingling with his chest hairs.
He was more powerfully built than her husband, and with a barely suppressed
giggle, she raised up her knees while parting her thighs, giving him an
inviting view of her pussy. He knelt for a moment, pulling another knife
from his boot, and then he gently slid onto the bed and between her thighs.
With my left hand, I brought one of my knives down the center of her chest,
leaving a deep red line. I followed the line with my tongue, causing her to
moan with something not quite pleasure, not quite pain. With my right, I
made two light cuts on her nipples, allowing me to suck a mixture of her
blood and mother's milk from her breasts. Her legs entwined behind me,
trying to draw me inside her, but I backed away from that. "Not just yet,
my lovely. You're not nearly ready yet."
*** It seemed like hours that he leanned above her, tracing patterns and
spirals on her body with the knives, his hot tongue tracing the cuts and
sending shivers through her body. Her eyes alternated between his luminous
orbs, and the blades of the knives themselves, that glinted magically in
the moonlight. She knew she should be revulsed, terrified. She knew that
the things he was doing should be excruciating, not sending ecstatic waves
of pleasure through her body. Somewhere, she knew that this man had killed
her husband, but none of that mattered. She had to have this man. She
wanted him inside her, fucking her, even though she knew she would probably
not live to see the sunrise. When at last he brought the blade down to her
vulva, she shuddered with the feel of the cold, hard steel entering her.
And then suddenly, it hurt.
As before, my lover jerked and twisted when the blade entered her vagina.
Roughly holding her legs apart, I drove the blade all the way inside,
giving it a little twist that brought a rush of blood out onto the sheets.
I paused for a moment, and brought my head down, licking the length of her
pussy and tasting the mixture of blood and her juices. I then reinserted my
blade, and began to fuck her with it in earnest. Her eyes had rolled up
into the back of her head, and sweat mingled with the blood coating her
body. I was really going at it, but then, for some reason, I looked in the
mirror above the bed and noticed the sword. It was a paired set, a Japanese
katana and wakisashi. I arose from the bed, and her eyes followed me, and
her mouth made a little "o" when I unsheathed the katana and guided it to
her vagina. When it was about halfway in, I began to encounter some
resistance, so I just thrust it home, ramming it in all the way to the
hilt. That done, I removed the blade and inserted my penis, and her eyes
rolled back at me with a look of utter ecstasy.
*** The pain of the knife had subsided once it reached her own body
temperature, butwhen he had taken up the sword, she knew that her pain
would be threefold. Even after he had withdrawn the four-foot blade still
she could feel it inside her, could feel the wetness of where it had driven
up past her womb, piercing her intestines, and puncturing her stomach,
severing nerves and sinew alike. When at last he removed it, and entered
her, she, like he, was caught in the grip of an inhuman pleasure. Her whole
body tingled with electricity, even though she knew somewhere inside that
she was bleeding to death. The feel of his cock inside her was so totally
unlike the knife; while both were hard and long, his cock did not slice at
her insides. She could feel the muscles of her pussy trying to grip him
tightly, but most were too ruined to do much more than add their blood to
the sundered gulf of her vagina. She could feel his climax growing, and she
could see it in his eyes. She stared deep into his eyes as he brought the
knife down one last time, cutting her throat. The last sound she heard was
his bubbling sigh as he buried his face in her throat to drink her life
away.
I awoke to bright sunlight pouring through the open windows near the bed.
The bloodied carcass of last night's kill lay slumped at the foot of the
bed. Somewhere in the house, a baby still cried, though fitfully. I arose,
wiping my bloodied hands on my chest, and went out to assess the situation.
The child was where I'd left it, still in the seat in the kitchen. Its
bottle lay on the floor besides it, nearly full. "Guess it didn't like the
taste." I thought to myself. Surveying the appliances, I pulled the baby
out of its chair, and set it on the counter.
A few hours later, lunch was ready. The ground meat wasn't ham, but it
tasted just right with a little A-1. Some onion rings I'd made added a bit
of color to the meal. And when I was done with my burgers, I reached inside
the freezer, and drew forth the baby's head. Using a hacksaw I'd found in
one drawer, I removed the top of the child's skull, and had chilled baby
brains for desert. I spent the rest of the afternoon in contemplation. I
was well fed, and had dined on three souls the night before. I almost felt
sated. Some part of me had hoped that with the mating, I would have left
the blood lust behind, but I knew that I wasn't past it yet. Remembering
the number I had dialed months before, I tried again, only this time a
man's voice answered.
"Mordecai, is that you?" asked the voice. "How do you know my name?" I
asked. "I know a great deal about you, Mordecai. I know what drives you, I
know the hunger you feel. I think we should meet face to face." I wondered
to myself, is this a trap? But something about the voice made me willing to
trust it. "When, and where?" I asked the phone. "Stay where you are. We
will come for you." the voice replied.
Later that day, a black sedan with tinted windows rolled into the driveway.
A young man, and a woman exited, and walked up to the door.
Once inside the house, the man promptly spun on his heels and kicked me in
the stomach. The woman brought her fists down on my back, dropping me to
the floor. From inside his jacket, the young man drew a pistol, and shot me
twice in the back. I felt the bullets pierce my skin. I felt them shatter
bone, and in my mind's eye, I could feel them flatten and push my flesh
before them, causing even more damage. I could feel the bullets blow pie
sized chunks of my chest against the floor, slightly lifting my body in the
process. What I never expected to feel, was the warm, rosy feeling that
overcame me. I could feel the holes in my back close, the bones knit
together once more, and I could feel the skin on my chest stretch and pull
together to cover the wound. But I also felt, in some indescribable way, a
little of the lifeforce I'd drank drain away, I assumed to heal my
injuries.
They helped me to my feet then, and helped me to the car. As they drove,
they said little by way of an apology, except: "We just had to be sure."
They drove west from there, through the mountains. That night, while the
woman kept me company, the man went out to get us all a bite to eat. He
came back with a young prostitute in tow. They bound her, and after moving
one of the beds out of the way, they drew a pentagram on the floor. They
stripped her of her clothing, and tied her down in the center of the
pentagram.
As I crossed the threshold of the pentagram, I could feel something about
the room change. I could suddenly smell incense, where none had been
burning before. The electric lamps began to cast flickering shadows, as if
they were candles guttering in the darkness. The man and the woman, who had
been dressed in suits, now seemed to be wearing robes of a heavy, coarse
material. I shook my head, and the room returned to normal. But still the
girl remained. The man handed me a strange, curved dagger, and I skillfully
cut out the woman's heart with a twist of my wrist, to the sound of
splintering bone. When I drank her blood, it was like the finest wine I had
ever tasted. Perhaps these people had something to show me afterall.
They repeated the same performance the next night, and the next. Soon we
had arrived in Seattle, and the man guided the sedan into an underground
parking garage. We took the executive elevator straight to the top floor,
where I was ushered into my final destination. The plate on the door said
C. Addison.
C. Addison proved to be a 40ish man in top physical condition. Built like a
dancer, his every move smooth, lithe, and practiced. But what caught my
attention instantly were the eyes. Mr. Addison's eyes were the same eyes
I'd looked at in a lifetime of mirrors. "We've waited your whole life to
bring you to your destiny", Mr. Addison said, adding, "Welcome home, my
son."
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