Gangslay

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Gangslay
By: Hallam Heathcoat
It’s like those gang bang videos that you buy online or get at the adult bookstore in the seedier parts of town. A bunch of guys, angry and anxious, here in this random basement because they answered the handwritten ad they found stuffed between the pages of some skin mag they subscribe to. Hard Riding or Filthy Fucking or Cum Hither. Shit like that. That’s what this is like. Here in the basement, it’s kinda dark. There’s some candles and whatnot, which I guess is more for effect than anything else. The place is split in half by a sheet of canvas or tarpaulin. Hard to tell. The guy running this thing, he’s a little weird. On the phone, he said his name was Johnny Zibberstein. And I thought, Zibberstein. What kinda fuckin’ name is Zibberstein? He gave me directions to the house, told me that I could wear whatever I wanted, but that it all had to come off for the camera. For the video we’re making. He said to bring a knife of my choice, doesn’t matter what kind, as long as I can make it slice, work it into flesh and whatnot, which brings us to the matter at hand: On the other side of the sheet that divides all us guys into a compressed, stifling square, there’s a girl. She’s naked and bound to a pole with her hands cuffed above her head. There are some monitors and cameras propped around her. Zibberstein laid out all the rules for me during that brief call: You lose your clothes. You take your knife. You get to make one – and ONLY one – cut on the girl’s body. It can be as long and as deep as you like, but the minute the knifepoint leaves her flesh, you’re through. That’s the money shot. That’s a done deal. You can take as long as you want, you can say whatever you want to her, but the thing you’ve got to remember is: one, one, one. Now that’s gonna be interesting. The guys here…I don’t know. Some of them are doing this because it’s a way to vent; that girl in there, tied up behind the sheet, she’s their mothers, beating them and telling them they’re no good. She’s their ex-girlfriend, who the guy caught balling his best buddy or next door neighbor or what have you. She’s their best friend’s wife or the cop who gave them a speeding ticket or the high maintenance bitch in high school who said no when they asked her out on a date. A whole room of rage and frustration. A whole room and just one girl. I look around at these assholes and ask myself why she’s doing this. Why is she gonna let any guy walk in there and cut her, hurt her, punish her that way? On the phone, Zibberstein assured me that the girl wants to participate, that she’s one hundred percent willing and she’s being compensated for her time and all that mess. But still, I was thinking about how it could possibly matter if, by the end of the entire thing, she’s mutilated or dead. Probably both. At that point, Zibberstein told me that it wasn’t my goddamned problem, that if I was such a moralist that I shouldn’t show up and ruin it for everyone else. There are a lot of dudes here. Twenty, I think, me included. The guy to my right, I call him Dracula. He’s pale and small, but he’s toned. Like he works out just enough to be slim and tight. He has black hair, probably dyes it that color, and it’s long enough for him to tuck it behind his ears. He wears silver rings with bats and skulls and spiders on them. Goth-death shit. He’s got a tattoo on his upper left arm, but I can’t see it. Too dark. With him, he brought a butterfly knife. Then, there’s Gorilla. Not his real name. I don’t know any of these fuckers’ real names. He’s huge. You know he’s popping steroids and hormones, that he could rip your head off with one hand. He’s bare-chested, wearing army fatigues. His hair’s shaved down to the point that it’s nothing more than bristles that fuzz up his head. He looks mad. His nostrils are steaming and quivering. Perspiration creeps down his temples, dots his overdeveloped pecs. He’s got a Bowie knife. Blackbeard is the asshole on my left. He wears a red bandana tied motherfucker-badass style on his head. He has a beard thick as bear’s fur, probably feels like barbed wire if you care to touch it. Leather pants. Flannel shirt unbuttoned, showing his chest off like he’s some prize. Dickhead brought a butcher knife. My least favorite is Frat Fuck, the college boy with blue eyes and dimples, khaki pants and loafers, a blue button up shirt. He has a Letterman’s jacket on and I think, That’s stupid. It’s got his name all over it. But I can’t read it in the dark. There are other guys here, but they remind me of myself: grimy, unshaven, desperation wafting off them in fumes. Them and me, we all got one thing in common: we want a piece of that cunt behind the curtain. I’m thinking about where I’m gonna make my first cut, about how deep and long it should be, when Zibberstein comes down the stairs. Each step creaks beneath his feet. He’s a short little prick, five-six at the most. Black hair, or at least it looks black. A black shirt with a red tie and red pants. Sneakers. Got something in his hair, gel or spray. Beats me. He’s skinny too, probably weighs a buck thirty, tops. He’s a tiny, queer fucker. I wonder, how did he end up in charge of a freak show like this? No matter. He’s got the attitude and machismo of a guy three times his size. Superior-acting punk. I don’t like him. “You.” Zibberstein’s pointing at Dracula. “You’re going first. Take off your pants and