Synopsis: In this follow-up to
Suicide Hot Line ... the narrator
has expanded his assisted suicide business to South Carolina as soon as
that state's new statute took effect.
XxxxSuicide Hot-Line Dixie proves a booming success and soon he's offing hunky young bucks all over the place. He's even enjoying the process more since these hot southern boys seem somehow to do everything with crazy, good-natured zest ... even dying. And they're so damned polite, respectful and obedient right to the end.
Drake Halborn paused and wiped the sweat from his brow in his father's sprawling grape orchard. He'd been clipping the excess growth from the vines, working barechested in the warm South Carolina sun and for the hundredth time he contemplated the problem. His parents had worked so hard trying to make a go of their winery and the product produced was really second to none.
The problem was publicity.
Few people thought of the south when they contemplated wine and a powerful media blitz was needed to change that perception. The excellent soils and ideal climate of the valley where the winery was sited combined for perfection in the delicious merlots, pinots and zinfadels they produced, but wine customers had trouble understanding that.
Money! It all came down to money.
His dad was tapped out financially but desperately needed extra cash for intensive advertising to make a go of the budding business. Drake adored his old man and there was nothing he wouldn't do for him.
With that in mind, the handsome, buff twenty-one year old glanced down over his toned, sculpted body. The hundred seventy pounds of hard, fit muscle was valuable. It fact, it was worth three million dollars ... but only if it was dead! His grandpa had paid up the policy when he was a child and it paid the face amount even for suicide.
He could do it. He could do it right there in the fields. It would be so easy ... just open a nice wound in his body and let it bleed on out. His rich blood would even be good fertilizer for the vines.
Spurred to act finally on what he had long been contemplating, he swiftly popped open his pants. He was wearing no shorts and his big male equipment spilled out into the sunlight. The thought of what he was going to do even excited him erotically and his pecker swiftly became semi-erect, jutting out in a straight line before his gut. It was like a good soldier preparing to go proudly into battle for the cause, the finely crafted head starting to flare out beautifully.
He slowly brought the sharp jaws of the pruning shears down to his groin and positioned his cock between the gleaming blades, edging them down until they poised around the very base of the organ.
One quick snip ... off it would come and the blood
would gush forth.
All he had to do was just stand there and wait until
his heart stopped. He idly wondered how long it would take. He knew it
was going to hurt something awful but in a perverse sort of way that actually
pleased him. His face grimaced with tension, he closed his eyes tightly
and steeled himself, his left hand rising in a flexed fist before him as
his right began to tighten around the handles of the clippers.
There was an increasing sting as the sharp blades pressed into the sensitive skin of his penis, not quite drawing blood yet but close ... very, very close.
But somehow ... he just couldn't quite do it. After a bit, angry at his silly cowardice, he tucked his rod away again and went back to work. And as he did, he recalled the ads he'd been hearing lately on the radio touting the first of the assisted suicide businesses to spring up since his state legalized the process.
Shit! That's what I need! Just a little help in getting it done! Those folks even say they'll go ahead and off your fool ass for you if you want. The gorgeous young stud found the thought of having someone else actually put him to death to be powerfully appealing.
I sure as fuck don't have what it takes to do it on my own! He thought grimly and shook his head in renewed disgust at his abysmal lack of backbone.
Brian had the fantasy again. Every time he masturbated his mind conjured up the images. It was the weirdest thing in the world, but he couldn't get off unless he was thinking about it. As he grew up, seemingly an all-American specimen of prime, jockish boyhood, he kept his fetish to himself but it just grew stronger by the year.
He had even secretly amassed an excellent little library. It was all there ... biblical accounts of John the Baptist; the french revolution (which really made him salivate); tower hill in London; amazon and African headhunters; siamese and Saudi Arabian executions; Filipino and Colombian kidnappers....
He had every description written of his favorite subject ... decapitation.
And he had fixated on experiencing the process. No sadist with murderous urges to wield an axe upon some unfortunate victim, it was his own execution he kept seeing as he stroked his cock to orgasm.
The tall, slim, hunk got off on envisioning his
curly, dark-haired head being lopped off!
This time, as he stood pumping his rod, naked in the privacy of his bedroom, the eighteener track-jock was thinking of one of his favorite photos. It was of a handsome young Australian airman, captured in World War II, being executed. The guy was kneeling as a Japanese soldier with a samurai sword was just beginning to swing the blade towards the back of his neck.
two images ... click the drawing for the drawing ... the photo for the photo
He interposed himself in that scene and it brought him to a shuddering, powerful orgasm.
Afterwards, gasping and spent, he sagged to his knees.
I've got to do it! It's all I want.
But the problem with decapitation was that someone else had to do it. For that matter, it was the preparation that was the main thrill ... the contemplation of the act to come. Being imprisoned, condemned, prepped ... marched to the block.
With a sigh he rose and prepared to shower and dress for another dull day in school. He turned on the radio and as the steamy water rinsed the lather from his lean, muscular body he froze at the words that hit his ears....
Need to die? Need a little
help ... or even a whole LOT of help? Wanta go out with class ... a gutsy,
tough, painful death ... like a real man faces ... or some special ceremony
to be performed as you exit?
XxxxWanta make a dramatic point or sacrifice for a cause? South Carolina now says it's cool for us to make it happen for you. We specialize in young guys between eighteen and twenty-eight and guarantee a good result at reasonable fees.
XxxxIf you're a plucky young buck in need of killing ... we're waiting for your call.
The words that burned into Brian's brain were....
... some special ceremony to be performed as you exit....
Water flew from the boy's wet form as he dashed from the shower and wildly searched for pen and paper to write down the phone number he'd just heard.
Josh found Erik staring at a small advertising notice on the bulletin board in the locker room.
"What's that, man?"
"The answer to how to best carry out our little ... project ... buddy boy." Erik flashed him that killer grin that would melt steel. He tapped a finger on one line in the notice. The words seemed to leap out at Josh and he found himself grinning too.
... make a dramatic point or sacrifice for a cause....
"These guys sound like they'd know how to set it up just right."
"Yeah," Josh nodded eagerly, "They sure do. Let's go call them."
It had been Josh's fault really, though Erik had never remotely acted like he blamed him. It started on a football road trip. As usual the two senior stars ... quarterback and wide receiver ... shared a room.
Returning from a snack break late in the evening, Josh found Erik sprawled out on his bed asleep, the spectacular body nude save for a set of flimsy gray cotton briefs with the pouch swollen out with the kid's pendulent manhood.
Josh just flat lost it as his hungry eyes drank in all that lucious, perfect male beauty!
He'd had the hots for the blond super-hunk as long as he could remember as they grew up together, but had never had the nerve to come on to him. But for some reason, at this particular moment, all of his self-control evaporated.
Almost mesmerized, he approached the bed and knelt beside it. One of Erik's legs was jutting out towards him, the knee bent to bare the tender inner thigh. He studied the wonderful limb with its silky strands of golden fur, so fine as to be nearly invisible.
The musky male aroma of the blond jock's velvet, unblemished hide seeped into his nostrils. He lowered his face until his nose was almost touching the skin of the inner thigh just below the crotch and drew in the intoxicating scent, shuddering in pleasure.
Between Josh's thighs his hard cock began tenting obscenely through the cotton material of his athletic shorts. His nipples hardened as well and became stark outlines in his tee shirt.
He could actually see the outline of Erik's thick, flaccid cock as it lounged in heavy repose in the shorts. The curves of the twin balls bulged out to either side of the drowsing penis.
He slowly brought a hand up and over the genital package and lowered it until the cloth just barely was grazing his palm. The moist warmth that instantly radiated up into his hand almost made him cream.
He began to press down with slowly growing pressure
and edge his fingers around the outlined sex pole and seeders to cup them.
Even as he established a firm grip, he realized the sex flesh in his hand
was beginning to throb ... and swell! Erik was getting hard!
He began to lovingly massage with his gripping paw and Erik's cock soon was threatening to rip right through his shorts to freedom. Suddenly the slumbering boy groaned, writhed and flexed his body.
He was clearly awakening and Josh panicked, jerking his hand away and stumbling backwards onto his butt. The golden stud opened his blue eyes, stared at his crotch, then propped up onto his elbows and gave Josh an intense, hard look.
"You were just feeling me up, dude!"
"I ... I ... I...."
Josh was at a complete loss for words. He stood up and stared back at his best friend ... his ex-best friend, he suspected.
"That is so wrong, man...."
Erik shook his head in disbelief. He stood up too and stepped towards Josh.
He's gonna deck me! But I fuckin' deserve it! How could I be such a dolt!
He closed his eyes and awaited the blow, cringing slightly.
Instead, Erik laughed.
And his own hand came up between Josh's thighs and closed
around the still aroused man package and squeezed hard. As Josh just stood
there in dazed disbelief, Erik quickly stripped him and pulled off his
own briefs. As they drew together their steely cocks pressed against each
other's bellies and their mouths closed in a lingering kiss.
Josh thought he'd just died and found heaven!
Their mouths fought a prolonged duel, the tongues entwined and curling about like tiny snakes, warm and wet and sleek. Erik's mouth was about the sweetest thing Josh had ever tasted.
After a bit, Erik drew back and gazed into his new lover's eyes.
"Dude! I thought you were goddam straight! I've wanted you so bad but was scared to let you know! Why the fuck didn't you ever make a move before?"
"I was too scared ... just like you."
"Jesus! We are really a pair of silly jerks aren't we," Erik shook his head. "We coulda been balling each other for years!"
They both laughed, then pressed close into a long,
emotional embrace, their mouths closing together again. The blond quarterback
eventually began kissing his way down the front of Josh's hard jock body
and finally reached his hairy crotch.
His tongue flicked out to lick at the cock like it was
a lollipop. He drew the flared crown within his lips and began to lightly
nibble at it. Lusting fire exploded in Josh's brain and he almost wept
in sheer delight.
He'd fantasized about this for years and now ... incredibly ... the sweet dream had become a reality.
Then, in another instant, the dream became a nightmare.
He'd left the door unlocked and Bobby-Joe Barns, southern bigotry and homophobic red neck personified, assigned by the coach to do bed-check, knocked at the same time he turned the handle. He stepped into the room and his eyes widened in shock, then his lips curled in revulsion and hatred.
"Well I'll be goddamed! Never had you two pegged as a pair of mother-fuckin' fags! Wait'll the other guys all hear about this!"
Hell descended over the pair after that. Expelled from the team, reviled by every bitch at school, avoided by most of their guy buddies, taunted and teased by others, life became unbearable in a hurry.
Even their families treated them like lepers. Erik's folks actually kicked him out, though Josh's just treated him with icy disdain. They at least let Erik move in with him.
