[Fic] A Literal Killing for You
A companion story to my mix, A Literal Killing for You, made for Beka. Each section belongs to a song and a specific moment.
Title: A Literal Killing for You
Word count: 1980 words
Warnings: Violence. Skewers. Um. Yeah.
You stare at the flickering screen, all muscles suddenly tense. One hand already reaches for a bag while the other types your response: I’m coming. Just give me a bit, I’ll be there and then we’ll get this guy. And then you’re up, logging off and shutting down your computer while you stuff a change of clothes into the bag and decide if it’s worth it to bring your metal baseball bat, if it has enough heft to do any damage. Nothing feels better than tossing your bag into the trunk, settling your lead pipe in the passenger seat and sliding the key into the ignition. You feel the growl of the engine and you smile.
You’re going to kill tonight.
. . .
It’s occurred to you before that you’re seven states and close to 2000 miles away, but you could care less right now. Adrenaline twitches through your fingers as you slide one hand across the wheel, the other clenching the lead pipe. You beat a rhythm into you calf, matching the beat of the tires over breaks in the road. The highway is practically empty and you’re pushing 85, daring yourself to look at any other drivers you pass to see if they’re anyone you know, also driving to the rescue. You can’t look though, as your fingers tense and you veer, careening across lanes as if it it’ll make you go any faster. Your foot presses the gas pedal harder, the speedometer sinking, inching closer to 90. You’ve going to make it with time to spare.
This guy’s gonna pay.
. . .
You can’t help smiling as you feel the trunk slam under your hands and you climb into the back seat, the van rocking just a little as everyone piles in. The engine turns over, purring as you run through the checklist. It’s still dark when the headlights are turned on with a dull click, sunrise hopefully delaying itself while you finish this job. The van pulls away and you realize you haven’t slept in nearly a day. You could care less. It’s dead silent in the van, but the mood is fairly light despite the gruesome job you’re embarking on. It’s not a long drive, not as long as the one you took to get here. Soon the van rolls to a stop. You exhale, roll you shoulders and lift your lead pipe as you step out of the van.
Here goes nothing.
. . .
There is nothing more satisfying than a hefty Molotov cocktail leaving your hand and crashing through a window, or the feeling of a sledgehammer shaking in your grasp as you heave it against a locked door. There is nothing more satisfying than kicking the sides of the house and cat-calling, taunting, warming your buzzing fingers in the flames that lick the window frames. Nothing feels better than to hear the girlish screams as a man totally loses his wits and practically pisses himself in fear. Nothing is more satisfying except the crack and splintering of wood, and the screech of a door being ripped off its hinges, the cries of victory as you all push forward into the burning house.
Time for the real work to begin.
. . .
You grin as the first blow lands-it’s not even yours, you don’t start the beatings but to hear him scream like you, you know you’ll sure as hell finish them and none too soon. He’s already curled into a ball whimpering when you get your turn. You kick him in the side-you’re not about to let him ruin all your fun. UP goes the lead pipe, then down, into the soft flesh of his back, the muscle giving just a little bit, the whoosh ringing in your ears. The cry that escapes him is at least half-animal. You just lick your lips and strike again, aiming for that high-pitched squeal that lets you know you’ve reached the breaking point. Tread that line, don’t cross it. As much fun as this is, you remember the plan and you’re not about to let him get off easy. Oh no. There are greater things in store for him, as the crowd forms around you and it just becomes a whirlwind of steel-toed boots and bats, and that dictionary that makes a sickening crack as it comes in contact with the back of his head. Or maybe that noise is his skull. He goes limp and the beating stops. You nod, and begin to pull him out of the wreckage of his still-burning house.
Time for phase two.
. . .
You’re impatient as he takes forever waking up and you pace outside the warehouse, tapping a skewer against your thigh. Someone mistakes this for nerves and tries to reassure you that you’ll do fine. Another person chips in that they can do this, if you’re uncomfortable. You grit your teeth, thanking them but remind them that you requested this, and for good reason. You can’t just kill a man. He has to know why he’s dying, and you intend to hammer the point home.
