Willy lied on his back all alone on the king-size bed, his hands laced behind his head, his erection still intact; youthful, fresh, energetic and ready to do some major hardcore damage...with his bad-ass CRTK Ulitma. Being so young and so crazy he took gratification in knowing he could have that fresh young monster of a cock under his control twenty-four, seven—compared to the sad, embarrassing stories he’d heard from his older counterparts. He knew he would reach that stage eventually when it operated on its own, firing up or slugging out on its own terms, and using medication to stick it up like a rod, but he would be damned if he’d waste one second of his youth wasting his good looks and his crowning jewel of a penis locked away in his pants. Plenty of gorgeous pussy out there would kill to get their lips (both types) around this beauty.
Speaking of which, what was that bitch doing right now? And why was that other one still breathing and walking and cock-blocking him right now? He wanted to go straight for the kill—no pun intended—once she got back. This all really did it in; him brushing up against her, her being all touchy-feely got his trouser snake hypnotized, charmed and aching to strike. He wondered if Spencer was thinking the same thing; from the vibe he was reading off him since the day he told him about the hookup, he’s been wanting to do it and get the monkey off his back. Willy liked to bone them first and then grease ‘em, but this was his accomplice’s first time and he had his back and supported his needs or his problems, etcetera and he was to stand by him through this vital night—and if he was to kill her right away, then he would do the same. The problem was she was so frisky and she was begging for it, and his man down there was begging for it, too. So he thought what the fuck. What’s he gonna know? Or even care? It's his first high; he'll be free of giving a fuck about anything. Ever.
He hadn’t been counting down the minutes; he lost all track of time, but it felt like hours had ticked by, and she was still alive. Something wasn’t right here. Did she—
Willy laughed at himself.
As if. That’s all I gotta say. As-fucking-if.
Then again there was some sort of unusual disturbance that crept out every now and then…very faint, very brief; it would present itself from the both of them. They were probably just freaks, and that’s what he was looking for in this chick—from what he’d read on her, she was definitely the cat’s pajamas in that department. Yeah, once she got back he was going to unload all kinds of sexual fury like a jungle Samoan headhunter. And then afterwards he would do it.
Willy brought his head up to look at the door as if to see Kirsten or Holly walking in. Why was she still alive? Did he puss out? He better not have, after all the trouble he went through. On second thought, what trouble? Willy had no difficulties whatsoever when it came to hooking up with women. A poor schmuck like Spencer, on the other hand, needed a mentor like him to show him the ropes and adjust and work it like a pro. Not that he thought he was an ugly guy, or one to judge other dudes for that matter, but he was a good-looking lad—his molecules couldn’t light a candle to his, though, that was for sure.
He was a good follower, very submissive and easy to control; not exactly a pushover, but certainly easy to control. He never thought in a million years he would come across another killer—or rather a closet wannabe killer. He believed he discovered the truth the day after the events at the Fountain of Youth, but no. Willy felt and heard the instincts react, familiarize, wail like sirens of a metal detector when he saw him being dragged out by the two bodyguards in the hall. He'd never seen it on another human being before, but by God and Sonny Jesus, he knew that face! It wasn't an easy one to fake; it wasn't rage, it wasn't anger, it wasn't anything other than wanting to do someone in!
He would keep him under his wing for a while, to see how it would work out. Although he was just another frail, geeky, quiet loser, he always kept in mind that he had that natural born killer blood run hotly and vigorously through his veins; compatible with only a very few chosen ones as he always told him. It would last that way for a while before he would do him in himself. He liked the guy, even though he was on a whole other lower level, but he was not in his league, and he was just extra baggage. It wasn't set in stone, but knowing himself, it's what was most likely going to happen.
Another reason was that he thought Spencer's first time would also maybe scare him and be left with an unreal, unbearable burden on his conscience that he'd be reduced to a perspirated, paranoid ticking timebomb. Sure, he talked the talk, but once he walked the walk, could he have the gall to keep walking? He wouldn't have it. He didn't like the risk. He was also kind of a bitch and he wouldn't miss him much, anyway.
Oh, Jesus, thought Willy. Could he have fucked it up and have the plan totally backfire as she somehow got ahold of the knife and killed him out of self-defense? Was that what this little emergency meeting was all about?
Unlikely. She wouldn’t have come down talking under her breath all calm and serene like she was a few minutes ago; it would have been vice-versa and then some. Wailing and crying and acting all hysterical is what she would have been doing had that been the case.
Well, if it was, where the fuck was—
The door rapped again.
“Willy?” said the voice from the other side.
Willy stiffened, slowly rising as he held a firm, mindboggling stare at the door. What on God’s green earth was happening right now? None of this had been computing; what was going on right now was jumbling the original plan they’d thoroughly went through. What was the matter with these dweebs? It was beginning to feel like Willy and Kirsten were the parents and the kids were interrupting them because of fear of the dark or a bad dream.
Without a word, Spencer got off the bed, headed for the door and opened it wide.
“Spence, what the—“
The first thing he saw was the head full of pale-blonde hair leaning forward to where his scalp was pointing to his face, as if he were charging him. Because he was. Something sharp, heavy and huge drove right through his midsection and felt his insides being demolished. He took all of this in as he was being pushed backwards with extreme force. The knife jabbing in and out of him repeatedly.
Spencer brought his piercing manic-eyed gaze to him and never once ripped it away during the whole horrific, agonizing process.
Willy looked down at what was happening to him down south. He watched—terror, confusion, anger, all scrambling, circulating, furiously, manicallly like the heat and cold of a tornado—as Spencer held a white-knuckled fist around the knife hearing the sucks and slurps as the knife exited the wounds—fresh with erupting, running crimson—and then slamming it down hard on every point on his chest and stomach. He tried fighting, wanted to fight, but he was weak from employing any type of action ever since that first blow, more from the confusion rather than the excruciation of physical affliction.
It went on like that for a long time; hell it could have been hours, he had no knowledge or care of time anymore. He was immobile, paralyzed, just lying back, taking the pain, waiting for the lights to dim and the power to shut down so that the pain could finally be over. But before the curtains had closed on him forever—through the blurring vision and the muffling sound, Spencer had stopped for a moment to lean into Willy’s fading eyes and said,
“I think you’ve found my family,” he said, voice growing more distant. “I know you’ve helped me find myself. And I love you for it, Willy. I always will.”
He held a pause and as bad as his sight was getting, he could swear for the life of him that he saw a tear gleaming in Spencer’s eye.
Then he resumed the puncturing, and Willy faded away knowing that for once in his long, prodigious, prideful life, he had finally done a good deed for someone.