"Temporarily, of course" ... his mother had noted with an ill-concealed sneer as she gazed at her son and his ... companion ... like they were rodents. "I'll be praying for you both, naturally, though your souls are condemned to hellfire already."
When one of the few kids at school behaving decently towards them was pleading with others to let up, he'd warned...,
"You're gona drive them to do something really bad to themselves."
"Those two fairy wimps ain't got the balls to off themselves," one of the bullies had snorted back. "They'd be better off dead anyhow! My pa says we oughta beat them to death."
They weren't supposed to overhear that exchange but they had. The seeds were planted at that moment.
Timmy stared at his big brother with hero worship in his eyes. Twenty-two year-old Caleb was everything he ever wanted to be. The muscular stud-man was god-like as he stood there eyeing the younger boy, just about to turn eighteen.
He was bare chested, his fingers hooked into the
pockets of his worn levis. His barbed-wire tatoo curved sexily around his
left biceps and a heavy chain loop circled his neck, the swastika dangle
lying heavily over the roof of his superb, broad chest.
The gold bar-studs glinted where they pieced through his nipples as did the tiny gold ring in the top fold of his belly button.
Pure unadulterated manhood, oozing sex from every pore, Timmy sighed. God he's one fine dude! No wonder every bitch in town wants into his pants. He couldn't see it just now, of course, but Caleb had a ring in his cock-head too. He'd had that done just a few weeks before.
Timmy'd gotten a glimpse of it as Caleb was dressing one morning in the room they shared and the boy had eagerly begged to examine the newest piercing. He'd thought it was just the neatest thing ever.
"Didn't that hurt, though?"
"Like a bitch," Caleb confessed, laughing, "But I was drunk as shit so I don't remenver it too much. It was kinda done on a dare when Ralph, Joe and I staggered by the needle shop and saw a poster about cock piercing."
Timmy had been determined to get his own cock-head, belly button and tits pierced real soon too ... and get one of those great barbed wire tatoos. Now all that was forgotten. He had a greater, more exciting mission to accomplish!
"You really gonna do it, ain't ya?"
The excitement in Timmy's voice was undisguised.
"Yep," The buff bull nodded, "I sure as fuck am. Don't be tryin' to talk me outa it, neither!"
"I wouldn't! Honest!" Timmy protested. "I think it's just ... way fuckin' cool, actually!"
That goddam Sheila had cheated on his big bro with Marky Lewis. Caleb had promptly punched ol' Marky's teeth out and kicked him in the crotch with his steel-toed work-boot.
The dude took it like a man but when Caleb slapped the shit outa Sheila as well, the cunt had him arrested! Facing a long term in jail, Caleb had come up with an alternate solution that he figured would make the bitch feel real bad about how she'd behaved.
Trust Caleb to come up with a great way to deal with things!
"I'm gonna go with you and have 'em do me too."
"Huh? Wha' the fuck'd you say boy? You nuts! No way in hell I'll let you do that!"
Steeling himself to stand up to Caleb for the first time, Timmy squared his jaw and shoulders.
"I'll be eighteen in jus' a week and legal for it if I choose! Law says I git ta make the decision. Ya-all can't stop me. And if ya try, I'll tell pappy what you're fixin' to do."
That threat stopped Caleb in his tracks as he thought about beating the snot out of the pup for giving him lip like that.
"Try me! I will! I'll do it, Caleb!"
They both had been raised to respect and obey their old man and Caleb knew he'd reluctantly be forced to abandon his scheme if Timmy snitched. He wondered if the brat really would do that. There was a certain look in the kid's eyes that gave him his answer.
"Ya little shit, you'd do it, wouldn't you?"
"Don't wanna," Timmy turned to pleading. "I think it's just a great idea. I jus' wanna be there and get it done to me too. We're brothers. It's only fittin' we share something like this."
The lil' bastard's got a point! Caleb mused. And it would be kinda neat to have a companion in the affair. Make it that much more upsetting to Sheila too! She liked the little fucker and would probably blame herself. I like this! I like it a lot!
"You're serious? You really wanta do it with me?"
Sensing victory, Timmy assured anxiously....
"Oh yeah, Caleb. Fuck yeah! Please take me with you. I got some money saved up from my newspaper route so I can even pay the fee myself. Please! Please! PLEASE!!!"
Caleb nodded and fondly ruffled the boy's silky mop of sandy hair.
"You're a plucky little rat, I'll give you that.
Okay we'll do it together. We'll go on your birthday and the very second
you turn eighteen, we'll have them off your fool ass for you, then they
can do me.
Xxxx"Or I'll go first if you prefer."
Thank God one of his buddies had turned him on to the new suicide company ... what was it called again? Oh yeah, "Suicide Hot-Line Dixie." Cool. Way cool!
Brady Willis loved knives. They fascinated him. His idea had been chewing at his brain without let-up ever since he'd heard the ads about the wonderful new business operating in Carolina.
... a gutsy, tough, painful death ... like a real man faces....
A REAL man?
I'm every goddam inch a REAL man! The twenty year old out-of-work commercial fisherman almost laughed. I bet I can take any pain they could throw at my ass!
He picked up one of his pets from the table, a lethal, ornate Bowie knife with an eight inch blade honed to a razor edge.
God the pain this baby could inflict!
He brought the blade down to rest against the massive bulge in his basket.
Especially down there, where a man just naturally NEEDS cuttin' if he's gonna suffer proper the way he should.
He shuddered in pleasure at the thought and his manhood
hardened like iron, eagerly pressing out to thrust against the blade, pulsing in excitement. He slowly drew it across the denim, making a shallow slit in the fabric, almost cutting his cock ... almost but not quite. All
that separated his turgid pole from the sharp steel now was the thin cotton
of his boxers.
He promptly creamed in his pants.
After recovering from the powerful orgasm, he picked up the phone and dialed the number,
"Suicide Hot-Line Dixie," a friendly voice promptly answered. "May we help you?"
"Yeah," Brady said, "Yeah, I think you sure as hell can."
"You're sure about this," Mr. Bellmont frowned. "It isn't gonna set off some kind of backlash?"
"Trust me!" his bright young PR man smiled. "Polls
show that seventy-eight percent of the public here in Carolina support
the new law.
Xxxx"If we can become associated with it, it'll be worth a mint in name recognition ... and sales. Suicide ain't a sin with our religious folks ... just the Catholics ... and there ain't many of them down here."
"Might be jus' the thing to counter all the carpin' from them silly anti-gun rabble rousers ... damned Yankee riff-raff anyway!" the manufacturer nodded thoughtfully. "I do like the theme real good ... catchy really."
When you choose to go, a Bellmont Bullet will never fail you
He glanced over at the two brawny young studs waiting eagerly for final approval of the proposed ad campaign for which they were to serve as poster boys. Both were about as hotly virile as guys can get, one in his early twenties, the other just an eighteener with whom the younger suicidal hunks targeted by the campaign could relate.
The elder, Kirby, was a casing machine operator, straight off the factory line at Bellmont Ammunition Company. More than seventy hunk employees had applied to serve as what was laughingly called, in house, a Bullet Boy.
The hundred thousand dollar payment offered to each of the chosen men's survivors likely had something to do with their willingness to die for the company.
Ironically, the pretty-faced younger doll-stud, Andy, had not applied. Just a stockroom clerk, newly hired fresh from high school, he'd figured he'd have no chance at selection.
With good timing, he'd bumped into the PR man in the men's room. The executive hauled the young body-builder jock straight to his office, stripped him, took one look at the superb body, and immediately offered him the second slot.
Moments before, both super-hunks had stripped there in the office and fully demonstrated to Mr. Bellmont that they quite adequately met one of the campaign's requirements.
"I'd want the biggest-hung young fuckers representing my company name," the old man had stated bluntly when the idea for the campaign was first broached some weeks before. "No little peckers on our posters and ads if I do approve this!"
Kirby and Andy's monsters still jutted up in full erection over across the room. The blond younger boy wore his hair in that odd style favored by a lot of young hunks, buzzed on the sides, longer and shaggier on top.
He was obscenely groping his nuts to keep his rod at attention in case the boss wanted a second look at the long, slim spear jutting up from his groin.
Dark, buzz-cut Kirby seemed to need no such coaxing to keep his thicker, slightly shorter manpole up and steely.
Jesus H. Christ! The ad-man all but salivated in delight. Those two are both such incredivle lookers! What absolutely dynamite corpses they'll make! Just perfect.
Bellmont interrupted his reveries. "Remind me again why we can't just give these two a few rounds in-house and save the fees of this suicide company?"
"The new law has a lot of red tape unless you hire a licensed assisted suicide agency for the killing. Right now there's just the one, just gettin' started. This will be a nice publicity coup for them too so they're waiving the fees."
"Oh!" Bellmont looked pleased. "I hadn't known that I guess."
"They just agreed today. I hadn't had time to tell you. They have a great reputation back in Washington State where they're based. They know how to stage a great killing. They did that thing with the Texas jocks as well as the gay military studs."
"And that college thing at WSU?" Bellmont nodded
happily. "Those are the same people that we're dealing with? I didn't realize
that. Boy that was just a great stunt! Wire castrating those mindless airhead
frat boys while hanging them right in the midst of the party!
Xxxx"Brilliant work. Made headlines all over the damned country." (See Suicide Hot Line, this month)
"Do I take that as a yes, boss?"
"Sure! Go for it!"
Coach Braggler stared in delight at the four hunky ex-footballers standing in various stages of undress in his office. He had coached them all at Fireburg High and each had been a star player for him on the Dragons.
Now, loyal alums all, they had returned to pay tribute to him as part of a spectacular half-time show at the big game between this year's Dragons squad and their hated arch-rivals, the Lockstown Lords.
In his twenty-fifth year as head coach, loved by the players he developed as athletes and young men, he was fighting back tears of joy at the splendid gesture these superb young bulls were proposing to make in his honor.
And what an incredible boost for school and team spirit it would be too!
He'd made the error of asking if they had all kept themselves in good enough shape to properly represent his type of athletic imagery. Off came their clothing and the buffed, magnificent bodies crowded close around to let him get a good view of the hard, sculpted muscles.
He knew he'd played a role in instilling such self-discipline in them all and felt deeply proud. he bellowed good-naturedly at blond god-boy Troy Sommers and his stocky, dark-haired buddy Luke Tisdale, both grads from just last year and, at nineteen, the babies in the quartet of hot studs,
"Stop that, you young lechers!"
Typically of the two cut-ups, they were baring a tad more than necessary, letting their cocks thrust up in erection. Troy was wearing no shorts and his manhood just poked eagerly from his veed pants as he pulled up his shirt to bare his terrific upper body.
Luke had doffed his shirt and opened his pants too.
He was wearing red silk bikini briefs which he looped down to run underneath
his big package, his cock jutting up in full, drooling splendor.