come with me.” The vampire faggot smiles and drops his leather pants like he’s about to take a shit, smug and happy about it. He’s sporting wood. I don’t know why he’s grinning because his pecker’s nothing to write home about. Zibberstein snorts. “Got your knife?” Dracula smirks. “Yeah.” “Good.” Zibberstein walks over to the tarpaulin and tears it down. There she is. There’s the girl. She’s surrounded by candles and, sure enough, there are the cameras and monitors and everything that you’d expect to be a part of a sleazy affair such as this. Her tits are the size of melons and I can feel myself getting hard and heavy just looking at ‘em. She’s blond with dark roots at her scalp. I wanna make a crack about the carpet not matching the drapes, but her twat’s hairless and glistening, puffy like she’s just been screwed good or something. The gag in her mouth is a thick strip of white cloth, nothing special. The pole that she’s tied to is encased in a big bucket of cement. The handcuffs that bite into her wrists hang from a large meat hook hammered into one of the beams overhead. She struggles, tears pouring down her cheeks. I laugh, knowing how useless it is. That bitch ain’t going nowhere. Dracula. He approaches her, waving his knife back and forth, acting real menacing…but then he stops. His eyes widen. He frowns. He casts a look first at Zibberstein, then at the rest of us. He freezes just enough so we can see through his pasty-face vampire act. He squints, the arm-wielding knife stiff in half-extension. His face…it’s like he recognizes her or something. “What the fuck are you waiting for?” Zibberstein asks. “Cameras are rolling. Hurry up and do it.” The toughness has gone out of Dracula’s step. He goes forward, meek, and brings the blade close to her skin. The hand that grips it hesitates, trembles slightly. The girl, meanwhile, is sobbing, twisting this way and that, delivering a top notch performance. Dracula…all the excitement’s drained out of him. He grabs her face and pinches her cheeks. He raises his knife and drags the point of it in a slant from the corner of her eye to her jaw. The girl squeals through her gag and a crimson rivulet seeps from the wound he’s just made. It drips in fat drops from her chin. Dracula folds his knife and is about to step back, but Zibberstein stops him. “No,” he says, “you’re not finished. You’ve got to taste it.” The other guys around me shift and mumble. “You heard me.” Zibberstein pokes him hard in the chest. “It’s all part of the deal. You’ve got to.” Gorilla grabs his crotch and says, “What kinda fucking movie is this?” “A blood fetishist video,” Zibberstein replies coolly. “Our audience wants to see cuts and knives. They want to jack off to you guys slicing the girl and drinking her blood.” “I didn’t hear none of that on the phone,” Gorilla says. He slumps down, brooding. “Tough shit,” Zibberstein tells him. Dracula smirks and plants his palm against the facial cut he’s just made. He licks the blood from his hand and strolls back to his seat, strutting like he’s got the biggest dick in the room. Zibberstein scowls at Gorilla. “You can go next.” “Fine,” Gorilla says. “I ain’t scared of a little blood.” He gets up, drops his fatigues and kicks them away. He’s big and pumped with a tiny, erect dink. He looks ridiculous, going over there still wearing his socks and army boots. The girl’s nose is leaking snot. Her mascara’s running. She’s racking her body left and right, sagging from her restraints. “Yeah, cunt.” Gorilla steps up to her and squeezes one of her massive tits. But, weird as it is, the same thing happens to him. Something flashes in his eyes. If I was crazy, I’d say it’s like he recognizes her too. Whatever it is, he doesn’t let it paralyze him the way it did with Dracula. He keeps going, teasing her nipple with his tongue and sucking on it hungrily, like she’s lactating or some shit. While the girl’s wailing and sobbing, Gorilla takes his bowie knife and cuts the nipple off with a single slice, severing a chunk of her breast in the process. Blood goes everywhere. Flows down the girl’s abdomen and over her pussy. Gorilla ain’t fazed. He mashes the tit against his lips, squeezes it so that the blood pumps into his mouth. Then, just to show what a hardcore prick he is, he licks the cut Dracula made before he struts back to his seat and challenges Zibberstein with a pissed-off stare, his log-sized arms folded over his hulking chest. “Who’s up?” Zibberstein asks, impatiently. “How about you, college boy? Wanna go next?” Frat Fuck, Mr. Harvard, Mr. Squeaky-Clean-Scholarship stands up and undoes his belt, drops his pants. His boxers are clean and striped. You know mommy’s still doing his fucking laundry. One of those faggoty ass beaded necklaces that all the young assholes are wearing now is nestled against his collar bone. I think about tearing it off of him and snapping him in half. He ditches the boxers and picks up his knife. I’ll be damned if he isn’t just as affected as those other two. Only, he’s more melodramatic about it. He lowers the knife and looks questioningly, even pleadingly at Zibberstein. He backs up and his gaze falls. He’s conflicted. Suddenly doesn’t want to do this. His face is a mixture of anger and fear. The girl is bawling so hard that she can’t see any of this or any of us. Zibberstein’s not having it. I admit that he catches me off guard when he whips out a gun. “Hurry up, motherfucker,” he says, pointing the barrel straight at