A VAMPIRE AND A NECROPHILE WALK INTO A CAR CRASH by Rob Bliss
 
Chapter 3: A Cabin
 
Four smokin’ hot teenage girls and their brutish boyfriends, minus one, were staying in a ramshackle cabin deep in the woods because they thought it would be “neat”.
 
(Life repeats, stories repeat, misery repeats, joy repeats. Sometimes the characters change, sometimes they stay the same but in a different location. Minor variations create ‘new’ fables. The human animal is so complex that the same characters have to undergo similar adventures in order for a two-dimensional idiot to attain a third dimension. Of course, some people are just fucking dumbass airhead scumbags, and never attain even a second dimension. This is why most fictional characters by the same author are exactly the same as their last characters, although reviewers will say, “Wow, that new character was so real, I could visualize her—I want to be her, know her, hear more about her trials and insurmountable odds to be overcome.” And they will give the same review to the next cookie-cutter masterpiece. People desire the same thing again and again because too much variation frightens and confuses; too much experimentation bewilders. Satirical horror tales of the macabre and twisted and sometimes funny should not be used as moral bedtime stories for anybody. Thus, comedy and horror rarely go together … but when they do—look out!)
 
(P.S.: Please edit out the above paragraph. It kills the new story before it has even had a chance to begin.)
 
The ‘minus one’ was without a boyfriend. She was a Goth, but a hot Goth, not too geeky, not too much bleeding black make-up, and she went easy on the pewter jewellery. She was probably gay. That’s what the rest of her ‘friends’ assumed, which made the guys want to do her even more. Hoping they could get her alone at some point during the vacation and convince her not to tell their girlfriends that they really, really liked her the most and were just dating what’s-her-face to get to the hot Goth. (That was always an irresistible comment.)
 
Sexual orientation has never mattered to a guy when it came to a girl. It only mattered in regards to another guy—if he was gay. That could only mean that the gay guy want to do every straight bo-hunk, no matter how repulsive the heterosexual’s Neanderthal fourth-grade-reading-level intellect was.
 
The cabin had been in the Goth’s family for generations, and was the prime reason she was on the trip at all. She thought the other girls were hot, except for their un-hot personalities. They were total dicks. In her darker moments, the Goth girl fantasized about having rough, degrading sex with the other three girls. Preferably in a truck stop washroom with greasy fat truckers joining in. Also preferably, the truckers would be big-breasted, white trash lesbians with bad tattoos, cracked teeth, foul breath, and belly-button piercings that were swallowed by their stomach fat. Then, the Goth would stick around for the degrading sex. If the truckers were male, she’d just tie up the girls in stalls, chain them to the toilets, do a few nasty sexual things to them, then bring in the male truckers to finish them off.
 
Of course, she’d videotape the whole moment of revenge and put it on the net for the rest of the high school to see. It was the age of cyber social-networking, after all.
 
If not a truck stop washroom, then perhaps… a cabin in the woods …
 
The Goth girl’s name was Mindy. Which she hated, so he re-christened herself (but only to other online Goth friends) Azariel.
 
(Which actually may have been a guy’s name, but there were enough Goths who didn’t know their pagan mythology well enough so she could get away with it.)
 
When they all burst through the front door of the cabin, the three girls and their boyfriends cheered. They were on vacation! They were going to drink and puke and have unprotected sex! Yay! The guys pounded their chests, high-fived each other (seriously, when is that greeting and/or celebration going to go out of fashion?), and pretended to have gay sodomy with each other. ‘Cause it was funny.
 
The girls laughed and danced. One guy started checking out the cupboards in the kitchen and around the rustic living room, looking for abandoned booze. Another berated a stag’s head pinned to the wall, grabbed his crotch and asked the deer if it wanted to suck it. Another guy told his girlfriend to get his beer from the car. When she said that the cooler was too heavy, he called her a bitch. She was used to it, as were her friends, so the verbal abuse went on until the guy got the beer himself.
 
Mindy—(to give her a modicum of respect, we’ll use her chosen name)—Azariel sat slumped in a soft, high-backed chair made from spruce limbs with a scratchy wool blanket draped over the back.
 
