Kiss Heaven Goodbye
Fandom: Kiss Tomorrow Goodbye/Earth Angels
Category/Rated: R, horror
Year/Length: 2003/~8560 words
Pairing: Dustin Yarma/Maximillian
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, only having fun.
Author's Notes: Written for the ZoneZineII.
The Porsche's low rumble faded, and Dustin was alone. Absolutely alone, as he had never been. Not just a calculating bitch of a lover, and a few so-called friends gone now, but also the sycophants, parasites, petitioners and hangers-on who had filled the spaces of his former life. A life that grinning fucker Minnow had now assumed, so smugly assured of Dustin's cornered isolation, that he could drive the point home by leaving him like this, without a qualm. No one, nothing, nowhere. Now entering Yarmaville, population 1.
He stared out at the hillside, the scenes inexorably replaying themselves again and again. The same missteps, the same betrayals, the same shit luck... A hot breeze blew across the terrace, ruffling his hair and tingling, bone dry and sparked with static, across his skin; first hint of the Santa Anas that would soon be howling through the basin like a horde of vengeful djinni. What had that guy called it? Loudmouthed little guy, pitching some sci-fi script, what a set of brass ones on that bastard... 'Crazy Season', that was it. The devil winds blew in, tipping LA just a bit more off its axis, and things happened. Crazy Season. He was ready.
How long the man had been standing there watching him, Dustin had no idea. Lost in a continuous loop of memory, he'd noticed nothing but the drone of cicadas in the midmorning sun, and the sound of the wind. Yet here he was, standing a few yards away, arms crossed, smiling blandly. He made no threatening moves, but even if he did, there wouldn't be much Dustin could do about it. Better just to keep things calm and wait for the security patrol -- surely the man had to have tripped a silent alarm on his way out here. Oh, God, what if he was here for something even some rent-a-cop shouldn't hear...? No, he had to stay calm, had to think.
Feeling as if he were reeling himself in from a great distance, Dustin found he couldn't quite bring the stranger into focus. "What --?" he rasped, but the man was no longer where he'd been. Sitting across the patio table from him now, all opaque sunglasses and the kind of tailoring Dustin couldn't have swung even when life had been going the way it was supposed to. He'd had cars that cost less than this guy's shoes, he was sure of it.
Blinking, Dustin once more croaked out "What -- ", and found himself being handed a perfect double margarita -- straight up with just the slightest touch of salt, exactly the way he liked it. He could've sworn he'd only had that bottle of bourbon out here, but okay. If he was hallucinating, it was a hell of a lot better than reality just now.
Their fingers brushed as Dustin took the proffered glass; the man's smile widened a little, and he shook his head slowly. "How could this have happened?" he purred, radiating sympathy. "How could they have done this to *you*?"
Dustin closed his eyes, letting the drink slide down his ravaged throat and begin to muffle the buzzing headache that had settled between his brows. When he looked again, the man was sitting languidly back in his chair, idly rolling the stem of his own glass between his fingertips. A silver tray was on the table now, laden with an array of fruit. Letting himself go with it, Dustin selected a slice of melon, raising it to his mouth on a thin silver skewer; it was precisely chilled and sweeter than anything he'd ever tasted. Relaxing slightly, he tried to formulate a reply. "I don't know," he ventured slowly. "It was...they set me up, even though -- "
"Of course it was a setup, asshole!" the man lashed back, slamming an open script bag down on the suddenly empty table. Dustin, feeling as if he'd lost several minutes somewhere, started reflexively. He backed his chair away, screech of metal scraping brick, and stared. Shades gone, the stranger was glaring balefully at him, all pretence of sympathy vanished from a face Dustin only now registered as being virtually his own mirror image.
"What the fuck?! Who *are* you? How do you know -- "
"I know because I set it up, you pathetic schmuck. Your second-act hook."
Dustin was vaguely aware of his mouth moving, though no sound emerged. He started to rise, ready to make a break from this psycho -- or dispel the hallucination -- when the man casually interjected, "Sit down", and he found himself unable to move.
"It's all right here," the man continued, flipping through the script as if his point were self-evident. Letting it fall open, he stabbed a forefinger at something partway down the page. "Exterior. Beach. Day."
A small, strangled sound escaped Dustin's throat, and the man regarded him narrowly, visibly reining in his temper. "Let's try this again, Dusty, okay?"
Released, Dustin managed a nod. Seeming momentarily satisfied, the man indicated the script again, and Dustin noticed the various pink and green pages scattered through it. "It's all here," the man repeated. "Quite a production, I had a lot of hopes for it. For you."
"For...I don't understand."
"Ever since you put your future in our hands, Dusty, we knew you had the potential to be *huge*. This was supposed to be your big breakthrough, right to the top. But you fucked it up."
"You're the one...behind Minnow? Even behind the..." Dustin shook his head. "You're insane. What more do you want, why are you doing this?"
"I did it for you, Dusty. We gave you what you wanted. You were willing to offer anything, *do* anything, to get out of that mailroom, and it looked like a great deal. You had a lot of promise." His double smiled in fond nostalgia, flipping back to another page. "When you levered yourself into that first PA slot on 'Sunset Deception', that was sheer star quality. We were very proud, very excited."