Frat Fuck. “You came here and you’re gonna do it. No backing out. None of you is gonna back out on me now.” Frat Fuck…he starts crying. Really crying. Almost as hard as the roped cunt we’re all supposed to carve up. It’s fucking pathetic. “Now!” Zibberstein shouts. He pokes the gun into the kid’s side. Frat Fuck inches forward with – I shit you not – baby steps. He holds his blade out like it disgusts him. He moves closer to the girl and closer and closer. Finally, when he’s near enough that he’s splashed by some of her blood, he makes a tiny cut, a centimeter or so, on her belly. Immediately after he’s through, he drops the knife, nearly loses his balance and sinks to his knees, on the brink of passing out. “Lick it up,” Zibberstein orders him. “Right from her navel.” The kid keeps his eyes shut, winces as his skin comes in contact with hers. His tongue slides out of the corner of his mouth and he runs the tip of it through the cut. “Not enough.” Zibberstein cocks the gun and it makes an evil snick. “That’s not enough, you fucking pansy.” Frat Fuck grits his teeth, stifles his sobs, and stares at the girl with watery-hound dog eyes. He’s still kneeling. His fingertips dig into her thighs. “Like this,” Zibberstein says. He grabs the back of Frat Fuck’s head and grinds it into her stomach, rubbing it back and forth, agitated as all hell. As he lets up, the kid pulls away, stumbles to his seat. Once he’s there, he curls up into himself, whimpers, and wraps his arms around his knees. I think he’s praying. He won’t look at nobody. “Pussy,” Gorilla says. The other guys laugh in agreement. “Your turn.” Zibberstein gestures at Blackbeard to do his thing. It goes on and on like this. Each of the guys grips his knife, and then he pales and loses his nerve once he’s in that ring of candlelight and able to get a good, long look at her face. I try to glance at her every now and then, but the cuts and the blood, whether it’s sucked, lapped, or drunk, are far more interesting. Besides, I’ll get to see her plenty once it’s my turn at bat. This happens much sooner than I expect. “Get up,” Zibberstein says to me. “Get the fuck up. You’re going.” “Ain’t no thing,” I tell him. I do the whole bad-ass ritual: I stand up, peel off my tank top, kick my way out of my battered jeans. Lose the socks and shoes. I pump my boner a few times just for show. From what I’ve seen, I’m the best hung bastard out of all these whipped panty-chasers. I don’t waste time. I go right up to her. And then I… Aw, fuck. I get a good, long look at her face. The shit starts crawling around in my brain. I peer in the candlelight, frozen, mulling it over with Zibberstein making his macho little threats behind me. This girl…the more I think about it, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her somewhere before. It’s not just her face…it’s her tits…and her bare, bloody ass. It’s how she moves, thrashing from the pain with what’s left of her energy against the cuffs and ropes. I’m hesitating, holding the knife… Now I remember. Shit, it was a long time ago. Well, a year, anyway. But, yeah, we’re acquaintances, you might say. She’s that bitch stripper that works at the Twin Sins club right off of Jurupa Avenue. Stage name’s Scarlet or whatever. Overcharges for lap dances and has any guy thrown out that requests a hand job. Cunt had me tossed to the curb once. Goddamn bouncer kicked me so hard in the junk that I was pissing blood for a week. Holy fuck, I was mad. I thought about buying a gun off this one drug dealer I know, a skinny Puerto Rican answers to Bean. I was gonna go down there, shoot that meathead musclefuck bouncer in his fucking head. But nah. It didn’t work out that way. As luck would have it, Scarlet liked to walk home. Fuck if I know why. She’s a stripper; how smart can she be? Dumb bitch. She was a stupid bitch and went and did a stupid-bitch thing. I watched her, followed her until she came to this vacant lot littered with hobos and homos ass-fucking each other in the bushes. Got her alone and I got out my knife. Ironic as fuck, isn’t it? She looked scared, but she didn’t try and run. I cut away her shirt and bra, poking my blade into those huge ass tits of hers. I squeezed them and felt them and rolled them around until they were all red and sore with my handprints. My dick was flaming hot when I tore off her jeans and ripped her panties away. I put myself inside her. Wouldn’t you know it…that little cunt was already wet. Oh, she put up a good enough fight, I guess. They all do, at first. But then she came to accept it. She just laid there and cried into her fist while I was stretching and filling her filthy hole hard and good. I kept asking her how she liked it, where her fucking goon boyfriend was now, all the smart-ass shit that popped into my mind. I had her wrists pinned above her head and my blade held to her throat while we were connected at the crotch, me banging her and riding her like she was the best lay of my life. What can I say? Just wasn’t her night. When I finished, I pulled up my pants, spat on her, and took off on foot. Tossed my shoes and knife into a trash bin, then crashed in a roach motel that reeked of smoke and sluts. Never thought I’d see her again. Well, seems I was wrong. I smile and step up to her. I make a deep, searing cut that spans down the middle of her chest. Kinda like an autopsy incision, but it’s not exactly Y-shaped. More blood. More crying. I pry the edges of the cut open with my