She looked around at the décor, reflecting back on her childhood summers spent at the cabin. Good times. How did she get roped into bringing up a bunch of losers to her sacred cabin? She knew they were only pretending to like her. Even the guy who squeezed her knee and rubbed her leg in the car, with his girlfriend oblivious. A perfect airhead, and, therefore, highly desirable to the male sex.
 
That was the reason. She was going to do something—she didn’t know what yet—to as many of the girls and guys to fuck them over. Azariel had brought her camera, with extra batteries and memory cards. She would take blackmail photos and videos of them all. Let them be assholes, get drunk, pass out—then the Goth shall rule the night!
 
So she didn’t mind them going through her parent’s stuff, insulting the cabin of her youth, en route to breaking things. Let them. It’ll just make the revenge sweeter.
 
She sat and was quiet, watching the dicks be dicks without looking like she watching them. Didn’t want to draw their attention too often her way. Which was easy since they were so self-involved that they rarely noticed her, especially tucked down in the deep chair.
 
“Let’s drink some beer and eat some pussy!” one of the guys cheered.
 
The girls danced more seductively, but avoided the males. Hands in the air like they just didn’t care, they rolled their hips, jiggled their asses, dry-humped each other, slipped hands over each other’s breasts and thighs, teasing the boys. The boys humped the furniture and howled, their hands perpetually squeezing their groins.
 
Bottles were passed around from the cooler, the ice melted, caps twisted off. They toasted their teenage good fortune, swigged the beer. Some spilled the amber froth down their chests (girls to look sexier, guys to look mightier), which just excited their libidos more. One dude totally drained his beer in one shot, held it in his stomach for a few moments, then let out an awesome hippo belch.
 
“Oh my God—you’re so disgusting—oh my God, seriously eww—oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” one of the girls said, but it didn’t matter which one because they all gave voice to such idiotic inanities.
 
The belcher grabbed his girlfriend by the waist, mashed her slim body against his muscular bulk, and drove his tongue down her throat. She pretended to be disgusted, but she loved whatever her man did to her. The other girls were totally jealous, and measured the drinking habits of their boyfriends, hoping they too would let loose manly burps.
 
They didn’t.
 
The Asshole of assholes, the guy who called his girlfriend a bitch, was busy putting beer in the cabin’s fridge. Then he realized that he was doing woman’s work, called the Bitch over, and made her do it. He watched her, making sure she was doing it right, while he sipped his beer. Told her a thousand things she was doing wrong. His mouth was too preoccupied, and besides, he didn’t belch for anyone’s entertainment but his own.
 
The other girl with the non-belching boyfriend grabbed a beer out of the Bitch’s hands (witnessed by the dictating Asshole—he wanted to say something, but his fascism only extended to his Bitch, not someone else’s bitch—and all girls were bitches. There was a territorial code amongst men to follow. He had a dominating mother and his father was a panty-wearing pussy, so as soon as he got to college he would turn totally gay. Being a bottom to multiple bear tops … if you know what all that means … pervert), and brought the beer to Azariel.
 
“Aren’t you drinking?”
 
Azariel took the beer, cradled it in her lap, watched and waited for the Nice Girl to go away.
 
“Thanks.”
 
“Why don’t you join the party?”
 
“I will. Takes me time to get going.”
 
“Oh my God, your hair is so pretty! I’ve never dyed mine black—every other colour but. It’s so smooth and shiny and pretty!”
 
Nice Girl was touching Goth hair, combing it with her fingers. Azariel didn’t want to get turned on, so she reminded herself how fake the compliment was, and ignored the rising of her nipples.
 
“This is such a nice cabin!” Nice Girl said. “I bet you came here a lot as a kid, hunh? I just love the whole woodsy feel to it. I don’t like the deer head, but the paintings are nice and the furniture is so retro. Is that Indian corn? It’s so pretty!”
 
Azariel looked at five cobs of rust-red corn tied together with twine and pinned to the wall. One of many decorations for the cabin’s interior to reflect the exterior environment. Nouveau glass and steel décor just didn’t fit in the great outdoors.
 
