Frisk: A Novel (Cooper, Dennis) (13 page)

We've killed two other boys. The first was this punk, maybe twenty, twenty-one, whom I'd seen around town, always wearing the same filthy coat with the names of heavy metal bands scribbled all over it. Seeing him would make me ache for a couple of days, sometimes longer. Before I met Ferdinand and Jorg he seemed so impossible. But one afternoon I was walking around with the Germans when he came the opposite way, holding onto this one particular punk girl as always. I told the Germans I wanted to kill him. I'd learned how to say that without any feeling at all. Ferdinand said, That's no problem. It turned out the punk lived in their squat. They thought he was arrogant, stupid, pretentious, ugly, etc., so they were happy to help. They told me they'd just casually mention to him how they knew somebody who lived in a windmill. He'd definitely want a tour, they said. They'd try to coax him to visit that night. When we split off, I bought some rope so we could tie him if need be. They came by around 11 P.M. We opened beers, sat around. He listened more than he talked. I asked if he wanted a tour. He said, Okay. I showed him the tanks. At one point he strolled off alone, and I told Jorg and Ferdinand to wait for my signal. Ferdinand said I was obviously in love with the guy so no problem. The punk thought the brewery was cool. We went back upstairs, drank more beer. I was totally in awe. At one point I managed to ask, Are you gay? He said no but he didn't mind gays. I asked if he'd ever had sex with another guy. He said no, very blase about it. I asked if he'd ever thought about fucking with gay men for money. He said yeah once. Ferdinand and Jorg sat there watching. I said, How about now with us? He laughed. Seriously? he asked. I said, Sure. He asked how much. I said, You tell us. He said, 300 guilders plus two bags of heroin, which we had to score for him. I said, Fine. That kind of shocked him, I think. He leaned back and said, Oh, so that's what this bullshit's about. I said yeah. Then Jorg and Ferdinand left to score heroin. The boy said he had his own needle. We were alone, with him cross-legged facing me on the futon, acting like he knew he drove me totally insane. He asked a few questions, then nodded at the answers. I told him I'd wanted to fuck him for months, which made him look even more full of himself. I said, You've obviously done this before. He said yeah but we were lucky we'd asked when he was broke. The Germans came back with dope. He shot up. Then he stretched out on the floor by the fridge, very peaceful and pale, mumbling. I said, Let's move to the bed. He sort of staggered across the room, dropped facedown on the futon. Stand him up, I said, Strip him. The Germans hoisted him up to his feet. First he said, Hey, what the fuck are you doing? Then he gave up and said, Oh okay. His clothes only looked complicated. They were a coat, T-shirt, pants, all of which slid right off. I said, Leave his boots on, I don't know why. His body was flawless-white, smooth, hard, dime nipples, big cock, dangly balls, square ass, hairless crack. He'd started nodding like junkies do. Hold him up, I said. I moved in close, feeling his body, especially his ass, which was so cold and soft. I told him I wanted to do everything that was humanly possible to him. He didn't say anything. He's too stoned, Jorg said. I asked Ferdinand, Will he fall if you guys let him go? They nodded. So let him go. They did. He collapsed on the floor and started groaning, but I don't think he was actually hurt. I stripped, knelt down next to his face and put my cock against his lips. I said, Suck. He opened his mouth. I started fucking it. That looked fantastic. At one point I stopped and french-kissed him, telling him how much I worshiped him. He was rubbing my back or my head while I did this. I licked down his body, tried sucking his cock. It wouldn't get hard, which made me furious for some reason. I don't know what I expected. I climbed off and told Jorg to kick the guy once in the stomach. He did. The guy balled up, retching. I told Jorg to hand me his gun. I pointed it at the guy's forehead. Open your eyes, I said, I'm going to kill you. He mumbled, No, no, no. The Germans came over and tied his wrists, ankles. Ferdinand said we should put something into his mouth. I thought he was saying my cock so I buried it. He probably meant a gag, but it's soundproof in here as far as anyone can tell. After a while Jorg suggested we carry the boy to the basically unused third floor of the mill and dangle him from the rafters. That way we could easily fuck him around, three on one. Great idea. The Ger mans started untying his ankles. I watched, jerking off. He was murmuring something in Dutch. They were ready to walk him upstairs, but I told them to hold it, I wanted to eat out his ass while his body was flexible. So they laid him back down on the futon and contorted his hips until the asshole was totally accessible. They skinned back the cheeks with their fingers until it was a purple cave. I started nibbling and sucking it. I tried to blow it up like a balloon, pried it even more open, sniffed the depths, etc. The Germans thought that was ridiculous, as usual. I felt kind of lost and irrational. I'd never wanted to eat someone's shit before, but I was starved for the punk's. I asked him if it had been eaten before. He mumbled, No, let me go. I asked if he'd like me to eat it. He said, Are you really going to kill me? I said, No, very casually. Then I repeated my question. He said he didn't know what I meant. I said if he'd shit in my mouth we'd let him go. He said okay. He sounded totally exhausted. His ass looked fantastic. I stared at the thing for a few seconds. Then I put my hand under the hole. The punk looked terrified but kind of haughty. I think Dutch faces must have some haughtiness built into them or whatever. His neck was all crumpled