hands, press them together until both palms hold an equal amount of blood. I bring them to my lips and drink, slurp it like it’s a Coors or Heineken. I flick the rest at Zibberstein. He takes a faggot handkerchief from his pocket and mops it off his face. “I guess that does it,” he says. He’s not paying attention to the girl, slumped over and unconscious by this time. He starts unplugging cameras and cables. Making a big production out of packing up. “You guys can go. Get your fifty bucks from Tito on your way out.” Tito’s the pock-marked Mexican who’s supposed to pay us after we’re finished. All us guys look at each other. We’ve done our thing, but nobody, except maybe that sobbing queer Frat Fuck, really wants to go. The problem is, we’ve got a naked girl, bound and submissive, totally helpless, right in front of us. We’re all rock hard and ready to pop one off. Some of us ain’t had a woman in a long while. I don’t know who moves first. Don’t know and don’t care. Together, we go for her. Gorilla punches Zibberstein right in his shylock-snout and I hear the crunch-sound of smashed cartilage. He doubles over in pain, holding his nose and squirming on the concrete floor like a cockroach that’s been turned on its back. We become wolves, rabid and hungry. One guy takes her hands from the hook. A few others undo the ropes. She’s flung to the ground and we fall on top of her. Reminds me of starving vultures or a pack of lions that I watched eat a wildebeest carcass on TV once. Dicks – small, big, fat, thin – are crammed into her: between the cheeks of her ass, between those blood-smeared twat lips, into her gaping mouth. The guys who can’t find holes make their own. They fuck her in her belly wounds and in the gashes on the sides of her thighs. Dracula, that goddamned freak, is actually grinding his cock into the cut on her cheek. I’d kick him in his Goth-death nutsack if I wasn’t doing her as fast as I could, my dick sliding in and out of her blood-lubed snatch. Moments later, we turn on each other, shoving hands, legs, balls, cocks out of the way. Biting one another if we get too close. There’s cursing and swearing, moaning, thrusting, grunting, and the unmistakable sound of skin slapping on skin. Gang-raping this gang-slayed bitch just like it’s done in the videos we all own. Just like the movies that we watch on the Internet or own on DVD. Through it all, I hear laughter. Its starts off quiet, but then it gets louder and louder until I think there’s a maniac in the fucking room, cackling his brains out. We all stop what we’re doing, confused by the noise. Zibberstein sits up. Blood gushes from his nose, but he’s smiling, his white teeth slicked with crimson. He rocks back and forth, watching us, rubbing his eyes like the sight of us fucking that dead slab of meat is the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He pounds the floor with one balled-up hand and holds his side with the other. “You all keep going,” Zibberstein says. Tears pour down his cheeks, he’s giggling so hard. “It doesn’t make any difference now.” “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Gorilla asks. “It’s too late,” Zibberstein says. His words are spaced between more of his crazy ass laughter. “Do whatever you want. You’re all infected. I have no doubt.” Gorilla reaches down and grips Zibberstein around his skinny throat. “What the fuck are you talking about?” “There’s no video.” Zibberstein goes on as if Gorilla isn’t yelling in his face. “Get your money and beat it. Spend it while you can.” “Fuck this,” someone growls. I hear scuffling. Shit being knocked over. Someone manages to find a light switch and flips it. Now we’re all flooded with the bright white glow. We all get a good, long look at Zibberstein. He looks… Sick. The parts of him that aren’t bloody are spotted with purple spots and open sores. There’s bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He’s so fucking thin that we can see his bones, sharp and blue-white, beneath his pale flesh. Without realizing it, we all draw back from him. He looks like a fucking corpse. “You’re all getting what you deserve,” he says. “She told me what you did to her. All of you. You fuckers treated her like shit because you thought you could get away with it. Some of you raped her and some of you just watched. I know. We were in the same clinic together and she told me everything.” “Clinic?” Frat Fuck sputters. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “What kind of clinic?” “You’re all going to die,” Zibberstein says, smiling. “And so was she. I merely sped up the inevitable. Her agony wasn’t even a quarter of what yours is going to be.” He touches his sores and points his fingers at us. “You moron fucks.” Zibberstein claps his hands like a child. “You dumbass rapist cocksuckers drank her blood and it’s all over your fingers and faces. Now it’s inside of you. How does it feel, huh? You’ve got it. All of you. I made sure of that.” Frat Fuck looks scared. “Got what?” he asks. Zibberstein points at the girl and then points at all of us. “Don’t you understand?” He scratches the sores and lesions that blot his waxy, white face. And we’re glaring at him with all the hatred we’ve got between us. Zibberstein climbs to his feet and prepares to go up the stairs. “You stupid, braindead fucks,” he says. “Didn’t you know?” He goes higher and higher with each step he takes. “That girl you all stabbed…” He’s one footfall away from reaching the door. “She had AIDS.”

