M
m3m1
Guest
The kid stood at the mouth of the alley, nervously smoking a cigarette. His back was to the alley, his attention directed outward, scanning the street in front of him. It was a short side street near the waterfront, with the wall of a derelict factory taking one side of the pavement. The alley, on the other side, allowed access to the backs of a couple of storage buildings. It was three in the morning and there wasn’t much for the kid to see.
He didn’t see death hovering above him.
He was a city kid, about eighteen. He wasn’t dressed for guard duty—had probably been called away from a club to be the lookout for this drug deal. He had a white baseball cap, worn backwards, covering his mop of black hair. His plain leather jacket was open, with the sleeves jammed up to his elbows. His wrists were covered with bands and bandannas.
Mac grinned. He wondered if the kid would’ve gone with that look if he’d known he was gonna be caught dead in it.
The kid was wearing a black concert t-shirt—it was too dark to make out which band—and tight bleached jeans. His hightop kicks scraped the concrete as he shifted position. The shoes looked like they were brown velour; he’d almost certainly not planned on being here tonight. His bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes proved the point. The dude was baked.
There was a movement in the shadows behind him. He had a friend. This one stepped into the light and spoke a few words to the first guard.
The second kid was about the same age as the first and dressed similarly. His hair was dirty blond and his cap was red and faced front. He wore an olive-green jacket and his t-shirt and jeans were just as tight as his friend’s. His build was slightly larger and more developed than the first guard, who was slim. He looked even more fucked up, with a big goofy grin on his face.
Mac nodded silently to Bill. First two targets acquired, in optimal circumstances. They were together and drugged, so the chances of them alerting anyone was minimal.
The job was to terminate anyone taking part in this deal, no questions asked. Mac and Bill had come prepared to kill. And to enjoy themselves. After all, what’s the point of being a professional killer if you can’t make the punk you’re wasting suffer?
The mercenaries had crept down the fire escape without the boys below hearing them. They crouched on the lowest level, not three feet above the guards’ heads, while Mac tied a loop with a slipknot in a length of nylon cord and Bill pulled his huge combat knife from his boot sheath.
Mac wrapped the cord around the railing and dropped the loop of cord over the first guard’s head. Just as the kid became aware of it, Mac wrapped the other end of the cord round his hand and leaped off the fire escape simultaneously with Bill.
Bill’s boots hit the ground first. He lunged at the second kid, who was too stoned to react. Bill clamped his hand over the kid’s mouth and rammed the knife into the side of the kid’s throat, punching through the larynx and esophagus in one blow. His eyes wide with agony, the only sound that escaped the brutal pressure on the boy's mouth was a groan of pain.
Mac had used the body of the first kid as a counterweight to slow his descent. He quickly tied the end of the cord he still held to the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder, leaving the teen kicking and jerking in midair. He stepped back to admire his work.
The first jerk of the cord had popped the kid’s cap off, revealing his stunned expression. His eyes stared into Mac’s with stupefied horror as the boy flailed his legs in an attempt to find purchase. There was none to find; he was too far out from the wall to make contact.
His hands grasped frantically at to cord above and behind him. As his face reddened and his eyes bulged, he managed to get a grip on the cord and raise himself an inch or two. He couldn’t hold himself up for more than a few seconds. Each time he fell back, the slipknot tightened around his neck and intensified his panic-filled grunts.
Bill enjoyed his work with a more hands-on approach. He was using his full body to pin his target against the wall, feeling the punk die slowly beneath him. He twisted the knife in the kid’s throat, shredding his adam’s apple and windpipe, but just barely nicking the jugular or carotid. The dying teen shuddered in agony, slowly bleeding out. Bill felt every twitch and jerk between his legs as the kid weakly kicked his legs, an instinctive and futile attempt to escape the iron grip of pain and death that had suddenly come out of the night.
The first kid was still struggling. In a last attempt to survive, he grabbed the cord and yanked till muscles stood out on his forearms and tendons on his neck. His face distorted with the strain. He was able to lift himself about four inches—for about seven seconds. He took a shallow gasp of air, then lost his grip again. He fell back with more force this time. The cord tightened around his neck violently. The cracking sound of his hyoid bone seemed loud in what was nearly a silent hit. The boy couldn’t make any other sound; his esophagus was completely crushed.
