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Authors: Daniel A. Kaine

Slasherazzi

BOOK: Slasherazzi
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WILDE CITY PRESS
http://www.wildecity.com
Slasherazzi © 2014 Daniel A. Kaine Published in the US and Australia by Wilde City Press 2014

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, situations and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-925180-23-7 (print) ISBN: 978-1-925180-15-2 (electronic formats)
Cover Art © 2014 Wilde City Press
SLASHERAZZI
Daniel A. Kaine
Dedication

To Amy, who could totally be my older sister, for giving the inspiration for this story. And Patricia, whose name I spelt correctly for once, for being an awesome cheerleader. Couldn't have done it without you both.

Chapter One

The naked body laid before me trembled with fear, the muscles beneath his pale skin vibrating like an engine starting up. Wide green eyes stared up at me. He struggled against the black duct tape that bound him securely to the wooden table and muffled his cries for help. I tensed my fingers around the hilt of my Bowie knife, and a twisted smile spread slowly across my face as I debated where to make the first cut.

The body squirmed as the knife point pressed against the twitching flesh of his stomach. I trailed the tip up his chest and over the ridges of his heaving ribcage.
Here? No
. Back down to his legs. His muscles stiffened as the cold metal passed his exposed genitals, and I chuckled quietly to myself. Here.

“You’re going to die today,” I informed him with no more emphasis than if I had announced that blood is red. “You’ll have no more need for this than you will any other part of your body.”

The skin gave way to the sharp, narrow point of my blade, and the first crimson rivulet spilled out of the cut to meander down his shriveled sac, traversing its way through a forest of dark curly hair. I licked my lips in anticipation. He cried out through the old sock and layers of tape, but it wasn’t enough. I drove the knife in, and oh God, did he scream, an animalistic cry stifled by the makeshift gag. My breath hitched at the sound. His back arched, straining against the bondage holding him firmly in place. Tears rolled from his bloodshot eyes and down the sides of his head past sparse chestnut hair. My pulse raced through my body, creating a familiar tightness in my pants. I pulled the knife out and held it up to the faint light where I could watch the blood trickle down its length.

“Wanna see?” I asked, dangling the knife over his face. He screwed his eyes tight shut as a few drops splashed against his cheek. “Where next, I wonder?”

Cutting was a new game to me. In the past, I stuck to playing with the body only after I had watched the life drain from their eyes and blood stream from their lacerated throats. But now, I needed something more. The old routine had become boring…stale. I needed more excitement. More blood. More screaming. I was no longer content with a mere reminder of their lives passing under my supervision. I needed to find my release as they found theirs.

Death was what I sought, what I craved. It was the ultimate release. But now I had the order right, a part of the learning process like experimenting with which parts to cut, and in what order, to produce the maximum amount of pain and terror. The greater the agony, the greater the climax when death finally came—and so did I.

I placed the inch-wide knife across his stomach and picked up the 35mm camera that hung around my neck to snap a few shots of the quivering mess laid out in front of me. Then I looked over the body, deciding on my next move. Nothing seemed quite as appealing as that first thrust, slicing deep into the soft skin of his small, wrinkled cock. Perhaps I was too eager in drawing out the first scream. Better to go back to something more basic and make it last longer.

A finger, perhaps? I moved toward his left hand, and he clenched his fist, straining against the tightly wrapped tape around his wrist. Even then he struggled against my efforts to pry open his little finger. Naked and bound, staring into the eyes of his executioner, his ferryman, and yet he fought and clung to life. With some difficulty, and a little coaxing from the blade, I managed to extend his narrow digit, the knife easily slicing the soft flesh around the middle joint and hitting the bone beneath. Blood welled to the surface in a steady trickle, pooling on the table beneath him. He screamed out his muffled cries as I labored vigorously to remove the stubborn finger, grinding my teeth at its refusal to budge. I stabbed the tip into the joint, working through the gristle as I made a mental note to expand my hardware collection. It gave with a pop that echoed the release of tension inside me, and a spurt of crimson splashed against the carbon steel blade. I picked up the finger and held it for him to see before placing it gently upon his sternum.

His chest rose and fell in short, rapid movements as I contemplated my next move. Blood flowed from the stump of his finger, seeping outward with every frantic beat of his heart. The severed digit pointed downward to the soft flesh of his stomach as if telling me where to cut next. The blade easily pierced it, a small incision of an inch or so. I placed the knife onto his stomach and slipped my finger into the warm hole, sending a shiver down my spine. I gasped, as I’m sure my playmate would also have done had he been able. My finger penetrated his new orifice, thrusting in and out, wiggling around inside the warm, squidgy cocoon that oozed dark blood with every movement. His body bucked as I slammed inside, his endless wailing reduced to a groan through the dirty, sweaty sock that filled his mouth. Even the violent shuddering of his body became nothing more than a weak shudder.

The need within me was slowly building, like an old kettle bubbling within until finally ready to blow its spout. With my free hand, I undid my fly. There was another piece of flesh that required my attention.

Chapter Two
“He’s killed again.”

I hesitated to take a deep breath. Of course, he had. I should have known as soon as I’d seen Tanya’s name flash up on the screen of my cell. “You sure it’s him?”

“White male, looks to be in his thirties, found completely naked with multiple lacerations, particularly around the genital regions.”

“Cause of death?”
Her breath hitched. “Throat was slit.”
“Sure does sound like him.” I exhaled slowly. “All

right, where’s the body? I’m on my way.”
“Giddens Park, just off North Twelfth Street.” “Yeah, I know the place. Give me thirty minutes, and

I’ll be there.”
“Sure thing. And Alex…”
“Yes?”
“Never mind. You’ll see it for yourself when you get

here.” The line went dead, replaced by a dull drone.