Gangslay

By: Hallam Heathcoat

        It’s like those gang bang videos that you buy online or get at the adult bookstore in the seedier parts of town. A bunch of guys, angry and anxious, here in this random basement because they answered the handwritten ad they found stuffed between the pages of some skin mag they subscribe to. Hard Riding or Filthy Fucking or Cum Hither. Shit like that. That’s what this is like.

        Here in the basement, it’s kinda dark. There’s some candles and whatnot, which I guess is more for effect than anything else. The place is split in half by a sheet of canvas or tarpaulin. Hard to tell.

        The guy running this thing, he’s a little weird. On the phone, he said his name was Johnny Zibberstein. And I thought, Zibberstein. What kinda fuckin’ name is Zibberstein? He gave me directions to the house, told me that I could wear whatever I wanted, but that it all had to come off for the camera. For the video we’re making. He said to bring a knife of my choice, doesn’t matter what kind, as long as I can make it slice, work it into flesh and whatnot, which brings us to the matter at hand:

        On the other side of the sheet that divides all us guys into a compressed, stifling square, there’s a girl. She’s naked and bound to a pole with her hands cuffed above her head. There are some monitors and cameras propped around her. Zibberstein laid out all the rules for me during that brief call:

        You lose your clothes. You take your knife. You get to make one – and ONLY one – cut on the girl’s body. It can be as long and as deep as you like, but the minute the knifepoint leaves her flesh, you’re through. That’s the money shot. That’s a done deal. You can take as long as you want, you can say whatever you want to her, but the thing you’ve got to remember is: one, one, one.

        Now that’s gonna be interesting. The guys here…I don’t know. Some of them are doing this because it’s a way to vent; that girl in there, tied up behind the sheet, she’s their mothers, beating them and telling them they’re no good. She’s their ex-girlfriend, who the guy caught balling his best buddy or next door neighbor or what have you. She’s their best friend’s wife or the cop who gave them a speeding ticket or the high maintenance bitch in high school who said no when they asked her out on a date.

        A whole room of rage and frustration. A whole room and just one girl.

        I look around at these assholes and ask myself why she’s doing this. Why is she gonna let any guy walk in there and cut her, hurt her, punish her that way?

        On the phone, Zibberstein assured me that the girl wants to participate, that she’s one hundred percent willing and she’s being compensated for her time and all that mess. But still, I was thinking about how it could possibly matter if, by the end of the entire thing, she’s mutilated or dead. Probably both. At that point, Zibberstein told me that it wasn’t my goddamned problem, that if I was such a moralist that I shouldn’t show up and ruin it for everyone else.

        There are a lot of dudes here. Twenty, I think, me included.

        The guy to my right, I call him Dracula. He’s pale and small, but he’s toned. Like he works out just enough to be slim and tight. He has black hair, probably dyes it that color, and it’s long enough for him to tuck it behind his ears. He wears silver rings with bats and skulls and spiders on them. Goth-death shit. He’s got a tattoo on his upper left arm, but I can’t see it. Too dark. With him, he brought a butterfly knife.

        Then, there’s Gorilla. Not his real name. I don’t know any of these fuckers’ real names. He’s huge. You know he’s popping steroids and hormones, that he could rip your head off with one hand. He’s bare-chested, wearing army fatigues. His hair’s shaved down to the point that it’s nothing more than bristles that fuzz up his head. He looks mad. His nostrils are steaming and quivering. Perspiration creeps down his temples, dots his overdeveloped pecs. He’s got a Bowie knife.

        Blackbeard is the asshole on my left. He wears a red bandana tied motherfucker-badass style on his head. He has a beard thick as bear’s fur, probably feels like barbed wire if you care to touch it. Leather pants. Flannel shirt unbuttoned, showing his chest off like he’s some prize. Dickhead brought a butcher knife.

        My least favorite is Frat Fuck, the college boy with blue eyes and dimples, khaki pants and loafers, a blue button up shirt. He has a Letterman’s jacket on and I think, That’s stupid. It’s got his name all over it. But I can’t read it in the dark.

        There are other guys here, but they remind me of myself: grimy, unshaven, desperation wafting off them in fumes. Them and me, we all got one thing in common: we want a piece of that cunt behind the curtain. I’m thinking about where I’m gonna make my first cut, about how deep and long it should be, when Zibberstein comes down the stairs. Each step creaks beneath his feet.

        He’s a short little prick, five-six at the most. Black hair, or at least it looks black. A black shirt with a red tie and red pants. Sneakers. Got something in his hair, gel or spray. Beats me. He’s skinny too, probably weighs a buck thirty, tops. He’s a tiny, queer fucker. I wonder, how did he end up in charge of a freak show like this? No matter. He’s got the attitude and machismo of a guy three times his size. Superior-acting punk. I don’t like him.

        “You.” Zibberstein’s pointing at Dracula. “You’re going first. Take off your pants and come with me.”

        The vampire faggot smiles and drops his leather pants like he’s about to take a shit, smug and happy about it. He’s sporting wood. I don’t know why he’s grinning because his pecker’s nothing to write home about.

        Zibberstein snorts. “Got your knife?”

        Dracula smirks. “Yeah.”

        “Good.”

        Zibberstein walks over to the tarpaulin and tears it down.

        There she is. There’s the girl.

