Chapter One

Jugulator

(Words & Music by: Tipton & Downing)

Jugulator he is near
Attracted by the stench of fear
Part demonic, part machine
Hungry and it's time to feed

Iron claws and fangs of steel
Dripping from his tasty meal
Now it's time to jugulate
Feel your skull disintegrate

Jugulator, killing time now
Reaches in and rips your spine out

Exterminator
You are dead; Mutilate

Sharpened razor
Takes your head; Jugulator

Predit hater
You are trapped; Decimate

Desecrator
Your neck snapped; Jugulator
~~~

He’d been eight when he killed for the first time. When he gazed into those hardened, ebony eyes, only animal instinct was present. All he did was pull the trigger and the bullet drove deep into the man’s skull. Did he feel remorse, maybe even a hint of regret? No. When his finger lightly touched the trigger, when he smelled the fear emanating from his victim, when he could see the terror in the man’s eyes, those weak emotions brought the deep hunger to the surface. Feed. Feed on life. The power pulsating through his body was immense. He needed to do this. Something drove him to take life.

Bang! Just squeeze the trigger and one could suck life from another.

When the victim dropped to the ground, the eyes vacant, a hole filling the skull as blood seeped from the open wound - the excitement and exhilaration pounded through every inch of his body. Then the ache. The overwhelming feelings clawed at his insides, tearing through every inch of his flesh, demanding release.

So he hurried off to the Catholic school where those pretty, meek, obedient boys could be found faithfully worshiping an invisible God. Bah, such nonsense. So stupid to bow down to something that didn’t exist, was just a figment of one’s imagination.

The yellow-haired lad caught his attention. Yeah, he always liked the pretty blonds. He licked his lips while watching the gentle swing of the boy’s hips.  Eyed those delicate legs, gently, rounded buttocks and the graceful, slim neck as strands of golden hair dusted against soft flesh.

He snaked along the side of the fence, using his thighs to rest his weight on as he stalked the pretty lad through the narrow gaps in the fence.

“Bye, Tommy,” soft, sopranic voices called out.

Tommy gave his friends a wave and continued on home. When he walked in front of the piece of missing fence, it was then Wesley made his move. He deftly raised his arm, gripping his fingers on the boy’s slim wrist and yanked the defenseless lad to the other side.

Big, grey-blue eyes widened in alarm. Before the lad could yelp, he clamped his mouth over soft lips. The struggle began. The boy fought back by kicking skinny legs while trying to scratch with short nails.

Ah, the fight. The struggle. Feeling the helpless lad thrashing under him filled his loins with an intense heat. Yeah, just keep fighting. He liked the scratches wounding his arms. The kick to his thigh only fed his hunger to a deeper level. He raised his arm and backhanded the pretty boy, silencing his victim with one swift hit. It was the sweet moan that did him in. The gasp wasn’t filled with lust. It was a wounding gasp, filled with pain. He liked hearing the boy’s pain whispering from that delicate mouth.

Again he raised his arm and struck the boy. Another moan escaped those delicate lips. So he struck the lad a third time. More moans. Oh yeah, just keep moaning. Roughly, he tore at the boy’s clothes, exposing delicate flesh, a barely filled out penis and testicles that still had years to develop. He gave a grunt when he shoved his finger inside the lad’s tight hole.

The boy cried out. “Bastard,” he screamed. “Leave me alone!”

Yeah, just keep up the defiant behavior. Drive the anger, the lust, the hate to a breaking point.

By now his own penis had filled out. So small was this lustful weapon, so delicate like Tommy’s. He gave another grunt and brutally entered the boy. More cries and screams pierced his ears.

“Stop! Please stop!” Tommy begged.
 

Wesley raised his hand and struck Tommy so hard the boy seemed on the verge of blacking out. Yeah, the fight was gone. The lad was ready to accept, that sopranic voice now begging for mercy. The defeat in those soft moans drove the feelings in his soul to a melting point.
 

He began thrusting, shoving his penis deeper into the tight hole. And the harder he bucked his hips, the release wouldn’t come. God dammit, he couldn’t make the seed. The slick semen wouldn’t form until he underwent puberty. So he dried humped the boy until the tingling sensations finally stopped. He shuddered then, grunting with delight.