"C'mon, coach," Troy teased. "You liked seein' us well enough back when we were in school. We caught you peeking into the showers a few times."
"I did not!" Braggler protested, but then shrugged. "Well, okay, I did, but only to be sure you two weren't raping any of the younger boys on the team."
"Nah," Troy giggled. "I only balled Luke. He was enough man for my needs. Great fuck really!"
He went flying as Luke gave him a good-natured shove.
"I've kicked your viking ass before, man, and I can still do it, you keep talkin' shit like that."
Clad now only in patriotic red, white, and blue briefs,
Brix Winters snickered from across the room,
Twenty-three and a living, breathing Adonis, Brix had been all-state quarterback and had a close-enough relationship with his coach that he felt it was okay to rib him a bit.
He eased one side of the shorts down slightly as
if to slip them free from his hips and gave his best come get me look.
It had never failed to get him where he wanted with any girl ... or
guy ... exposed to it.
Unfortunately his promiscuity had also earned him a little extra addition to his blood stream one night. Tossing the dice in similar bouts of drunken, unprotected sex, the other three had also lost their gambles.
Stunned at finding each other in their AIDS support group, the group had decided on a joint suicide to cheat the lingering deterioration and death nature had planned for them.
It had been Brix who suggested a dramatic honoring of the coach they all admired so much. Braggler had no idea of their shared affliction.
"Actually," Braggler kept a dead-pan face, "I got some real good looks between your legs and, frankly, I was a little embarrassed to have such a small-hung boy on my team, but you had a hell of a throwin' arm, young man, so I kept you."
They all collapsed in whoops and hoots of glee at Brix's expense. The guy shrugged and rolled his eyes.
"Should know better than to try matching words with you, coach. I surrender."
"I really can't let you do this though," Braggler cleared his throat and got serious again. "I am deeply touched that you'd make such a wonderful sacrifice, but I must decline ... "
A storm of protest met him. After a bit, he raised his hands.
"Okay, okay! You are sure you want to do this?"
"Coach, it's as much for us as you, really. With the spectacle that these guys from Suicide Hot-Line Dixie promise to stage with us, we'll become legends here for all time. Kids will remember us and talk about us in awe for decades to come."
Jack Withers, a twenty-one year old former receiver, a really cute curly-haired youngster, built like a god and with a faun-like impishness in his features, was pleading the case.
"We got nothin' lives goin'." Brix chimed in, "We'll just turn into more dumb, flabby over-the-hill ex-jocks in a few years and no one will ever remember we even existed. This way, we'll go down in school history."
Luke Tisdale added quietly.
"After all, coach, you're the one who instilled
in us the value of trying to do something important and significant with
our lives, not just live and die without ever having counted for something.
Xxxx"Be honest. You like what we're proposing, don't you? It's what you'd expect from us if we really took all you taught us to heart, isn't it?"
"Yes," He said. "It sure is! I'm so proud of you all I could spit! By all means, go ahead with your little show."
Fire! He thought. What a great touch for a team like the Dragons in Fireburg, South Carolina. Oh I do like that!
I was pleasantly surprised at how quickly things came together in South Carolina, just as they had with my original Suicide Hot-Line enterprise in Washington State two years before.
By comparison, when I expanded into Ohio last year it proved frustratingly hard to win acceptance among the more conservative mid-westerners. Because of that experience I had seriously contemplated not moving into any other states at all, fearing similar reactions.
I didn't need the income anyway. I had long since made a bundle off the still photos and video rights of the spectacular executions masked as "suicides" that I had become adroit at staging. But I deeply enjoyed the killing and the chance to tap a whole new pool of hunky young bucks excited me.
I suppose there had been signs that should have alerted me to likely trouble in Ohio. The statute had barely cleared the legislature up there and the governor agonized at length before signing it.
By comparison, it had passed by a landslide in South Carolina and the governor promptly signed it with ringing praise as a "beginning" step towards population control.
"A small step, admittedly," he had drawled, "But a damned good one nonetheless!"
We'd begun our ads just three days before and were already fielding inquiries almost hourly from curious, prospective clients. We were offering to waive fees with regularity, a useful come-on to push hesitant boys into signing the irrevocable consent forms shoved before them at the first opportunity.
Amazing how everyone likes getting something "for free."
We'd gotten real good at stampeding the hunks into putting ink to paper before they had second thoughts or were influenced by friends or family loath to lose them. Actually, we were finding that an amazing number of families down here in dixie were fairly eagerly encouraging their out-of-work bucks to come to us.
The generous tax breaks for the survivors of young males destroying themselves may have had something to do with that. Washington State had belatedly done that and we'd seen a swift surge in business. Ohio had enacted no such incentives.
I'd already scored a major coup here in Carolina ... the type of affair likely to generate invaluable publicity. It had won me an interview slot on the state's most watched talk show and I was sitting there with a smile and, hopefully, professional demeanor as the cameras went to live.
I'd done enough of these shows that I was not at all caught off guard when the host, looking for shock reaction, hit me hard right off.
"Well, an editorial this morning in the Charleston Statesman lambastes you for, I quote
'... making a vile profit from killing utterly defenseless boys in the most agonizing, horrific of ways.'
"What do you have to say about that?"
"That's the same paper that consistently advocates
forcing pregnant women to have unwanted babies in the name of religious
principle ... a right-to-life rag that I don't bother to read I'm afraid.
Xxxx"Thanks for letting me know what they said and saving me fifty cents."
The audience liked that and laughter rippled through their ranks in the darkened back of the big studio.
"But, sir," the moderator intoned in mock horror, "These are 'defenseless boys'!"
"Defenseless boys? Hardly. My clients are
fit, plucky young men with guts and spirit, tired of a demeaning
existence in an overpopulated society that can't even provide them with
Xxxx"There is admirable nobility in what they are choosing to do about it. If they want an end that is tough and manly, challenging any critic who dares accuse them of dying a cowardly death, isn't that a choice for them to make?"
I leaned forward in my chair.
"If they want an easy exit, there are innumerable
ways to accomplish that but that is not what our clients are seeking. They
come to us for something more daring and manly just as your new law
now so wisely permits.
Xxxx"We carefully consult with the client about what end he has in mind for himself and provide it for him. And the only ones who pay are those who really can afford a fee ... we waive any fee at all for over two thirds of our clients."
I was on a roll. The moderator, an open advocate of the new law, made no effort to cork my stream of words.
"What right does society have to tell young men
they must continue a painful, meaningless life in a world in which they
are superfluous and unwanted?
Xxxx"They are simply taking up space and wasting the finite resources of an over-taxed planet. Most of them should never have been born and they are well aware of that. Many were just mistakes anyway, unfortunate results of moments of lust, poor judgment by unfit parents or failed condoms.
Xxxx"These young men are mostly the abortions that should have been performed two decades ago. I am simply helping them correct that tragic error now, sending them off in a last brief demonstration of macho, classy grit."
The audience was applauding now and the moderator was beaming.
"So," he chuckled, "How do you really feel about all this? Actually, aren't at least some of your ... clients ... seeking to make a point by the painful fashion in which they are choosing to die?"
"Absolutely," I nodded. "You gotta really admire those guys! A lot of them could even make it real well in life but want to make a difference ... to sacrifice themselves for what they deem to be a worthwhile cause in a graphic fashion sure to generate great publicity."
The host prompted me with a big grin....
"Such as, for example, paying stunning tribute to a coach they believe to have defined who they are by his mentoring and support."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," I managed to say with a straight face.
After the laughter subsided, I nodded.
"The four young bucks who are paying tribute to Coach Braggler at tomorrow night's game down in Fireburg are perfect examples of what is good and admirable in these young jock studs. I think they are really quite heroic in fact."
The audience wildly agreed. This kind of public forum was more valuable for my business than any multi-million dollar ad campaign ... and it was free.
We talked about the bonfire spectacle that was going to entertain the halftime crowd at the upcoming game and how the planning for that had occurred. It really had been the idea of the four hunks involved and all I was doing was choreographing it and making it occur.
The moderator nodded.
"You're kind of like a producer or director working with a script and actors, aren't you?"
"Sure," I agreed. "Just a really good producer and director."
The audience laughed again and applauded.
After the show I hurried back to the big warehouse in Columbia that I had converted into the operations center for Suicide Hot-Line Dixie.
I had two executions to carry out that very afternoon. One was unique.
I'd never put a royal prince to death before.
Of course, Brian Cooley wasn't really a prince. But for two days he'd been a prisoner in a dungeon at the suicide facility, utterly immersed in his persona as a Royal Prince of the English Royal House of Stuart. It was the seventeenth century and his uncle, King Charles I had recently been beheaded at the Palace of Whitehall by the revolutionists led by Oliver Cromwell.
As the boy's "warden" I'd formally read him the death warrant last evening. I'd supposedly just received the order for his prompt execution and he was to go to the scaffold the next day at high noon. The drama was simply a play ... a fantasy dreamed up in Brian's mind.
The killing however would be very, very real.
Before going to my tv interview I'd shaven the condemned boy's head, stripped him naked and left him locked in his cell to contemplate his fate. Now, the midday approaching, I retrieved the prisoner and walked him to the execution chamber.
Without resistence he mounted the small scaffold and knelt before the wooden block. He followed my instructions to position his head over the wood and stretch out his neck, reaching out to almost hug the block with his arms.
"Do you want your hands restrained, your highness?"
He shook his head, even as his blue eyes locked on the heavy cast-iron axe in my hands, the blade honed to a razor edge. He emitted a tense breath.
"No. I'll be able to hold my position. Do what you must. I forgive you. I know you are simply carrying out Cromwell's orders, may his soul rot in hell."
"Do you wish a blindfold, prince?"
"No. That would be cowardly. I'll not die a coward."
Between Brian's muscular thighs his cock was jutting out in powerful erection. He was really getting off on this little performance.
It was not unusual for us to stage a "suicide" in some little acting out performance but this one was more elaborate than most and I was deeply enjoying it. I loved doing decapitations anyway.
"It would be acceptable if your highness wished to have one last ejaculation. As a man I can understand the urge and a final moment of pleasure for you would harm nothing."
He thanked me for the little touch of mercy, hoping that Cromwell would not punish me for having extended it to him. He began to stroke his turgid rod and shortly with a moan he reported he was very close. He eagerly thrust his head out over the block to fully expose the back of his neck and I raised the axe high above him.
"Ohhh God! I'm cumming! ... Do it no ... "
The loud whump of the axe slamming into the wood beneath his Adam's apple echoed loudly in the chamber cutting off his last word which I was pretty sure was "now."
The head rolled off cleanly and plopped to the floor as thick spurts of blood gushed from the severed neck. I picked up the head and set it upright on a table, studying it as it drained and crimson pooled around it.