up under his chin like a walrus's. I said, Shit. He contorted his face. A long shit squirted out. I had to move my hand around quickly to catch it all. I was so wild for the guy's looks in general that the smell hardly registered, but the Germans backed off and hooted, so it probably stank really bad. I started eating it. The Germans watched me, fascinated, I think, but pretending to puke and etc. It tasted okay, kind of bland. I swallowed three mouthfuls, then wiped off the rest on the floor and licked his asshole clean, inside, out. Then I said, Ferdinand, Jorg, take the idiot upstairs. He couldn't believe it. They grabbed him. He yelled, No, no, no. After we got him upstairs, the Germans threw a rope over a beam in the rafters. They untied his hands and retied them clasped over his head. Then they connected the two ropes and hoisted him until his feet were a foot off the floor. I stood nearby, jerking off. His face was scrunched up in discomfort, at the strain on his arms or whatever. It seemed religious, I don't know why. It also reminded me of a punching bag, like boxers use. Anyway, I was tired, so I told the Germans, Let's go downstairs for a while. The downstairs smelled gruesome, so Ferdinand opened the windows. I cleaned up the shit. We drank a few beers. The smell went away or we got used to it. There was no noise at all from upstairs, as far as we could tell. I asked Ferdinand and Jorg what they'd do with the punk if they could. They said what I knew they'd say, Beat him to death. I understood how that would be great and everything, but it wasn't enough somehow, at least for me. So I told them to go home, sleep, and we'd meet up the next day and finish the boy off, once I'd had some time to decide. They said, Fine, left. I was too tense to sleep. So I went back upstairs late that night and just watched the punk hang there. At first he didn't notice me. Then he said, Let me go, I won't tell, etc. I said, No, his death was important to me. He couldn't possibly understand, I said. Even I didn't understand, really. He tried to discuss it with me intellectually. I said it wasn't a rational thing, he might as well give up. Then I caressed him all over. It was like I was frisking him, only much more extensively. All he said the whole time was his back hurt, almost to himself. I examined it. I couldn't tell what was the problem. So I knelt down and licked out his ass again, finger-fucked it. The fingering made him scream, because it put too much stress on his muscles, I guess. When he screamed his mouth opened incredibly wide. Then I really wanted to kill him. The red mouth triggered the need, because it was a preview or something. I went downstairs, came back up with the kitchen knife. He whispered, No, no, no, when he saw it. I said, Everything is over. I don't know why I said those particular words, but they seemed to communicate what I was feeling. I asked, Did he know it was over? He said, Yes, very flatly. I told him he was the most extraordinary and beautiful boy I'd ever seen in my life and that killing him would be incredible and that he should understand how profound his death was and that I would remember his murder forever. He just looked at me. I couldn't read his expression. My hands were totally trembling, but I took the knife and aimed it at his chest about the point where his heart would have been. He looked down to see where I'd aimed, by reflex, I guess. I shoved the blade about five inches into his chest with both hands. His eyes closed. He bit his bottom lip. His head dropped back. Blood poured out around the knife, down his body. I pulled out the knife and made a light horizontal cut across his stomach, which dribbled more blood. I stretched out his penis and tried to saw it in two. I only got through a fraction of it, it was so tough. I knelt down behind him and licked his asshole but that seemed kind of pointless with him dead, so I stabbed his back a bunch of times, kissing and licking his neck as I did. Then I walked back downstairs, dressed, went out, and called the Germans, waking them up. They hurried over. They kicked the corpse around for a while. That created a pretty hilarious fireworks display of blood, with him swinging around like the clapper in an invisible bell. I wanted the Germans to cut off his head for some reason, so they severed the rope suspending him and turned the corpse on its stomach. They sawed through its neck-carving, hacking, abrading, etc. The head came free, which took a very long time. Then they kicked the headless torso around. We were all soaked with blood, not to mention a clear goo that came from some organ inside him. I felt unbelievably tired and sat down against one wall, watching them dance around. When none of us cared about the corpse anymore, the Germans picked it up by the armpits and started downstairs. It had basically run out of blood. It didn't leave much of a mess on the stairs, just some smears where its feet dragged. They left the head behind resting on one ear. It continued to hold this incredible allure, but in a weird way, obviously, since it didn't mean much anymore. Jorg came back up for it shortly. I stood at the top of the stairs and watched the punk's body go. I couldn't see the head because it was under Jorg's arm, I think. Supposedly they weighted the corpse down with pieces of concrete and dropped it into the canal. Then I stashed the hypodermic and heroin in the refrigerator. The rest is a blur. For some reason this death is the one that has weirded me out more than any other. It's not an emotional thing, more a sleepiness that wasn't there before he died. It went on for weeks afterward and is still kind of here. I kept thinking I saw the punk places, in the far edges of my eyes, and so on. I never saw the punk's girlfriend again. Maybe the Germans killed her when I wasn't around since I know that Ferdinand, at least, was attracted to her. I should ask them.