 

He rose off the boy, gazing down at the blackened eye, cut lip, bruised chin and welt covered cheeks. He cocked his brow, sneering since he liked seeing the lad’s thighs spread, the penis half-hard, pants torn and drawn down around the ankles, while moans of pain drifted from the delicate lips. So used. He used this lad well.
 

Could life be more beautiful than the hunt? Yes, he loved sniffing out his prey, taking down his victim, hearing the cries and pleading as the wounded succumbed, and then gazing at a broken spirit willingly accepting defeat.
 

He zippered up his fly and stalked away.
 

*****
 

He jumped on his bicycle and pedaled home. The money was pressed tight against his heart, nestled in the breast-pocket of his leather jacket. So he steered the bike through the throngs of people who graced the street. With quick reflexes, he jerked the handle bars, avoiding the water being dumped from a bucket above.  Instead, a junkie gave a growl when the rancid liquid hit him at full force.

Wesley gave his hissy laugh. Stupid junkie. Have another hit of the brown tar for cripe sake.

Soon, the run-down apartment loomed ahead. The stoop was filled with more vagrants, maybe a hooker, a drug dealer and a petty thief. He ignored the vermin and swung his leg over the seat of the bike, his hands pressing on the brake as he eased the stolen ten-speed to a stop. None of the vagrants spared him a glance. And he didn't bother to look them over either.

He picked up the bike with his left arm and headed up the narrow stairs, frowning, his look telling the vagrants to get the hell out of his way, which they did. The door gave a squeak when he pushed on the weakened wood. Once inside, he was greeted with the stench of dried urine and feces. But the smell didn't bother him. He was used to this scent.

His long legs climbed the three flights of stairs that creaked under his weight. From one apartment he could hear a whore groaning, no doubt servicing her job. When he tried to turn the door knob to his own apartment, he was met with resistance. Just great, the bitch no doubt locked him out again. So he withdrew the paper clip from his jacket pocket and inserted the metal point into the key hole. With just a bit of fiddling, the lock gave and the door opened.

The smell washing over him was no better than the essence in the lobby. No sounds filled the place. So he guessed the bitch was out again, most likely scoring more crack to waste her brain with. He set the bike down and headed to the kitchen, withdrawing the money from his breast-pocket. His dark eyes gleamed with excitement when he gazed at the wad of cash. Two hundred dollars. Shit, this was the most money he ever made. And killing was so fucking easy. It sure beat robbing the tourists, never knowing if those travelers carried anything of value. And with the amount of time it took to head to Menadosa, that rich, clean suburb just fifty kilometers out of the city, robbing the rich peoples homes just wasn't worth the hassle of the trip or the risks involved when trying to outsmart the burglar alarms. And those convenience stores were just another hassle, filled with the hidden cameras that took pictures every third second. If one robbed a smaller establishment that couldn't afford the fancy sensor equipment, the wad in the cash register was minimal.

But killing... he took a seat, giving a gruff, snarling laugh. Yeah, killing was too damn easy. As if the authorities would give a shit about some low-life drug dealer, or a worthless hooker, and even a junkie having their life snuffed out. The damn cops were probably glad when the vermin wasted one another. All those Main Force Patrol officers gave a shit about was guarding the super highways and making sure the rich folks of Menadosa received proper surveillance so their elegant, wealthy mansions would never have to suffer thanks to crime.

He set the money back into his breast pocket and rose from the chair, opening the door to the fridge. Both shelves were empty, so he checked the ice box. Empty. God dammit, the bitch never stalked this place with any food. Then again, she weighed only eighty pounds since all she did was suck back the smoke into her lungs. He slapped his thigh in frustration. Well, he'd get a nap in and then head down to the local fast food joint and grab a hamburger and fries. He did have money after all.

*****

When Wesley awoke, just the blazing neon from the city cast light into his bedroom. He rolled over, guessing it was about ten o'clock. His stomach growled and he rose off the bed, the springs giving loud squeaks as he shifted his weight. He reached for his leather jacket at the foot of the bed and dug around for his money. Then his eyes widened when he realized his breast-pocket was empty.