Some guys had awful expressions of last minute terror
or fear etched into their dead faces as the axe came down. Brian's, however,
looked quite beautiful, a peaceful sweetness in the softened features with
maybe just a little look of surprise lingering there.
A couple of hours later when I put Brady Willis to death there was no fantasy or acting. The knife-crazy kid just wanted to suffer.
"Drag it out as long as you can," he'd instructed. "Make it hurt something awful!"
Mmmm! Love having a pain freak like this. They are so much fun to do!
I think I more than met young Brady's expectations.
For starters, after stripping him and tying his wrists behind his back, I raped him. I wasn't sure he really liked that too much but I didn't care much whether he did or not. He was mine. If I could kill him, I sure as hell could enjoy myself with his hunky young body if I chose and he had a really cute, dimpled, bubble butt. It just screamed out to be screwed.
As tight as he was, he likely was virgin. All the more reason to mount him I figured. Hey, it didn't seem right that something that hot should die without being enjoyed at least once! Plus it was one more new experience the kid had in his short life ... I owed him that, right?
Anyway, once the initial pain of being pried open had subsided and his prostate kicked in, he seemed to get off on it pretty well even before I started cutting him. Once I pulled out the knife, reached around in front and slowly drew the blade all across his chest and belly at an angle, he went nuts with pleasure.
As the burning sear of the shallow slit made itself felt, his cock got hard as granite and quivered in near orgasm.
I was using a knife Brady himself had fashioned. It was a beautiful work, the wooden handle handsomely carved, the blade made of hardened Sheffield steel and honed to perfection. The balance of the weapon was just ideal and it would be as deadly as a throwing knife as a close-combat tool.
Continuing to screw him with fervor, I cut a second diagonal line across his chest and belly, creating a bloody "X." We were both very close to popping our loads.
"My tits," he whispered urgently. "Cut my tits!"
I let the blade lie just to the side of the right nipple and with a quick flick of my wrist amputated the little eraser nib. Blood began to flow freely from the wound as he shuddered all over in violent mixed agony and ecstasy. I brought the knife back up and visited the undamaged tit. He tried holding very still so as to not interfere with the attack.
I flicked my wrist again and the other eraser tip went popping off. With a convulsive moan he spewed forth his cum like a fire hose. That triggered me and I filled his tightly clutching gut with cream.
As soon as I pulled my wilting cock free, I slipped the knife blade into his ass cleft and drew it up, opening a slit the length of the tender little valley. He almost went into orbit as that wound was inflicted.
I dragged him over to a small wooden bench attached at about my chest height on one wall of the death chamber. He was making a real mess with the blood dripping in steady rivulets from his nipples and the gory "x" carved across his upper body. My own body was heavily soaked in his crimson life fluid.
No big deal. I'd clean it all up later.
I hefted him and got him on the bench, then snugged a dangling noose around his throat and drew it up taut. If he came off the shelf now he'd not quite reach the floor with his toes.
It was time for the best part of this particular "suicide."
I castrated Brady.
I grabbed his genitals and jerked them up and out to stretch the neck and expose it. I placed the blade of the knife underneath and began slowly, steadily sawing upwards in shallow little stages, drawing it out as long as I possibly could.
He screamed and writhed but I noticed he kept his strong, unfettered thighs widely splayed and crouched down to give me maximum, unobstructed access to his crotch for the cutting. I'd dealt with pain freaks before, but Cody was possibly the most extreme I'd worked on.
What a sweet trip!
Eventually the organs came free in my hand and I held them up for him to see, clutching the cock like the neck of a dead chicken. Blood was spurting in steady pulses from the raw wound where he'd been a male.
"Stick out one of your feet," I ordered.
Despite the excruciating pain between his legs, he obeyed and I placed the knife along the sole of the foot and prepared to slash it open. He tensed and froze in place, waiting for the new assault on his nerve endings.
I continued to cut and slash for quite a while as he bled out between his legs. Each wound was shallow for maximum hurt but minimum real damage, though the combined effect was more and more bleeding. I kept waiting for him to end it by leaping free of the bench to hang himself, but he never did.
He just crouched there as I worked on him with the sharp steel blade until shock set in from his loss of blood. He slumped into a faint. I just pulled him off the bench and let his limp form dangle from the noose.
Within five minutes, there was no sign of a pulse. Just to be sure, I drove his knife into Brady's heart and twisted it completely around.
The big football spectacle was the next evening, but that morning I had another suicide scheduled, this one a double. Two gay jocks from a high school had decided to die together to make a protest statement about the homophobia they'd encountered.
I had them kill each other.
Their names were Erik and Josh and they were really a good-looking pair, one blond, one dark-haired, salt and pepper. I explained what I wanted them to do and they looked really shocked but then, after conferring, decided they liked the scenario.
I armed each with a strong yew bow and several sturdy arrows tipped with savage tri-pronged razor-edged hunting points. I let them take some practice shots at a standard straw-filled target, then had each draw a bulls-eye on the other's broad chest over the heart.
Each had a single arrow and they stood there close together for a moment and enjoyed a long, hot tonguing kiss.
It was so touching that I actually made a good faith effort to talk them into abandoning their plan.
I very seldom did that but it seemed so tragic that two such beautiful young men, so clearly in love, had to die just to try to make a statement about the intolerance and bigotry to which they had been subjected. Especially since it wasn't real likely to change anything.
They were resolute, however, so I let the brief drama proceed to its bloody conclusion.
They faced off at ten paces and drew aim at each other's chests. At that range, they couldn't possibly miss. I had harbored a secret fear that one might decide to spare his lover and deliberately fire wide or high as he was cut down by the other's missile.
I wasn't sure how I'd proceed then, though I'd probably go ahead and snuff the survivor myself unless he particularly wanted to go on living.
I did not have to cross that bridge. Both arrows flew straight and true.
Erik's bow, the string still quivering from having discharged
its arrow, flew from his hands as Josh's bolt slammed into his chest with
explosive power. The hunting point knifed through in an instant and blasted
out the jock's strong back just below his left shoulderblade in a thick
spray of crimson. Splatters of blood erupted from the kid's gaping mouth.
I had read in accounts of old west indian attacks of arrows completely piercing a man's body all the way through, rather than just lodging in the flesh. It had sounded a bit unrealistic since I'd assumed the feathered hafts would likely prevent that.
But in Erik's case it proved true!
The arrow passed all the way through the husky young bull and buried its point in the wall behind him, vibrating as it spent the last of its awesome energy.
Erik dropped like a rock. Though muscle spasms still flickered through his body, I was pretty sure he was dead before he hit the floor. It had been a dead-on shot, right through the bull's-eye painted on his breast. One lung and his heart pretty much were just exploded into shredded mush by the passage of the projectile.
I glanced at Josh. To my surprise he was still standing, a look of utter agony grimacing his cute face. Erik's arrow had been slightly off, catching the bull's-eye just barely in the upper curve of the outermost ring. It had apparently slammed into bone for the shaft was protruding by a couple of feet from the boy's chest.
The heart was undamaged enough to still be functioning though I guessed a lung had to have been munched. Shattered bone fragments spraying within the chest cavity like shrapnel had to have done a lot of collateral damage as well.
It was likely a fatal wound but was going to take
a bit longer.
Reflexively, he grabbed at the arrow and snapped it
off about an inch from where it disappeared into his pec even as he teetered
on his feet, clearly shocked and unsteady.
I suspected that he had fired a hair quicker than Erik and that his arrow impacted his lover at the very instant the blond stud let fly. It had been just enough to cause a minor deflection of the shot aimed at Josh.
He was paying for that now.
He dropped to his knees even as I stepped behind him. I had kept the wonderful hunting knife used on Brady Willis the day before and had it drawn and in hand. I grabbed Josh's chin, tilted his head back to expose his throat and quickly cut it from ear to ear.
Sometimes I let wounded boys like that just die as they might, even relishing their prolonged suffering, but I liked Josh and wanted to put him out of his misery quickly. I also needed to get working on the big event scheduled in the football stadium in Fireburg just a few hours off.
It went wonderfully by the way!
Because the second half of the game would still need to be played out, we had set up our bonfire ceremony at one end of the stadium just beyond the goal posts rather than at midfield as I would have preferred.
It still gave an excellent view for almost all of the crowd, though obviously better for those seated towards that end. The end zoners had spectacular seats with a direct bird's-eye view of the action.
Before the game, we had arranged the huge pile of resin-rich, ultra-dry railroad ties in the desired configuration and bound the four naked hunks of human firewood in place. Then we surrounded it with a high shielding curtain of tarps.
As the buzzer sounded ending the first half, the home team, Coach Braggler's Dragons, were trailing the rival Lockstown Lords 17 to 10.
Everyone knew what was going to come down now and the crowd was murmuring in excited anticipation. Every seat was sold out and live tv was covering the game all over the state with CNN now joining the feed just for the halftime show.
This was a multi-million dollar advertising bonanza for me in addition to the hefty fees for broadcast rights the school and I were charging the tv folks and their corporate sponsors.
Coach Braggler was brought forth to receive a huge congratulatory plaque and a proclamation read from the governor declaring it Braggler Day in South Carolina. The coach, tears in his eyes, thanked his many friends, supporters and the hundreds of athletes he'd coached over the years.
"None," he gulped, his voice breaking, "More than
the four wonderful young men who have chosen to honor me tonight in the
spectacular tribute you will see in just a moment.
Xxxx"I love them deeply and cannot begin to tell them how much I appreciate their wonderful gesture!"
Of course he received a standing ovation that just went on and on.
Then I was introduced. When it was announced that I had just given a contribution of twenty-five thousand dollars to the school's athletic department in honor of the coach, I too received a powerful round of applause.
I made a brief plug for the need to resolve America's terrible over-population of useless, unemployable young men and expressed gratitude for the wisdom of the state legislature in passing the new law.
"It is a great honor for me to come into your fine
state and offer quality services to help your young studs make their highly
admirable sacrifices. Certainly the four who have chosen to die as part
of this gala celebration of Coach Braggler's quarter-century of service
to your school are but a drop in the bucket.
Xxxx"There are thousands upon thousands of gutsy sons of dixie whom we can only hope will get the message tonight and follow suit. However, it is, quoting your governor when he signed the new law into effect ... "a small step, admittedly, but a damned good one nonetheless!"
I did my best imitation of the popular governor's signature drawl and got a loud round of laughter and applause from the enthusiastic horde of red-neck southerners filling the stands.
"Of course, if there are any of you plucky young southern boys watching who feel a sudden need for assistance, I might just mention a little phone number for you to jot down ... "
The shameless plug for Suicide Hot-Line Dixie also amused the crowd.
