The Last Motel (11 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Al walked out of the bathroom, rubbing his stomach tenderly. “I wouldn’t go in there anytime soon.” He walked over to his bed and sat down.

“You were in there for like twenty minutes,” Eddy said, smiling. “Ya shit your brains out?”

Al chuckled, then winced. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Man, I can smell it from here.” Eddy was lying back on his bed, practicing handling the gun, which he had been doing the whole time Al was in the bathroom. The revolver was heavier than he expected. But he had soon gotten used to its weight, and he now considered himself quite the expert.

He placed it down on the side table.

“You been playing with that thing the whole time?” Al asked.

Eddy grinned. “I think I’m in love.”

Al groaned, and clutched at his stomach with both hands.

“Another one?”

Al shook his head. “Don’t think so. Just some aftershocks.”

“What’s causing it?” Eddy asked.

“I dunno. Maybe the pizza we had for tea.”

“Doubt it. I had just as much as you, probably more.”

“I suppose so. I think I’m just nervous about the whole thing.”

“I hope it doesn’t hit while we’re out in the mountain.”

“Why? We’ll be surrounded by nature.”

“You’ll shit out in the open, on the ground?”

Al shrugged. “Trust me. When it hits you, you won’t care where the fuck you are. You could be having sex with the most beautiful woman in the world, but if your stomach starts to gurgle and you get that cramping feeling, you’ll stop without a second’s thought and hurry into the bathroom, doesn’t matter that you haven’t finished.”

“That’s just charming,” Eddy said.

“It’s the truth,” Al sighed, and winced.

“You must really be nervous,” Eddy said.

“Aren’t you?” Al breathed.

“Yeah, of course. But not so much that I’m gonna get the shits.”

“Guess I’ve got a sensitive stomach.”

Eddy hopped off the bed, picking up the gun as he stood up. “You wanna get started, or do you wanna wait?”

Al looked over at Eddy. He took a deep breath, then slowly stood up. “I wanna get this over and done with as quickly as we can.”

“It’s gonna take a while,” Eddy told him. “A couple of hours. And it’ll be hard work. I’ve read that dead bodies are very heavy.”

“Yeah, I’ve read that too.”

Eddy checked his watch. It was a bit after one o’clock. He flipped open the revolver’s chamber, and checked that it was loaded. He pushed the chamber back into place. “Loaded and ready.”

“Great. Where’s the box of ammunition?”

Eddy patted his front jeans pocket. “Right where I can get to ‘em.”

“Let’s pray that we don’t have to use it,” Al said, slipping on his black, sheepskin lined jacket.

“I hope we do. I wanna test out my gun handling skills,” Eddy chuckled. “See what it’s like to shoot a bad guy.”

“Come on, man. That’s not funny. This is serious.”

“I was only kidding around,” Eddy said. “Don’t wanna have two dead bodies on our hands.”

“Correction, the second body would be on
your
hands.”

Eddy shoved the revolver down his pants. Only the handle was sticking out. He covered it with his jumper so the handle could not be seen. Only a slight bulge was noticeable, and only if standing close enough. “Okay, so you know the plan?”

“Of course. What’s there to know?” Al said.

“Are you sure you’re up to carrying him?” Eddy asked. “I don’t want to be halfway up the mountain only to find you can’t go any farther.”

“I’m fine. I can handle it.”

“Okay.”

“So you still think it’s the best place?” Al said. “I mean we could drop him anywhere.”

“No question. If it’s as deep and rocky as the old bag says it is, nobody’s gonna find him. Not for a while, anyway, when the old boy starts to go rotten.”

“And they’ll think he either committed suicide or slipped,” Al finished.

“Right. It’s perfect. They won’t have any evidence whatsoever to connect us with him. Apart from the fact that we stayed in this motel. But I mean how many people have stayed in this shit hole?” Eddy chuckled. “If we can manage to make it up there without being seen, we’ll be home free.”

“Do we need anything besides the gun?”

“Like what?” Eddy said.

“I dunno, I’m just thinking out loud.”

Eddy stood by the bed, thinking. He eventually shook his head. “Nope, can’t think of anything. It would be different if we were gonna bury him. We’d need shovels and shit. But we’re just going to throw him into a gorge.”

Al nodded. “Except for gloves, there’s nothing I can think of.”

“Gloves?”

“Yeah, so we wouldn’t have to touch him.”

Eddy smiled. He headed for the door. “Let the games begin,” he called over to Al. He stopped, however, when he noticed that Al wasn’t moving. He looked pale, and was wincing. “Oh no, not again.”

With a sudden dash, Al ran into the bathroom.

Eddy let out a sigh and wandered over to his bed. He took out the revolver and sat down.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

The boy was still passed out. He had been out of it for about half an hour now, but at least it had given time for Wayne to bandage the boy’s legs. He could’ve been torturing him the whole time, but part of what excited Wayne was hearing the boy cry out, looking into his eyes as he was cutting or strangling him. He liked to sodomise them while they were either asleep or passed out – that way he could picture them as dead bodies. But when it came to torturing them with knives and other instruments, he liked them awake.