That fucking bitch! She stole his money again. Giving a grunt, he stood and quickly donned his leather boots as he drew his arms through the sleeves in his jacket. He made a beeline from the bedroom straight into the living room. The bitch was seated on the beat-up sofa, nodding off. The crack pipe was on the coffee table.

"Bitch, where my money?" Wesley snarled as his eyes narrowed with hate.

She didn't seem to hear him. Her eyes stared off into nothing. A stupid smile was planted on her face as she slowly rocked back and forth.

So he grabbed her by the shoulders, giving the bitch a shake. "Where the fuck is my money?"

Silence.

That's it. He had enough. He was sick and tired of this goddamn useless piece of human flesh stealing the money he worked his ass off to earn. He raised the back of his hand and smacked her hard across the face. Her head snapped, yet no emotion registered. She just continued to stare off into nothing.

"You're finished," he hissed. "Let's see if you can make any money off your jobs looking like this."

He drew his arm back and slammed his fist deep into her face. The blood oozed from her nose and her neck snapped back, but again, she said nothing or did nothing. So he hit her again and again. His knuckles were covered with her blood and she still didn't scream or wince.

Walking dead. She may as well be dead.

So he hit her again and this time the force was so great she fell off the sofa. So he drew back his leg and kicked the slut in the gut. Finally, she moaned, the pain registering in her drug-numbed mind. Again he sent a swift kick to her gut. Now came a muffled sob from her.

Wesley turned on his heel and he stomped back into the bedroom. He grabbed the duffle bag and began tossing what clothes he had into the sack. He also reached for his cassettes. Set and ready. To hell with this shit. He was better off on his own than coming home and having the bitch stealing his cash. He'd find that gang leader, maybe propose an offer for more work. There were many abandoned tenements so he'd find a place to live.

He tossed the duffle bag over his shoulder and strode to the kitchen. With his left arm, he lifted the bike and then kicked open the door to the apartment. When he left, he never looked back, nor did he bother closing the door. Let the goddamn junkies infiltrate the apartment and rob her the way she robbed him.

*****

“Can do it by myself,” Wesley grunted. Yeah, best to make a growl, a low snarl since he loathed the sopranic melody of his voice. He despised such a vulnerable sounding pitch.
 

The gang leader purse his lips. A patch covered the man’s right eye, an old battle wound from when he was a child. “He took down Oger,” he snarled. “I want him alive!”
 

Wesley nodded, yet, like hell he’d follow orders. Nobody told him what to do. He wasn’t a weak follower. Nor did he have any desire to belong. All he needed was himself.  He was eleven, after all. Hardly a boy. He considered himself a man even though he still couldn’t make the semen. Who the fuck needed seed when one could still stalk and hunt the weak?
 

He picked up his .44 Magnum and rose off the concrete floor.
 

“Alive,” the gang leader growled.
 

Wesley ignored him. He was doing this pitiful predator a favor. Quit bitching. Just be glad business would be taken care of.
 

He stalked from the burnt-out tenement and headed down the alley, ignoring the crack addicts slumped against garbage cans. Drugs. Bah. Stupid people. Didn’t they know drugs made one weak? How could one be in control of emotions, feelings and senses when wasted on drugs?
 

Yeah, many in the gang liked to sample the speed, heroin, cocaine and crack, but he never touched any, even though he’d been offered the cloud lifting substances many times. All he needed was this .44 Magnum and his life was set. How ironic - performing crimes with a gun that belonged to a dead police officer? Yeah, use their own weapon to perform the sadistic acts, so mocking was this means of defense now bringing down life in the cruelest way.
 

That’s right. He had to pay the arms dealer a visit. He was growing low on bullets.
 

The gang would celebrate the death of the Main Force Patrol Officer once he made his way back to the club house. All would get drunk at the local bar but not him. Even alcohol he despised. Another damn drug that made one lose control, robbed one of natural instincts and numbed the mind.
 

Why find pleasure in narcotics or alcohol? Damn booze and drugs became the master, forcing one to be the follower. The best celebration to indulge in was the rape. Yeah, nothing beat fucking the tight, hot hole of a pretty blond lad once the kill was done.