        She’s surrounded by candles and, sure enough, there are the cameras and monitors and everything that you’d expect to be a part of a sleazy affair such as this. Her tits are the size of melons and I can feel myself getting hard and heavy just looking at ‘em. She’s blond with dark roots at her scalp. I wanna make a crack about the carpet not matching the drapes, but her twat’s hairless and glistening, puffy like she’s just been screwed good or something. The gag in her mouth is a thick strip of white cloth, nothing special. The pole that she’s tied to is encased in a big bucket of cement. The handcuffs that bite into her wrists hang from a large meat hook hammered into one of the beams overhead. She struggles, tears pouring down her cheeks. I laugh, knowing how useless it is. That bitch ain’t going nowhere.

        Dracula. He approaches her, waving his knife back and forth, acting real menacing…but then he stops.

        His eyes widen. He frowns. He casts a look first at Zibberstein, then at the rest of us. He freezes just enough so we can see through his pasty-face vampire act. He squints, the arm-wielding knife stiff in half-extension.

        His face…it’s like he recognizes her or something.

        “What the fuck are you waiting for?” Zibberstein asks. “Cameras are rolling. Hurry up and do it.”

        The toughness has gone out of Dracula’s step. He goes forward, meek, and brings the blade close to her skin. The hand that grips it hesitates, trembles slightly. The girl, meanwhile, is sobbing, twisting this way and that, delivering a top notch performance. Dracula…all the excitement’s drained out of him. He grabs her face and pinches her cheeks. He raises his knife and drags the point of it in a slant from the corner of her eye to her jaw. The girl squeals through her gag and a crimson rivulet seeps from the wound he’s just made. It drips in fat drops from her chin. Dracula folds his knife and is about to step back, but Zibberstein stops him.

        “No,” he says, “you’re not finished. You’ve got to taste it.”

        The other guys around me shift and mumble.

        “You heard me.” Zibberstein pokes him hard in the chest. “It’s all part of the deal. You’ve got to.”

        Gorilla grabs his crotch and says, “What kinda fucking movie is this?”

        “A blood fetishist video,” Zibberstein replies coolly. “Our audience wants to see cuts and knives. They want to jack off to you guys slicing the girl and drinking her blood.”

        “I didn’t hear none of that on the phone,” Gorilla says. He slumps down, brooding.

        “Tough shit,” Zibberstein tells him.

        Dracula smirks and plants his palm against the facial cut he’s just made. He licks the blood from his hand and strolls back to his seat, strutting like he’s got the biggest dick in the room.

        Zibberstein scowls at Gorilla. “You can go next.”

        “Fine,” Gorilla says. “I ain’t scared of a little blood.”

        He gets up, drops his fatigues and kicks them away. He’s big and pumped with a tiny, erect dink. He looks ridiculous, going over there still wearing his socks and army boots. The girl’s nose is leaking snot. Her mascara’s running. She’s racking her body left and right, sagging from her restraints.

        “Yeah, cunt.” Gorilla steps up to her and squeezes one of her massive tits.

        But, weird as it is, the same thing happens to him. Something flashes in his eyes. If I was crazy, I’d say it’s like he recognizes her too. Whatever it is, he doesn’t let it paralyze him the way it did with Dracula. He keeps going, teasing her nipple with his tongue and sucking on it hungrily, like she’s lactating or some shit. While the girl’s wailing and sobbing, Gorilla takes his bowie knife and cuts the nipple off with a single slice, severing a chunk of her breast in the process. Blood goes everywhere. Flows down the girl’s abdomen and over her pussy. Gorilla ain’t fazed. He mashes the tit against his lips, squeezes it so that the blood pumps into his mouth. Then, just to show what a hardcore prick he is, he licks the cut Dracula made before he struts back to his seat and challenges Zibberstein with a pissed-off stare, his log-sized arms folded over his hulking chest.

        “Who’s up?” Zibberstein asks, impatiently. “How about you, college boy? Wanna go next?”

        Frat Fuck, Mr. Harvard, Mr. Squeaky-Clean-Scholarship stands up and undoes his belt, drops his pants. His boxers are clean and striped. You know mommy’s still doing his fucking laundry. One of those faggoty ass beaded necklaces that all the young assholes are wearing now is nestled against his collar bone. I think about tearing it off of him and snapping him in half. He ditches the boxers and picks up his knife.

        I’ll be damned if he isn’t just as affected as those other two.

        Only, he’s more melodramatic about it. He lowers the knife and looks questioningly, even pleadingly at Zibberstein. He backs up and his gaze falls. He’s conflicted. Suddenly doesn’t want to do this. His face is a mixture of anger and fear. The girl is bawling so hard that she can’t see any of this or any of us.

        Zibberstein’s not having it. I admit that he catches me off guard when he whips out a gun.

        “Hurry up, motherfucker,” he says, pointing the barrel straight at Frat Fuck. “You came here and you’re gonna do it. No backing out. None of you is gonna back out on me now.”

        Frat Fuck…he starts crying. Really crying. Almost as hard as the roped cunt we’re all supposed to carve up. It’s fucking pathetic.