"How do you...no, this is crazy..."
"You didn't think it was crazy that a little blackmail by some poseur with a mail cart led to an uninterrupted trip right up the ladder, though, did you? Did you think it was all *you*, Dusty?"
"Look, you psycho son of a bitch, I've worked hard for this! I -- "
The man held up a placating hand. "Calm down, babe. You've done fine, up to now. But as your management, naturally we're interested in taking you to the next level."
"Management?" Dustin spat out bitterly, features darkened in calculation. "So Mackie's behind it all. Wanted me out, afraid I was about to edge his ass out of a job..."
"Not Mackie. Your *personal* management. That would be me. You can call me Max, by the way."
"I don't have a personal management contract with anyone."
"Oh, but you do." Max's quiet chuckle didn't reflect in the hard brightness of his eyes. "That's why we're having this little meeting. You're exactly the sort of talent we want to nurture, Dusty, and we wanted to give you a chance to prove you can expand your range. Unfortunately, first you blew the scene, then you blew the retake."
"That was a *scene*? And... and the other night... are you saying none of it -- "
"It was real. She's dead. Oh yeah. And Minnow's alive. Are you starting to get this, now?"
Snared in horror, Dustin continued to stare at his double. "Who are you?" he whispered.
"I told you. But, I think you already know, don't you? And as the producer with the golden touch, you want to get this... very personal project... back on the fast track, don't you? Sure you do. It's been held up too long, and it would be a very costly disappointment if you had to be put into turnaround at this point."
"This...I'm not a movie, I -- "
Max brightened, as if at a sudden brainstorm. "Or, we could try to salvage something with a few re-shoots, rewriting a few scenes. Whadaya say?"
There was a rushing sound, as though all the rivers in creation were coursing together. Dustin's head whirled, swam and then the world receded.
Somewhere, a baby's insistent bawling ripped the air to shreds. Dustin opened sleep-gummed eyes to peer with shocked disbelief on the dingy, dilapidated jumble that was the bedroom in which he had apparently been sleeping.
A woman's voice, harsh and bad-tempered, raised over the child's dismal screeching, causing him to sit bolt upright as sudden terror sent prickling cold down his spine to curl around his balls.
"What the fuck…?"
The bed smelled sour. The room was small and cluttered, its cheap furniture rickety and battered. A brightly colored painting on velvet hung over the bed, and depicted a little girl with huge eyes that brimmed with tears. The dressing table held a jumble of make-up, hair accessories and plastic toys. In one corner there was a closet with a curtain pinned across it in lieu of a door. Possessions bulged from it.
This wasn't real - couldn't be. He threw back the covers to reveal that his sole garment was a pair of none-too-clean boxers. Stepping out of the bed with a sigh, his feet encountered bare, cracked linoleum.
"God, no!" He looked around desperately for his clothes, finding nothing that seemed remotely familiar as his eyes took in the dirty window, the fly-blown mirror and peeling wallpaper. As he moved to investigate the closet, the door was slammed open, banging against the iron bed frame with a hollow boom that betokened cheap hardboard.
"Here! For once in your life, make yourself useful."
The woman that stood in the doorway might have been pretty had she not been wearing such a discontented scowl. She was obviously pregnant, and clad only in a torn and dirty nylon slip that had a safety pin securing one strap. Her blonde hair was wispy and uncombed, showing dark at the roots. Traces of last night's make-up were crusted around her eyes, and a cigarette dangled from her lips.
"But…" He opened his mouth to protest, but the still yelling infant was thrust at him, and he had, perforce, to take it or see the child fall to the ground. The blonde turned without any further words and strode away, leaving Dustin with an armful of enraged baby, now red faced and screaming, and from whom a dreadful smell arose.
"What the hell do you want me to do with this?" he yelled, holding the grubby child gingerly and looking around for somewhere he could deposit it. The bed - seemingly the only option - seemed like a very bad idea, and Dustin moved to follow the blonde in the vague hopes of finding a better place to tend to his distasteful task.
The door immediately opposite to the bedroom opened into a filthy kitchen. Dishes were piled high in and around the sink, some of them still with food congealed on them in unappetizing lumps. Flies buzzed importantly around the debris. Dustin felt his gorge rise as the combined stench of the child in his arms and the odoriferous kitchen combined to turn his stomach.
He had to do something. The child was screaming lustily, and his head was swimming in earnest, partly from the din, and partly from the revolting smells assailing him. Dumping the little one onto the floor, he removed the stinking diaper, using it to wipe away as much of the contents as he could, revealing a little bottom that was chapped, reddened and sore.
Picking up the infant once more, he tucked it under his arm and backed out of the kitchen, closing the door. Finally he discovered a small, dilapidated bathroom in which the ancient, rust-stained tub crouched beneath mold-blackened walls.
Hastily running water into the bathtub, Dustin cast about for soap, finding the remains of a bar that had gone soft from lying in a pool of water. Sighing, he began to apply it to the child's rump, and the woman walked past the open door dressed now in a tight sweater and a pair of track pants that strained over her gravid belly.