 

Women. He gave a snort. They only served one purpose. Thanks to the bitch, he was given life. That’s all women were good for. Never would he fuck a woman. Using bitches, always dangling sex like a carrot to manipulate a man. He’d seen the scenario played out way too many times. Even his own gang leader was powerless to the pussy. Always, that woman pranced about, wearing short shorts that exposed the cheeks of her buttocks and low-cut shirts so she could flaunt her big breasts and giant nipples. Never would he fall under such a spell, letting a bitch determine his feelings and emotions.
 

He preferred the delicate, pretty lads anyway - such a blending of masculinity and femininity, rolled into an angelic face, delicate voice, silken hair and tight muscles only a boy could possess.
 

As he continued to circle the parking lot to lift a car, he withdrew the cassette from his leather jacket. He gave a grunt. Manhood. The singer of his favorite band was a man and yet, the blond musician possessed the androgynous aura that filled his loins with lust.
 

Robin Zander of Cheap Trick - big, dark, brown eyes, golden, long hair, delicate bone structure, and a slim body graced with lean muscles. The Man of a Thousand Voices. He loved listening to Robin sing. The stunning male possessed such a wondrous, melodic voice that soothed the raw, anger-driven feelings in him. And he liked staring at Robin’s picture while listening to a tune. The singer would be in his late twenties now, yet Robin still possessed the enchanting beauty that never left him when manhood called his name.
 

A snort of disgust. All the lads he fucked, he knew they’d lose that beauty about them once the testosterone rode at full force. It was rare to find someone like Robin who could hold onto the delicate, genteel prettiness of a young lad.
 

His eyes lit up with interest when he spotted the Camaro. Perfect choice. He loved stealing flashy sports cars or powerful motorcycles built for speed. To hell with luxury vehicles like a Harley Davidson or Cadillac. He preferred the showy, sleek frames of a Kawasaki or Corvette.
 

He withdrew the hanger from inside his coat. How could something one could set their clothes on serve as a weapon for auto theft? He gave a growly laugh. He shoved the hanger down the door panel, fiddling for a bit and then the lock gave. With the door opened, he set his sites on the ignition, bringing the car to life by working the two wires.
 

The engine gave a familiar roar and he shifted the gear into drive. With tires squealing, he raced out of the parking lot at top speed. He knew where to find the MFP Officer. The clock on the stereo read 11:16 p.m. so the cop would be at his fave donut hang-out. No doubt the bastard was on his second coffee by now, reading his newspaper while puffing on a cigarette.
 

Carelessly, he tossed the gun on the dashboard as he inserted Cheap Trick’s Heaven Tonight into the cassette deck. He hit the fast forward button and stopped when Auf Wiedersehen blared through the speakers. So appropriate was this song that sang about goodbye.
 

Yeah, goodbye to the good ole MFP Officer.
 

He slammed his boot down on the gas pedal, passing the line of cars that rode the right lane. Bah, such a lane was for pussies. Damn people - always so fucking careful with their lives, abiding by the law, adhering to safety to keep their weak flesh alive.
 

He steered the car off the expressway and began the descent to a side street. The donut sign blinked on and off, the blaze of neon giving off colors of red, blue and orange.
 

The MFP patrol car was parked in front of the store. In the big window, he could make out the young officer. Bastard. Fucker. What an arrogant, cocky ass the rookie happened to be. Killing this fucker would be a pleasure. Then again, all killings were but a pleasure.
 

He gunned the engine, revving the V8 transmission to get the cop’s attention. Sure enough good ole Officer Smith looked up.
 

So Wesley stuck his hand out the window and raised his middle finger.
 

The officer frowned, setting aside his paper as he stood. He strutted out of the donut shop, making a beeline to the car.
 

Wesley remained in the Camaro, staring at the officer while still gunning the engine.
 

“Okay, kid,” the officer scoffed as he approached the vehicle. “I think it’s about past your bedtime so do me a fucking favor and get outta the car and get your ass home.”
 

Wesley’s eyes widened, filled with excitement as he grabbed the gun off the dashboard. The cop’s jaw slackened and he reached for his firearm. Before he could even place his hand on the pistol, Wesley squeezed the trigger of his .44 Magnum.