        “Now!” Zibberstein shouts. He pokes the gun into the kid’s side.

        Frat Fuck inches forward with – I shit you not – baby steps. He holds his blade out like it disgusts him. He moves closer to the girl and closer and closer. Finally, when he’s near enough that he’s splashed by some of her blood, he makes a tiny cut, a centimeter or so, on her belly. Immediately after he’s through, he drops the knife, nearly loses his balance and sinks to his knees, on the brink of passing out.

        “Lick it up,” Zibberstein orders him. “Right from her navel.”

        The kid keeps his eyes shut, winces as his skin comes in contact with hers. His tongue slides out of the corner of his mouth and he runs the tip of it through the cut.

        “Not enough.” Zibberstein cocks the gun and it makes an evil snick. “That’s not enough, you fucking pansy.”

        Frat Fuck grits his teeth, stifles his sobs, and stares at the girl with watery-hound dog eyes. He’s still kneeling. His fingertips dig into her thighs.

        “Like this,” Zibberstein says. He grabs the back of Frat Fuck’s head and grinds it into her stomach, rubbing it back and forth, agitated as all hell. As he lets up, the kid pulls away, stumbles to his seat. Once he’s there, he curls up into himself, whimpers, and wraps his arms around his knees. I think he’s praying. He won’t look at nobody.

        “Pussy,” Gorilla says.

        The other guys laugh in agreement.

        “Your turn.” Zibberstein gestures at Blackbeard to do his thing.

        It goes on and on like this. Each of the guys grips his knife, and then he pales and loses his nerve once he’s in that ring of candlelight and able to get a good, long look at her face. I try to glance at her every now and then, but the cuts and the blood, whether it’s sucked, lapped, or drunk, are far more interesting. Besides, I’ll get to see her plenty once it’s my turn at bat. This happens much sooner than I expect.

        “Get up,” Zibberstein says to me. “Get the fuck up. You’re going.”

        “Ain’t no thing,” I tell him.

        I do the whole bad-ass ritual: I stand up, peel off my tank top, kick my way out of my battered jeans. Lose the socks and shoes. I pump my boner a few times just for show. From what I’ve seen, I’m the best hung bastard out of all these whipped panty-chasers. I don’t waste time. I go right up to her. And then I…

        Aw, fuck.

        I get a good, long look at her face.

        The shit starts crawling around in my brain. I peer in the candlelight, frozen, mulling it over with Zibberstein making his macho little threats behind me. This girl…the more I think about it, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen her somewhere before. It’s not just her face…it’s her tits…and her bare, bloody ass. It’s how she moves, thrashing from the pain with what’s left of her energy against the cuffs and ropes. I’m hesitating, holding the knife…

        Now I remember.

        Shit, it was a long time ago. Well, a year, anyway. But, yeah, we’re acquaintances, you might say. She’s that bitch stripper that works at the Twin Sins club right off of Jurupa Avenue. Stage name’s Scarlet or whatever. Overcharges for lap dances and has any guy thrown out that requests a hand job. Cunt had me tossed to the curb once. Goddamn bouncer kicked me so hard in the junk that I was pissing blood for a week. Holy fuck, I was mad. I thought about buying a gun off this one drug dealer I know, a skinny Puerto Rican answers to Bean. I was gonna go down there, shoot that meathead musclefuck bouncer in his fucking head. But nah. It didn’t work out that way.

        As luck would have it, Scarlet liked to walk home. Fuck if I know why. She’s a stripper; how smart can she be? Dumb bitch. She was a stupid bitch and went and did a stupid-bitch thing. I watched her, followed her until she came to this vacant lot littered with hobos and homos ass-fucking each other in the bushes. Got her alone and I got out my knife.

        Ironic as fuck, isn’t it?

        She looked scared, but she didn’t try and run. I cut away her shirt and bra, poking my blade into those huge ass tits of hers. I squeezed them and felt them and rolled them around until they were all red and sore with my handprints. My dick was flaming hot when I tore off her jeans and ripped her panties away. I put myself inside her.

        Wouldn’t you know it…that little cunt was already wet.

        Oh, she put up a good enough fight, I guess. They all do, at first. But then she came to accept it. She just laid there and cried into her fist while I was stretching and filling her filthy hole hard and good. I kept asking her how she liked it, where her fucking goon boyfriend was now, all the smart-ass shit that popped into my mind. I had her wrists pinned above her head and my blade held to her throat while we were connected at the crotch, me banging her and riding her like she was the best lay of my life. What can I say? Just wasn’t her night.

        When I finished, I pulled up my pants, spat on her, and took off on foot. Tossed my shoes and knife into a trash bin, then crashed in a roach motel that reeked of smoke and sluts. Never thought I’d see her again.

        Well, seems I was wrong.

        I smile and step up to her. I make a deep, searing cut that spans down the middle of her chest. Kinda like an autopsy incision, but it’s not exactly Y-shaped. More blood. More crying. I pry the edges of the cut open with my hands, press them together until both palms hold an equal amount of blood. I bring them to my lips and drink, slurp it like it’s a Coors or Heineken. I flick the rest at Zibberstein. He takes a faggot handkerchief from his pocket and mops it off his face.

