At first Bill was disgusted by the thought that had quickly flitted through his meager brain. He easily pushed it out to make way for the barren loneliness, self-loathing, obsession with Lenore, and general emptiness that were his mind’s usual stock and trade. But the thought returned. Rarely at first, but soon with increasing frequency. It was hard for him to remember time anymore, beyond whether it was morning, noon, or night. But now what he knew was a sick and disgusting thought crawled through and overpowered his feeble psyche for all three.
He could eat, oh how he could eat. And he could certainly still drink his Alamo beer, though it was less and less effective as self-medication. But he could not sleep. Drunk, sweating heavily, and days unwashed on that hot, Arlen Texas night, Bill gave in to his depraved fantasy. He knew things would never be the same. He knew he would likely pay for what he was about to do with his life. He did not care. The only thing that mattered to him now was his need to satisfy the dark lust that he could no longer distinguish from himself, or his soul.
He slowly, casually walked out of his house, not bothering to shut the door behind him, and across the alley through the starry but moonless night. Arlen was not the kind of town where folks locked their doors. But people on Rainey Street would be sure that their doors stayed locked for years after the horror that was about to ensue. Bill’s over-labored heart thudded in his flabby, filthy, chest. At first he weakly tried to tell himself that he would only walk to the edge of the Hills’ property, and do no more. He knew this was a lie. At first he weaved somewhat drunkenly, but as the adrenaline shot through his system with the knowledge of what he was about to do his stride straightened. And his penis hardened.
Quietly, remembering his basic training for the Army, Bill stalked through the Hills’ lawn and slid their back patio door open. He lifted his arms above his head and turned sideways, and as he entered the peak of his large stomach grazed the edge of the door. His fat buttocks brushed against the doorframe.
Bobby’s door opened silently — Bill knew that Hank always kept the hinges well lubed with WD-40. The thought of its slipperiness and chemical odor excited Bill. Yes, he was becoming quite excited now. He stepped across the room to Bobby’s bed, watching the fat boy, who he now affectionately referred to in his fantasy as “the piglet,” while he slept. Bill started to reach toward the boy, but then hesitated in order to wipe his filthy hands on his grimy pants.
The piglet must have smelled him, or sensed the impending danger through some other means. He took a long but shallow breath and began to yawn. Just as his eyes were clamped their tightest Bill seized the boy’s chubby throat in his huge, hairy, dirty hands. The piglet’s eyes blinked open, but it was too late. Bill could feel the throat struggling in an attempt to reopen, but this weak boy’s neck was no match for his manly grip.
The boy’s eyes first showed only wild terror, then confused recognition. Then the pain must have shot through the piglet, because he grimaced, winced, and began to flop pathetically. Bill pushed down heavily on the boy’s body, first with his forearms and elbows, then with his stomach — their fat pushing together, but Bill’s eventually enveloped the piglet’s. Bill began to giggle, quietly, under his breath, as Bobby’s eyes began to melt from pain into sadness. Bill thought the piglet was beginning to look away from him, and this made him angrier, but when he followed the boy’s gaze he saw that the piglet was looking at a picture near the bed. It was of the neighbor girl, Connie Souphanousinphone. Then the piglet’s eyes dulled.
Bobby, for a brief break in Bill’s fevered imaginations a human being again, ceased his death struggle. Now Bill could do as he wished with the piglet. Bill realized that he had ejaculated a copious amount of semen into his pants at some point during the strangulation of the piglet. He had not noticed when it happened. It did not matter. There was more where that came from. He slowly unbuttoned the piglet’s nightshirt, and slid off its pajama pants. It had not been wearing underwear. Again, Bill giggled quietly under his breath.
As he thrust into the tight anus he felt it split, first once, then again, leaving it a wet, ragged hole. The blood was still warm, and it further lubricated his semen-covered penis. It ran down and dripped off of his stinking testicles — he had smelled them and his own anus even over his other foul odors as he removed his trousers. He pulled the piglet’s arm back sharply, and at an unnatural angle, and heard a pop. He was wheezing in his ecstasy. He worried that he would be heard before he had a chance to begin the rest of his night’s work.