 

The officer’s screams pierced the night air since his hand was blown off. “Fucking kid!” the man bellowed as he dropped to his knees.
 

Wesley vacated the car, staring down at the officer who gasped and moaned in pain. Cocking his brow, he took aim. “See death,” he growled.
 

“Fuck you,” the officer spat out.
 

Wesley reached forward and disarmed the cop, kicking the firearm across the parking lot. “See death,” he again snarled. He yanked the cop up by the hair, dragging the officer around the Camaro as he dumped the good ole MFP in the trunk. Then he glanced to the store where the counter girl finally managed to cast her shock aside as she reached for the phone.
 

He took aim and fired, killing the girl instantly as the bullet shattered the glass and embedded itself into her forehead. Then he began walking to the shop. He gave a vicious laugh. Hmm, the night was just getting started. And he was looking forward to heading back to the rat hole he called home. Once he took care of business, he’d release the hunger by spreading those silken thighs and pumping his manhood into the tight hole.

*****
 

Wesley dumped the fifth of Jack over the cop’s face. The man gasped, then gurgled, shaking his head when the wet liquid roused him from unconsciousness.
 

“See death,” Wesley growled with amused laughter.
 

The cop’s jaw slackened when he realized he was cuffed to the rear spoiler. “Look, kid,” he slowly began, trying to fight off his anxiety, “there’s no need to do this. You alone? Ya need help? I can help you.”
 

Wesley snorted in disgust. “Look like I need your help?” he growled. “Beg, fucker! Beg or I’ll kill you!”
 

“I’m not begging!” the cop hollered. “Kill me. But you won’t get away with this, kid.”
 

Wesley snickered. Okay, if the MFP wouldn’t beg, he’d make him. He withdrew the knife from his scabbard, tracing the point of the blade along the cop’s groin. “Wanna lose your cock?” he asked with a sneer.
 

The officer’s face whitened and his jaw slackened.
 

“Then beg!”
 

“Look,” the cop sputtered through widened, fear riddled eyes. “Torturing me to death ain’t gonna do any good. Lemme help ya, kid. You don’t need to do this.”
 

The blue eyes were filling with a quiet plea, silently begging for mercy. The lower lip trembled.

Wesley inhaled deeply since he could smell the fear, sense the fright and see all the vices in this man surfacing. “Beg.”
 

“Don’t do this!” the cop cried out. “There’s no need to do this. I have a wife and kid, man.”
 

“A wife you cheat on since you fuck the donut girl every night,” Wesley growled. Then he gave his evil, hissy laugh.
 

He kicked open the trunk and the cop screamed when he saw his mistress’s lifeless body laying in the bottom. She was minus her clothes.
 

“This why you want to live,” Wesley taunted. “You not want to live for your kid. You wanna fuck this!
 

“Then fuck her!”
 

He reached into the trunk and yanked up the dead girl by her hair, viciously tossing the body on the cop. “I kill you because you take Oger’s life,” Wesley informed him. “Is just business. Nothing more.”
 

“No! Don’t do this!” the man screamed.
 

Ah yes, beg! The pleading had commenced. No more fighting, no more bargaining - just a soft plea to spare life.
 

Wesley licked his lips, aiming the gun on the cop’s crotch. He pressed his finger against the trigger. Boom!
 

The scream tore through the air as the cop thrashed on the ground, crying and shrieking since his groin was blown off, along with his thighs, maybe even his asshole.
 

Wesley grunted. Okay, he was tired of the screams. Time to end this. He pulled the trigger again, silencing the cop forever.

*****

The silken thighs were wrapped about his hips as the soft moans filled his ears. He kept thrusting into the tight hole, grunting with pleasure.
 

“Yes,” came the whispering voice. “More.”
 

“You want more?” he snarled. Damn kid. This blond beauty had a lot of nerve telling him how fast he should pump.
 

He raised his hand and struck the kid across the face.
 

“No,” the boy cried out. “Wes, why the fuck do you always gotta hit me?”
 

Now came the tears.
 

“You keep crying and I’ll hit you again,” Wesley warned him.