Mac could feel his cock getting hard as he watch a bulge appear in the kid’s crotch. The guard was reaching out to him, his hands, bloody with rope burn, clawing ineffectually in the air. He drew his legs up and kicked out again, still desperately seeking something to stand on.
Stupid little fuck probably still doesn’t realize he’s dying, thought Mac. It made him harder.
The kid fought for a while, but his struggles diminished quickly. His tongue slowly emerged from his mouth, accompanied by a streamer of drool that trickled down his chin and caught on his shirt. His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but bloodshot white under drooping lids. The punk’s body began convulsing, swinging like a pendulum. His brown kicks twitched violently in the final death throes as the bulge in the teen’s crotch squirmed visibly and a dark stain spread over the corpse’s groin.
Mac creamed his jeans without having to touch himself.
Bill got plenty of touching, without having to take his cock out. As the kid coughed and choked on his own blood, Bill yanked the knife out roughly. Tightening the muscles in his arm, he thrust it up under the boy’s chin. A bit of force enabled him to penetrate the base of the little fuck’s skull and slam the cold sharp steel blade deep into the brain.
The teen punk opened his eyes wide in shock, looking directly into Bill’s. Bill’s dick swelled as he watched the boy’s eyes dilate before massive brain damage made him jerk back spasmodically. As he ground his pelvis convulsively into Bill’s crotch, Bill could feel the kid’s thick rod, erect from a reflexive tightening of the muscles, press warmly against him.
The dying bitch was dry-humping him. Just before the boy stopped jerking and collapsed at his feet in a pile of quivering meat, Bill felt the moisture of the punk’s dying orgasm trigger his own. Bill pressed him against the wall to let the kid’s final seconds on earth milk the cum out of his dick.
Once the body hit the ground, there was nothing but silence. The mercenaries had vanished back into the shadows; their night was far from over. It was over for the first two guards. They’d started the evening going out to party and get fucked up. One of them was now huddled in the shadows, a quivering mass of flesh in the alley gutter. The other was swaying two feet off the ground, the toes of his kicks pointing down and occasionally twitching. Just two worthless punks, wasted and left to rot.
He didn’t see death hovering above him.
He was a city kid, about eighteen. He wasn’t dressed for guard duty—had probably been called away from a club to be the lookout for this drug deal. He had a white baseball cap, worn backwards, covering his mop of black hair. His plain leather jacket was open, with the sleeves jammed up to his elbows. His wrists were covered with bands and bandannas.
Mac grinned. He wondered if the kid would’ve gone with that look if he’d known he was gonna be caught dead in it.
The kid was wearing a black concert t-shirt—it was too dark to make out which band—and tight bleached jeans. His hightop kicks scraped the concrete as he shifted position. The shoes looked like they were brown velour; he’d almost certainly not planned on being here tonight. His bloodshot, heavy-lidded eyes proved the point. The dude was baked.
There was a movement in the shadows behind him. He had a friend. This one stepped into the light and spoke a few words to the first guard.
The second kid was about the same age as the first and dressed similarly. His hair was dirty blond and his cap was red and faced front. He wore an olive-green jacket and his t-shirt and jeans were just as tight as his friend’s. His build was slightly larger and more developed than the first guard, who was slim. He looked even more fucked up, with a big goofy grin on his face.
Mac nodded silently to Bill. First two targets acquired, in optimal circumstances. They were together and drugged, so the chances of them alerting anyone was minimal.
The job was to terminate anyone taking part in this deal, no questions asked. Mac and Bill had come prepared to kill. And to enjoy themselves. After all, what’s the point of being a professional killer if you can’t make the punk you’re wasting suffer?
The mercenaries had crept down the fire escape without the boys below hearing them. They crouched on the lowest level, not three feet above the guards’ heads, while Mac tied a loop with a slipknot in a length of nylon cord and Bill pulled his huge combat knife from his boot sheath.
Mac wrapped the cord around the railing and dropped the loop of cord over the first guard’s head. Just as the kid became aware of it, Mac wrapped the other end of the cord round his hand and leaped off the fire escape simultaneously with Bill.
