absk group story - week 2 entries


The first time I killed, it was more on an impulse than a need. But it's like being around your buddies cokin' up. At first, you hear how bad it is, but one time you do it. Whether it's because you're loaded off half a bottle of Cuervo Gold, or the taunting gets to you, or because you're feeling left out, it happens. And it feels damn good. So you do a little more. A few rails go by, and then it's time to leave 'cause you get those jitters. Y'know, when everyone seems to be looking at you. You get back to your pad, and lay there on the couch bright eyed and tingling. Then sleep comes, followed by the next day and reality, crap like work. Next thing you know, it's on your mind a little. Then you think about it more and more until you get some. And then the cycle repeats.

Now, I'm a fairly successful man for someone so young. The bar I manage (and bartend in a pinch) is good sized, with four dollar pitchers during Monday Night Football and the NBA playoffs. It's only been around for three years and I was lucky enough to be part of the opening staff. I crawled, scraped, bitched, and moaned until I got to the place I am now. I know the ins and outs of everything there, from the type of floor cleaner we buy to the last name of the BudCo delivery guy. And a bar is a very good hunting ground for out-of-towners. If you don't believe that, drive up to Tulsa, find the Lakeside Park cemetary, and go ask Sabrina Pollard.

I remember reading somethin' back in high school about that big-ass Statue of Liberty meaning "give us your poor, your tired". Now whenever some silicon-enhanced whore walks in and pull up a seat, the whole flock turns their heads. But when a dumpy, fat broad comes for a coupla drinks, she's quickly forgotten. And that's what you have to be looking for.

Brina came in on a rainy night in November, and it was fairly cold, 'bout as cold as it gets in this part of Oklahoma. So this cow, soaked and shivering, pulls up underneath the set with the OSU-Colorado game on, and ordered some womanly drink, like a Cosmo. The Black Crowes "Remedy" was blarin' and I felt the tingle right at my lower back. Of course, my needle can tell if it's time or not. I can sometimes tell it to go away, but that panting sex-kitten whisper will keep coming until something's done to it. Then Chris Robinson stopped wailing and Van Halen's "Poundcake" came on. THEN I knew it was time.

Lonely women always find some object to fixate on while they have their cocktails. Sometimes it's the rear of the 'tender, the bottles on the racks, or even the basketball game. They want to look occupied so if someone comes up to talk with them, they didn't appear to be trolling. The Cowboys were down twelve to the doormats of the conference, even though Reeves had twenty-four. Something Brina was taking a lot of notice of. So I stroll up in my most professional manner and ask her if she needed anything. You always need to come up during their second drink. Otherwise, they might be ready to leave or have enough booze in them for awhile.

"Yeah, this is sorta weak. Maybe I can try one of those orange things your blond buddy's making."she said, eyes wide. "Yes, ma'am. Be right back.", I state, then throw in a big smile. Walking off to the ice bin, I can hear It again. "Easy one, Brad. Make it look like a mugging." Hell, after that, that big damn smile was stayin'.

I bring it to her and walk off. There's plenty of other people there and I had to hustle for my rent money. But I kept that really discreet eye on her, the one you use when you plan on using someone. Most of the sheep in Trudy's are regulars, and most of the foreign types stay at the Ramada on the other side of the freeway. So maybe an hour later she gets up and leaves. I see Sabrina getting into a green Taurus with out-of-state plates. My vision ain't great, but the needle helps you when you need it to. And the needle knew that blue plates on a car meant she was an out-of-towner.

I told Phil I was going on a smoke break and saw the Taurus take the turn-around. It braked suddenly, like most people in an unfamiliar place (especi ally in the rain) and pulled in the Ramada. Loree came strolling by, and i told her I was running to the 7-Eleven for some Pepto. Cover me for ten minutes, I urged her. She complied, and turned inside. I jogged down to my Blazer and drove over. The needle is almost causing make to shake, and I'm about to piss my pants.

She had just left the checkout office and was pulling up to the south face of the hotel. I drive into a slot about four down and pretend I'm looking for something in the back seat. Sabrina paid no attention to the car that pulled up, and that cost her her life. She gets out and pops the trunk, for her suitcase or some crap like that. My needle is causing all the blood to rush up to my head, and I feel like Popeye after three cans of spinach and an hour of Olive Oyl. Rarin' to go.