We've killed one other boy. He was ten or eleven years old. This was two weeks ago. I chose him. I think the Germans felt weird about killing a kid, but they did it. He'd been haunting me for a long time, maybe six months. He worked with his father or uncle or someone like that in a hamburger stand near the windmill. He deep-fried potatoes, turned hamburgers over, etc., while his dad manned the counter. He was always there, working or sitting around reading comic books. He was skinny and girlish with pink cheeks, brown eyes, and long, wild hair. Something about how laconic he seemed drove me wild, not to mention his looks. I took the Germans to see him one day. They said they'd help, so we hung around until the stand closed at 6. The kid helped his dad sponge up grease and so on for a while. Then he kissed the man's cheek and strolled down the street swinging his arms, balancing on a crack in the sidewalk like kids do. We followed. The dad didn't notice us. Luckily the kid turned down a narrow street with boarded-up buildings on one side, elevated train tracks on the other. Jorg and Ferdinand ran ahead and wrestled him to the ground, which didn't take much effort, obviously. By the time I caught up, Jorg was waving his knife at the kid, who was blinking and sniffling. You understand? Jorg was saying. The kid shook his head. Jorg said the kid's English sucked. I said, Let's get him home quickly. They yanked him up to his feet, then we hustled along. I think an old man spotted us and realized something was wrong, but he didn't actually see us go into the windmill, thank God. Up, up, up, Ferdinand said, lifting the kid by his shirt collar. I was behind, Jorg in front. The kid's shirt had raised up. The small of his back was incredibly skinny and white. I stroked it a little, then slid my palm into his pants. His ass was so little and perfect it felt more like a prototype than a real ass, which made me think about what you once said about Kevin's ass, that it was a "toy ass." Actually, the kid looked a little like Kevin did then. Anyway, he kept looking startled over his shoulder at me. Upstairs Ferdinand threw the kid across the room really hard. He hit a wall and slid down to the floor. He started crying. I knelt beside him and tried to kiss, but he hid his face in the crook of one arm. I shook his shoulder. Kiss me, I said. He tried to pull away. I grabbed his head, slammed it against the wall. After that he stopped crying and looked very dazed. I dragged him toward the futon by one wrist, which was easier to do than it sounds since he didn't weigh much. Jorg said, Let us know when you need us. Okay. I laid the kid out on his back, unbuttoned his shirt, took it off, unzipped his short pants, and gave them a yank. He didn't wear underpants or have pubic hair yet. His genitals were too tiny to be very interesting. I put my lips close to his face and whispered, I love you, baby. I really felt like I did. You understand? I asked. He shook his head. It's true, I said. I undressed. The Germans stood by the refrigerator, as usual, drinking, half paying attention. The kid watched me intently, eyes fixed on my hard-on. I couldn't read their expression. I knelt over his face, aimed my cock at his mouth. His eyes were still fixed on the head of my cock, vaguely cross-eyed by that point, because it was so close. I thought that looked sexy, I don't know why. I dabbed a little drop of pre-come on his lips, smearing it around with my thumb. I forced the thumb inside his mouth, even deep down his throat. Then I brought it out coated with spit and smeared his lips again. I pushed in my cock. I couldn't fit much inside. The difference was too great. When I forced it he started to squeal. So the Germans rushed up with a long piece of rope and tied the kid's hands in case he decided to struggle, though like I said, Dutch guys don't fight back, period. Physically, anyway. Ferdinand got out the heroin and cooked it up in a spoon. He shot it into a vein behind one of the kid's knees. It took effect right away. The kid's squeals sort of faded. He sounded more like a cat mewing. His eyes rolled back in his head, but he wasn't OD'ing, according to Ferdinand, who seemed to know. Still we kept his wrists tied in case. The Germans went back to the fridge. The kid looked more beautiful than before. It had something to do with the mildly lush build of his body combined with that sort of erased angel face. I leaned over and french-kissed his mouth for a while, sucking juice from his lips, biting them until they leaked a little blood, sucking that, then finger-fucking his throat. The next time I rammed my cock down there and managed to get half inside. But it came out coated with blood, which I scraped on a finger and licked. I slapped his face five, six, seven times. It turned scarlet. I fucked it some more, gripping him by the ears. I screwed his face all the way down my cock, until his nostrils were full of my pubic hair. Then I pulled out, cradled his head in one hand, and