When someone reports that he’s awake, or mostly awake, you finally relax, rolling your shoulders and making sure you have all the skewers-six of them, forming a good-sized bundle in your hand. You enter quietly, basking in the fear. He whimpers on the table, tries to look brave in what will be his last minutes by threatening you with his lawyer, but his voice shakes and you know no one will ever know you were involved. You reassure him of this fact, and then pas the first skewer in front of his eyes. You can hear the ball of fear filling his throat, choking him from the inside. Your tone is level and even as you talk about your normal life back home, about your parents and siblings and grades in school as you move the skewer over to his shoulder, letting his eyes follow. You reveal your hopes and dreams to him, bare your soul, and then in a pause you put all your weight behind the skewer and it slides in between fiber of muscle. He screams, but you keep talking, about your friends, about the one he hurt. You ask if he remembers the incident that brought you out here. He mumbles-either an assent or a protest that he couldn’t possibly recall one single incident. It doesn’t matter either way. You smile and talk about how much you care about your friends, as you hold a skewer just above a space between his ribs.
“So pretty much,” you finish as you slide the skewer through his side, “you messed with the wrong person’s friend, and now... you’re fucked.”
. . .
He’s whimpering now, having given up on the empty threats and then the groveling, the begging for mercy. You’re down to one skewer, and you’re exhausted, the sleep forming in your eyes no matter how many times you try to rub it away. You sway ever so slightly as you walk outside the warehouse, holding the last skewer up for everyone to see, and announce that if no one has any objections, you’re going to finish the job. Nobody protests. You ask if anyone wants to watch but no one responds, all of them just as exhausted as you from keeping an all-night vigil. You nod and head back inside, making sure to lock eyes with the disgusting excuse for a man on the table, before beginning to make your final preparations. He asks you if he’s going to die. You reply that everyone has to die sometimes. He asks if it’s going to be painful. You answer, in a grunt, that you sure hope so, feeling with your fingers that are no longer buzzing with excitement, groping for his heartbeat and thus his heart. You find it-ba bum, ba bum, ba bum-and just stand there for a moment, preparing yourself, He whimpers one more time as you remove your fingers and raise the skewer, begs you to please let him go, but there’s no time to respond as down the skewer comes, through his chest, piercing his heart. You hold in place, waiting for him to stop moving, stop breathing, your eyes locked on his face the whole time. Finally you relax, wipe your hands on the pants you threw on only hours ago, and exit the warehouse, announcing that the deed has been done.
Mission accomplished.
. . .
You wipe off the sweat that’s forming on your forehead with the back of your head. The sun is beginning to rise, and of course you have to stick around and do clean-up crew, even though your muscles are burning and you haven’t slept in who knows how long. But the big hole that’s going to have to pass as a grave is finally deep enough, and as you climb out of it you see that someone has thought to order pizza. You help toss the body in the hole, and then sit around the grave, cracking jokes, occasionally spitting on the body or spilling your soda in the dirt. As a joke, someone tosses the guy a piece of pizza and it lands smack dead on his face. You all laugh. Someone says it’s a pity you forgot to bring acid to accelerate decomposition, and someone else says the grease from the pizza should do the trick. When the pizza is finished, the box goes down the hole, landing next to the body, and you all begin to fill in the grave, taking time to note your favorite moments you had with him like it’s some kind of legitimate memorial service. You all pat down the last of the dirt, and then someone gets the idea that you should dance on his grave, pulling you in close for a stately waltz. Everyone joins in, the scene becoming some crazy sock hop in the desert over the body of a man you all helped kill. You smile, laugh as your partner steps on your toes or vice versa.
These are the ways you bond with your chosen family.
. . .
And then it’s all over. You drive back into the city and say your goodbyes, promising that next time you meet one another it’ll be under more relaxing circumstances, that next time you’ll actually be able to stay, that next time you’ll leave the skewers at home. There’s a group hug, lots of ‘I love you’s, and the reassurances that, if you are for some reason caught, someone will sob for great justice to distract the police. You gather up the things you brought from the collective pile-your baseball bat that you did indeed bring, the change of clothes you will only use half-way home, when you get sick of the way your blood and dirt-covered shirt sticks to your back. One last kiss from everyone and then the stuff goes in the trunk, the bloody lead pipe goes under the seat and you’re off for home, waving good-bye with a smile on your face.