His anger grew again, hotter and darker this time, as he thrust into the piglet’s fat little body. He further twisted the bent-backward arm and both heard and felt the tendons snap. With his other hand he punched the back of the piglet’s head twice, and then pressed its face into the pillow as hard as he could, continuing to wrench the arm, now only connected by loose flesh, around.
Bill clenched his teeth, seized violently three, then four, then five times, and was finished with the piglet. He slid slowly out, savoring the sensation. He wrapped the piglet in the bed covers, and whispered in the dead boy’s ear, “piggys in a blanket,” then he giggled again under his breath to himself and walked casually out of the room, pausing for a moment to take one last look at his work, before heading back through the living room and toward the garage. He had not bothered to dress himself, or even wipe the blood, semen or grime from his fat, hairy flesh. On his way to the garage, he stopped in the living room and defecated on the Hills’ coffee table, smearing the feces around with his wide, hairy, rear end.
How many times had he been in this garage, obediently doing as Hank had told him, begging only for the company and attention of his friends and their families? Bill was a stupid and forgetful man, but he knew exactly where Hank kept the duct tape, the tie-down straps for his truck, the drill bits and the power drill — right on its charger of course.
Bill gathered these things and began to walk back into the house. He stopped then, turned, and went back to the workbench for Hank’s largest claw hammer, which was hanging in its place on the pegboard. Quietly he walked back through the living room, his eyes and nose fixed on the pile of filth he had left smeared across the Hills’ coffee table. The reek was terrible, even by his standards. He knew he would have to hurry now, before the smell woke Hank and Peggy. This angered him, as he wanted to take his time and make the evening last. But he would only have to hurry through the next few steps. Then he could take all the time that he wanted, at least until morning. He walked into the master bedroom feeling, for the first time in years, since his high school football or early Army days, powerful. Quietly he laid everything but the claw hammer at the foot of the bed. Hank stirred. Bill strode across the room, knocked Peggy’s glasses from the nightstand, raised the hammer high in his right hand, and dropped his filthy stomach, with a fair amount of his own semen and their son’s blood still covering it, over Peggy’s face, as he brought the hammer down, hard and square on Hank’s temple.
Hank kicked and spasmed once but after that was still. Bill couldn’t check if he was still breathing because Peggy was struggling under him. She was a strong woman, of course, but her strength did not match Bills’ massiveness. “Peggy,” Bill said breathily, “stop fighting or I will hurt Bobby.” She froze, and Bill giggled through pursed lips. His penis was hardening again.
“Don’t you move, and don’t you make a sound, or I’ll hurt Bobby, remember?” Bill said as he slowly began to drag his foul weight across and off of Peggy’s face. Once he was off, Peggy blinked through her grimaced face. She instinctively felt for her glasses, and whispered “Hank. Hank?” With her other hand she reached for her husband and felt sticky wetness. She gasped “Hank!” Bill had seen enough and could stand no more of this disobedience — she was both moving and talking. Since he was holding the hammer in his right hand, he punched her savagely three, perhaps five times in the head and face with the left. As he did so he screamed, “Damn you Lenore! Do as you are told!” A wave of worry shook Bill. How loud had that been? Could any of the Gribbles, or Souphanousinphones heard? Probably not Boomhaur. He tried to remember if he had ever heard Hank yell from his house. It was no use, his dull mind could not recall.
Peggy was not the kind of woman who became hysterical, even at a time like this, but Bill could tell she was scared, shocked, and dazed. He giggled. Hank groaned. Bill walked quickly around the bed and hit him with the hammer again, this time in the forehead. Peggy moaned and sobbed “Hank…please stop.” As Bill tossed the hammer to the pile with the other things and pulled Hank’s limp body off of the mattress and drug it towards the foot of the bed he said, “Now Peggy, I hurt you and you just kept going. So now I’m gonna hurt Bobby. If you keep going I’ll hurt him worse.” He giggled again, thinking to himself of the boy’s already lifeless body in the bedroom down the hall. Bill could sense in the darkness that Peggy had become tense and rigid on the bed when he said that her little man would be harmed. This excited him. As Bill used the duct tape to hog-tie Hank, he realized that his penis was again fully erect. Lust filled him.