“Thanks,” Azariel said, tightening a forearm across her chest, peeling the label off the bottle.
 
“I would totally love to braid your hair,” Nice Girl said. “Can I?”
 
“Uh … maybe later … let me have a few.” Azariel twisted the cap off her beer.
 
Girls love playing with other girls’ hair. And doing each other’s nails. And telling each other how pretty they are. And, sometimes, when really drunk or stoned, kissing each other. They can get away with it and not be called gay (even if they want to be). Guys can’t. Gay is gay. And the criteria for being gay is immense. A guy saying that he likes another guy’s abs—even in the gym—is gay. He who gives the compliment must be beaten. And, preferably, stripped naked, if he already isn’t. His penis length shall be mocked. His buttocks towel-whipped. Then he shall be leaned over a bench and all right-thinking straight males shall mount him and thrust their hips, but they’ll make sure their loins stay covered. It is not gay if there’s fabric between an erect penis and supple butt cheeks.
 
All-male professional sports like hockey, basketball, baseball and football are heavily-populated by ravenous closet homosexuals who will never emerge into a true light. Why do you think the Olympics were invented by the ancient Greeks? And, of course, the most homosexual organisation ever invented (as both the Ancient Greeks and Romans knew) is the military.
 
The Nice Girl combed Azariel’s hair for a few more moments, then repeated her invitation for the Goth to join the party, then pattered away.
 
Azariel squeezed her forearm tighter across her chest and drank the neck of her beer. She belched, but with a hand over her mouth to keep it quiet.
 
The Nice Girl went to make-out with her boyfriend, seeing the other non-bitch girl and her boyfriend entwined on one of the couches. The Asshole’s girlfriend gazed longingly at the kissing couples and tried to get her boyfriend out of the fridge. He was busy lining up the bottles, labels facing out. She knew not to interrupt, so she waited for him to close the fridge door before sidling up behind him and kissing his neck.
 
He stood, pushed passed her, wanting to tell his buddies something important about beer refrigeration, but was stopped when he saw his friends preoccupied with the fairer sex.
 
“Oh … uh … I guess … okay …,” he muttered, looking back for his girlfriend.
 
She arrived at his side. He kissed her lightly, hated putting his tongue into her mouth since he was a germophobe and had heard that the mouths of dogs were cleaner than the mouths of human beings. Even hot girls.
 
He kissed her face and neck a lot. Didn’t mind kissing her breasts because he figured she wasn’t pregnant so there wouldn’t be any of that milk shit drooling out of her nipples. Still, if it was okay for babies, it couldn’t be too dangerous.
 
He would not—ever—put his face near her vagina. She craved cunnilingus because he never did it. She would grind her hips and lightly push his head lower, lower, but he always lifted his face when his tongue arrived just above—but never inside—her belly-button.
 
Lotta germs must get caught in there. Piercings collected bacteria. Metal through flesh—a danger zone of mythic proportions! From the vagina came pee and blood and babies. Plus, it was too close to the asshole. Girls had to wipe in a certain way so as not to infect themselves. Guys could wipe any way they wanted—what it meant to be a man. Surely the male of the species was cleaner. You could probably suck a cock and not even worry about getting a disease, the Asshole’s logic told him. Guys didn’t bleed from their penises—what the hell was menstruation all about anyway? Why didn’t water (or even pee) push out the unfertilized egg instead of blood? Guys didn’t bleed except in extreme sports. Which was a cool way to bleed. Bleeding out from a fight was better than bleeding out because of biology.
 
The Asshole’s reasoning was solid. AIDS? That only happened to gay guys. Two straight guys sucking each other were in the clear. Asshole was no fag. Not yet anyway.
 
When he got to her navel, he remembered that he had forgotten something in the car. So he left. His girlfriend sat sprawled on a wide chair, legs over the arms, exasperated and as horny as hell. Watched her friends get groped. She glanced around (couldn’t see that weird Goth chick anywhere) to see that the coast was clear. She moved a hand between her legs as she watched one of the girls release her boyfriend’s penis from the waistband of his shorts.
 
The Abandoned Girl (formerly, Bitch) sank her head back, closed her eyes, and let her hand roam.
 