I glanced at my watch. Eight forty-two. Tuesday was supposed to be my day off from this madness, but it seemed Tampa’s newest serial killer had other plans for me. I had spent the better part of the last month trying to catch this guy, whom the media had dubbed ‘The Slasherazzi’. Having been on the case since the first body had surfaced, I wanted to be there if any new developments showed up. The latest kill would bring his body count to five in four weeks, and we were no closer to catching him.

With a deep sigh, I headed into the kitchen. Sunlight bounced off the silver worktops, stabbing at my eyes. The laundry basket sat on top of the kitchen table, with various garments draped over chairs to dry. I grabbed a white shirt off one of the chairs and pulled it on. I buttoned it most of the way and rolled the sleeves up, then stopped in front of a mirror to run my fingers through my tousled hair until it was as presentable as it was going to get. I brushed the front to one side out the way of my hazel eyes. I’d have to think about getting it cut soon, before the back reached my shoulders. I snatched my keys from the kitchen counter and headed to the garage.

I climbed into the car and backed out onto the uneven gravel drive, making a mental note to call someone about that after my wallet recovered from the trauma of my last vehicle giving up on me. Even pre-owned, the blue Chrysler Sebring convertible I now owned set me back by at least six months’ worth of pay, but as my adopted Mom would say, ‘Men are suckers when it comes to cars.’

I left the top down, the light breeze a welcome reprieve from the sun’s relentless assault. Pulling out of the Bayshore Beautiful area, I traveled north on the I-275, taking the Hillsborough exit that would take me east toward Giddens Park. Traffic crawled along past the strip malls, horns beeping and blaring as the heat made the morning gridlocks all the more irritating. It was a relief to finally take the turn south off the main thoroughfare.

News vans lined the length of the park. WTSP and WFLA were among the stations I spotted, and no doubt others were already on their way. I pulled up on the far side, away from the commotion. Opening the glove compartment, I took out my badge and slipped the chain over my neck. I walked briskly across the grass, past the children’s play area, which was uncharacteristically silent, and ducked under the yellow police tape surrounding the crime scene.

“Alex!” Someone called out to me, and I groaned. I would recognize that voice anywhere. Vincent Fairfield: budding journalist, bane of my career, and also my on and-off lover for the past two years. We were currently in an off-phase. I should have known he would be there since he lived just a few blocks away.

Vince was a nice enough guy—kind, thoughtful, a bit of a closet romantic and damn sexy, with his perfectly tanned skin and a lean athletic build. A real surfer type. He was thirty, two years my junior, and currently employed at The Tampa Tribune as one of their up and coming journalists, partly thanks to his involvement with me. And therein lay our problem. Vince took his work very seriously, and that extended to bugging me for updates on major cases. I had already given him multiple chances, and each time was the same as the last. Our relationship would go well for a while, but eventually, he’d take his investigating one step too far, even going as far as to snoop through my house in search of any leads I might have been researching in my own time—something I did quite often if a case had me stumped. Still, for some inexplicable reason, I always found myself being sucked right back in.

“Vince, get off my goddamn crime scene,” I shouted as he bent down under the tape, his jeans pulling tight across his thighs and ass. He took no notice, making a beeline straight for me.

“I’ll go if you give me an exclusive.”
“Or I could arrest you.”
“I bet you’ve always wanted to see me in handcuffs.”

He beamed at me with a wide grin and his piercing green eyes glinting in the sunlight. He had a habit of twisting things into sex.

“Vince,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Leave or I will seriously throw you in a cell for twenty-four hours. You wouldn’t want to miss your deadline, would you?”

“Bastard,” he muttered. “Wanna grab a coffee after you’re done here?”
“If I say yes, will you leave?”
He smiled. “Maybe.”
“Fine, then scram. I’ll see you as soon as I’m

finished.”

Vince waved goodbye and retreated back behind the tape, his shoulder-length blond hair blowing gently in the breeze. I let out a deep breath. It was happening again. No matter what he did, I couldn’t stay mad at him for long. I might have deliberated over it for a while, but there was a dead body waiting for me along with a group of five uniformed cops who stood talking.

“Can we get some more fucking security over there?” I yelled, their heads snapping up as I pointed in the direction I had come from. It wouldn’t take long before a determined reporter decided to try wandering around the park to find any way into the crime scene. A few grumbled but did as I asked and wandered off to fill the gaps in the human barricade.

Tanya Grissom, my partner, rushed over to me when she saw me approaching. She was a small African American woman, but God, was she loud for her size. Her black hair fell in loose waves, bouncing as she jogged across the park. She stopped in front of me, her head only reaching my shoulders, and glanced up to narrow her eyes at me.

“Did I see you with Vincent over there?” she asked in her usual rapid-fire speech. “You two getting back together again? You must be a glutton for punishment, boy. How long has it been now? Almost two years? And you’ve broken up, what, five times already? He must be absolute dynamite in bed for you to keep going back to him.”

“Tanya,” I said, almost growling. “The body?”

“Oh, right. The victim was found at eight ten this morning by a Mrs. Victoria Grant, who was out walking her dog. She says the dog wandered off into the bushes, and when he wouldn’t come back, she went looking for him. That’s how she discovered it. Officer Jeffries was first on scene.” She pointed over to one of the uniformed officers, several of whom were struggling to keep back the ever-increasing media frenzy.

BOOK: Slasherazzi
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