He stood and walked back to the head of the bed. At this angle, his befouled, turgid penis and hairy, stinking testicles, matted in sticky wetness, were at level with, and no more than six inches away from, Peggy’s face. “You’ve done me wrong, Lenore,” Bill said, panting, “Now you’re going to do me right.” He reached roughly with both hands to twist Peggy’s head, and with it Peggy’s mouth, toward him. She resisted in disgust, but two hard punches to her jaw loosened both her neck and her mouth. Bill shoved the first three fingers of each hand into her mouth, pulling her top and bottom teeth apart, and then pushed his penis, the penis that had been in Peggy’s dead son’s anus less than half an hour ago, into the gap between.
The combination of Bill’s pent up frustration with Lenore and his long-simmering desire for Peggy lead him to ejaculate quickly down her throat. As he pulled his penis, now cleansed of the piglet’s blood and feces and his own semen but not the bluish-green fungus that grew at its tip, out of Peggy’s mouth, she vomited. “Hmmm, looks like someone made a tasty dinner tonight but didn’t invite me” Bill said in a friendly voice. He then took the duct tape and tie-down straps from the foot of the bed. He decided that he had heard enough from women in this life — enough of their lies, enough of their insults, enough of their rejection, enough of their shrill arguments. He had no more use for Peggy’s mouth, so he taped it shut as she continued to dry heave. He then used the tie-downs to strap Peggy to the bed, with wrists secured to the headboard and her spread legs tied to the footboard at the ankles.
He walked into the Hills’ master bathroom, with the dual sinks. Anger and jealousy were all that washed over him therein at these small reminders, the two sinks, of the quietly loving marriage that the Hills shared. He found a pair of long scissors under what seemed to be Peggy’s sink.
Bill laid down on the bed next to Peggy, his face inches from hers, and said “You know Peggy I’m a barber and I don’t hardly ever get to use any scissors. It’s because I’m a barber for the Army. I bet you didn’t know that about me. It’s because in the Army you only get to use clippers most of the time.” He ran his fingers through her hair, which was short for a woman’s, but seemed long to him, with his own male pattern baldness and his life where virtually the only human beings he had any contact with were men, many of them shaved or crew-cut grunts. He slowly waved the scissors in front of her face, giggling. He grasped a lock of her hair between his thumb and index finger pulled, and snipped it off with the scissors, leaving only a crookedly-cut half-inch or so. He sprinkled the hair down the length of her body. Then he repeated the process. And again, each time pulling a random lock of hair and snipping it. Peggy seemed to have been crying when he returned from the bathroom; he thought it was from the forced fellatio. Now the tears streamed down her face. This charged Bill’s anger yet again. What right did this woman, with her home and marriage and child and body parts have to cry? On the next cut Bill again pulled up a lock of hair, but instead of simply cutting it dug the sharp tips of the scissors into Peggy’s head around the hair before cutting out hair, roots, and a small piece of scalp. Peggy screamed through the duct tape. At the foot of the bed Hank groaned again, and said weakly “Peg…Peggy…the boy…” Bill decided it was time to put the power drill to use.
He got up and walked to the foot of the bed and lifted Hank’s hog-tied body, putting him on his knees with his shoulders leaned back against the foot of the bed. Hank was grunting, moaning, and squinting in the darkness. Bill picked up the power drill and chose a medium-sized bit. He stared at Hank as he fixed the bit in the drill. Bill squeezed the trigger twice quickly, and the whirring whine of the drill seemed to confuse Hank as it caught his attention. Bill reached out with his other arm and dug the tip of his thumb into the bleeding welt where he had earlier hit Hank on the temple with the hammer. Hank jerked and groaned. Bill’s face was only inches from Hank’s in the darkness and he could see Hank’s eyes roll back in his head. His head then fell forward — he had passed out again.