 
 
The Asshole went to the car, opened the trunk, leaned over. A bat flew out of the trees and landed on his ass. The guy freaked, spun around, and tried to swat the fluttering bat out of the air. It ducked his swinging hands, but didn’t fly off. Circled his head, stayed close.
 
“Stupid fucking bat—I’ll kill you!” said the Asshole. People often talked to animals, despite the language barrier.
 
With such a threat made in earnest, the bat flew off. It understood the language of hands. The guy felt triumphant—he had asserted his manhood over the unsanitized scum of nature. He went back to the trunk, leaned in again, rummaged through bags and luggage and standard trunk garbage.
 
Felt something against, not on, his ass this time. Pressing and persistent. Damn bat! He’d show that flying rat who was boss.
 
He spun around and was faced with a gay vampire named Spanky, who smiled with two fangs and a Komodo dragon in his pants.
 
“Hello, gorgeous,” said the vampire.
 
More and more, Spanky had accepted his sexual orientation, and found it a good thing. He was becoming comfortable in his skin, whether in or out of a bathhouse. The vampire aspect of him was no big deal—he had been born that way—but being gay was something he had toiled with his whole life.
 
He was the kid in the locker room who got his ass whipped. Now, in any locker room, gay or straight, none of his tormentors could mock his penis, especially when the towel-whipping made it grow. (As a youth, before his surgery, he had a small penis. A snail. His adolescent bullies often didn’t care that he was different by being a vampire. He wished they had concentrated their venom on that part of his genetic make-up. But to attack a guy’s dick … especially when other adolescent males had small dicks too … that was low. Spanky was just that small. Less of a penis, more of a clitoris. And not even one of those freaky large clits that a lot of female bodybuilders have. Just an average to below-average-sized clitoris. He felt more female than male. Surgery was a necessity.)
 
Now, however, Spanky was seriously considering a career in gay porn, but he just needed a few more gay experiences, and a breaking down of more of the taboos that his father had imbued in him, to have anonymous sex with multiple partners and not feel bad about it.
 
Dry-humping the Asshole’s ass was bringing the vampire closer to his goal. But the Asshole was still firmly entrenched in his heterosexual repression, so he only stared at the tent in Spanky’s pants for thirty seconds instead of the full minute.
 
“Who the fuck are you?” Asshole finally asked, lifting his hypnotized gaze from the deliciously angry vampire bulge almost poking him in the navel.
 
“I’m a vampire, baby,” Spanky said, checking out the bitchin’ body of his prey. “Wanna suck dick while I bite you? Sixty-nine is a magic number.”
 
Asshole stared at Spanky’s fangs. Then took in his whole vampire get-up including the cape. How gay. Then glanced down at the penis jutting forward, reaching out for him. How totally gay! Then he tried to recall what the offer was. Sixty-nine was a what now?
 
“Are you, like, that Goth chick’s dad or something?”
 
“That what’s dad?”
 
“I forget her name … she dresses kinda like you … all that black shit—no offense, sir.”
 
Faced with an older male, the younger male may feel the urge to resort to respect and niceties, both of which are against his character. They once were a part of Asshole’s character, when he was young, but only when confronted by his mother. Beginning in his teenage years, he quickly lost all respect for his father, until such loss resulted in misogyny and repressed homosexuality. A son with a domineering father and pussy mother may also resort to misogyny, but the homosexuality will stay repressed for longer. I’m sure it’s written down somewhere.
 
Thus, the Asshole was torn: to be a good boy and respect an elder male, or a bad boy who was gladly buggered by an ersatz daddy. Human and vampire relationships were so complex.
 
“I don’t know who you’re talking about—Goth girl?” Spanky asked, not really caring about whatever the fresh young stud was saying. “Anyway, wanna suck dick?”
 
“Hey, dude, I’m no fag.”
 
“Yes you are. I can spot ‘em a mile away.”
 
Which was true. Spanky had excellent gaydar, whether he was a bat or not. His vampiric understanding of the human being gave him insight into the psychology of repression. (Why prostitutes knew more about people than psychiatrists ever could.) He knew about mothers and fathers and repression and twisted towels. An angry man who said he was “no fag” probably was one.
 