"You'll be late for work if you keep fooling around with him," she snapped as he sat the baby in the tub to rinse him off, kneeling beside him as he concentrated.
"You gave him to me. What do you want me to do? Just leave him? Suppose he drowns?" The child had stopped crying at last, and now stared, wide-eyed and solemn at the two adults.
"I'll take him. For God's sake, go and get dressed. You're gonna lose this job too if you're late again." The cigarette still dangled from the corner of the woman's mouth, and her hair still looked like a bird's nest.
Suddenly he knew who and where he was. He'd never escaped Chicago. He'd never fled west to find his hedonistic paradise in Beverley Hills. He was Dustin Yarma; that much hadn't changed, but that was all. He'd tried to make a break for it, but Alannah had become pregnant and he hadn't made it. He hadn't even made it through Grade 12 in fact, and now here he was, thirty years old and four children later, working in his father-in-law's store while he watched his life fly past him, forever just out of reach.
Leaving the baby to his slatternly wife, he stumbled back into the bedroom to find his work clothes and begin yet another day in hell.
"No, please, don't leave me here." His voice was a prayer, although to whom he couldn't have said. "Give me back my life. I'm Dustin Yarma, producer…"
There was a ghostly laugh, a twisting of time, and suddenly he was in truth Dustin Yarma, producer, standing in the dock as a judge pronounced the death sentence over him.
His first thought was that he would wake up. This wasn't real - couldn't possibly be.
"I didn't do it… Didn't kill her. I wouldn't do that."
But of course, he had. He'd lashed out once too often, felt the sickening crunch as the bottle connected with her skull, and stood, nerveless as the police arrived, brought there by blind chance in response to someone else's emergency call.
Now, dressed in the denim work clothes that all prisoners were issued, he was being taken off to San Quentin prison to occupy a place on Death Row.
He felt numb. His whole life had been that of a favored one, but all of a sudden he was no longer basking in sunlight, and the contrast scared him. Chivvied out of the van that had brought him, Dustin was dragged to reception for processing, and it suddenly began to feel real to him at last. He was in jail. He was going to die. He wasn't ever going to feel Darcy's sweet flesh again. He thought that he might panic.
A laconic, gum-chewing corrections officer fingerprinted his nerveless hands, photographed him, gave him a pile of coarse woolen blankets and a set of prison blue clothing. He accepted them without words, too dazed at what was happening to him to even thank the man. As he stumbled away in the custody of a pair of guards, he heard one of them talking about where they were taking him. The Adjustment Center. What the hell was that?
"You're here ‘til the classification committee can get a look at you, Yarma."
"Classification? How am I going to be classified?" He was nervous, and it showed. He received no answer, merely a rough shove, and the instruction to keep on moving. They marched him out of the reception area and on to another building; here, despite his shame and terror, they pushed him into a cage, with instructions to strip.
He didn't move at first, and, at length, he was roughly compelled to remove the underwear that was his final shield, to stand naked in front of the guards that were processing him, while one of them ran his belongings through an X-ray machine. Turning back to him where he stood, shivering despite the heat, they proceeded to search every cranny of his body, from his hair and his oral cavity, to the bottoms of his feet and behind his balls. His flesh crawled as the men pushed and prodded him impersonally; the indignity of what was happening to him so enormous that he was frozen, plastic and unresisting.
"Bend over and crack a smile, punk."
The words meant nothing to him. He raised uncomprehending eyes to the man that had spoken, and his eyes met cold, dispassionate contempt. He had no idea what was required of him until hands pushed him, bending him forward and then roughly feeling inside his rectum. He made a faint sound but no longer dared to say anything. This was proof of his degradation. He was no longer a person, he was now only a murderer, and the things that were happening to him were things that only happened to convicts.
He wanted to die.
No! He didn't want to die. He wanted to live. He so wanted to live. He had to get out of here, escape from this place that smelled of unwashed men and ancient sin. He'd do anything. Again he raised his eyes.
"I'll do anything," he whispered, half to himself.
"Shut up, punk." The blow on his kidneys told him that his words were not welcome, and he subsided as they cuffed him, dragged him, still naked, from the cage, and began to run a metal detector over him. He merely swallowed, not knowing how it would even be possible to fight them.
The metal detector revealed nothing untoward, of course, and Dustin was unceremoniously bundled back into the cage, his cuffs removed temporarily, and the new clothing tossed to him with a curtly uttered, "Get dressed."
The utilitarian blue denim work shirt and jeans were a far cry from the silk suit in which he'd arrived here. Once clad, they cuffed him again and took him to be issued with the few possessions he'd be allowed. These amounted to writing paper, a pencil and some ready-stamped envelopes. His comb was returned to him, and he was given a toothbrush without a handle, a bar of soap and some tooth powder. Then he was led away to his new home.
His knowledge of prison life was limited to the few dramatic scripts he'd reviewed, and he was afraid that he was going to be allocated to a cell where he would be seen as fresh meat by the other occupants. He knew the effect that his appearance had on both women and men, but to his amazement, that was not to be.