Bill took his hand away from the wound and went to Hank’s nightstand. Hank’s glasses were still there, and the scissors still lay on the bed near Peggy’s face. Bill turned on the lamp, and took the glasses and scissors to the foot of the bed. He set down the drill, scissors, and glasses a few feet from Hank, stood up, took a step back, grasped his half-flaccid penis in his right hand, pressed the heel of his left palm into his lower back, and released a jet of hot, stinking urine onto Hank’s head, face, neck, chest, and stomach. After a few seconds Hank began to stir. After a few more he was shaking his head back and forth weakly, spitting, coughing, and gagging. After what seemed like more than a minute, and several squirts and shakes, Bill had no urine left in him. He picked up the glasses, which only had a few drops of urine on them, and gently placed them on Hank’s face. Then he picked up the drill again.
Hank blinked, and squinted at the monster that stood before him. “B-Bill? Bill! No!” His head fell forward and he began to shake, sniffle, and sob. “Why are you doin’ this?” Hank asked, his voice a mixture of sadness, pain, and disappointment. “We’re friends.”
“Friends?” Bill asked. “Look at me. Look at my life. How could a friend let this happen to me?” Bill asked. Then, in an overblown voice that showed his sarcasm “I know, because you’ve got it so rough. It doesn’t matter that you have a wife and a boy,” at this he turned his head to the side to suppress the giggle that had begun to force its way up his throat, “a wife and boy, a family. No, none of that matters because poor Hank has a narrow urethra. Poor Hank’s narrow urethra is why he can’t help old Bill.” “Well friend, I’m your friend, and I want to help you with your narrow urethra” Bill said as he picked up the scissors. He stuck them in the leg of Hanks boxer shorts. “Please Bill, no.” Hank said quietly. “Why not, friend?” Bill asked, “I just want to help you, we’re friends, right?” He cut off Hank’s boxer shorts and picked up the drill. “Bill please…” Hank whispered as Bill picked up the drill with his right hand and grasped and pulled Hank’s shriveled penis with his left. “Please help you with your narrow urethra?” Bill asked, “Sure thing friend!” Bill pulled the drill’s trigger and plunged the bit into the hole in his fist where he squeezed Hank’s penis. Bill felt his left hand become warm and wet, he could also feel the vibration of the drill to his right hand and the vibration of the bit in his left as it dug deeper and deeper into the rubbery flesh of Hank’s penis, boring out a larger and larger hole. Hank was screaming. Bill had only heard Hank scream in pain once, only briefly, the moment he broke his ankle in the Texas state high school football championship game. That was nothing compared to this, though. When all Bill could feel in his left hand was a warm, wet mess, he began to worry that he might hurt himself with the drill bit. He released the trigger, and without bothering to reverse the drill, yanked the bit out of the hanging, tattered flesh that used to be Hank’s penis. Hank threw his head back, wept, and whimpered. Bill threw the drill in the corner of the room, and wiped his hand across pimply, hairy, chest. “There, now you don’t have a narrow urethra anymore!” Bill said proudly. He realized Peggy was emitting short panicked screams, muffled by the duct tape, and thrashing around against the tie downs.
Bill picked up the hammer and thumbed the claw end. It wasn’t exactly sharp, but it would do. Standing over Peggy, with a terrible grimace on his face, Bill raised the hammer, and brought the claw end down hard, digging it into her scull and scalp near where he had cut the flesh earlier. Her eyes rolled back in her head as she tensed once and then went limp. Bill pounded his palm against the head of the hammer, digging the claws in deeper. When he was satisfied that they were deep enough, he pushed down firmly on Peggy’s face with one hand and jerked back roughly on the handle of the hammer with the other. It was working! A large gash opened on Peggy’s forehead, and on the third jerk it connected with where he had previously cut her. By the fourth pull the gash was big enough for Bill to get the tips of the four fingers on the hand he had been using to pull on the hammer into it. Grasping the flap of scalp between his fingertips and thumb, and pushing down hard on Peggy’s head with his other hand, Bill pulled back as hard as he could, and ripped half of Peggy’s scalp off of the top of her skull. He kept pulling, but the angle wasn’t right, and he couldn’t get the rest of her scalp off. He got the scissors and squeezing as tightly as he could, he was able to cut through the flesh and hair that he had pulled away. He placed it delicately on top of his own, bald, head. “Not a bad job of barbering,” he said, “Not a great job, but not a bad job either!”
