Are You Loathsome Tonight? by Poppy Z. Brite

tight. The long muscles of his buttocks and groin and the virgin bud of his sphincter. The muscles of his face and throat and scalp. The muscles of his hands.
    The muscle of his trigger finger, squeezing slow and gentle.
    He didn't hear the shot so much as feel it, a muffled shock like a fist punching raw meat. He felt Jesus’ body jerk against his, felt a rending pain in his crotch as the jaws surrounding him clamped reflexively shut. A spray of blood and tissue blinded him.
    Billy managed to get his hands to his face, scraped gouts of gore out of his eyes. He reached down and worked a finger between Jesus’ teeth, pried his lacerated penis out of Jesus’ mouth. Then he sat up and looked at his work.
    Jesus wasn't dead. His eyes were bright with brutal awareness in his shock-pale face. His narrow chest heaved for breath. His abdomen was an impossible carnage pulsing with the efforts of failing organs. It was like some enormous steaming bowl of stew, full of glistening meat, splintered bone, great handfuls of tubes torn loose from their moorings, and everywhere the rich coppery sauce of blood. The sewer smell of ruptured bowel rose in shimmering waves from his body. Billy saw a gleam of metal: the spent casing of the shell, nestled in a dark purple loop of intestine. He had wondered whether exploding ammo would blow a body wide open like a watermelon. Now he knew.
    Those bright knowing eyes sought Billy's. Billy wanted to look away, but could not.
    â€œ ... you said..."
    Billy leaned closer. He could smell his own come on Jesus’ breath, a sharp clean smell that always reminded him the traces of detergent in freshly washed clothes.
    â€œ ... said it wasn't..."
    A black gout of blood shot through with pearly threads of jism welled from Jesus’ mouth, spilled over his chest. A long slow shudder ran through him, and the hectic light went out of his eyes.
    You said it wasn't loaded .
    Billy hadn't meant to kill the boy. He hadn't meant to shoot him at all .
    Anger rose in him, immediate and caustic. Now this was gone too, whatever he might have had with this boy, another possibility stolen from him. It wasn't fair. It was never fair . He pulled the Luger out of Jesus’ asshole, raised it and shot him in the face. The fine smooth features unraveled like a ball of yarn, painting the wall behind the bed with a thick chiaroscuro of gray and crimson.
    He hadn't meant to shoot him at all .
    Billy put two shells in Jesus’ chest, watched it crack open and fly apart.
    He hadn't .
    He fired into the ruined stew of guts, then fired again and again. A spent casing landed on his thigh and left a long weal of burned flesh, but he did not feel it, did not notice. The body on the bed was little more than a series of smears now, like a canvas painted by a bad artist in a hurry.
    Someone pounded on the door.
    Billy pushed himself off the bed and backed across the room, away from the gun and the swampy mattress, his hands outstretched in unconscious denial. It wasn't fair. Nothing had ever been fair for him. He hadn't meant to shoot the boy, he hadn't , he had only tightened his finger on the trigger a little ...
    â€œWhat the hell's going on in there?” An ugly voice sinister as a slowed-down record, not kind to the ear like Jesus’ soft monotone. And more pounding.
    Only the tiniest bit ...
    â€œThis is security. Open the fucking door."
    Billy's right index finger curled convulsively against his palm, scraping up blood. He caught sight of himself in the flyspecked mirror, his face and bare chest splashed with blood, speckled with bone and tissue and the fragrant contents of Jesus’ intestines. Then he was at the window, leaving smeary red fingerprints on the filthy glass, staring five flights down at cars passing oblivious, at a Greyhound bus pulling out of the station across the street. Useless. He would never get out of this room.
    Billy picked up the Luger again and lay down beside Jesus, in