Sabrina Pollard stuck her head in to retrieve something, and probably never felt me slam the door on her neck, killing her instantly. And that needle gives you the eyes of an eagle and the balls of a tiger. Not to mention the strength of a medium-size dragon. The head popped off cleanly as the door slammed home on her coat's collar, looking like this car had been dragging a fat woman all night. No sound, no sight. "AHHHHHH!", moans the needle, and it quits yet again. And the radio in my Blazer's playing Hotel California. Can it get any better?

When I got back to Trudy's five minutes later, Loree said she'd never seen Pepto-Bismol work that fast.


Don't get me wrong, the fact that I'm a killer doesn't make me a fool. It's not like I just grabbed a pillow and shoved it down her throat or anything. No, I am much smarter than that. I knew her old body would bruise and show the tell-tale signs of a struggle easily, so the deed was done carefully and tenderly, as if I were feeding a newborn instead of killing an old whore.

Slowly I walked up to her. She raised her eyebrows and spread her legs a bit more, allowing me a glimpse of the flesh that made up her very own needle. I could see it out of the corner of my eyes, its hideousness blaspheming all womanhood. I knew if I looked directly at it I'd never be able to get a hard-on again, and just knowing it was there made the rage bubble up inside me.

The rage told me to use my hands instead of the pillow, told me to reach inside her mouth and down her throat and rip something, anything out. It told me to gouge out her eyes and break her nose. I wanted so badly to beat her, to feel her flesh give way to my hands and boots. To feel the squish as her teeth (or reasonable facsimile thereof) busted through her lips, that would be true ecstasy.

But the voice would have none of that.

"The pillow, you know it must be the pillow."

The rage inside me diminished, and I picked up the pillow her old sweaty feet were resting on. Her feet fell to the cushion, spreading her legs a bit more. The wound between her legs was wide open now, but the memory of the voice kept me calm.

I looked in her eyes and saw the lust and desire she tried so hard to hide from the outside world. A string of drool fell from the corner of her mouth, and at that moment the voice took over.

"Now! Do it now! Softly! Gently!"

I held the pillow with both hands and covered her entire head with it, making sure that my hands were holding the outer edge of the pillow so the knuckles wouldn't bruise her face. She tried to swing her head from side to side, but I held it in place with the pillow. I heard her muffled screams through the pillow, and knew that her screaming would only speed up the process. She kicked with her legs, but her old muscles didn't hold enough strength to kick me off the couch. I had one of her arms pinned against the front of the couch with my left leg, and I straddled her chest with my right, pinning her left arm in the process, but careful not to apply enough pressure to bruise her.

She thrashed wildly, with more strength than I expected, but her attempts were futile. Suddenly I realized that my manhood was bulging against my fly, and that I was extremely turned on. She was quickly growing weaker, but I wasn't ready for the rush to be over.

"Now, get up." said the voice, or was that me? It's hard to distinguish sometimes.

"I'll take care of it from here."

I obeyed, lifting the pillow from her face and my body from her chest. I expected her to take in a deep breath, and maybe even try to run, making this just a bit more fun. But that didn't happen. Not at all.

She continued to thrash about wildly. As soon as her arms were free she clutched her chest, making claw marks in her wrinkled skin. She tried to scream, but she didn't seem to realize she hadn't inhaled yet. She simply made this "uuuuuu" sound as her lungs collapsed, pushing out the ass end of her last breath. I realized the old bitch was having a heart attack, and it didn't please me at all, but the voice told me it was for my own good. She really would die of natural causes.

Finally she stopped moving around and slumped down in the couch as she gave up the ghost. It was so immediate, there was no lucent period before she died. One second she was jerking and twisting around like a wild woman, and the next she was perfectly still.

I placed my index finger on her neck, feeling for a pulse but knowing I wouldn't find one. I felt the most overwhelming urge to straddle her again and masturbate in her face, but I knew no matter how careful I was the cops were likely to find traces of semen. Release wouldn't come for awhile.

I wanted more. The needle wasn't satisfied. I wanted to walk into the street and kill everyone I saw. I think I went a little insane at that moment.

"Now you must call the police, they'll hear your breathlessness and mistake it for fear."

I knew it was right, it's always right.

I desperately wanted a cigarette, but I knew I had to call the cops ASAP.

I picked up the phone.

Back to the absk group story page.
Back to the absk page.
Back to the Stephen King page.