Plus, Spanky had vampire strength, and he wasn’t in the mood to debate.
 
Asshole flexed his biceps and swelled his chest to look imposing. This usually worked for certain primates, but to a vampire it was seduction.
 
“I said I ain’t no fuckin’ fag, pal! You need to back off. Semper Fi!”
 
Spanky squeezed his cloth-covered penis and swooned. “Oh God, this is turning me on. Reject me, hate me, threaten me. You wanna be a top? That’s fine, I’m flexible—and I mean that!”
 
Asshole stared at Spanky’s gripping hand. Pretended to be disgusted.
 
“Eww—fuck you! Get away from me, man, or I’m gonna seriously hurt you!”
 
Spanky’s eyes lit up. Saliva dripped off his fangs. “Mmm, yes, please!”
 
Asshole took a swing. Spanky—reflexes of a bat—grabbed the fist an inch from his nose. Exquisite pain displayed on Asshole’s face as his arm twisted like a towel, easing him to his knees.
 
“Sometimes—well, most times,” Spanky explained to his descending victim, “a vampire enjoys an unwilling partner.”
 
Fangs grew in his mouth. He dropped his wispy weight down onto the solid mass of the man on the ground, sank fangs into the neck of bulging veins, and sucked out the sweet life fluid.
 
His penis was even harder. Asshole’s penis also quickly stiffened. To, somewhat, his surprise. Somewhat.
 
More docile now as he slowly turned into a vampire—his darkest urges throwing off their repressive chains—Asshole lay still, felt warmth rise up from his puncture holes, through his face, and down into his loins. He was as pliant and agreeable as his bitch girlfriend.
 
“Stand up,” Spanky ordered, getting off his victim. Asshole obeyed. “Look in the trunk again, and don’t stop looking until I say so.”
 
Spanky rubbed the firm muscular buttocks before him, moaned and grunted deep in his throat. He reached around to unzip Asshole’s shorts and expose his hairy ass to view. In a tree, an owl died. The vampire took out his monster dick, pre-cum drooling from the slit mouth, and aimed it.
 
Parted Asshole’s cheeks and showed no mercy. Rammed all thirteen inches in one thrust deep up the rectum of the new recruit.
 
Asshole howled at the moon hanging like a white blinded eye in the blue sky.
 
 
 
When Asshole was first looking into the trunk of the car, before the bat had landed, something came out of the hanging corn inside the cabin. No one noticed because either they were fucking, watching fucking, or trying to ignore the fucking.
 
What happened was: a kernel wiggled like a loose tooth off one of the corn cobs and dropped to the cabin floor. It split open, and from it hatched a necrophiliac. He grew instantly (like one of those sponge toys you poured water on to make grow) to his adult size and came complete wearing clean and pressed denim coveralls, a hockey mask covering his face (the first hockey mask worn by Jacque Plante), with a long machete that dangled down his thigh, gripped by loose fingers.
 
Percy Persimmon stared through the eyeholes of the mask at the scene presented before him. Chuckled under his breath. Unfortunately, all of the sweet young flesh was still alive. Since a necrophiliac had to be true to his nature, Percy learned to create opportunities where none presented themselves to be. Thus, the machete.
 
The mask was just theatre. When in Rome, after all … the massacring necrophiliac should really look the part. For the killing at least—the necro part would come later, the mask could be removed. But the dead never remembered his true face.
 
He cleared his throat. No one looked up. Louder. One chick was jerking the hell out of her vagina, chest heaving like a K-2 climber, eyes fluttering as though she were communicating with the dead. Gurgles and frog croaks echoed from the depths of her swollen throat.
 
A head poked up over the varnished arm of another, seemingly unoccupied, chair. Black hair, mascara, kinda cute. The necrophiliac had seen her kind before. Groupies. Probably watched too many horror movies. They had weird, skinny boyfriends, hated that their yuppie parents, worshipped Satan or some airy fag god crowned with laurel leaves and a thick mat of hair on their backs. Worshipped death as a fashion, but didn’t do a damn thing about it.
 
