Mutilator from the Grave (7 page)

Now he was going to have a closer inspection in the bedroom and do a lot more than just gaze at them.

His smooth moves under the disco ball, dancing like a maniac out of control, showing off his wild side had attracted the voluptuous females, they could smell the pheromones and could not resist him. His fresh coolness and sharp edge had enthralled the two gorgeous bombshells. The three had dominated the dance floor, and would then be ruling supreme in the bedroom. No one would be sleeping tonight in his penthouse. The entire street would be left wide awake to the vigorous noises of their intense sexual session.

The cool customer was scoring more prominently than he had done in the years depending on the assistance of the skinny bag of bones, Egor. Without relying on the hopeless romantic's comparison, he concentrated on his own appearance, sharpening his edge and chilling his coolness down to sub zero temperatures. Alyosha had remembered why he was a love machine all those years before coming across the hunched, moping wretch wallowing in his own melancholic drama. He used his own charms and skills to win the beauties over as opposed to sitting back and waiting for them to come to him. He had got lazy, he had forgot what the hunt to score with women was all about, scouring the hunting ground, picking the perfect eye-candy, he had missed the fun of going at them himself, getting up close and personal, snatching them up in his jaws like the animal he was. Alyosha had lost his senses, now he had regained them and his love life was all the more adventurous for it. The love machine was fully operational at its maximum capacity. He still had his way with the ladies.

He wasn't rusty at all.

The love machine should have ditched the loser sooner, the amount of babes he was acquiring was coming through the roof. His length was working overtime every night, it was as sore as it had ever been, he had to use cream to sooth its throbbing rawness down. He would have no cock left by the end of the year if he kept scoring the way he did. What a way to go, he couldn't complain he did not see enough action in his sex life.

As for the skinny little runt, Alyosha couldn't care less what had happened to him, he hadn't seen him in two years, and that was fine by him. Egor could have thrown himself off a bridge for all he cared. In fact, he hoped he did. How right his prediction was.

Like every machine, there was the threat of a wrench being thrown into the works, disrupting the finely tuned order of the gears, sending it to explode in one's face into a pile of smouldering scrap beyond anyone's repair.

The wrench to sabotage the machine's efficiency for the night hid in the impenetrable dark, lurking in the distance, trailing his every move like a shadow that could not be shifted or evaded, it was there wherever Alyosha went.

The lone figure had a personal matter of his own to attend to with the accomplice to the pillaging and plundering of his darling Indria. The edgy beast would pay the ultimate price for taking part in the atrocities that horrific night.

The lack of any form of guilt on the cool, smooth features of the vile garbage infuriated the shape, he would soon change the trash's tune, make him see the error of his ways and regret ever imposing himself in the lives of the two lost lovers.

His day of reckoning was moving closer at hand, his impending judgement was nearing, there would be no hope of him escaping from it. The cool customer would not be so chilled out when staring at the face of his imminent death.

Alyosha stopped in the cold snow cushioned around his ankles, a sharp chill shot through his body, the hand of death had touched him. The two voluptuous young models looked at him, laughing at his widened eyes, wondered what on earth was the matter.

Their eyes turned behind him, their faces expressed the same horror at the figure standing there, his gloved hand resting on their motionless love machine's shoulder, turned off permanently for this night and many to come.

The quaking accomplice slowly looked to the shape lurking at his back, gazed into the shadow of his discontent.

The darkness was cut apart by the sharp glint of silver moulded in the shape of a skull, the cold face of death was looking back at him, adamant to take him down into the depths of the underworld, to suffer for his hellish crime to kingdom come.

The other gloved hand reached inside the jet black suit jacket, unveiling a long flash of metal forged into a stainless steel machete raised for the devastated fiend's head.

What was going on, thought Alyosha, how could the night fall apart so quickly. One moment he was about to get laid by two of the sexiest women alive, next he was about to get whacked off, and not in the good sense.

All the quivering amount of excrement could do was ask in a whimper, “Why?”, why was this happening to him.

The audacity of the fiend to be ignorant to the reason behind his long overdue punishment. The shape of death would educate him on the justified motive to the ex-cool customer's warranted death penalty.

The man behind the steel mask spoke in a muffled, rough voice, it was like his throat had dried up to the point it could not be moistened, it was full of dust, gravel and dead flesh particles consumed over the two years as a stiff under the world above. The vocal chords sounded like they had rotted and were scraping the words out a decomposed tongue.

The face of death explained everything to the terrified little man, not so big and tough without a horde of armed, hulking henchmen around to watch his back.

The masked man was there, watched the entire scene unravel before his bruised eyes, saw them rape and kill the only woman in his life who filled his existence with purpose, living every day in a paradise known as true love. He and his companions took that away from him.

Not only did they steal the love of his life from him, they stole his own life as well. The last thing he recalled before infinite darkness swarmed him was the flash of a gun and a sudden pain shooting through his head.

When he awoke, he was imprisoned in a wooden box, with worms and maggots festering his carcass, eating away at his dying body, nesting inside the hollow, dried remnants of what once brimmed with blood.