The two guards flanked him as he walked, feeling more alone than ever before in his life. They finally arrived at a corridor with around 30 cells, and he was taken to an empty cell. They stood beside it and one of the guards yelled, "Open cell number 17."
There was a sudden sound that made him jump and flinch - a hissing like that of air brakes on a huge truck. He was thrust in on his own, and as the guard yelled for the closure, the sound came again, chased by a clang as the door slammed shut. He was well and truly alone. As he stood, wrapped in his own misery, a slot in the door was opened, and a guard yelled for him to come and have the cuffs removed from his wrists. Once that was done, he was left to stew with his unpleasant thoughts.
The cell contained a stainless steel sink, a toilet, and a metal bed on which rested a mattress pad about an inch and a half thick. Dustin stumbled over and sank down on it, still clutching the blankets with which he'd been issued. He couldn't take his eyes away from the bars at the front of his cell - bars that were covered by fine mesh, as though he might somehow have been able to squeeze himself through mere bars.
He was soon to learn every inch of that cell.
It was a week before he was called before the Classification Committee. He had no idea who they were or what they were going to classify him as. All he knew was that he was taken before them in handcuffs, clad only in his underwear, once more flanked by prison guards, and forced to stand, supplicant, while they reviewed his file and studied his Death Warrant.
Death Warrant - the very name was final, a coffin lid slamming home to inter him before his time.
Barely acknowledging his existence, the committee conferred, and within a comparatively short space of time, Dustin Yarma became a Condemned "A" Inmate. He very quickly learned to scramble for instant coffee, for toilet paper, for anything that he needed. Things he'd never even noticed before swiftly became luxuries. He wasn't allowed a cup, so he had only the milk container that arrived each morning with his breakfast, and the guard poured him scalding hot coffee from a watering can that had a spout 18" long. Several times his fingers had been caught by the boiling liquid that a careless guard had aimed badly, and he learned to judge when the stream would offer a threat.
He learned too that the mystery meat that came with the bagged lunch that was issued each day contained no known nourishment, and from there, that he was no longer interested in food. He spent his days dreaming on his bed in the shivering cold of the unheated cellblock, and his nights staring sleeplessly into the darkness waiting for the day to break and the circuit to begin all over again.
He was quartered in East Block. He'd been taken there in chains, as though he were a common felon. He was, in fact, a common felon, he reminded himself. Walking into the block, the first thing that he noticed was the twilight zone quality to the lighting. It was a gloomy place, and one could believe that the Bedlam of years gone by still remained in this dark and shadowed environment. The cells were in the center of the block, and high windows on the outer wall did admit light, but even on the brightest day it was filtered by the filth of countless years that was clotted on the panes of glass.
The cells were stacked two high, and walkways ran around the outer wall, manned by guards with guns. As they dragged Dustin to the cell in which he was going to spend the rest of his life, the noise hit him - the barrage of sound that was the legacy of 500 men packed like sardines into the old building. Chasing that came the smell. Stale, old, the air smelled of despair, and sweat, and countless men nursing countless crimes. Dustin felt his gorge rise.
As the door was closed on him, and he found himself in a cell that was barely 4 foot by ten, he felt that his life had ended right there.
Time seemed to strain. The weeks flew by in a blur of execution reports, psychiatrist assessments, chaplains and case-workers. Dustin lay on his mattress, powerless to prevent the circumstances, afraid, demoralized and finally apathetic.
It was going to happen. He was going to be snuffed out like a campfire. He would be extinguished, and he had no way of stopping it. His mouth was perpetually dry, and his appetite had gone completely. Each day's supply of mystery meat would lie untouched, and lately, his clothing hung from his frame.
Papers seemed to fly by, a montage of forms and reports, processes and affidavits, while Dustin could only lie and watch with horrified eyes each step that brought him closer to death. Misty sheaves of documents floated past him, until finally, a single, red stamp came down onto the topmost, and Dustin read the word, "Approved."
His execution was set for a January evening. The day had dawned suitably dreary, with a cold mist hanging over the dirty windows, and a chill that had permeated his bones, leaving him utterly exhausted. The previous evening, he'd been transferred to the deathwatch cell beside the chamber where he was due to meet his maker, and a team of three screws were watching his every inhalation. He'd been asked what he wanted for his last meal, but somehow he hadn't really known. Eventually, even his comfort food had proven to be no comfort at all. He'd settled for a burger and fries, and pushed it around on the plate until it congealed and lay in an unappetizing mess. The coffee too had cooled, and now sat in the carton, as cold and disgusting as the rest.
When the warden arrived, with the chaplain in tow, he had looked at them, apathy and beginning boredom replacing his earlier panic. This was going to happen. Let it happen. If he couldn't stop it, then the hell with it. The hell with them all! Their words made no difference to him, and eventually, they left him alone.
They'd asked him who he wanted as witness to his end. The thought had appalled him. He wanted no-one to see his final degradation. The idea of Jarrod or Mackie watching him die made him shake. When the guard told him that Minnow and Darcy had arrived - together - to witness for him, it was one more slap to a face already numb with shock.