Her eyelids vanished as she stared at the necro from over the arm of the chair. Nice guy to have a beer with if he didn’t want to kill you, she may have been thinking. Her body came out of the soft cushions; she stood, hands limp at her sides, black nail polish, staring at Percy defiantly and seductively. As if to say, I dare you to ravish me, psycho killer … I double dare you …
 
Not again. She wanted to be seduced before he, maybe, killed her. But killing her would make her happy. Percy didn’t kill anyone for reasons other than his own happiness. People could be so selfish. She probably wanted him to bite her in several places while calling her his ‘bride’ or ‘muse’ or ‘succubus’ or something dumb like that. Every profession—official or otherwise—had its groupies. (Maybe not so much accountants, but they were asexual anyway.)
 
Percy tried to ignore her, but he needed to check out the room. Necros wouldn’t get anywhere in life if they stood in one place for too long. Two guys and two girls were doing each other on two couches—balance was beauty. They didn’t see or hear him, too locked within their own and each other’s libidos. One girl was doing herself as though she had just discovered what her clitoris was for. And then the groupie.
 
He sauntered passed the back of the first couch, measuring the necks of the lovers. Thick necks on the guys, thin on the girls. Girls were so much easier to kill. Had little to do with sex. Well. Sort of. But one often had to kill the guy before freeing up the girl.
 
The Goth met him at the other end of the couch. Stared up into his beautiful mask. Adoration in her gaze. She reached for his machete, putting two fingers on the rusted blade. “Let me help you.”
 
Percy tilted his face to one side. Recalled that masked killers rarely spoke. They were supposed to be mute killing machines, human sharks, unless they were adept at morbid bon mots. Then they never shut up. He tilted his face to the other side like a dog being asked a question.
 
“I hate them too,” she said, pulling the blade up to point at the crease between her breasts. “Let’s do them all.”
 
A helper? This was new. Sort of. There was that vampire guy who kept popping up everywhere Percy was sure to go. But how would she help? Hold the girls still while he stabbed them? What if the blade—it was three feet long after all—went through the prey and into the helper? She might like it—not a very good helper. Or if she stayed clear, would he have to kill her after he killed the rest? Not necessarily. He just wanted to have sex with one, maybe two, of the girls. He just had to kill them all and then sort out who to fuck.
 
A necrophiliac was nothing if not a risk-taker. He let the groupie take the machete from his hand. He wasn’t afraid since he was bigger than her (mad killers aren’t often dwarfs, except for mad killer dwarfs—eBook, no release date), and he was well-versed in killing.
 
She kept staring at him as her fingers slipped sensuously along the steel. Looked over at the occupants on the nearest couch. The male had reared up, holding himself on his arms as he thrust his hips.
 
The Goth groupie stepped behind him, raised the machete high, both hands on the handle, and brought it down as hard as she could.
 
The guy cried out, but it was mistaken by the girl he was fucking as a climax. The blade had only cut halfway into his neck. Blood pumping out, spinal column severed, nerves a tangle of berserk wires firing out of sequence. Paralysed. He ejaculated and had the best orgasm of his life. So it kinda was the sound of climax. Win-win for the killer and the killed.
 
Percy shuffled Azariel out of the way, and rocked the machete back and forth to unstick it from the guy’s neck.
 
“Gotta really slam it down hard,” he advised, breaking his mute shark character.
 
Wrenched up the guy’s head, dangling from the stump of his neck by tendons and strips of flesh. Swiped the blade through with a snap of the wrist, and tossed the head aside.
 
The girl finally opened her eyes, thinking her boyfriend’s orgasm was done, and would he be nice and finish her up? Saw a hockey mask looming over her.
 
She screamed, but the scream was cut off. Percy punched her mouth. Grabbed her hair and pulled her up to a sitting position, her boyfriend’s neck spitting blood onto her lap.
 
“Tsk, tsk,” said Percy. (Turns out he wanted to be a bon mot killer.) “Such a pretty one. Nice head, bitch—mind if I take it?”
 