You’ll be back one of these days, but man what a trip.
Title: A Literal Killing for You
Word count: 1980 words
Warnings: Violence. Skewers. Um. Yeah.
You stare at the flickering screen, all muscles suddenly tense. One hand already reaches for a bag while the other types your response: I’m coming. Just give me a bit, I’ll be there and then we’ll get this guy. And then you’re up, logging off and shutting down your computer while you stuff a change of clothes into the bag and decide if it’s worth it to bring your metal baseball bat, if it has enough heft to do any damage. Nothing feels better than tossing your bag into the trunk, settling your lead pipe in the passenger seat and sliding the key into the ignition. You feel the growl of the engine and you smile.
You’re going to kill tonight.
. . .
It’s occurred to you before that you’re seven states and close to 2000 miles away, but you could care less right now. Adrenaline twitches through your fingers as you slide one hand across the wheel, the other clenching the lead pipe. You beat a rhythm into you calf, matching the beat of the tires over breaks in the road. The highway is practically empty and you’re pushing 85, daring yourself to look at any other drivers you pass to see if they’re anyone you know, also driving to the rescue. You can’t look though, as your fingers tense and you veer, careening across lanes as if it it’ll make you go any faster. Your foot presses the gas pedal harder, the speedometer sinking, inching closer to 90. You’ve going to make it with time to spare.
This guy’s gonna pay.
. . .
You can’t help smiling as you feel the trunk slam under your hands and you climb into the back seat, the van rocking just a little as everyone piles in. The engine turns over, purring as you run through the checklist. It’s still dark when the headlights are turned on with a dull click, sunrise hopefully delaying itself while you finish this job. The van pulls away and you realize you haven’t slept in nearly a day. You could care less. It’s dead silent in the van, but the mood is fairly light despite the gruesome job you’re embarking on. It’s not a long drive, not as long as the one you took to get here. Soon the van rolls to a stop. You exhale, roll you shoulders and lift your lead pipe as you step out of the van.
Here goes nothing.
. . .
There is nothing more satisfying than a hefty Molotov cocktail leaving your hand and crashing through a window, or the feeling of a sledgehammer shaking in your grasp as you heave it against a locked door. There is nothing more satisfying than kicking the sides of the house and cat-calling, taunting, warming your buzzing fingers in the flames that lick the window frames. Nothing feels better than to hear the girlish screams as a man totally loses his wits and practically pisses himself in fear. Nothing is more satisfying except the crack and splintering of wood, and the screech of a door being ripped off its hinges, the cries of victory as you all push forward into the burning house.
Time for the real work to begin.
. . .
You grin as the first blow lands-it’s not even yours, you don’t start the beatings but to hear him scream like you, you know you’ll sure as hell finish them and none too soon. He’s already curled into a ball whimpering when you get your turn. You kick him in the side-you’re not about to let him ruin all your fun. UP goes the lead pipe, then down, into the soft flesh of his back, the muscle giving just a little bit, the whoosh ringing in your ears. The cry that escapes him is at least half-animal. You just lick your lips and strike again, aiming for that high-pitched squeal that lets you know you’ve reached the breaking point. Tread that line, don’t cross it. As much fun as this is, you remember the plan and you’re not about to let him get off easy. Oh no. There are greater things in store for him, as the crowd forms around you and it just becomes a whirlwind of steel-toed boots and bats, and that dictionary that makes a sickening crack as it comes in contact with the back of his head. Or maybe that noise is his skull. He goes limp and the beating stops. You nod, and begin to pull him out of the wreckage of his still-burning house.
Time for phase two.
. . .
You’re impatient as he takes forever waking up and you pace outside the warehouse, tapping a skewer against your thigh. Someone mistakes this for nerves and tries to reassure you that you’ll do fine. Another person chips in that they can do this, if you’re uncomfortable. You grit your teeth, thanking them but remind them that you requested this, and for good reason. You can’t just kill a man. He has to know why he’s dying, and you intend to hammer the point home.