When the guards opened his cell and brought him clean clothes, he took them wordlessly, all modesty gone as he stripped his now gaunt frame and put them on. As they walked him along the corridor, around the corner and through the oval door into the strangely shaped execution chamber, he almost felt relief that this would soon be in the can, as it were.
Exit, stage left, with rapid jerking movements, Yarma.
Lying down on the table, he suffered the straps, the cardiac monitor, and the insertion of the IVs that would deliver oblivion, and tried not to look at the place where he knew that Minnow was gloating over his predicament. The five observation windows glared at him like glassy, mad eyes. If he dared to look, he would go crazy himself, and all he had left was the dignity of silence. He didn't want to compromise that so close to the end. All he had to do was hold on a few more minutes more, and he'd be out of here.
As the warden gave the command, and the sodium pentothal was turned on to flood his veins and take him down, Dustin's last conscious thought was, "I want to live. I want to live. Help me…"
The smash cut was sudden. He could hear laughter, and…
…He was lying beside a pool with the sun pouring down on him like syrup, bathing toned limbs that showed no traces of prison pallor. His head was in someone's lap, and when he craned lazily to look, he saw that it was Carol-Ann Delahaye, the hottest, sexiest bimbette of the season.
She was busy cutting lines, and as he stirred, she grinned down at him, handing him a straw.
"Check this out, Dusty, darling. It's the best stuff ever."
Rolling over onto his stomach, Dustin applied the straw, inhaling sharply, and then spluttering as the rush hit him. The world felt good to him. The sun on his limbs stroked little tingles through him. The smell of the water, the opulence, the mix of warmth, coconut oil and high-class cooze made his head swim. As she giggled enticingly, he reached out to pull away her skimpy bikini top and apply his mouth to chemically enhanced tits, and the world wavered, blurred, dissolved…
"I want it. I want to live…"
His voice was a whine that he didn't seem to be able to prevent. As he found himself sitting at the table beside his mocking double, he felt everything he'd known as true turn paper thin, shredding like tissues to reveal the monsters he'd never believed real circling just beyond the edges of his vision.
Perched on the edge of a chair, one leg shaking and tapping out the tension of his clenched body, Dustin raised his head in sudden awareness. The light had gradually shifted as he'd paced from room to room, muttering to himself while he cast about, discarding one possibility after another. Its angle was low now, spreading a last ruddy glow over the living room. Not much time left, he had to decide on a plan. Had to.
No gun, Minnow had taken it, couldn't risk it anyway. Couldn't get caught, needed to think of something else, something sure... The molten light glinted from a shelf across the room, and he stood, drawn to it. Adrenaline-trembling fingers traced the fanciful shapes, the engraved plaques, wood and metal and... yes. Oh yes. A high, scratchy giggle burst from his dry lips, and he instantly looked around, as if afraid someone would hear. Someone would, and would see. Dustin would show him. He'd get the job done. On schedule, under budget, no sweat.
Wouldn't be long now. It unfolded in his mind, vivid and almost unbearably exciting. The movement of silk over his sensitized skin was like sandpaper, he'd likely have screamed if anyone were to touch him, if that low insinuating mockery of his own voice were abruptly to appear again from the empty air.
Here. He would wait right here, just to the side of the sliding doors to the terrace. That fucker would park the car below, walk up, walk in -- so sure of himself, so sure he didn't need to worry about Dustin anymore, he'd find out different, didn't that bastard understand yet who he was fucking with? And then. Then he'd find out, then he'd get it.
The fiery light dimmed to ashes as he waited, vibrating with the anticipation. He gasped a startled cry as the security lights came on outside the house, and tried to slow his breathing against the sudden wave of light-headedness. Considered, then hastily went and lit one lamp at the far end of the room. Just enough, just enough, had to look normal, had to keep the fucker smug. Moving back to his hiding place, tongue darting over his lips, he listened intently. The drone of a helicopter passed brashly over the house, fading into the sound of the omnipresent hot wind keening and scratching as it sought a way in. He thought of unending flames, and moaned softly.
The Porsche's throaty purr grew louder, galvanizing his focus. Dustin wiped his palms along his thighs and reached for the weapon he'd chosen, hefting the considerable weight of the crystal starburst, its marble base and engraved metal plate cool in his hands. A shiver passed through him to the base of his spine, twisting low in his belly, and made him aware he was becoming aroused. Yeah. Oh yeah. He'd put it to that cocksucker...
Approaching footsteps, the hiss of the door, and Dustin moved. He swung two-handed, catching Minnow across the skull with a force that shattered the tempered crystal; momentum bore him to the floor along with his victim, who landed heavily without any effort to break his fall. The man hadn't even had a chance to turn around.
Scrambling to his knees, Dustin rolled the large, ungainly body over onto its back. Staring in unfocused astonishment, the dim beginning of useless panic, Minnow jerked and spasmed as neurons misfired under crushed bone, his thick lips writhing with speech that would never come again. For a long moment Dustin took it all in, eyes wide, before falling on the man with a howl of rage and triumph.