He sliced off her renewed scream, passed the head to Azariel. She looked at it lovingly, lust and murder in her eyes. Kissed the punched lips, put her tongue passed the teeth, mashed the head against her mouth. A thick wetness soaked her black skull-and-bones-and-cherries panties. Looking into the dead eyes, her gaze glazed over and she felt wonderfully dizzy.
 
“Eww,” said Percy, cringing behind the mask. “I rarely do anything with the head. I can leave you two alone if you want.”
 
Azariel cradled the head under her arm like a baby needing milk, and looked pleadingly into the mad, red-rimmed eyes of Percy. “Can I do the next one? I want another try.”
 
“Guys have thicker necks.”
 
“The girl. Please. I’ve always wanted to kill that bitch.”
 
“Swing and flick with the wrist.”
 
He handed her the machete. She tossed her decapitated lover’s head aside (saving it for later maybe; a few dust bunnies wouldn’t soil it too much). Luckily, the next orgiastic couple on the other couch had the girl riding the guy. Bouncing up and down, the girl’s tits mashed by the calloused football hands of her lover, her head thrown back—neck perfectly exposed. Couldn’t ask for a better kill pose.
 
Percy stepped back, gave Azariel lots of room to swing the machete like a baseball bat. She took a few practice aims, blade almost touching the girl’s throat, then arched the blade far back over her shoulder.
 
“What the fuck?”
 
The guy opened his eyes. But his pelvis was being pummelled, so he couldn’t concentrate too much on what he was about to see.
 
Swing and a hit! The head flew off clean in one swipe. The girl’s vaginal muscles clenched at the moment of severing and she shit herself, which made the guy’s penis lurch inside her and shoot its semen. The guy’s eyes automatically closed and he growled out his orgasm.
 
A blood fountain sprayed over him, washing his eyes blind. He kept fucking the corpse, holding its hips, unable to stop until all libido electricity had flowed out of his nervous system. Biceps strained, veins bulging as he held the corpse against his lap, though it was starting to tilt to the floor.
 
“Hey, that’s my line of work,” Percy said, taking the machete from Azariel.
 
She licked the girl’s blood off her face and hands. Watched with delight as the guy’s muscles relaxed, the body slipped off his penis and sagged to the floor. Percy jammed the knife through the guy’s tight abs, twisting the blade through tendon and muscle, bringing forth a gush of crimson.
 
He looked into Azariel’s dazed, glowing eyes. “I gotta keep a head on one of them.” Then he glanced over at the lone girl sprawled like a naked spider in the chair, subsiding from her orgasm, shorts twisted around her ankles. Eyes slowly opening like a sleep-walker. “Though I do prefer a girl.”
 
He stepped around the couch, obediently followed by his groupie, headed to the back of the chair.
 
But she saw him coming, her orgasm dream coming back to reality. She stood, naked, stepped once and tripped, face-planted to the floor. Feet conveniently tied.
 
Percy straddled his heavy boots on either side of her slim waist, jabbed the blade into her back, severing the spine. Unzipped his blood-spattered coveralls and brought out his penis, laying the machete beside the girl. Sat his weight down on her soft ass.
 
“Okay, baby, hurry up and die,” he said as he watched the back of her head.
 
Something grabbed his penis. He looked down. The groupie had shoved it into her mouth and was ramming her head into his lap.
 
He grabbed her hair and lifted her eyes to meet his. “Aw, come on … no offense, but I’m a necrophiliac.”
 
Azariel launched herself at him, arms tight around his neck, kissing his ear and cheek, nudging off the mask.
 
“I want you—I want you inside me—let’s kill and fuck—go on a rampage—be serial killer lovers!”
 
He pried her hands from around his neck and adjusted the mask. Didn’t want her seeing his face in case she looked for him on Facebook or something.
 
“You’re a nice kid, but I work alone.” He looked down at the blood seeping from the girl’s back. Tilted her head to look into her open, dead eyes, felt her pulse. Said to Azariel, who sat crossed-legged beside the corpse, wishing Percy was on top of her, wanting to, at least, watch. “Now, if you don’t mind … I gotta concentrate.”
 