He had tried torturing in the past while the victim had been passed out; it gave him little thrill. So much so that he had stopped and went and watched TV until the kid had come to. No, best to wait until they regained their senses.

After bandaging the boy’s legs, Wayne had lain down on his bed, a Coke in his hand, and enjoyed the rest. The next few hours were going to be strenuous. It took a lot of energy to torture, rape and slice - so he needed to be well rested.

Every ten minutes or so, Wayne had hopped off his bed and wandered over to the boy where he pinched the boy’s testicles or pressed on his kneecaps, just to make sure he wasn’t pretending to be still passed out. He wasn’t. Each time he never flinched, never winced in pain.

But he was still alive. Even now, gazing over at the naked teenager, Wayne could see his chest gently rise and fall. Wayne was thankful for that. He wasn’t especially eager to go out looking for another victim tonight. He hadn’t had all his fun with this one yet.

Wayne moved his eyes away from the boy, to one of the flickering flames. He loved to watch the peaceful movements of candle flame. It mesmerised him, gave him a sense of balance and inner happiness. The flames looked particularly beautiful when all other lights had been turned off, and everything in the room looked like shimmering bronze. Smooth, naked boys looked especially sensual shrouded in candlelight.

When Wayne had found the candles gathering dust in the bedside drawer, he’d been overcome with happiness. He immediately went about searching for candlestick holders, and had found two in the cupboard above the sink. After he had lit both candles, and turned off the main light, he then had the decision of where to place them. (In between the boy’s legs; on the floor; stuck on the boy’s forehead using wax to hold them in place; on the sink bench – these had been some of Wayne’s ideas). He had finally decided on the bedside table. It wasn’t very adventurous, but it was the most central place in the room, therefore the whole room would be covered in bronze light, not just one area. Besides, he could always use them later on the boy.

Wayne checked the time. He jumped off the bed and went over to the boy. He stood by the bed, looking down at the glowing body. Wayne had had enough rest. He was ready to begin.

In the candlelight, the sheets were a deep purple. He hadn’t realised how much blood had gushed from the boy’s knees, especially the right one.

No wonder he passed out
.

As he gazed down upon the boy’s chest, Wayne saw that his breathing had sped up. He now seemed to be breathing in jerking movements, rather than in a slow, steady rhythm. Wayne grinned.

He walked over to the candles, picked one up by the base of the holder, then crept back. He moved down towards the boy’s mid-section, and held the candle over his body. Enough wax had collected at the top of the candle, near the wick. Wayne gradually tipped the candle, and watched as the wax spilled onto the boy’s testicles – right where he was aiming.

The boy opened his eyes and let out a muffled scream. His body lurched around, but stopped when the pain from his knees became too much to endure. Tears streamed down his cheeks as the wax burned his tender scrotum. The wax soon began to harden.

Wayne placed the candle back on the table.

“Trying to trick me,” he said, shaking his head. “About time you came to. I was getting mighty lonesome.”

The boy stared at Wayne, shaking. The towel in his mouth was completely soaked, wet with the boy’s saliva and sweat.

Wayne could feel the bitterness in the room even though he wore a shirt and jacket. But Wayne could see that the boy’s body had a bluish tinge, even in the yellow candlelight.

The boy mumbled something.

“What?” Wayne taunted. “I can’t understand you. You mumble too much.”

He spoke again, although his words were a jumbled mess.

“You want me to take the gag out?”

The boy nodded.

Wayne grinned. He went over to the table and picked up his knife.

“If I do, and you scream...” He held up the knife.

The boy nodded again, this time more slowly.

“If you thought it hurt when I stabbed your knees, you can’t imagine what else I can do to you. I can cause pain ten times that. Understand?”

Wayne held the knife in his right hand while he took out the towel. He threw the sodden mass on the boy’s chest. The boy gasped and drew in deep breaths.

“I’ll give you a little hint of what I’ll do to you if you start to scream. When you kicked at me, I sliced your legs. If you scream, which involves your voice box...” Wayne raised his eyebrows.

“I...understand,” the boy said.

“Good. Now, what is it you want so desperately to tell me?”

The boy swallowed and caught his breath. “Please don’t kill me. I know that is your plan, but you don’t have to do it.”

Wayne chuckled. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that? I knew you were going to say that. Don’t fucking bore me.”

Although Wayne secretly loved it when they begged for their lives. He never told them so, of course, but he got off on it. It made him feel just so damn powerful.

“I’ve got a family and friends and a...a girl...girlfriend.” He started to sob. “I’ve got a life.”

“And a future,” Wayne mimicked. “You don’t have to kill me, I won’t tell the police.” He laughed. “Isn’t that what you were going to say?”

“Fuck you, you faggot,” the boy muttered under his breath.

“What did you call me?” Wayne growled.

“N...nothing,” the boy gasped. He shook his head hard.