 

The crying ceased.
 

How long had he been fucking this kid? Maybe six months now? He wasn’t sure. But like the obedient servant this pretty lad happened to be, once he returned, still covered in the cop’s blood, the boy had washed him down. Patiently, the angelic lad had waited for him, just like he did every night. The kid did his best to keep this cockroach invaded, stale scented place clean.
 

They lay on the mattress that smelled of old moth balls and sex.
 

First lover. This was the first time he’d ever kept a victim. He didn’t mind Kenny. The kid did his best to please, never questioning and knew his place. The delicate body under him began squirming, slim hips gyrating as soft, pretty groans filled the abandoned apartment.
 

Yeah, Kenny would do for now. The kid wasn’t no Robin Zander but he wasn't going to complain.
 

“Wes...”
 

His eyes narrowed. Damn, he hated whining. So he smacked Kenny’s rear end, silently telling the kid to just shut up. He gave another grunt. Finished. So he rolled off of his lover and sat up, reaching for his pants that lay beside him.
 

“B-b-b-ut I’m not done,” came the soft protest.
 

“So what,” Wesley growled. As if he gave a rat’s ass Kenny wasn’t satisfied. He got what he wanted: the use of a pretty body. “Go to sleep.”
 

Sure enough, the beautiful lad obeyed. With a sigh, Kenny pulled the blanket around his slim form and closed his eyes.
 

Wesley rose off the mattress, fastening his pants as he walked to the window that possessed no glass. All the windows were broken. Who cares? The apartment served its purpose. Others lived in this broken down, disheveled building abandoned by the landlord. No electricity lit this hell hole and the water had been shut off ages ago. It was shelter and nothing more, invaded by junkies, hookers and other vagrants.
 

Once again Wesley gazed at the picture on the cassette cover. Every kid he fucked, must have been at least sixty of ‘em now, and none still compared to Robin. He gave a soft growl, listening to the sirens wail, screams coming from an alley and the steady hum of traffic.
 

Suddenly the door banged against the wall, kicked open.
 

Wesley dove for his .44 Magnum.
 

“Police! Get your hands up in the air. Now!”
 

Kenny was already sitting up, his slim body shaking, arms extended high as he gazed at the cops. Before either of them could utter a word, they were cuffed and led down to the precinct.
 

*****
 

Wesley was in one interrogation room while Kenny was in another. He gave a grunt, hoping his fucking lover was smart enough to say he’d been with the bitch all night. He sat in the chair, legs splayed, one boot tapping firmly against the floor, arms folded as he cast the officer the death look.
 

“You got a long line of offenses, kiddo,” the officer snorted in disgust. “This time you are going to jail. And I’m gonna make sure it’s an adult prison. There’s no way in hell I’m gonna let that judge send you to juvenile hall. Those kids wouldn’t stand a chance with you as a cell mate.”
 

Wesley looked away. Instead, he chose to gaze at the mirror, knowing more cops were behind the wall, and possibly a witness. His reflection looked back. Short, spiky, black hair graced his strong head. Earrings dangled from his lobes. His face couldn’t be called pretty. He wasn’t delicate like the kids his age. Already he looked to be about fourteen since he was tall and thanks to the streets, he had muscles that usually wouldn’t be present filling out his flesh. His eyes weren’t that big, rather narrowed, maybe even sinisterly beady. A perpetual crease formed between both brows since he always frowned. His bold chin stood out, as well as his nose. Yeah, hardly pretty - maybe even downright nasty and ugly looking.
 

He glanced back at the cop.
 

“Kenny’s gonna talk,” the officer taunted. “He’s gonna sing like a bird. You wanna know why? Cause we know about the job he killed six months ago. Was pretty good of a sadistic bastard like you to take him under your wing, eh? And Kenny knows he’s finished if he doesn’t talk. There’s not a chance in hell he’s gonna cover your ass.
 

“Why would he? You beat him. You rape him. Don’t think none of us saw those bruises all over his body. Why should he show you any loyalty? At least with you locked up, the kid has a chance.