It was a phenomenon, he could not believe it himself, however he was aware of why he was back from the eternal blankness that had consumed him. The infernal rage he had when he was killed defied even the strict laws of death itself, it had brought him back from the brink of his own death, returning his tortured soul back to the ruined aftermath that was his life. He had come back from the dead on a mission, one that could grant his restless soul the respite he sought after knowing justice had finally been served, it was his only means of salvation, to be reunited with his love in the hereafter.

The fiend was speaking to none other than Victor himself. His mind could not comprehend what he was seeing. How was it possible, that the dead should rise from their graves to exact their revenge on the living who wronged them.

It was too unbelievable to be true, like something from a horror movie. But there he was, being held by the cold, chilling hands of a walking, talking corpse with a vendetta against him and the entire syndicate responsible for that night.

Victor was alive, reborn as a mutilator from the grave with a two year old grudge to bury by slaughtering the monsters who ravaged his true love and severed their happiness. And he would start by killing Alyosha where he stood.

13

The machete hung over Alyosha's head like a guillotine awaiting to commence the execution of the guilty soul.

His petrified eyes gazed at the pure, steel cold blade, in a moment it would be bathed in the warm blood of its kill. Victor would make his death as painful and excruciating as he possibly could, driving the blade deeper into him, cleaving at him.

His miserable life would become a living hell, he would be begging his executioner to grant him a quick death and kill him, to spare him from the painful nightmare he would be thrust into and Victor would refuse him, he would not cease the agonizing pain inflicted on him. He would make him suffer for as long as he seemed fit, only freeing his mortal body from the agony when the tortured filth expired, unable to take the punishment enforced on him,

The slow amount of agony he would feel was akin to enduring years of unrelenting torture, just as it was for Indria and himself when they were subjected to their harrowing torment which never ended. Not even in death.

The same would go for the blunt gangster cowering under his own judgement. He would not be free from the eternal torment, when he was dead, his soul would be riving in his own damnation, overtaken by the violent end before his time.

And unlike Victor, he would not be coming back from the grave to have any retribution, scum like him did not deserve it. Hell was waiting for him, Victor was the grim reaper sent to make the delivery.

Alyosha could not accept it was actually real, it was as if he had been flung into a sudden nightmare in the middle of a sweet dream where he was about to die at the hands of a reanimated corpse brandishing a machete, he had so many things he still desired to do, so many women he wanted to copulate with. Those two babes behind him for a start. He glanced over at his shoulder, that would not be an option now.

The two busty, foxy ladies he had scored with where long gone, they had high tailed it the minute the steel faced figure drew his weapon. They weren't going to die with him, their aspirations came before any other.

A nightmare or a reality, Alyosha was not going to submit to the iron faced reaper. He was not going to die tonight or any night. Victor's quest for revenge would be a failure, and he would be the one to cause it.

There was no such thing as the undead. When one was lying in a coffin, that was where they stayed, rotting into dust throughout the ages.

Victor, if he was who he said he was, must have somehow survived by some scant miracle. The bullet must have got lodged in his skull, preventing him from dying as he was supposed to. Under that steel mask was no rotting corpse, it was the scarred face of a man who could bleed like all the rest.

The apprehensive thug regained his cool composure, a cunning plot formed behind his smooth eyes, he was going to take care of the boyfriend, eliminating him this time, killing him properly, he would make sure he had killed the vengeful lover.

There would be no nasty surprises of ghosts from his past coming back to haunt him after he got a good shot at him, right between his eyes.

Alyosha calmly slipped his hand under his sleeve, he had something much more practical than an ace lying up there.

At the precise second the mutilator from the grave thrust the instrument of revenge down to split his skull in half, the cool customer with a sharp edge whipped out a small concealed handgun and went to fire at him in the head.

If for some crazy reason, he was a zombie, a bullet straight in his head would do the trick and put him down either way.

Victor retaliated, he struck the gun, the fired bullet missed his head. Alyosha backed away from the oncoming undead titan, he unloaded the gun into the mutilator's body, hitting anywhere he could as he tried to evade the swiping blade.

The bullets connected to the body, the suit burst with a mist of dust from the decomposed flesh penetrated.

The coolness faltered back into a flustered panic. Alyosha dropped the empty gun, he looked on in horror, his entire body went colder than the harsh winter. It was true, Victor had returned from the grave, hell bent on taking his inhuman revenge.

The guilty were going to face the dire consequences for their crime, and there was nothing they could do to stop the living corpse. What was dead was already dead, he could not be killed twice. There was no hope for them, as the horrified scum Alyosha had the displeasure of seeing for himself. He could feel the hopeless dread clutching at him, snaring him in a snatched hold where he could not flee.

14

Alyosha was a persistent man in hanging onto his worthless life for as long as possible. Despite having his sentence passed down and his fate sealed with death, he insisted in trying to defy his penalization.

The slippery gangster resorted to a futile option, he ran as fast as his legs in the tight jeans could transport him through the layers of snow.

Victor pursued after the fleeing scum, the condemned was achieving nothing, he was momentarily postponing his conviction. The executioner would catch him, he could count on it. Time was not on Alyosha's side, he could run and he could hide, but in the end, he would find himself facing the cold eyes of his own demise.