        “I guess that does it,” he says. He’s not paying attention to the girl, slumped over and unconscious by this time. He starts unplugging cameras and cables. Making a big production out of packing up. “You guys can go. Get your fifty bucks from Tito on your way out.”

        Tito’s the pock-marked Mexican who’s supposed to pay us after we’re finished.

        All us guys look at each other. We’ve done our thing, but nobody, except maybe that sobbing queer Frat Fuck, really wants to go.

        The problem is, we’ve got a naked girl, bound and submissive, totally helpless, right in front of us. We’re all rock hard and ready to pop one off. Some of us ain’t had a woman in a long while. I don’t know who moves first. Don’t know and don’t care.

        Together, we go for her. Gorilla punches Zibberstein right in his shylock-snout and I hear the crunch-sound of smashed cartilage. He doubles over in pain, holding his nose and squirming on the concrete floor like a cockroach that’s been turned on its back.

        We become wolves, rabid and hungry. One guy takes her hands from the hook. A few others undo the ropes. She’s flung to the ground and we fall on top of her. Reminds me of starving vultures or a pack of lions that I watched eat a wildebeest carcass on TV once.

        Dicks – small, big, fat, thin – are crammed into her: between the cheeks of her ass, between those blood-smeared twat lips, into her gaping mouth. The guys who can’t find holes make their own. They fuck her in her belly wounds and in the gashes on the sides of her thighs. Dracula, that goddamned freak, is actually grinding his cock into the cut on her cheek. I’d kick him in his Goth-death nutsack if I wasn’t doing her as fast as I could, my dick sliding in and out of her blood-lubed snatch.

        Moments later, we turn on each other, shoving hands, legs, balls, cocks out of the way. Biting one another if we get too close. There’s cursing and swearing, moaning, thrusting, grunting, and the unmistakable sound of skin slapping on skin.

        Gang-raping this gang-slayed bitch just like it’s done in the videos we all own. Just like the movies that we watch on the Internet or own on DVD.

        Through it all, I hear laughter. Its starts off quiet, but then it gets louder and louder until I think there’s a maniac in the fucking room, cackling his brains out. We all stop what we’re doing, confused by the noise.

        Zibberstein sits up. Blood gushes from his nose, but he’s smiling, his white teeth slicked with crimson. He rocks back and forth, watching us, rubbing his eyes like the sight of us fucking that dead slab of meat is the funniest thing he’s ever seen. He pounds the floor with one balled-up hand and holds his side with the other.

        “You all keep going,” Zibberstein says. Tears pour down his cheeks, he’s giggling so hard. “It doesn’t make any difference now.”

        “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Gorilla asks.

        “It’s too late,” Zibberstein says. His words are spaced between more of his crazy ass laughter. “Do whatever you want. You’re all infected. I have no doubt.”

        Gorilla reaches down and grips Zibberstein around his skinny throat. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

        “There’s no video.” Zibberstein goes on as if Gorilla isn’t yelling in his face. “Get your money and beat it. Spend it while you can.”

        “Fuck this,” someone growls.

        I hear scuffling. Shit being knocked over. Someone manages to find a light switch and flips it. Now we’re all flooded with the bright white glow.

        We all get a good, long look at Zibberstein. He looks…

        Sick.

        The parts of him that aren’t bloody are spotted with purple spots and open sores. There’s bags under his eyes like he hasn’t slept in weeks. He’s so fucking thin that we can see his bones, sharp and blue-white, beneath his pale flesh. Without realizing it, we all draw back from him. He looks like a fucking corpse.

        “You’re all getting what you deserve,” he says. “She told me what you did to her. All of you. You fuckers treated her like shit because you thought you could get away with it. Some of you raped her and some of you just watched. I know. We were in the same clinic together and she told me everything.”

        “Clinic?” Frat Fuck sputters. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. “What kind of clinic?”

        “You’re all going to die,” Zibberstein says, smiling. “And so was she. I merely sped up the inevitable. Her agony wasn’t even a quarter of what yours is going to be.”

        He touches his sores and points his fingers at us.

        “You moron fucks.” Zibberstein claps his hands like a child. “You dumbass rapist cocksuckers drank her blood and it’s all over your fingers and faces. Now it’s inside of you. How does it feel, huh? You’ve got it. All of you. I made sure of that.”

        Frat Fuck looks scared. “Got what?” he asks.

        Zibberstein points at the girl and then points at all of us.

        “Don’t you understand?”

        He scratches the sores and lesions that blot his waxy, white face. And we’re glaring at him with all the hatred we’ve got between us. Zibberstein climbs to his feet and prepares to go up the stairs.

        “You stupid, braindead fucks,” he says. “Didn’t you know?”

        He goes higher and higher with each step he takes.

        “That girl you all stabbed…”

        He’s one footfall away from reaching the door.

        “She had AIDS.”

Hallam Heathcoat is a weirdo who never sent me a bio.

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