He clawed at Minnow's stolen clothes, reducing Rodeo Collection chic to tatters and tearing at the skin beneath, long scratches that welled red as the man emitted a burbling whimper. Dustin reached for a shard of crystal, slashing through vulnerable flesh again and again, heedless of the way its razor edge sliced his palm and sent his own blood dripping down to mingle with the stain spreading through the thick, pale carpet. Spatters arced across wall and ceiling as his hand rose and fell, chest to groin, knifing in deep through the limp cock. Fucking slut, but you don't take what's mine, boy...
The wet glint of exposed bone, stench of gashed viscera, of Minnow's bowels giving way, and Dustin tossed the shard away, losing himself in the terror, the anger and humiliation, that he -- he, Dustin Yarma, fucking golden boy and don't you forget it, motherfucker, you take that to hell and tell them I said today just isn't good for me -- had gone through. His teeth sank in deep, scraping collarbone, piercing windpipe, and Minnow shrieked like a wounded rabbit as Dustin tore away skin and flesh.
Giggling, blood a salty metal tang in his mouth and running hot down his chin, Dustin picked up little fragments of the trophy, phasing out briefly as he watched them glitter and prism in the lamplight. Seemingly no longer able to blink, Minnow saw them all the way down, then saw nothing more as they were plunged into his eye sockets. Like the life now, motherfucker, how's that, huh, stars in your eyes, stars in your eyes...
This would do it, this would fix it, no Chicago no needle no fire, just A-list forever and ever amen... Stretching across the feebly twitching body, Dustin grabbed the fallen base. Slippery, and he wiped his gore-clotted hand across what had been a thousand-dollar suit to better his grip. Savoring it, so close, he raised the brick-sized piece of marble high overhead before bringing it down with all his remaining strength.
The gashed face, the fractured skull, were obliterated with a wet crunch. Dustin grunted as the blow landed, hot wet rush of come soaking his pants even as blood and brain matter splattered him. Tongue lolling, spent, he looked blearily around him, panting. With an odd detachment he noticed the way blood had filled the tiny channels of the engraving -- "Humanitarian of the Year, with gratitude from...". Dustin squeezed his eyes tightly shut and grinned.
Suddenly registered a staccato clicking from the direction of the kitchen, and Darcy calling " Minnow? Dusty? Are you in...oh God. Oh. God."
Not the way she used to scream it when she was still on the make for what he could do for her, he giggled nastily. But she'd see. She'd remember how.
"Darcy," he whispered, hoarse and sated. He was over-stimulated now, but she'd find out what he could do, no sweat, oh, dear me no.
He rose, red smile, red, red hands and sticky red spatters on his face, and stretched out a hand to her. She stopped and took a step backwards, her heels skidding on the tiles in the doorway as she tried to turn and run.
Invincible, undeniable, Dustin was beside her in two swift paces, seizing her artfully tousled hair to yank her back into the blood soaked room.
Neck snapping painfully, Darcy toppled backwards, her slight frame no match for Dustin. "Darcy," he said again, voice soft and empty, smiling bloody in the lamplight, and she whimpered at the look in his eyes, screaming at last even though there was no-one to hear her. The scream was the catalyst. Dustin felt tired, drained. He'd fantasized killing her slowly, but now he just wanted it done so that he could claim his place in the sun once more. "Shut up."
She screamed again, and Dustin sighed, pressing his hand down over her mouth and nose with a hiccupping giggle. "Shut up; shut up," he said softly, his voice a monotone as he began to tear away her clothing, laying bare silky skin the color of cream. "I had it all, and I'll have it again. You aren't going to stop me."
Her attempts to break free had stopped when Dustin had begun to strip her. She seemed to believe she knew what he wanted, and apparently thought that she would be able to bring him back under her control. When he suddenly bent and bit into her breast, she was at first shocked silent, and then she screamed again and again as he began, systematically, to erase her.
Fortunately, taking on human senses didn't impose a human sensibility. The room was thick with an abattoir funk of blood and entrails and shit, cut by the astringent tang of alcohol and buffed by a musky hint of spunk and sweat. Even the scents of vegetation and cooling stone carried on the tireless wind weren't enough to spoil this classic blend, though Max slid the door closed on its sultry intrusion with an absent gesture, eyes closing blissfully for a moment as he inhaled. Ah, the sweet smell of success...
Pausing to gaze down at the congealing mess that had been Minnow, he made his way across the room. Thick, dark blood oozed up from the carpet as he passed, staining finely-worked shoes fashioned from creatures this age of earth had never seen, and spattered the cuffs of his Nile-linen trousers in a small echo of the carnage everywhere he looked. Not enough Scotchgard in the world... This degree of intensity was even more than he'd expected; it bespoke a hungry desperation that justified all his original faith in the man, and more than made up for his initial lapse.
Pleased at having pulled a bad situation back into the fire, he turned his attention to Dustin at last. The man was slumped bonelessly on the floor amid a scatter of broken glass. One of the late Darcy's legs hung down from the bar, a thin rivulet of blood-tinged scotch running the length of it to drip to the tiles from the broken shoe dangling off her toes. Dustin was rubbing his cheek against her calf, oblivious even as Max crouched in front of him.