Bill’s boots hit the ground first. He lunged at the second kid, who was too stoned to react. Bill clamped his hand over the kid’s mouth and rammed the knife into the side of the kid’s throat, punching through the larynx and esophagus in one blow. His eyes wide with agony, the only sound that escaped the brutal pressure on the boy's mouth was a groan of pain.
Mac had used the body of the first kid as a counterweight to slow his descent. He quickly tied the end of the cord he still held to the bottom rung of the fire escape ladder, leaving the teen kicking and jerking in midair. He stepped back to admire his work.
The first jerk of the cord had popped the kid’s cap off, revealing his stunned expression. His eyes stared into Mac’s with stupefied horror as the boy flailed his legs in an attempt to find purchase. There was none to find; he was too far out from the wall to make contact.
His hands grasped frantically at to cord above and behind him. As his face reddened and his eyes bulged, he managed to get a grip on the cord and raise himself an inch or two. He couldn’t hold himself up for more than a few seconds. Each time he fell back, the slipknot tightened around his neck and intensified his panic-filled grunts.
Bill enjoyed his work with a more hands-on approach. He was using his full body to pin his target against the wall, feeling the punk die slowly beneath him. He twisted the knife in the kid’s throat, shredding his adam’s apple and windpipe, but just barely nicking the jugular or carotid. The dying teen shuddered in agony, slowly bleeding out. Bill felt every twitch and jerk between his legs as the kid weakly kicked his legs, an instinctive and futile attempt to escape the iron grip of pain and death that had suddenly come out of the night.
The first kid was still struggling. In a last attempt to survive, he grabbed the cord and yanked till muscles stood out on his forearms and tendons on his neck. His face distorted with the strain. He was able to lift himself about four inches—for about seven seconds. He took a shallow gasp of air, then lost his grip again. He fell back with more force this time. The cord tightened around his neck violently. The cracking sound of his hyoid bone seemed loud in what was nearly a silent hit. The boy couldn’t make any other sound; his esophagus was completely crushed.
Mac could feel his cock getting hard as he watch a bulge appear in the kid’s crotch. The guard was reaching out to him, his hands, bloody with rope burn, clawing ineffectually in the air. He drew his legs up and kicked out again, still desperately seeking something to stand on.
Stupid little fuck probably still doesn’t realize he’s dying, thought Mac. It made him harder.
The kid fought for a while, but his struggles diminished quickly. His tongue slowly emerged from his mouth, accompanied by a streamer of drool that trickled down his chin and caught on his shirt. His eyes rolled back, showing nothing but bloodshot white under drooping lids. The punk’s body began convulsing, swinging like a pendulum. His brown kicks twitched violently in the final death throes as the bulge in the teen’s crotch squirmed visibly and a dark stain spread over the corpse’s groin.
Mac creamed his jeans without having to touch himself.
Bill got plenty of touching, without having to take his cock out. As the kid coughed and choked on his own blood, Bill yanked the knife out roughly. Tightening the muscles in his arm, he thrust it up under the boy’s chin. A bit of force enabled him to penetrate the base of the little fuck’s skull and slam the cold sharp steel blade deep into the brain.
The teen punk opened his eyes wide in shock, looking directly into Bill’s. Bill’s dick swelled as he watched the boy’s eyes dilate before massive brain damage made him jerk back spasmodically. As he ground his pelvis convulsively into Bill’s crotch, Bill could feel the kid’s thick rod, erect from a reflexive tightening of the muscles, press warmly against him.
The dying bitch was dry-humping him. Just before the boy stopped jerking and collapsed at his feet in a pile of quivering meat, Bill felt the moisture of the punk’s dying orgasm trigger his own. Bill pressed him against the wall to let the kid’s final seconds on earth milk the cum out of his dick.
Once the body hit the ground, there was nothing but silence. The mercenaries had vanished back into the shadows; their night was far from over. It was over for the first two guards. They’d started the evening going out to party and get fucked up. One of them was now huddled in the shadows, a quivering mass of flesh in the alley gutter. The other was swaying two feet off the ground, the toes of his kicks pointing down and occasionally twitching. Just two worthless punks, wasted and left to rot.