Now we drew the curtains and revealed the carefully positioned network of railroad ties. Several thousand necks craned in the stadium to get a good look as gasps erupted from mouths all around. The tv cameras zoomed in for a close view.
The two blond super-hunks, Brix Winters and Troy Sommers lay on their backs, foot to foot, tightly bound to ties capping a small criss-crossed pyre. Their cocks were jutting up in absolute rigid erection and they looked spectacular, like sacrificial lambs offered up to some ancient blood-thirsty war god.
Spotlights glared down to brightly illuminate each of the four muscular bodies in the darkened night of the open stadium.
Troy reared up his strong shoulders to get a good
view of the crowd ogling his nude, sensual form. He also glanced down at
his lover, Luke Tisdale, to see how he was holding up. I saw him flash
a quick thumbs-up gesture of encouragement to the dark-haired Adonis.
The two brunets were standing upright.
At the foot of the pyre holding the reclining blonds, a rope around his lower chest bound curly-haired Jack Withers, a twenty-one year old former star receiver for the Dragons, to a post amid a jumble of railroad ties that shielded his legs from view just below his crotch.
He too was aroused between his thighs, his thick cock curving off at an odd angle from his pubic brush, almost inverting as it jutted out. Funny how some guys' boners do things like that.
His forearms were bound tightly together before his body.
Off to one side of him, super-sexy Luke Tisdale was bound splay-legged between two upright posts. A circle of ties surrounded him, not close enough to communicate fire directly to his flesh but close enough that when burning the heat would swirl around him with deadly effect, slowly, steadily cooking him alive.
Luke was my centerpiece. The others would die more violent deaths, but fairly quickly as the flames consumed them. Luke was to suffer horribly and at length.
I had chosen Luke in part because of his drop-dead good looks and deliciously sculpted body but also because he'd been so popular back in school. The boy had been student body president, homecoming king, president of the letterman's club, and prom king as well as star quarterback of last year's team.
He'd been king hot-dog at the high school in his
time and that called for special handling. I was going to return Mr.
Hot-Dog to the Fireburg fans tonight, serving him up all nicely roasted
like a snack-bar wiener on a bun.
He'd be the first to feel the flames and was looking tense and nervous, keeping his eyes slightly averted downward as the crowd ogled him and whooped and hooted in delighted glee.
I glanced at Jack Withers. What a gorgeous doll the young stud was! He looked much younger than his twenty-one years and just sexy as hell.
He'd be the first to feel the flames and was looking tense and nervous, keeping his eyes slightly averted downward as the crowd ogled him and whooped and hooted in delighted glee.
I'd tapped the current quarterback to actually ignite
the bonfire. He was a tall, strapping Irish kid named Sean Murphy with
close-cropped brown hair, a real good-looker.
He now made his entrance
and joined me at the microphone at midfield.
He now made his entrance and joined me at the microphone at midfield.
A crowd-pleaser, he'd cagily doffed his football uniform and was clad just in skimpy cotton gym trunks that fully exposed his superb physique to the audience. He was even barefooted.
An attendant brought me a small wooden torch, the clothbound business end burning brightly and steadily. I offered it to Sean who took it with a broad smile.
"Ready to be our torchbearer, Sean, to go light our little bonfire tonight?"
"Yes sir!" he responded loudly and eagerly. "There's just one thing, sir, if I might?"
His ballsy voice was rich with carolina drawl. Sexy as all get out.
"Certainly, Sean, what is it?"
"We're trailin' in this big game. I don't like that
one bit. As quarterback it's my job to correct that. If I can't, and we
lose this game on this important night for Coach Braggler, I'll be at your
place tomorrow morning the second you open.
Xxxx"I hope you can fit me into your schedule to snuff my useless ass as early as possible and with maximum pain."
Ah yes! This was the type of "right thinking" I liked to see in young men like Sean.
"I give you my personal promise that I'll take care of you myself, Sean. And we'll drag it out a real long time, I assure you!".
The crowd loved it all, cheering and whooping something wild. Sean, carrying the game ball as a sort of talisman, did a victory circuit of the stadium at a swift lope, his hard muscles flexing and coursing beautifully in his lean, sculpted body as he moved.
There was a feline grace about him that was just hypnotic. As he passed Coach Braggler and I at the fifty yard line, he gave us a happy glance and nod and dipped the torch in salute.
We waved back and as the running stud jock neared the pile of railroad ties and its human occupants, the crowd rose to its feet to roar in excited approval. The school band struck up the vibrant strains of their fight song and cheer leaders went wild in urging more reaction from the stands.
Braggler leaned close and whispered, his voice choked with emotion.
"Isn't this just marvelous? I'll recall this moment all the rest of my life!"
A section of the ties surrounding Jack Withers had been stuffed with dry tender and gasoline soaked rags. Sean knew where to apply the torch and almost instantly gouts of bright, crackling flame exploded up from the woodpile and began spreading with swift fury.
The crowd's cheer was deafening. Someone took up the words of the fight song as the band kept belting it out and it became a roar of singing voices. They actually drowned out Jack's terrible screams as his flesh began to burn in the inferno gathering strength around him. Soon his hair ignited and the swirl of roaring, leaping fire masked him from view.
He literally seemed to just melt away.
Even as his dying screams faded off, both Brix and Troy began screaming out their lungs as the conflagration overran their reclining bodies and they too blistered, then charred and were utterly consumed. It hurt horribly, of course, but was mercifully brief.
It was nowhere near that fast for Luke.
The dark-haired stallion watched with a tense look as the fire began to encircle him and gusts of smoke and heat began swirling about him.
As the level of heat steadily rose, he writhed against his bonds, seeking to move this way or that as he tried to escape the clutches of the radiating fury eating at him like the teeth of a hundred hungry rodents.
He reddened like a lobster, sweat pouring from him in buckets as his body tried desperately to cool itself. And as he cooked with deeper and deeper intensity, he finally lost it. His screams were demented animal howls ripping into the starry night enveloping the stadium.
Eventually, after a long period of abject suffering, he sagged away, unconcious or dead.
Not that anyone cared. If he was just unconcious, he'd be dead soon enough.
Spurred on by the tremendous morale boost of the bonfire sacrifice, the Dragons proceeded to kick the Lords' butts all over the field during the second half. They won 45 to 24. I was disappointed actually as it meant Sean Murphy would not be arriving at my office in the morning.
Oh well, you can't always have everything fall your way! I had a hunch that someday soon, once football season was over, I'd likely still get my hands on Sean.
I had a major appointment for the morning anyway and though nothing much surprised me any more, even I was aghast at the idiocy of that bit of business. It involved a super-hunk neo-Nazi he-man in his early twenties who'd been betrayed by some bitch. He wanted to spite her with a particularly agonizing, gruesome form of death.
That was cool. I had no issue with that whatever. In fact, it would be great fun as he was a big, long-legged good-looking stud who'd be a treat to off.
What make me shake my head was the tag-along little brother, an absolute doll of a kid. Just eighteen, he obviously idolized big brother Caleb and was determined to follow in his footsteps and die in the same fashion under my tutelage.
I had, again, no trouble popping eighteeners, in fact, they were really a lot of fun to kill. But I liked kids that young to at least have a semi-rational reason to want to be wasted.
Timmy, whom I liked instantly, was just engaging in some really silly hero worship.
Okay, pup, we'll see if we can change your mind about this.
When both were stripped I noted with wry amusement just how far the younger boy had gone in emulating big bro. A very fresh barbed wire tatoo circled his right bicep just like Caleb's.
Like Caleb, stud-bar inserts pierced both nipples and a tiny brass ring was lodged in his belly button ... again fresh work. And the small brass ring in the head of Timmy's big cock, matching Caleb's, filled a fresh, raw wound that I suspected had been inflicted less than a day before.
The only thing missing was a heavy metal chain about his neck with a swastika dangle. That was Caleb's distinguishing toy. Given a little time, I imagined Timmy'd have come up one of those too.
Pretty quick I had Caleb on a killing table, roped securely to eyebolts screwed into the heavy wood. His legs were drawn widely apart and a three inch wide railed slot ran nearly the length of the table, directly under his pinioned body. Housed in the slot, just below his crotch, between his parted thighs, was a jagged-toothed circular power saw.
Once activated, the saw would slowly move down the slot, carving through anything in its path ... including a muscular young jock-hunk named Caleb.
I'd only employed this saw device once before. It had worked perfectly but was awfully messy, so graphic and excruciating that I had a hunch Timmy would chicken out after seeing it used on his brother.
The boy reached out and touched the blade, wincing as he misjudged and nicked a finger. He sucked the wound and glanced at me.
"That's gonna cut him right in two, starting from the crotch ain't it?"
"He'll die sometime before it's made it through
his sternum up high in his chest. He'll have been so gutted by then and
lost so much blood that life won't be possible.
Xxxx"But I have it set to move pretty slow so it will take a long time. He's really gonna suffer all the agony of hell until he finally goes into shock and passes out."
I took the swastika chain from around Caleb's neck and handed the ornament to Timmy who eagerly donned it.
"Just in case the saw does make it that far I don't want to ruin the blade by hitting that."
I put my hand on the power switch, expecting Timmy to turn away and not watch the gruesome killing. Instead, to my shock, he asked....
"Any chance I could turn it on? I think that'd be kinda fun to saw my own brother in two."
Holy shit! Was I dealing with the Marques d'Sade reincarnated here? What a little savage! Definitely an interesting kid.
"Sure," I shrugged, still guessing it was pure bravado. I bet he wouldn't do it. Not really.
About then Caleb lost control. Seeing the reality of what was about to occur, dying suddenly seemed not at all what he wanted. He started screaming to let him go.
"I've changed my mind! I don't wanta be killed ... not by that god-awful fucking saw!"
He bucked and kicked wildly against his restraints but really could move very little and certainly could not get out of the path of the deadly blade poised below his hairy crotch.
Ordinarily I'd have refused to let him recant. The consent form both boys had signed was irrevocable and they could back out of their "assisted suicide" only with my consent. But if I spared Caleb, it would save Timmy too.
I shrugged and reached out to untie the big hunk's long legs.
"Fuck that shit," Timmy said suddenly. "I can't believe my brother's a goddam sniveling coward!"
He promptly flicked the switch and the saw came buzzing to life, the blade instantly becoming a blur of razor-edged steel as it began inching its way up the slot.
Caleb's screams of fear and pleas now became shrill. I could have just turned the blade off and followed through on my intent to spare him but I did not. I needed to know if Timmy was bluffing. Did he just mean to scare his brother to express his disgust ... or did he really, truly intend to execute him as he lay there bound on the table like a prize hog prime for slaughter?