“You called me a f...f...” Wayne had trouble saying the word. Out of all the names for it, Wayne hated that one the most. It was the one his father used to call him.

“I’m not a, a...one of those,” Wayne said. He wiped the tears from his eyes, then stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door with one fierce movement.

He gazed at himself in the mirror, and felt hatred for being such a wimp and crying. He could hear his father’s voice in his head. It was strong, like he was standing next to Wayne at that very moment.

You fat little faggot. You’re not going to amount to anything. Stop ya crying, faggot. You make me sick
.

“No!” Wayne screamed into the mirror.

He still held the knife in his hand, and he was grasping the handle so tight that his fingernails were digging into his palm. With a powerful thrust of his right arm, Wayne smashed his hand into the mirror. Shards of glass fell into the sink; blood began to gush out of his hand. He dropped the knife into the sink, and opened his hand. His knuckles were cut, and Wayne could see bits of glass protruding from his hand. He turned his bloody hand over, and saw four sets of moon-shaped incisions embedded in his palm. They too were dripping blood.

“Just great,” he muttered to himself. “Way to go, Wayne.”

He turned on the tap and left his hand under the cold water until the blood had washed away. As soon as he brought his hand out of the water, blood began to flow steadily again.

This time he began picking out the pieces of glass splinters. The blood made his fingers and hand slippery. It was hard and took a while, but he eventually picked out all the visible pieces of the mirror. Then he ran his throbbing hand under the water, until it was clean again. He had left the bandages and antiseptic cream out in the other room, so Wayne wrapped a towel around his hand for the time being. Before he left the bathroom, Wayne looked up at the broken mirror, and grinned. The last image he had seen before he punched it was not of his own reflection, but of his father’s. And now it lay broken and useless.

But he knew that wouldn’t stop the voices. Nothing would ever stop his father from making his life hell. Even though he had died ten years ago from cancer.

But it would do for now; smashing that mirror had made him feel better, no matter that it wouldn’t last for long.

He opened the door and walked out into the golden glow of the candlelight. The bandages and cream were sitting on the round breakfast table near the front door. He wandered over and unwrapped the towel from around his hand. He placed the bloody towel on the table and picked up the cream.

“Had myself a little accident,” Wayne said.

The boy remained silent.

Wayne rubbed the cream into his numerous cuts, then wound the bandage around his right hand.

When he was done, he went back into the bathroom and picked up the knife from the sink. He washed it free from any glass and blood.

Walking back into the room, holding the knife in his left hand, Wayne smiled. “Never done this with my left hand. The knife I mean, not...well.” He laughed softly.

Wayne saw the boy stare at his hand. His eyes then darted to the one holding the knife. Wayne switched it to his right hand, while he shoved the towel back in the boy’s mouth. “Don’t want you saying that filthy word again. You only have yourself to blame, boy.”

He then switched the knife back to his left hand. He glanced over at the candles. They were still burning solidly, the flames waving with the gentle surges in the air. Wayne’s grotesque figure danced on the wall.

The radio was still playing on low volume – Wayne had turned it down after the boy had fainted. He now turned the sound up. He had missed the news report, but it didn’t bother him. He had heard it all before. The police had nothing new on him.

Wayne turned back to the boy. His hand was pounding with a dull ache, but he tried to ignore it. “I’ve got all night with you,” he said. “I’m going to have fun with you. Let you feel real pain. What do you think about that?”

“You...are...a...faggot.” Although the boy had his mouth stuffed with the towel, he pronounced every word slowly and as audible as possible.

A red-hot fire erupted in Wayne’s body. His hand began to shake, and his face perspire.

Wayne shuffled around to the foot of the bed. The boy lifted his head and peered down.

“You fuck,” Wayne barked. He thrust the knife into the underneath of the boy’s left foot. He hit right where the boy’s arch was. His body went into spasms. The scene looked strange, since the boy couldn’t move his legs. Wayne pulled the knife out, and an outpouring of blood gushed from the hole. Wayne did the same to the other foot. This time he worked the knife deep into the foot, grinding the blade, a callous grin on his face. Yanking out the blade, Wayne moved up to the boy’s heaving chest.

“Teach you to call me that,” he said.

With the tip of the knife, Wayne pierced the boy’s right nipple. He flicked and sliced at the small rubbery tip. Blood streamed down his white chest. Wayne took the knife away and placed his mouth over the nipple, which was half dangling off. He sucked and worked it in his mouth, flicking it occasionally with his tongue. He relished in the salty, metallic taste of the boy’s blood. He suddenly bit down on the small nipple and chewed it off. The boy’s screams added to Wayne’s thrill. He straightened up, and grinned, the nipple perched between his lips. He spat it out at the boy. It hit him on his left cheek, then bounced off onto the floor.

“That’s what you get for calling me a faggot,” Wayne said, panting hard. The acrid taste of blood in his mouth was a lot more pleasant than saying that word.

Wayne hated saying that word.