Azariel obeyed. She was quiet as Percy fucked his corpse. The Goth opened her legs and slipped a hand down to masturbate at the most beautifully perverse scene she would ever witness in her life (and her life would be spent, or wasted, trying to recreate it). Had several climaxes as the only man she ever loved had sex with another girl—and it was beautiful. She wasn’t jealous—it was too damn sexy for jealousy to intrude. She realized that she was neither straight nor gay—she was beyond bourgeoisie labels—she was a necrophiliac waiting to be born.
 
When he finished, Percy rolled off the girl, caught his breath, wiped sweat from his forehead, and stood to pull up his coveralls. Looked down at Azariel, naked from the waist down, a breast exposed.
 
“Well,” he said, doing up some buttons. “Don’t really know what to say after sex … to the victim or to the voyeur. Had this other girl watch once … Horseface … she was seriously weird—you’re just normal weird. Anyway, it’s been a slice. Ha, ha … never mind.” He sighed and reached down to retrieve his machete, headed for the front door.
 
His right foot felt heavier than normal, possibly stuck on one of the limbs of the corpse. He looked down. Azariel looked up, arms wrapped around his shin.
 
“Please. Take me with you. I want you. I want the life you lead, that you can offer. You saved me from a hell of mediocrity.”
 
Ah, this again. Sometimes happened. The knight with the shining machete saved the princess locked in the cabin in the woods. How to break it to her that all knights rode alone, and the princess didn’t need anyone but herself—and a half decent spine—to live happily ever after?
 
He hated moralizing.
 
“Look,” he began. “It ain’t gonna happen. Tell people what I did if you want—say how you escaped a machete-wielding maniac—they’ll call you a hero. Got a camera? Take my picture as proof.”
 
He’d throw her a bone. She rushed to her purse, which was really a large black cotton sack with patches of music bands and archaic Mesopotamian symbols sewn all over it. Percy posed for her camera, straddling the fucked corpse, holding the machete high like he was charging after Azariel, held the pose mid-charge.
 
She snapped several pictures before Percy was bored with being a macabre poster model, and headed for the door.
 
“See ya around, kid—stay in school, do drugs, worship death, carpe diem—whatever. Jokes and motivational speaking are not a necro’s specialties.”
 
He exited.
 
At his back, Azariel’s hands cradled the camera to her breast, and she said in a whisper, “I love you.”
 
After she wept softly for a few moments, she composed herself, looked around the cabin, and smiled. Took hundreds of pictures of the gore, close-ups, wide views, of every dead stare, ripped wound, neck stump. Wondered how she’d put the pictures on the net for all the high school to see without police questioning her as to why she was advertising the horror. Was she involved? they may ask. No, they couldn’t suspect her, not given the size of the killer and the gruesomeness of the crime scene. She was the innocent victim who had just barely escaped—hadn’t they seen horror movies before? Besides, how could she possibly have killed five people without having even one defensive wound herself? Percy—her love—was right: she would be a hero. A tough bitch who escaped the killing spree of a mass murderer.
 
A beautiful gift from a beautiful man. And the perfect revenge.
 
 
 
Percy’s boots crunched dirt and stones as he headed down the driveway. Saw the car, the trunk lid raised. Moved around it, saw an old familiar face leaning over a new unfamiliar face. One looked happy, the other stunned. Body on body. Two half-naked guys. Both alive—well, undead—close enough.
 
Disgusting.
 
“We meet again,” Percy said to Spanky, as the vampire pulled up his pants.
 
“Is that you? Nice mask.”
 
“Thanks.” The necro gestured with the machete at the recently transformed and sodomized vampire. “New guy? You bit him?”
 
“Yeah, he’s one of mine,” Spanky said, giving his victim a thankful slap on the ass cheek. “One more vampire to ravage the world.”
 
“He’s a big one. Want me to cut his head off?”
 
“Naa. He was a good fuck.” Spanky brushed pre-cum into the fabric of his crotch. “Which way you headed?” Percy pointed the machete down the driveway to the dirt country road. “Mind if I tag along?”
 
The vampire and necrophiliac walked away arm-in-arm from the cabin in the woods and on to the next adventure. Old friends.
 
CONTINUES NEXT WEEK

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