It took about a minute before there was contact. As a rooster comb of blood and bits of flesh began to spray from between Caleb's thighs, Timmy made no move to shut the saw down. It carved remorselessly through the asscrack and began to halve the genitals. Caleb was beyond words at that point, his shrieks mindless with his all-consuming pain.
And Timmy did not move away. He watched the gory process with no obvious sign of sympathy or regret. The blade eventually parted the ropes around Caleb's flat gut and that afforded a bit more latitude of movement. However, by then he was so severely injured and going into shock that he could only lie there as the saw moved on up towards the base of his chest.
Moments later he sagged and went still. I cut the power to the saw. Nothing further was needed.
With seeming guts of steel, Timmy helped me dispose of Caleb's messy, gutted corpse in the big industrial grade gas-incinerator in the next room. I washed down the death table but the broad stains of blood were only discolored, not deleted.
I returned the saw to its original position and without being told, Timmy hopped up on the table. He offered no resistence as I bound him into place in the stance of his late brother.
He lifted his head to gaze down at the wicked saw blade, then edged around a bit on his butt to try to perfectly align his crotch with it. His pecker was jutting up so hard that I thought it might just spooge all on its own.
"Go ahead," he said. "I'm ready. Let me have it!"
Well fuck, I cursed inwardly. The little bastard isn't going to back off after all!
Angry, I flicked the on switch. Almost at once he bellowed at me to turn it off. I'd had no intention of letting the blade touch him but was delighted that I'd finally broken his goddam nerve.
"You forgot to remove the chain around my neck ... to protect the saw blade."
Oh now THAT was just too much!
I surrendered. I began untying him.
"What are you doing?"
There was protest in his voice.
"The only reason you're doing this is pure mulish stubbornness you little shit," I told him. "The way Caleb chickened, there's nothing for you to prove. You can't pretend to still admire him and want to follow in his footsteps."
After a moment he shrugged.
"No," he conceded, "That's certainly true. I just didn't want you to think that I was that way too ... a fuckin' coward."
"Why does what I think matter to you?"
"I dunno," he shrugged again, free now and sitting on the edge of the table. "It just does."
"You're a complete idiot, you know that?"
He nodded and a little grin tugged at his lips.
"Yeah, I suppose, but at least you gotta concede I got brass balls."
And I had to give him that point.
"How'd you like a job, Mr. Brass-Balls?" I asked. "You seem real good at killing. Any guy who could snuff his own brother with a table saw and not bat an eyelash is valuable to me."
"Work with you here, offing guys?"
He was clearly interested. I nodded.
"I'd even pay you pretty good after you get some experience under your belt."
"I think," his grin widened, "I'd like that just a whole lot."
He extended a hand.
"You got yourself a deal!"
My only lingering doubt about the boy was that his brother had really pissed him off and shamed the family name, provoking Timmy to deep anger and action. Maybe he'd even secretly hated Caleb for some reason.
I wondered how he'd do when it came to the killing of a complete stranger in cold blood. Within a few hours I found out.
That afternoon was the scheduled day to carry out the fascinating contract with Bellmont Ammunition Company.
I'd never done what amounted to a commercial ad before! Since the material produced was to be used in stills or small video segments in Bellmont ads over the next several months, I could not immediately sell my own footage of the killings.
On the other hand, the normal fees I charged were so ridiculously low for such work that I readily waived them to encourage old man Bellmont to approve his ad man's proposal.
But how was I going to mine my own profit from the intriguing operation? And ... might there not be similar proposals from other companies if these ads proved a hot item? I needed a protocol to follow for that eventuality.
I finally negotiated the deal. After the six month ad campaign ran its course, I could market a special long video of the entire "suicide" process along with a "behind the scenes in the making of the Bellmont ads" segment.
I also would retain the poster rights for stills from the sequence. In the meantime, my company would get a prominent credit in all the ads and when I put out my material later, I'd give Bellmont more ad play.
Hopefully we'd establish a nice symbiotic relationship. I secretly hoped it would work out so well that after the initial campaign, the ammo maker would designate a second pair of Bellmont Bullet Boys as they were already being styled. I savored the thought of a lengthy series of collectors' material.
I also made a note to consider such a live-kill ad campaign of my own, possibly with a young stud each from the three states where I currently operated. Maybe I'd even run a "Mr. Suicide Hot-Line" contest to select the poster-boys for such ads. Interesting thoughts!
Mr. Bellmont had been obsessed with using only "all-american" clean-cut, big-hung studs in his ads. I wondered what he'd have thought had he known what Tim and I caught his two prize sacrificial bulls doing.
We should have knocked before barging into the small holding room where they were awaiting but issues of privacy and good manners didn't seem real important.
We were, after all, coming to get the first one out for his killing, not serve tea and cakes.
Looking startled, sandy, mop-haired Andy, the eighteeneer
boy, swung his head around. He was perched on his knees before ebony haired,
buzz-cut Kirby, the super-virile man in the duo, four years older.
Legs widely parted, Kirby was sitting on a bench, his face looking like he'd just found heaven. One hand was lying gently but firmly around the back of Adam's neck.
The stud's cock was up and steely and a thick strand of cum was just trickling down its head like a smear of icing. More trickles were drooling from Adam's lips and he had a hell of a good grip on his own big, hard cock, trying to worry it to orgasm.
Hmmm ... the evidence was strong that Adam had just given Kirby some really excellent, satisfying head. But there I went, jumping to conclusions, silly me!
We assured them all was cool and that the prim, picky Mr. Bellmont would never learn his bullet boys were gay or at least bi. That wasn't in my best interests either.
As we stood looking at the pair, enjoying the sight of those prime, perfect bodies, Timmy nudged me.
"Make you a deal?"
"That would be what?" I cocked an interested eyebrow.
"You do one, I'll do the other. I'm sure we'll go about it a little differently and that will provide good variety."
I liked it. I liked it a lot. I agreed at once.
"Which do you want?" I asked.
He studied them, then pointed to Adam.
"He's my age, so I think it'd be cool to work with him. You do the dark-haired guy and you get to go first so I can plan things out."
I left the teeners together and escorted Kirby out to the brick wall we'd set up as the background prop for his execution. The cameras were primed and ready to roll.
For several days, the two models had been shot on video in all sorts of locations and activities, though having sex together had not been one of them. There'd been generated a thick portfolio of wholesome, appealing background footage for the ads.
Now they were to be shot again, but in a bit of a different context of that term.
No great acting talent was required for my hunky dark-haired star. All he had to do was stand there buck naked and wait until I filled him with lead ... each bullet, naturally, certified as having come off the line at Bellmont Ammunition Company. After all....
When you choose to go, a BELLMONT BULLET will never fail you....
I could only hope that with freak timing none of the rounds I fired at Kirby would turn out to be duds! I could just imagine old Bellmont's fury if the gun in my hand went ... Bang ... Bang, CLICK! His ad man and quality assurance officer would both be hunting new jobs in a hurry!
The brick wall behind the target was adobe, chosen because it is pretty fragile to impact. Bullets passing through Kirby would likely kick out nice blasts of debris from the light-weight material. The rounds were pretty likely, in fact, to fully pierce him since I was using high-velocity, steel jacketed nine millimeter ammunition.
He stood a bit tensely as I chambered the top round in the Czech. Skorpion machine pistol I'd chosen for use. He closed his eyes and froze in place as the muzzle came up to put him in its sights. I nodded to the film crew.
"Video's running," the ad man called out. "Lighting is on, audio is on ... project is a go in five ... action in four ... now three ... two ... ACTION!"
I was aiming at Kirby's thickly muscled legs. I fired a single shot high up inside the left thigh just below the crotch, then a second into the other thigh. Blood sprayed as the dark crimson holes magically popped into place.
Staggered, Kirby stumbled backwards and hit the wall with his shoulders, his face a mask of shock and pain. From the positioning of the entry hole, the bullet in the left thigh had caught the bone and likely shattered it, staying inside the flesh. The right had drilled through and sent flakes of adobe spraying all around.
Before he could collapse, I loosed a four round burst. A garden of crimson flowers blossomed in a march up his torso. It was hard to control a burst like that but it went well.
The first went in just below the navel to the right,
a second was dead into his flat six-pac abs midway between his belly-button
and his sternum. A third went a bit wild into his rib cage on the right
but at an angle of entry that promised real good damage to a lung or maybe
even his spine.
The fourth was real erratic. I'd hope to get it into his left pec near the nipple but he was being spun to the right by the impacting rounds and it caught him high in the right arm just below the shoulder. It ripped through and a great spray of adobe exploded behind him.
No big deal. He dropped hard and fast after again being slammed violently against the wall, hammered by the force of the bullets. Even as he fell I sent a fresh staccato burst of lead at him and he was picked up and tossed around like a leaf in a strong breeze.
Each of the half dozen new rounds shuddered him and sent fresh bursts of blood, tissue and adobe spraying all about.
He was almost certainly dead but I stepped close, pressed the hot muzzle of the machine pistol behind his ear and fired twice more. As choreographed, I glanced directly into the camera and enthusiastically intoned....
"You can count on a great result with every round you fire when you use just the best ... bullets from Bellmont Ammunition Company!"
There was a break while a crew disposed of Kirby's mangled body and cleaned up the mess we'd made. They also wanted to review the results of the shooting ... the video shooting, that is.
We already knew the predictably mortal results of the shooting shooting.
An hour later, all was ready and I watched with interest as Timmy prepared to use hunky, cute-boy Andy as a living target.
For starters, he'd used a magic marker to draw target rings on the strong, naked body. There was one on each thigh, one on the belly above the navel, one on the left pec, bulls-eyed on the nipple, and a last one, much larger, ringing the heavily equipped sex center.
Damn, I thought, I like that touch! Those target markers are just sexy as hell! I shoulda thought of that!
Also, Kirby's cock had been mostly hard as he stood waiting but with the shots to his thighs, his tool, rather naturally, had wilted. It was no big deal but I noticed that Adam was just as steelly as could be and showed no sign of losing his erection even the slightest bit.
Hmmm? I puzzled. How did Timmy produce that result?
I realized that Kirby had spooged just before he was set up for killing and Adam presumably had not. Still he seemed just a bit too aroused for that alone to explain his sexual zest. Was he perhaps a closet masochist with a death wish? I had seen nothing about him that suggested it.
Oh well! It's sure a nice thing!
My obviously precocious trainee also suspended Adam from a shoulder harness after binding his arms tightly behind his back.
Well screw! He's outclassing me at every turn here! How excellent! The boy will be a perfectly viable target for as many rounds as Timmy chooses to send his way. He won't be collapsing on the ground or wildly waving his arms around like Kirby as he takes hits. Further, as each drills home, he'll vibrate and sway back and forth. It should be real hot to watch.