When someone reports that he’s awake, or mostly awake, you finally relax, rolling your shoulders and making sure you have all the skewers-six of them, forming a good-sized bundle in your hand. You enter quietly, basking in the fear. He whimpers on the table, tries to look brave in what will be his last minutes by threatening you with his lawyer, but his voice shakes and you know no one will ever know you were involved. You reassure him of this fact, and then pas the first skewer in front of his eyes. You can hear the ball of fear filling his throat, choking him from the inside. Your tone is level and even as you talk about your normal life back home, about your parents and siblings and grades in school as you move the skewer over to his shoulder, letting his eyes follow. You reveal your hopes and dreams to him, bare your soul, and then in a pause you put all your weight behind the skewer and it slides in between fiber of muscle. He screams, but you keep talking, about your friends, about the one he hurt. You ask if he remembers the incident that brought you out here. He mumbles-either an assent or a protest that he couldn’t possibly recall one single incident. It doesn’t matter either way. You smile and talk about how much you care about your friends, as you hold a skewer just above a space between his ribs.
“So pretty much,” you finish as you slide the skewer through his side, “you messed with the wrong person’s friend, and now... you’re fucked.”
. . .
He’s whimpering now, having given up on the empty threats and then the groveling, the begging for mercy. You’re down to one skewer, and you’re exhausted, the sleep forming in your eyes no matter how many times you try to rub it away. You sway ever so slightly as you walk outside the warehouse, holding the last skewer up for everyone to see, and announce that if no one has any objections, you’re going to finish the job. Nobody protests. You ask if anyone wants to watch but no one responds, all of them just as exhausted as you from keeping an all-night vigil. You nod and head back inside, making sure to lock eyes with the disgusting excuse for a man on the table, before beginning to make your final preparations. He asks you if he’s going to die. You reply that everyone has to die sometimes. He asks if it’s going to be painful. You answer, in a grunt, that you sure hope so, feeling with your fingers that are no longer buzzing with excitement, groping for his heartbeat and thus his heart. You find it-ba bum, ba bum, ba bum-and just stand there for a moment, preparing yourself, He whimpers one more time as you remove your fingers and raise the skewer, begs you to please let him go, but there’s no time to respond as down the skewer comes, through his chest, piercing his heart. You hold in place, waiting for him to stop moving, stop breathing, your eyes locked on his face the whole time. Finally you relax, wipe your hands on the pants you threw on only hours ago, and exit the warehouse, announcing that the deed has been done.
Mission accomplished.
. . .
You wipe off the sweat that’s forming on your forehead with the back of your head. The sun is beginning to rise, and of course you have to stick around and do clean-up crew, even though your muscles are burning and you haven’t slept in who knows how long. But the big hole that’s going to have to pass as a grave is finally deep enough, and as you climb out of it you see that someone has thought to order pizza. You help toss the body in the hole, and then sit around the grave, cracking jokes, occasionally spitting on the body or spilling your soda in the dirt. As a joke, someone tosses the guy a piece of pizza and it lands smack dead on his face. You all laugh. Someone says it’s a pity you forgot to bring acid to accelerate decomposition, and someone else says the grease from the pizza should do the trick. When the pizza is finished, the box goes down the hole, landing next to the body, and you all begin to fill in the grave, taking time to note your favorite moments you had with him like it’s some kind of legitimate memorial service. You all pat down the last of the dirt, and then someone gets the idea that you should dance on his grave, pulling you in close for a stately waltz. Everyone joins in, the scene becoming some crazy sock hop in the desert over the body of a man you all helped kill. You smile, laugh as your partner steps on your toes or vice versa.
These are the ways you bond with your chosen family.
. . .
And then it’s all over. You drive back into the city and say your goodbyes, promising that next time you meet one another it’ll be under more relaxing circumstances, that next time you’ll actually be able to stay, that next time you’ll leave the skewers at home. There’s a group hug, lots of ‘I love you’s, and the reassurances that, if you are for some reason caught, someone will sob for great justice to distract the police. You gather up the things you brought from the collective pile-your baseball bat that you did indeed bring, the change of clothes you will only use half-way home, when you get sick of the way your blood and dirt-covered shirt sticks to your back. One last kiss from everyone and then the stuff goes in the trunk, the bloody lead pipe goes under the seat and you’re off for home, waving good-bye with a smile on your face.
You’ll be back one of these days, but man what a trip.