passenger seat. The Binaca tasted good and gave him a little extra moisture on his dry throat.
"Watch out, faggot's gonna kiss us," said Groove, a purple-Mohawked scumking.
Macklin sat still for a moment and thought. A Bloodhawk jumped on the hood like a monkey. Moonface ran a finger down his bloody arm and wrote the word "FUCKER" in blood on the driver's side window.
Macklin had a plan. He scrambled around the car again, tossing papers aside as if still searching for something useful. In the process, he hid the Bic lighter in his left hand and twisted the flame control with his thumb to its highest setting.
Macklin took the deodorant in his right hand and reached for the door handle.
Moonface stepped back, grinning, fanning his hands towards himself to beckon Macklin. "C'mon out, motherfucker."
He burst out of the car, flicking his Bic lighter and holding it up to the deodorant can as he depressed the spray button.
A tongue of flame lashed out of the spray can and ignited Moonface's blood-soaked shirt. Moonface became a blazing effigy, his horrified screech swallowed by hungry fire.
"You shouldn't play with fire," Macklin scolded Moonface. The three terrified Bloodhawks scattered.
Macklin whirled, spraying white-hot death against the backs of two fleeing Bloodhawks. The fire crawled up the screaming men's backs and turned their heads into flaming wicks. They ran until they were formless lumps of sizzling blackness. The purple-Mohawked scumking escaped around the corner unscathed.
The man who had been listening to Spanish music on the tenement's second-floor fire escape was standing up and applauding.
Macklin stared down at the burning logs of flesh, dropped the deodorant can, and picked the distributor cap off the hood.
It was time to go home.
# # # # # #
The dark, age-freckled skin was stretched tight over the eighty-three-year-old man's squat, gnarled frame. He leaned heavily on his pearl-handled cane and stared at Craven, his most trusted aide, through thick, tortoiseshell glasses.
The old man stood at the edge of the cliff and stared out at the sea. He owned every drop of it. He also owned every grain of sand within twenty-five miles of where he now stood. The gray skies and turbulent, heavy tides underscored the unbridled hate Craven saw burning in the old man's eyes.
"Tell me he's suffering," the old man wheezed. "Tell me he's bleeding to death inside."
The misty sea breeze blew into Craven's pale face and fanned his bright red hair. "Yeah, Macklin's hurting."
Vicious guard dogs prowled the property. One of them came up and licked the old man's age-spotted hand. Craven had a remote control in his pocket that, when activated, delivered an electric charge to the collar around each dog's neck. It was perfect for training and for keeping the dogs in line if they ever decided to turn on their masters.
The same collars worked just as effectively with some of Craven's lovers.
The old man turned towards Craven. "Do any of his family or friends still live?"
Craven nodded, staring into the old man's wise, scrutinizing eyes.
The old man faced the sea again. "Then he isn't suffering enough."
# # # # # #
4:30 p.m.
Macklin's bedside phone was ringing, but he didn't want to move. The bed was nice and warm, his body was relaxed, and the pain from his wounds was a tolerable ache. His head rested in a snug hollow in the pillow, and the sheets smelled fresh and clean.
He could stay here forever.
But the phone wouldn't let him. Its shrill rings rudely yanked him by the ears, nagging him into motion.
Macklin angrily reached for the phone. The movement raised the sheets. Air rushed under the sheets and destroyed the delicate warmth he had generated during his sleep.
"This better be good," Macklin snapped, lying on his back. His broken ribs, irritated by the sudden movement, throbbed painfully awake.
"Is this Brett Macklin?" a man asked.
"Yeah." He closed his eyes. Maybe he could keep that restful, sleepy
"Watch out, faggot's gonna kiss us," said Groove, a purple-Mohawked scumking.
Macklin sat still for a moment and thought. A Bloodhawk jumped on the hood like a monkey. Moonface ran a finger down his bloody arm and wrote the word "FUCKER" in blood on the driver's side window.
Macklin had a plan. He scrambled around the car again, tossing papers aside as if still searching for something useful. In the process, he hid the Bic lighter in his left hand and twisted the flame control with his thumb to its highest setting.
Macklin took the deodorant in his right hand and reached for the door handle.
Moonface stepped back, grinning, fanning his hands towards himself to beckon Macklin. "C'mon out, motherfucker."
He burst out of the car, flicking his Bic lighter and holding it up to the deodorant can as he depressed the spray button.
A tongue of flame lashed out of the spray can and ignited Moonface's blood-soaked shirt. Moonface became a blazing effigy, his horrified screech swallowed by hungry fire.
"You shouldn't play with fire," Macklin scolded Moonface. The three terrified Bloodhawks scattered.
Macklin whirled, spraying white-hot death against the backs of two fleeing Bloodhawks. The fire crawled up the screaming men's backs and turned their heads into flaming wicks. They ran until they were formless lumps of sizzling blackness. The purple-Mohawked scumking escaped around the corner unscathed.
The man who had been listening to Spanish music on the tenement's second-floor fire escape was standing up and applauding.
Macklin stared down at the burning logs of flesh, dropped the deodorant can, and picked the distributor cap off the hood.
It was time to go home.
# # # # # #
The dark, age-freckled skin was stretched tight over the eighty-three-year-old man's squat, gnarled frame. He leaned heavily on his pearl-handled cane and stared at Craven, his most trusted aide, through thick, tortoiseshell glasses.
The old man stood at the edge of the cliff and stared out at the sea. He owned every drop of it. He also owned every grain of sand within twenty-five miles of where he now stood. The gray skies and turbulent, heavy tides underscored the unbridled hate Craven saw burning in the old man's eyes.
"Tell me he's suffering," the old man wheezed. "Tell me he's bleeding to death inside."
The misty sea breeze blew into Craven's pale face and fanned his bright red hair. "Yeah, Macklin's hurting."
Vicious guard dogs prowled the property. One of them came up and licked the old man's age-spotted hand. Craven had a remote control in his pocket that, when activated, delivered an electric charge to the collar around each dog's neck. It was perfect for training and for keeping the dogs in line if they ever decided to turn on their masters.
The same collars worked just as effectively with some of Craven's lovers.
The old man turned towards Craven. "Do any of his family or friends still live?"
Craven nodded, staring into the old man's wise, scrutinizing eyes.
The old man faced the sea again. "Then he isn't suffering enough."
# # # # # #
4:30 p.m.
Macklin's bedside phone was ringing, but he didn't want to move. The bed was nice and warm, his body was relaxed, and the pain from his wounds was a tolerable ache. His head rested in a snug hollow in the pillow, and the sheets smelled fresh and clean.
He could stay here forever.
But the phone wouldn't let him. Its shrill rings rudely yanked him by the ears, nagging him into motion.
Macklin angrily reached for the phone. The movement raised the sheets. Air rushed under the sheets and destroyed the delicate warmth he had generated during his sleep.
"This better be good," Macklin snapped, lying on his back. His broken ribs, irritated by the sudden movement, throbbed painfully awake.
"Is this Brett Macklin?" a man asked.
"Yeah." He closed his eyes. Maybe he could keep that restful, sleepy
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