It was time and as the countdown came from the director, Timmy raised the deadly Skorpion and took aim. I was a bit on edge. Despite such fine scene-setting, if Timmy proved a poor shot or hesitant in firing, it could really spoil things.
He'd assured me he knew how to use a gun but just in case I had another pistol loaded and unlocked behind my back. If there was a problem I'd step up and unload it into the dangling teenager.
My fears were groundless.
Adam gamely worked with Timmy for the best possible results. He splayed his legs and turned the thighs outward to fully display the bull's-eyes painted there. That also utterly exposed his crotch, rendering his man parts completely vulnerable. The bull's-eye around his groin opened up like a flower as the legs moved obscenely apart and it was incredibly sensuous to see.
The little fuckers planned that! I gasped. Holy Shit!
With loud cracks two shots rang out. Timmy was good. He was very good. Both rounds were dead-on right in the middle of the center rings on the thighs. At once a third shot cracked out.
It was likely the single best bullet impact on a human body I'd ever witnessed. I was just in awe.
Adam's big balls seemed to just evaporate, exploding as the round took them out cleanly. The muscular body convulsed and writhed, kicking around in the air. The boy's face contorted into a grimace and his scream of agony ripped forcefully from his lungs.
Timmy let his target suffer for a long graphic moment, then fired again. Two more perfect shots went into the bull's-eyes on the upper body. One drilled the gut, the other obliterated the left nipple.
My boy knew his anatomy well too. He immediately fired another shot just to the right of the pec bull's-eye, realizing that was where the heart really was. The nipple wound had been mostly for effect, though it had certainly at least taken out a lung.
Although he was still twitching spasmodically, Adam was effectively dead as Timmy emptied the rest of the magazine into his chest saving back one last bullet. This he put square between the eyes at point-blank range.
He glanced at the camera, grinned and said....
"Bellmont bullets are really cool, dudes! They do the deed every fuckin' time! Don't ever use anything else!"
It was improvised but absolutely perfect. I thought the ad man was going to cream his pants in his delight. They might have to bleep out the fuckin', but then again, in this day and age ... maybe not.
I strode to Andy's corpse, almost pissed at the fact that the big cock was still mostly hard. How the hell was that....
Okay! Goddam it! There was a pencil stuffing the organ, buried so even the eraser was just inside the slit lips. No wonder it had been so hard throughout the killing! Timmy was grinning beside me.
"Cool touch, huh?"
"Where the hell did you learn to do that?"
"In high school. We hazed the younger jocks by stuffing
their pricks like that and making them stay involuntarily hard until their
blue balls were almost killin' 'em.
Xxxx"You should see how a guy erupts when you suddenly jerk it out after an hour or so. Never fails. Course it hurts like a mother every time he pisses for several days after that."
"He really worked with you."
"Fuck yeah he did. The dude was real cool. I liked him. He gave me head and let me fuck him while we were getting him ready. The shot to his balls was even his suggestion."
"But you never hesitated a second about killing him."
"Fuck no. It was what I was supposed to do. You're running a business here after all and I work for you now.
Yes you do! I mused happily. You most certainly do!
The next week-end I watched with undivided interest as Timmy prepared to terminate Drake Halborn. It was his first completely solo killing and I had left it utterly up to him.
The general mode of killing of the poster boy for the ammo company had been pretty well dictated but here he could let his imagination run wild. The only requirement was that Drake had to wind up dead at the end of it all.
We were making a house call at that. The great majority of the "suicides" we assisted were carried out in our execution chambers at the business site, but occasionally we accommodate special desires.
For reasons secret to him, handsome young Drake wanted to die in the vineyards of his father's winery in the mountain foothills in the northwest point of the state. I'd never been up there so Tim and I made a sort of week-end pleasure trip out of it.
In return for his agreeing to let Tim snuff him as a training experience, rather than me, I'd waived fees. Drake had actually seemed quite comfortable about letting the snot-nosed eighteener do him anyway.
"Dead is dead," he'd shrugged. "My life insurance will pay regardless. I guess if he clumsy's it up any, it won't matter so long as he eventually gets it done."
In gratitude for our house call and waiving fees, he presented us with a couple of cases of his father's best wines.
"I like the Zinfadel the best," he allowed, "But I think you'll like the Merlot a lot and the Chardonnay is great too."
He cooperatively stripped naked while Timmy, a bit of an electronics genius, played around to re-route an electric circuit out of a pump-house in the vineyard to a guy-wire running at a diagonal to a power pole by the small building.
Guy-wire! How aptly named!
He then coaxed Drake's big sex rod to erection, not difficult since Timmy had a great mouth and sucked cock like an pro. Then he lubricated the erect organ and carefully positioned it out along the guy-wire, using a thin cord to tightly bind the blood-filled penis in place.
The pressure was enough to keep Drake good and hard as he stood there awaiting his fate.
He smeared the palm of Drake's left hand and the insides of his thighs with more of the Vaseline.
"Take a good grip on the wire up above with that
one hand and straddle it below, closing your thighs tightly around it.
Yeah ... that's the way!
Xxxx"Perfect! Thanks, dude! The lubricant will assure a good connection and should get the current to flow just about right."
He turned to me as if seeking approval. I kept a straight face, masking how pleased I was. His choice of electricity was excellent though a well-performed electrocution could be tricky. He hadn't chosen a real easy process but sure seemed to know exactly what to do!
"The pump's on a timer," he explained. "We don't have to do anything but wait. It'll come on in about another two minutes and should fry him up just great."
As the countdown proceeded, Drake gamely tightened his grip on the wire until the knuckles of his hand were white. He pressed his thighs together as strongly as he could to keep the wire firmly locked between the hammy slabs of sculpted muscle.
I noticed his cock, far from wilting at all, had become as hard as granite, pulsing and trembling with little spasms of near-orgasm.
"Here we go," Timmy called out in rising excitement. "Any second now ... now ... now ... "
There was a soft click from within the pump-house.
Instantly there was a bright flash of flickering white light all around Drake's naked form. Sparks burst from his hand, his cock and from between his thighs. He was shaken like a rag in a dog's mouth and smoke began to puff from various points of his body.
His cock was literally being fried as were his hand and his thighs. The stench of burning meat hit our nostrils. An undulating moan echoed from his widely opened mouth in a strange sort of near-chant....
Uh ~ UH ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ U ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh ~ Uh....
I had always found it interesting to listen to the varied sounds young bucks made during death trauma. This was a new and interesting one. I'm wasn't sure I ever heard anything quite like it issue from a subject's mouth before and I wished I had it on tape.
We hadn't videoed this killing since it was really just a test to see if Timmy had the skills necessary for the role I hoped he could play for me. I'd expected a less than smooth effort, maybe a bit halting and clumsy as he forced the life from his willing victim.
Now I regretted the oversight. This would have been a spectacular sales piece for the avid collectors of snuff videos I had built up across the nation.
The juice fried Drake for fully two minutes and we stood back enjoying the show, making no move to shut off the power even after it was pretty certain the stud was deceased.
Finally, something shorted out in the pump-house and the smoking body collapsed to the ground. As it fell, the penis, literally charred to a crisp, evaporated in a spray of ash and blackened debris.
As a routine matter, I checked for a pulse. There was none.
I glanced at Timmy who was beaming with self-satisfied pride.
"How'd I do?" He asked.
He knew full well he'd staged a near perfect killing but wanted to hear it from me.
"Well enough," I grinned, "That I think I just found not just a worker at Suicide Hot-Line Dixie but my new manager of the place when I'm back in Washington or Ohio. At a suitable salary of course."
The boy's eyes grew wide as my words sank in, then he leapt high in the air, swatting it with his jubilant fist.
"Yeah!" He squealed in his excitement. "Fuck yeah!"
I'd never been on a naval vessel and the USS Fargo was a state of the art nuclear guided missile cruiser. It was a beautiful, deadly thing and was brand new, commissioned just a year before.
Which was why moth-balling it in a cost-cutting military reduction was about the stupidest thing I could imagine. I wasn't alone. Polls showed about seventy percent of the voters agreed.
Further, Captain John Pendergast agreed though I suspected he would not long have his command after we did what we were about to do. I was sure the Pentagon would not take kindly to his lending assistance to the stunning protest that would hit the news media by noon that day.
It was perfectly legal. When the ship was in South Carolina waters, any of the young men abroad could sign consent forms under the state's assisted suicide statute.
Fully seventeen of the hunky young sailors and marines aboard the Fargo had volunteered to commit a mass suicide in protest of the dumb-headed decision to decommission their magnificent warship. I had been brought on board to coordinate the action. Needless to say I was not only flattered but excited beyond belief.
I was about to direct the execution of a small army of muscular young stud bulls in any way I saw fit!
The idiots were noble for their gesture but idiots nonetheless. With the powerful lean in the polls, the decision about the ship was almost surely going to be reversed shortly and their sacrifice was probably just a waste of their lives.
But I sure as hell wasn't telling them that!
The last thing I wanted was to discourage them in any way! In fact I urged them to the act with fervor, telling them what a wonderful, perfect thing they were doing ... and suggesting we get to it as soon as possible. I was afraid that if they had time to think it through much, at least some of the handsome hunks would back out!
I wanted all seventeen.
My guess was that the storm of publicity would be the medicine necessary to accomplish three very good results for me.
It should push more states over the line into adopting assisted suicide laws.
It should make my business name even more of a household word.
The example of these buff, all-American warriors should inspire countless impressionable young pups out there to follow in their footsteps ... and business would surely boom.
The group assembled on the helipad deck that jutted out high over the waves at the stern of the ship and stripped to their boxers as instructed. They stood around in small groups of twos and threes, all eyes on me as they awaited their fate.
They were all very curious about how they were going to be put to death.
I had given a lot of thought to that myself. It was a somewhat complicated decision with several conflicting considerations.
The deaths needed to be graphic and violent to make the maximum impression in the news media and with the public. There needed to be pain in order to underscore the courage and pluck of these tough all-American studs ... dying with macho style and class.
But too much gore or overly extended suffering might cause a negative reaction from more squeamish American viewers or even lead to censorship by the media. The sensitivities of the kids' families had to be considered that way too.
All had been informed by their sons of their decision and most, though agonized by it, understood and were supportive, obviously proud of having raised such a fine, gutsy youngster. But a bit too much agony or blood ... well, I needed to walk a fine line there.
Logistically, with seventeen to kill, and each deserving an individual death, I couldn't drag it out long either. The media would want to accord each buck his moment of glory but not if it ate up too much air time.
Further, too long an affair and some of the prospective suicides might try to back out, cowed by the earlier deaths. While they could still be forced to submit, the notion of dragging any of them kicking and screaming to their killing was unthinkable.