He then walked to the foot of the bed, and roughly and awkwardly pulled Hank, who was still hog tied, up and laid him on top of Peggy, so that the top of Hank’s head was near Peggy’s chin and Hanks knees were at the bottom the bed between Peggy’s spread ankles. The piece of Peggy’s scalp fell off his head in the process and when he bent to pick it up and put it back in place he saw the enormous puddle of blood that had been soaking into the Hills’ bedroom carpet. He spread Hank’s knees to get a better look at the destroyed genitals. Indeed, Hank no longer had a narrow urethra. Instead, there was a gaping, bloody hole, with tattered pieces of flesh all around it. This gave Bill’s feeble and diseased mind a sick idea.
He climbed onto the foot of the bed between Hanks spread knees, between Peggy’s spread ankles, wiggling his fat, pale, filthy, gory, stinking body into position. He could feel the warm wetness of Hank’s new hole on the end of his penis, but he was flaccid. It had been a busy night. Bill closed his eyes, leaned his head back, reached between his legs, and began to rub his fungal, dirty penis with his hand, lubricating it with Hank’s blood. He thought of Lenore, of the piglet, of Peggy and of Hank. After a few moments, his penis began to stiffen for the third time of the evening. As it did, he slid it into the gaping wound where Hank’s manhood used to reside. Hank began to stir and awaken as Bill’s thrusts hit their stride. Hank began to whimper. Bill cried out in ecstasy, “Billdozer, Billdozer, Billdozer!” repeating his high school football nickname again and again. This chant slowly dissolved into feral grunts and growls as the last pretenses of humanity left Bill, and he became an animal overwhelmed by rage and lust. He climaxed hard into Hank’s ruined pelvis.
Bill withdrew himself and stepped back. He walked to the dresser and found a pair of socks. Hank was coughing and dry heaving. He had vomited on Peggy at some point. Bill stuffed the wadded socks into Hank’s mouth and wrapped the duct tape around Hanks head several times to secure them there. Bill had heard of something called a “thousand mile stare” in the Army, but had never understood what it meant until he looked into Hank’s eyes as he gagged him.
Bill walked out of the bedroom and down the hallway, returning to the piglet’s room. He took the bundled body in his massive flabby arms, and carried it to his parent’s bedroom, where he laid it, face to face, with its father. Hank began to shake violently, as if having a seizure at this, and passed out. Next Bill went to the garage and got two of the four tanks of propane Hank kept there. That man sure does love propane, Bill thought, smiling his nostalgic smile and shaking his head. He also took the full can of gasoline Hank kept by the lawnmower. He carried the gas can and propane tanks to the Hill’s bedroom, he opened the valves on the tanks, and walked out of the room, pouring gas from the can on the floor and shutting the door behind him. He then continued to pour the trail of gas on the carpet into the living room, where he set the can down by the couch.
He went to the kitchen, and found a box of matches. In the refrigerator, he found a six-pack of Alamo beer in cans; only one was missing. He held the box of matches and the single empty ring of the six-pack in his left hand. He walked to the telephone and with his right hand lifted it, dialed 9-1-1, and dropped it to the floor. Bill walked into the living room and sat on the couch, putting his feet up and sinking his fungus-infested heels in to the stinking feces he had left on the coffee table. It stank so badly, he could barely smell the gasoline soaking the carpet beside him, and he couldn’t smell the propane yet at all. He opened the first beer and took a long drink, swallowing more than half of it. Then he belched loudly, and said to himself “Yup, I’m the king of the hill now.”
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Drink Alamo beer, play the King of the Hill drinking game, and rape and murder your neighbors. It makes for a fantastic night. Thank you for your time.