punched his face with the other. It was bleeding furiously from the lip and nose. I squeezed his throat, banged the back of his head against the floor. I'm almost sure I heard the Germans laughing. Afterward he was still breathing, just raspily. I licked every inch of him from the callused soles of his feet to the part in his hair. He tasted amazingly sweet and mild. Someone once told me young boys taste like nuts. He sort of did. I probably would have paid hundreds to fuck him, much less to murder him. I got so impressed at one point I lay my head on his ass and let his taste kind of melt in my mouth. Jorg, I want to open him up, I mumbled. He came over and squatted nearby, handing me the Swiss army knife. I rolled the kid over, cut his ropes. I pressed the point of the blade into the base of his throat and made a long, straight slit all the way down his chest, stomach. It wasn't deep enough, so I went over it again. This time I managed to part a small area between his nipples and see maybe two inches square of purple material. I licked all inside there. It was incredibly lush. Blood was leaking from five or six spots along the cut. I wish he could see this, I said. He's too fucked up, Jorg said. I went over the cut once more. It opened up. I pulled back the halves of white stomach flesh and saw his jumbled yellow guts, which had a weird strong stench. His chest was still rising and falling. That fascinated me for some reason, so I punched his face several more times. Then I deeptongued his slobbery mouth for a while. I was really delirious. I gave Jorg the knife. Cut him more open, I said. I concentrated on kissing, while Jorg hacked away in my peripheral vision. I tried to induce vomiting with my fingers. His system was too broken down by that point or whatever. When I looked up, Jorg was trying to carve off the kid's left leg. I watched that for a while. It didn't work for some reason. Blood was just barreling out of the area. Ferdinand was leaning over Jorg's shoulder. The kid's insides were much more science-fictional than I imagined. Still, there was something so ugly and earthy about them. I could understand why they were meant to be hidden away. Anyway it made me more curious about his ass, which I hadn't explored yet for some reason. Wait, I said. Jorg quit carving. We tipped the kid onto his side. At that, guts sloshed out of the stomach wound onto the futon. Jorg sat there staring down at the organs in shock. Ferdinand couldn't believe it. He reeled away, shouting something in German. I asked Jorg, Is the kid still alive? He didn't think it was possible. I didn't care all that much anymore. I wiped the blood off his ass as best I could, grabbed the calf of his one intact leg and bent it way forward, opening the asscrack. I licked it out for a long time, while Jorg hacked the rest of the body in ways I could feel more than see. The kid was rocking around like an earthquake. I felt totally at peace. His hole tasted metallic. I stretched it open and sniffed. The bowels reeked as harshly as I've ever known. I spat on the hole and fucked it brutally, which wasn't easy. The thing was a pinhole. Jorg kept stabbing the corpse kind of lazily. Then I got an idea. Stomp the kid's head, I said. Jorg jumped up, did. It was really horrific. The back of the head just caved in. The hair got all goopy with blood and brain tissue or something. Jorg pulled down his pants and dropped some shit on the crushed head. It was facedown by this point. Turn the corpse over, I said. He did. The face was still beautiful, smiling, which I couldn't believe. So the Germans and I got together and stomped until his face wasn't human. That made cracking and gurgling sounds. We rolled the corpse onto its stomach. I enlarged the asshole with the Swiss army knife and worked one of my hands to the wrist inside. It was wild in there, like reaching into a stew that had started to cool. But it was tight too, a glove or whatever. The Germans were carving their names in the corpse, laughing. I pumped my hand in and out of the ass feeling weirdly furious, with the dead kid I guess. Then we cut him apart for a few hours, and studied everything inside the body, not saying much to one another, just the occasional, Look at this, or swear word, until there was nothing around but a big, off-white shell in the middle of the worst mess in the world. God, human bodies are such garbage bags. We fell asleep curled on the floor. I didn't wake up until late the next day. When I opened my eyes, Ferdinand and Jorg were scooping up parts of the kid in their hands and plopping them into plastic bags. The futon was ruined. I bought a new one. The floor's still blackish from where the kid's blood soaked into the wood. We'd demolished him to the extent that there was no sense of what he'd looked like in the pieces of him that were left. It was like we'd erased him. It's weird. None of us can remember his looks in any detail. When I try to picture him, I just go blind and my cock gets unbelievably hard.