Thus I needed a method that was reasonably swift and graphically exciting, violent and painful but not too much so and which could get a sort of chain reaction going, each man caught up in a frenzy and eagerly replacing the man before him as soon as that death was accomplished.
I had thought of beheading or hanging but those just didn't seem to be the thing. It had been when I was standing on the helipad at dawn that day, watching the waves far below, that I came up with my perfect plan. Now we were ready, the rest of the crew assembled, the captain having just given each of the seventeen a last chance to back out of the project.
I held my breath at that but none showed the slightest inclination to take him up on the offer.
That won them a hearty round of approving applause and cheers from their shipmates. Of course that in turn pressured the group to proceed with resolve and I was delighted. Peer pressure like that will force any guy into action that he might not really want, rather than face the scorn of his fellows if he disappoints their expectations.
Protest suicides with a sympathetic audience always seemed to take on a life of their own like that.
A sturdy wooden plank had been run out over the edge of the helipad and secured in place. Unknown to the rest of the crew, a pair of sharpshooters had been provided to me by the accommodating captain and had eagerly agreed to assist me in the killings.
"Ain't never shot another guy before," one said, almost salivating. "Always wanted to but never had the chance before!"
"This is gonna be so fuckin' cool!" the other enthused. "Great training for us by getting to use live targets like this! Thanks so much, sir! It's a great idea!"
The snipers were now in position in the open hanger deck just below the helipad, scoped rifles at the ready. I had a radio contact with them and they assured me over my small handheld receiver that they were ready.
"Rock and roll, sir," the voice enthusiastically urged, "Let's shoot some skeet!"
"I need a volunteer," I told the condemned sailors and marines. "Who's gonna go first?"
After a moment's hesitation, a tall, slim golden haired marine stepped forward.
"I'll do it, sir. What the hell, why not!"
He quickly complied and turned himself over to me butt naked. I guided him to the end of the plank and he stood poised there, looking a bit uncertain, just waiting for further instructions. He was a well-built kid if just a bit homely.
Realizing they were to die as they were born ... in the buff ... the other sixteen dropped their boxers without being told to, stepped out of them or kicked them free, and stood nude on the sunny helipad with their eyes glued to the marine out on the end of the plank.
Okay ... the bull-boys weren't quite in the state in which they had come from their mommas' wombs two decades before. I was reasonably sure none had been born with the damned dog tags they still wore.
I liked the touch. It somehow made them seem just a tad bit more manly and, after all, the purpose of the tags in the first place was to help ID their bodies if they died in the service of their country!
Some of their buddies raced briefly forward to grab up the doffed shorts to keep as souvenirs.
There was lots of neat maritime symbolism in what I had planned. I felt like a pirate of old, making my captive sailors from a man-o-war walk the plank. Or perhaps I was a cruise director on a passenger liner setting up a fun skeet shooting session ... but using something a lot more exciting and interesting than clay pigeons. The high powered rifles waiting down below were a bit different from the shotguns and bird-shot normally used in skeet as well.
As the naked boys tensely waited to see what was going to happen to this first of their group, I noticed that a few were becoming involuntary hard between their thighs. Though a natural phenomenon by young males facing danger while stripped down, it mildly embarrassed them and they tried to shield their swiftly rising erections by subtly bringing their arms forward and hunching over slightly.
"What's your name, son?" I asked my marine volunteer.
"L ... Lance Corporal Mark Jeeter, sir," he responded, stuttering slightly in his understandable nervousness.
"How old are you, Mark?"
"Nineteen, sir, almost twenty."
"Where are you from?"
"K ... Kingsport, Tennessee, sir."
"Tennessee doesn't have an assisted suicide statute yet, Mark, and I'm sure the folks back there will be watching this later on the news. You have any message for the Tennessee legislature?"
"Yeah," the kid managed a shaky little grin. "They need to get their f ... fuckin' act together and pass a neat law like they got down here in Carolina!"
That brought laughter from the crew of the warship and yelping cheers of agreement.
"Okay, Mark, shall we do this?"
"Y ... yes sir, I'm sure ready!"
"All you have to do is just take a little jump for us. Or dive. Or just step off. However you want."
"O ... okay, sir, but, sir? Not to be out of line or nothin' but wouldn't I drown better if you like put a weight on my ankles or something or tie my hands behind me so I can't fight it as the water takes me?"
"Good thought, Mark, but as you'll see it won't be necessary. I have a little surprise waiting for you so none of that will be needed. On three then, Mark?"
"Y ... yes sir!"
A chant broke out from the watching crew.
"You all count it for him," I yelled at them, delighted at getting them so eagerly into the scene.
I whispered into my radio.
"Get ready, the first one's on his way down when you hear them shout three."
"Got it, sir, we'll get him!" Came the breathless, excited reply. "We'll nail his ass just fine for you!"
Lance Corporal Mark Jeeter tensed, his hard lean muscles cording beautifully. He was a superb animal, like a sleek racing greyhound.
He was starting to move....
He took a little jump and began to descend through the air, his body in a straight, clean line as it plummeted towards the sea, his dog tags trailing out in his wake over his head.
No one on the helipad could know it but instantly a telescopic sight zeroed in, drawing a bead and traveling with the falling muscle-boy, allowing for the movement.
No one on the helipad could know it but instantly a telescopic sight zeroed in, drawing a bead and traveling with the falling muscle-boy, allowing for the movement.
The crack of the unexpected shot echoed over the water and everyone on the helipad jumped in startled surprise. The slug drilled Mark square through the chest from the side, ripping through his lungs and heart.
He was slammed violently to one side in the air, his arms and legs suddenly akimbo, blood vapor filling the air in his wake as he continued his plunge.
He splashed down, already dead, and disappeared. After a brief pause, he surfaced and floated face-down, still and limp, bobbing in the slight undulation of the waves. A thick smear of crimson colored the water around him, wafting off like ribbons.
It had been a masterful shot and everyone knew it! The crew belatedly broke into whoops of glee and yelled down congratulations to the hidden shooter in the hanger bay below.
Even the other sixteen snuffers were looking pleased and relieved. They now knew they were not facing the slow and dreadful death that comes with drowning ... just a little jump and then a quick bullet to end it.
Without even being asked, a second boy with short-cropped raven hair stepped eagerly forward.
"Could I go next, sir?"
"Sure," I smiled at him. "Your name?"
"Seaman First Class Luke Lansford, sir. I'm nineteen too, from Enid, Oklahoma."
"Well, Luke, get on out on the board and show us how a kid from Oklahoma takes a dive into the sea."
The chant began.
Then the hundreds of voices bellowed in unison....
Luke-boy leapt high, springing the board as he came back down, then went up and over into an excellent rolling dive. He'd been one of the boys whose cock had had a mind of its own and the organ was jutting out in steely arousal as his naked body cut the air.
The shot rang out and a great burst of blood and flesh erupted from his back as the bullet drilled through his chest. It was as if he'd been slapped by a giant hand.
He collapsed like a broken toy and hit the water as limp as a rag-doll.
Almost elbowing each other in their anxiety to be killed as soon as possible, the naked sacrificial lambs walked the plank one after the other. A leap or dive, a shot, a splash ... and the next boy took his position and awaited the brief cheer of his name and the count-down.
The body-count in the water began to mount and a small flotilla of still, bloody corpses bobbed around like corks, bumping into each other or against the side of the ship.
I was not surprised when the error finally occurred. I had suspected it might even be inevitable. The shots being taken by my snipers were tricky and it was asking too much for there to be a perfect performance.
It was when boy number twelve took his plunge that the shot missed. As Seaman Jon Peters dropped, his bullet caught him high in the right thigh, missing anything vital. He was quite alive as he hit the water and disappeared.
After what seemed a very long time, he suddenly blasted up from below, breaking the water dramatically nearly to his waist, expelling a great burst of air mixed with saltwater from his agonized lungs, sputtering and looking shocked and dazed.
My sniper team anxiously sought instructions,
"Shall we fire at him again to finish him? I can put a round square between the fuckin' swabbie's eyes from here."
The shooters were clearly Marines, not sailors.
I was about to order the coup de gras when I realized it was not necessary.
"No need," I replied, "Look behind him."
All the blood and fresh meat in the water had attracted a large school of sharks, vicious tigers as near as I could tell. They'd already begun mauling the floating carcasses and now a monstrous fin was cutting the water in a direct beeline towards the wounded, bleeding boy.
The monstrous gray form just beneath surface looked to be at least twelve feet long, maybe more.
Jon emitted a mindless shriek of sheer terror as the great jaws slammed around him but the squeal ended abruptly as the teen was brutally jerked beneath the surface as though flushed down a toilet.
He did not come back up.
"Fuck," boy number thirteen cursed under his breath as he stepped forward. "I hope they don't miss my chest!"
He gamely took his leap and the shot was clean, right through his heart.
The last four shots were direct hits as well.
A week later, the great State of Tennessee enacted an assisted suicide statute almost identical to South Carolina's so I'd been wrong after all. At least Lance Corporal Mark Jeeter's killing had served a most useful purpose.
Captain Pendergast was indeed relieved of command within hours but after the storm of outrage around the nation, he was quickly reinstated and the USS Fargo was suddenly judged by the navy to be just vital to national security. It would continue to sail.
Instead, the desired cost-cutting would be accomplished by eliminating the 237th Air Force fighter wing at Hodgkiss AFB in Ohio. I was not too surprised when almost at once I received a call from that base.
"Sir, this is Lieutenant Frank Lewis, a pilot with the 237th fighter wing. A bunch of our young flight mechanics and security guards aren't taking kindly to the planned elimination of our unit. They'd like to enlist your ... assistance."
"How many of them?"
"Uh ... twenty-four right now, sir, but I've just about got my baby brother, one of the MP's, talked into joining us. My guess is we'll likely hit thirty or more. we wanta make a big publicity splash."
I made a reservation for the next flight to Ohio, my mind reeling with the question....
What would be the best, most-fitting way to snuff the asses of a bunch of fly-boys and their back-up crews? God! There were just SO MANY possibilities it boggled my mind!
And just before I left for the airport, a studly young hunk appeared at the office.
"Hi," he smiled as he thrust out a hand. "Remember me? Sean Murphy? The quarterback at Fireburg High?"
"Congratulations on winning the state championship, Sean. I read about it last week when the season ended. What do you plan to do with your life now that your quarterbacking is over. Go to college?"
"Nah, not for me."
"Get a job?"
"To some demanding bitch, no way!"
"Well," he said, chewing at his lip just a bit, "I'm here. I guess that about says it all doesn't it?"
"Yes," I smiled, "It sure does! Look, I've got an important matter to take care of up in Ohio, but I've got someone who can take see to your needs just fine."
"Cool," he nodded.
I put a fatherly arm around the broad, jock shoulders and led him off to feed to Timmy.
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