 

“He’ll go to a rehabilitation center so he’ll put down the crack pipe and maybe start over and get an education.” The officer snorted, shaking his head. “That’s the only way you can get a pretty kid to stick around and bother with you, eh? Rape ‘em and scare ‘em. You’re not worth loving, punk. Who the hell would love a cold, sick maniac like you?”
 

Wesley shifted. Again, he looked at himself in the mirror. He was growing rather tired of this conversation. As if he gave a rats ass if someone loved him or not? What the hell was love anyway? That damn word was always tossed around in music, the movies, on the t.v. and radio. Yet nobody on this earth seemed to know exactly what the hell they were talking about. And why the fuck would he need someone’s approval? He just plain out didn’t give a fuck if the bitches he raped enjoyed having him mount them.
 

The officer held out the cassette. “This what you’re looking for, Wes?” He smiled, grinning at the picture of Robin Zander. “You want someone like him?” He snickered, placing both his hands on the desk. “Lemme tell you something, punk. A guy like this rock star wouldn’t look twice at you. And a kid who mirrors this rocker sure wouldn’t bother with someone like you. You’d have to abduct such a kid since he wouldn’t freely run to you. You’d have to put him on a chain so he wouldn’t try and escape.
 

“Nope, no pretty boy would bother with an ugly, son-of-a-bitch like you. You’re a goddamn neanderthal. Ya don’t got a brain. You just operate on instinct and nothing more. You’re too stupid to even put a proper sentence together.
 

“So just keep on dreaming, boy. Because Mr. Rock Star will never want anything to do with you and neither will a pretty lad who looks like this musician. They ain’t faggots... like you who sucks cock like the gay, limp-wristed bitch that you are--”
 

Wesley was out of the chair in a flash. Before the cop could blink, strong hands encircled the fucker’s throat, locked in a death grip. The officer tried to buck him off and they fell to the floor with Wesley sitting on his chest, still squeezing at Officer Nelson’s throat.
 

“Faggot!” the cop managed to squeal as he fought for air. “Fucking faggot!”
 

Wesley raised his left arm and drove his fist deep into the cop’s mouth. All he could hear was the teeth giving way. He flashed the cop his sardonic, malicious grin. Again he raised his fist. Nothing could stop him as he continued to let the officer taste his knuckle.
 

The door burst open and the other officers rushed in. They hauled Wesley off of their comrade and pushed him to the floor. He didn’t flinch when he felt their billy clubs begin whacking him. He’d take the beating like a man. Crying, begging and pleading was left to his victims.

*****

He wore the bright orange uniform while shackles were snapped around his ankles and his wrists were locked in cuffs. He sat in the wooden chair, glaring at Kenny who sung like a canary on the witness stand.
 

Bitch. Fucker.
 

Wesley shifted in his chair, looking away. He had no interest in his own trial. So what if he got sent up to prison or juvenile hall? If anything, he’d at least make some half decent contacts, maybe find someone to bust out with who wasn’t a prissy bitch like the leader of the gang who bailed on him.
 

Loyalty. He wanted loyalty from now on.
 

As for those fair-haired bitches? To hell with them. He’d fuck ‘em like the deceitful sluts they were. He sure wasn’t giving up sex. He needed that thrill, the rush of pleasure after taking down a life.

He looked back to the judge when she called his name. Kenny no longer sat on the witness stand. Now would come his sentencing.
 

“Wesley Xavier Zonault, you have been charged with murder in the first degree for the death of officer Neil Smith. You are also charged with murder in the second degree for the death of Melanie Brant. You will be sent to Highlands Juvenile Correctional Facility up until your turn eighteen. Then you will be transferred to Stonehead Adult Prison to serve out the rest of your two life sentences.
 

“Do you have anything to say?”
 

Wesley stood as he eyed the judge. Then he looked at the MFP officers and the widow. These fuckers had been here from day one, when his trial started six months ago. He had marked his twelfth birthday in a holding cell. He cast the judge his malicious smile. “Officer Smith cheat on his wife so I shoot his cock off. He most likely fucking that girl in hell.”

Gasps of outrage filled the court room. The widow burst into tears while the cops swore and cursed him.

His fate was sealed.
 

Wesley swaggered out of the court room, led by two bailiffs.

Next Page - Chapter Two