Max stroked a fingertip down the man's other cheek, drawing away a tacky smear. Before he could bring it to his lips, however, Dustin gave a panicked cry, striking out blindly as if at a swarm of angry bees. There were several inflamed gashes on his hands, but he seemed unaware of any pain as Max caught hold of them. He continued to struggle a few moments more before registering another presence. He whimpered at the ember glow in his erstwhile tormentor's eyes, until Max let a slow, genuine smile soften the avidity of his expression. "That's a wrap, babe. Beautiful."
He pulled the unresisting Dustin to his feet, clucking his tongue in an exaggerated show of distaste. Guiding him back to the master bath, Max started the shower with a glance and willed both his own elegant clothing and the human's torn, stained and reeking garments into nothingness. He slipped an arm around Dustin's waist to help him into the opulent stall, feeling the chill and trembling of shock as the steam enveloped them. Oh well, one thing at a time...
Dustin merely stood there, swaying slightly, as the perfectly-adjusted jets of water converged on them from several directions, to flatten his hair and run in red streams over skin that gradually took on a flush of warmth. Max enjoyed the view for a while, watching the residue of Dustin's labors rinse down the trim, enticing contours of his body. The man definitely kept himself fit, bless his narcissistic heart. And bless the rest of him, or at least, such blessing as Max was authorized to dispense.
Finally, Max lathered a sponge and began bathing him attentively. It would have been just as easy for him to clean the man up as it had been to undress him and heal his wounds -- but hardly as enjoyable. Kneeling to wash the long legs (tennis? racquetball? he'd have to check.) provided a pleasant temptation, as did the sight of the foam running down the unexpectedly well-muscled back and firm, full ass... Letting the sponge drop, he rested his hands on Dustin's hips, stroking lightly; the man twitched, uttering a small sound as if in the midst of a distressing dream. Max chuckled to himself at this, considering, then shook his head. Dustin was so far into the zone there would be no sport in it, and quite possibly no response even to his considerable skills. No matter. He could afford to be generous just this once.
Instead, he took his time washing the man's hair, massaging scalp and temples, his shoulders and the back of his neck, prompting a sigh audible even above the rush of the water. Grin widening, he allowed Dustin a few more seconds before turning the shower off. Completely dry even as he stepped out, Max reached for a bath sheet folded over the warming rack and wrapped it around Dustin, toweling him off from head to toe with the sort of care such a valuable possession warranted.
Helping Dustin into the folds of a thick terry robe, Max saw the man watching him with the vague beginnings of awareness. "There, now," he murmured soothingly. "Isn't this better?"
After a lag, Dustin nodded. He frowned slightly at the silk sweater and impeccably-pressed slacks Max was suddenly wearing, but seemed to lose the thought mid-way, and his display of resistance was easily overcome as Max walked him back to the living room.
"What's wrong?" Max asked disingenuously, delighting in the way Dustin tensed, darting glances from beneath lowered lids as he was guided to a chair. "I thought we could have a drink, celebrate your success."
A square, heavy tumbler containing several ounces of a particular scotch appeared on the table beside him, and Dustin swallowed it down without a word. Max wondered idly if it was the cause of the tears brimming the man's eyes when he finally looked up and took in the pristine room around him. Max followed his gaze, from the white walls to the perfect designer furniture to the freshly-steamed carpet, the crystal trophy on its shelf, all of it unsullied by breakage, ugly spills or inconvenient corpses.
Their eyes met again, and Max could see incredulous questions warring with fear in the man's pale face. Fear apparently won, for after some hesitation Dustin simply whispered hoarsely, "I passed?"
"Oh yeah. Oscar-caliber performance, Dusty. There won't be any stopping you now."
Dustin expelled a shaky breath that might have been a sob. "I...then... That's it?"
Not by a long shot, babe. "Just relax. Finish your drink."
Dustin took another deep swallow from his conveniently refilled glass, looked startled and apprehensive as he suddenly yawned. Max merely nodded. "Perhaps you should get some rest. You've had quite a busy evening -- and you have a full schedule at the studio tomorrow."
"It's...everything's mine again? All of it?"
"And then some," Max assured him as Dustin got slowly to his feet and downed the rest of his scotch. "Think you can make it all right on your own?" he added solicitously.
Dustin looked at him, looked around the room again. "Fine. I'm...fine."
"Glad to hear it. I'll say good night, then."
Perched on an arm of the couch, Max watched him make his unsteady way out to the hall, then extinguished the lights and sat thoughtfully for a moment. Savoring his own drink, he listened to the wind and contemplated the coming day with a smile. He loved this part.
The day dawned, hot and close. Dustin's alarm woke him at the usual time, and he stretched, feeling more rested than he had for some time, but aware that something had changed. Frowning, he listened for the sounds that he'd grown accustomed to - those of Minnow pottering around the kitchen, brewing his dark roast coffee and making toast. There was nothing.
Vague flashes of memory splintered his inner vision, strobed images that made him whimper and sit bolt upright in his bed. What had he done? What? He looked down at his hands, recalling a vision of blood clotted on them, shreds of flesh beneath his fingernails. They were clean, pink, finely manicured and utterly normal. Dustin scratched his head in bafflement.
