The Skunge by Jeff Barr Page A

further down the alley, feeling the thump of the bass in his chest still, even through the concrete walls. "Mm, this was a good idea. What's your name?"
    "Ryan." A fake name, Christian knew, but one that suited him. A weak name that pretended strength. "What's yours?"
    "My name is Christian."
    He turned to the little man. "But you will call me Sir." Ryan stood in the oily shadows of the alley, head down, in a classic subservient post. Traffic noises droned by, a never-ending river. Christian strode up to him, grabbed a fistful of his graying hair, and titled his head back for a kiss. At the last second, the little man pulled away, and Christian's lips scraped against the man's stubbled chin. "Come here, you little bitch." This was the part of LA he loved. Here, he felt power. Had power. Men and women looked him in the eye and then looked away, recognizing the force he carried inside. He leaned forward to nip at Ryan's ear, and caught the fleshy part between his teeth. The little man gasped and mewled with pleasure. Christian kissed him, feeling the click of their teeth, sucking in the taste of cigarettes, the tang of the gin Ryan had been drinking.
    Christian reached under his shirt, and pulled out a long-bladed hunting knife. He raised the knife and felt Ryan stiffen with fear.
    "You fucking queer," Christian said. He poked at Ryan's belly with the knife. A bloom of red rose there, and the man whimpered. Christian poked again, now at Ryan's crotch, and again, on the shoulder. Each prick of the blade sent an icy bolt of anticipation into Christian's belly. Along with the excitement, a sensation of something red and crawling, an urge to cause pain—pain for himself, and for others. For everyone. "Goddamn pansy, spreading your diseases and sickness. Infecting everyone with your filth." Christian laughed at the horrified expression on Ryan's face, and grabbed the smaller man's hand. He held it in his own pale grip, and drew the steel smile of the knife across the other man's palm. Ryan cried out miserably, snuffling back tears that threatened to spill from beneath his eyeglasses.
    "Please don't, please don't. I have a wife—she doesn't know—I have kids, for God's sake, just let me g-g-go-"
    Christian wrapped his hand around Ryan's, then both of their hands around the knife. He squeezed, smiling as the joints in Ryan's hand groaned in protest. Ryan moaned and stammered a litany of promises, pleas, regrets. Christian sneered and placed the tip of the blade against the taut, tattooed flesh of his own belly.
    He thrust his body forward into Ryan.
    The knife punched through the skin, into his stomach. The shock rippled outward from the blade, sending waves of cold through him. He leaned in, pushing the knife deeper. He felt the dark pull of some nameless hunger urging him on.
    Christian slammed his head into Ryan's nose, feeling it break with a meaty crunch under the bony prow of his forehead. He growled in Ryan's face, and when Ryan screamed in response, Christian darted forward and bit at his lower lip, tearing off a pink hunk of meat. He lunged again, biting at Ryan's nose, his cheeks, his eyes. He ripped an earlobe off with his teeth, opened a gash over his eye, all the while pushing Ryan against the wall, forcing the knife deeper.
    "Fuck me with your knife," he hissed into Ryan's bleeding face, and spit in his eyes. Ryan screamed and sobbed, begging for release.
    The club door slammed open, and Ramage thudded into the alley, unzipping his pants. His eyes went wide. "What the fuck?" He lunged toward the struggling pair, but before he could reach them, Christian tore off down the alley, grinning his burning, hateful grin.

 
     
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER NINE
     
     
    Sugar laid out her tools: hot water, towels, tweezers, a bottle of vodka, and a tiny pair of eyebrow scissors. She adjusted the tilt of her makeup lamp, bringing her face into stark focus. The thread in her eye had grown, just over the past hour. Now it extended