Hopping from the safety of his bed, he padded through to the living room, stomach clenching briefly as he pushed open the door, expecting to find… something - he didn't really know what. The room was sunlit and tasteful, every burnished surface dust-free - a tribute to his cleaning lady. He frowned, shielding his eyes from the bright sunshine that streamed in through the patio doors.
Shaking his head as though puzzled, he staggered through to the kitchen and made the coffee, wondering why he felt so strange; not really wanting to examine things too closely, knowing that somewhere within him was the answer, fearing that he would find it out.
Showering quickly, he dressed and poured his coffee, taking it out onto the terrace to drink. Minnow was nowhere to be seen, and the whole world was sweet, sunlit la-la land. What was he feeling? He didn't know. All he knew was that somewhere within him crouched something ugly and vicious, something he didn't want to acknowledge, and he could feel it, watching him, measuring, waiting.
His phone shrilled, and drawing it from his pocket, Dustin began his day, fielding a call from Mackie, then grabbing his jacket and racing off to a meeting about some silly sitcom that Minnow had been producing. Of Minnow, there was no sign, and the powers that be were blaming him. Passing through the living room in haste, he caught sight of a gleaming prism on the wall, and looking around, caught sight of the crystal ornament he'd been given after organizing a record breaking telethon.
For some reason, it was disquieting to look at it. He stood, staring at it for a long moment, and a vision of red ruin suddenly flashed before him, making his knees give. He sat down suddenly, still not quite understanding.
Getting back to his feet, he took hold of the trophy and carried it out to the trash where he dumped it, feeling a little better as he dusted his hands fastidiously and headed for his car, leaving his conscience behind him like a discarded date.
The day was frantically busy. Minnow's continuing absence meant that Dustin had to pull out all the stops. IT was late in the afternoon when he finally sat down at his desk to begin going through some of the scripts and tapes that he'd been sent by would be producers.
He poured himself a generous shot of single malt, put his feet up on the desk, and slid a videotape into the player, ready to be excited or appalled, depending on what he saw.
The screen flickered twice, and then sprang to life. A narrator began to talk about the forthcoming Oscar ceremony, and Dustin frowned. What the hell was this? No way was he going to concern himself with outside broadcasts, and besides, ABC had it covered, as they did every year. When he attended the Oscars, it was going to be most definitely an evening off. He had his date lined up, and she was hot. Alexandra Melia was trying to break into the circles that mattered; she was cute, with a body that Dustin was sure he could enjoy and discard once the show was over. He didn't need this shit, and he stretched his hand out to grab the remote and eject the videotape from the machine.
His finger was almost on the button, when Max appeared, and he froze.
Flickers of memory jittered past his eyes, red tinged nightmares, the taste of copper on his tongue and the feel of raw meat beneath his hands. His heart beat a staccato crashing against his ribs, as though pleading to be allowed out, and he felt himself break out into a completely uncool sweat.
"Dustin," said the soft, gravelly voice. "So glad you could spare the time."
"I don't understand," whispered Dustin. Who are you? What do you want?"
"You know who I am," said the man that looked so much like him. Then he paused, laughed, and snapped his fingers. "And, more to the point, I know who you are."
There were faces behind Max, faces that he knew, contorted in agony, then mutilated, then obliterated as Dustin watched, horrified. "And tonight's star prize," cooed Max, lovingly, "Goes to Dustin Yarma, for finding a new and exciting way to use a trophy…"
"Shut up!" screamed Dustin. "Shut up and leave me alone. I did what you wanted. Just let me go."
The face on the screen smiled benignly, face crinkled in the kind of winning smile that would bring in the Oscars. "My dear Dustin," said the voice. "Did you think you'd be free? That's not how things work in this town."
There was a click and a rushing sound as the videotape cut out and Max stepped from it to stand before Dustin, making him whimper as he realized he was not, in fact, dreaming.
"Hello, partner," said the man that looked so much like him. "How ya been?" He sat down on the edge of the desk, clearing away a pile of scripts that had been laid out for Dustin to read. "Long time, no see," he said, and laughed in a manner that made Dustin's hair rise up at the back of his neck.
"What?" Dustin's voice lacked the conviction it should have held. In his mind, he could see blood on his carpet, meat that had once been a living, breathing man, his own hands lacerated and bloody as he…
"Ah, you remember now." Max was smiling, his expression urbane as he awaited Dustin's full realization. "That's good. Welcome to the team."
"Team?" Dustin almost choked as he croaked out the word. "What team?"
"Why, my team, Dustin," husked Max, a pleased smile spreading like butter across the features that were so like his own. "You're going to be such an asset. Now this is what I want you to do when you attend the Oscars…"
As Dustin listened to the plan that Max was expounding, he realized at last that you don't have to die to be in hell.
"Let me go. I don't want to do this any more." Dustin's voice was almost a whisper. His companion frowned.
"That's not the way these things work, Dusty-boy. I'm afraid that you're committed to a lifetime personal services contract," said Max, smiling silkily. "And that's just the beginning."
As the horror washed over Dustin Yarma, he suddenly appreciated the way his life - and no doubt his death were to be.
Fuck good intentions -- the road to hell was paved with red carpet.
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