Shank

Before

I set the kid’s letter on the floor next to me and grabbed a pen and the stack of paper. I had nowhere to keep them—no desk, no shelves—so they sat on the dirt beside my bed of blankets. Since my first letter, I’d stocked up on writing supplies just in case the kid wrote back. There wasn’t a place to buy things in here. If you wanted something, you had to trade with the guys who were connected. The inmate four cells down was one of those men. Three fucks were all he charged me.

Only three was more like it.

I couldn’t let him—or anyone else in this place—know how much I liked cock and that I preferred it to cunt. If they knew the truth, I’d be a target, and being American in a prison full of Venezuelans already put a bull’s-eye on my back. So, when he’d fucked me, my grunts had been full of pain, and I’d hidden my handful of cum by swallowing it.

He was good.

Better than fucking good actually. I’d trade with him anytime, and I would again once I figured out what else I could get from him.

In the meantime, the kid had asked for more.

It was time to tell him about my playground.

So, I held the pen in my hand, and I began to write.

Killing Carol didn’t satisfy my urge to murder. Her blood only fueled it. That sticky, hot red substance was all I thought about. All I craved.

It consumed me in the worst way because I couldn’t have it as often as I wanted.

You see, my needs weren’t like an alcoholic’s where I could go to a liquor store to get my fix or a sex addict’s where I could find some slut to bang in an alley. My desires came with consequences. Serious ones. Ones that could give me a sentence far worse than the one I was currently serving. Therefore, I had to be extremely careful.

So, once a year, I would go hunting.

My father and I would spend months researching locations, never returning to the same place twice. We’d choose countries where crime wasn’t monitored the way it was in America. We’d pick a motel at least an hour from the airport, and we always reserved three rooms. We worked in the middle one, so the room on either side was empty and would block our sound. We’d stay four days and then return back home.

How did we find the victim?

It required patience. Observation. We would take in our surroundings, memorize them, process all the details to find the perfect prey. It was like being in the woods, holding a loaded rifle in your hands, waiting for the right deer to come your way. The person we eventually picked didn’t have a car or a phone. They would be pushing their belongings in a cart. They wouldn’t be missed, wouldn’t be looked for.

One less person on the street.

One more person for me to play with.

We’d prep the room in plastic, and everything would be covered. Tools would be purchased at multiple stores in the towns between the airport and motel. I brought a syringe with me from the States, a vile of insulin that had been replaced with opioids, and I wore a diabetic bracelet when I flew.

Once we got the victim into the motel, it was time to have fun.

My father never participated, never played one of my games. Never tore through flesh or coated himself in blood. Instead, he would keep an eye on the door and on the parking lot out front. He would make sure things didn’t get too loud. And he’d ensure not even a fingerprint or a footprint was left behind.

When I was finished torturing the bastard, I would use a slicing disk to chop the muscles and skin into pieces the size of ice cubes. Then, with my angle grinder, the bones would be disintegrated into dust, and I’d load it all into bags.

Only the pool of blood would remain. I would stare at it with a dick that had been achingly hard for hours. From the moment my knife had first pierced the victim’s flesh, my cum had been begging to be released.

I wouldn’t give in.

The waiting part, the buildup, the tease—it was all foreplay.

When my cock couldn’t take a second more, my father would go into one of the other motel rooms, and I would dip two of my fingers into the blood. Three was almost the width of a palm, and that would have felt too good. So, I would take the two and use them like a paintbrush, covering my cock in red. I’d start with one layer and wait for it to dry. Pre-cum would leak from my tip. I would mentally force the rest to stay in there, and I’d apply a second coat. Sometimes, a third, depending on how thick or clotted it was. When I was pleased with the color, I’d wrap my entire hand around my cock and squeeze. I’d hold it with as much strength as I had, circling the tip with my thumb. Circling, circling, circling. Breathing. Gazing at the small hole, at the beads of liquid that had formed. They would mix with the blood and turn my skin pink.

When the head of my dick was all rosy-colored, I would start pumping, and I wouldn’t stop until streams of white floated over the pool of blood.

Satisfaction wouldn’t come over me then.

Relief would.

But it was short-lived because there was still so much work that had to be done.

Like feeding time.

It was amazing to watch how animals devoured the remains of a human. The way the blood—the same blood on my cock—would coat the fur around their lips. As I watched them gorge on flesh and muscle and chunks of hair, it would take everything I had not to come again.

I’d learned to control it, to only reward myself when it was earned. That’d happen after the feeding and the scrubbing of the motel room when I had to wash away the only evidence that was left—the DNA that was on my body. So, as the last of the blood dripped off me, knowing it would be another year before I was coated in it again, I would squeeze my cock and relieve myself.

Such a pretty fucking color it made as it swirled down the drain.

This whole process went on for eight years.

When I turned twenty, it all changed.

As I told you, my father owned an extremely successful chain of pill mills. The more money he earned, the more enemies he made. Sometimes, those enemies couldn’t be paid off. They needed to go away.

Permanently.

That was where I came in.

What better person to take care of your enemies than your own son? I would get whatever information my father needed. I would make sure the accused was dead, and then I would dispose of the body.

The only thing I needed was a safe place to play.

Our research led us to Venezuela, a lot directly on the water, where we wouldn’t have to travel far to dump the ashes and a boat could take us back and forth from the airport. Beard wanted to join as an equal partner, and my father gave us the money we needed.

We built the prison in the basement. It consisted of twelve cells, three operating rooms, The Pit that housed the body parts before they went into the incinerator, a kitchen, and an office. It was perfection.

I only wished it had lasted forever.

When you came to live with us, we gave you your own room. Toy, who was sharing my bed at the time, found you a crib. Beard got you clothes. Diego, the third prison guard and someone Beard and I had grown up with, was in charge of getting food or formula or whatever that shit was that your mother put in your bottle.

We were one big happy fucking family.

Until that changed, too.

If it wasn’t for your mother, Diego, Beard, Toy, and I would still be at the prison, torturing and killing and playing in blood. I’d still be with Toy. But that cunt ruined everything.

Hell, she ruined things the minute she had come into our lives.

And Beard was just a sucker who had bought it all. Pussy-whipped son of a bitch. Since he was twelve, when I’d killed his mother, all I’d ever done was try to protect him. But he was weak.

Your mother made him weaker.

You made him the weakest.

He cared about you, kid. He held you and talked to you and changed you and did things a father should. He called you his son. He truly thought you were.

Stupid motherfucker. You looked nothing like him. You had my eyes and everything.

You know, the first time you said Daddy, I was the one holding you. We were outside, behind the prison, sitting on the beach. That was our spot. I would take you there every day for about an hour, telling you about the people I killed and the methods of torture I used. During one of those times, you put your little arms on my shoulders and said the word like you meant it.

Funny, wasn’t it, that even you knew the truth back then?

I never told anyone you’d said that. Not even Toy, who I told everything to. I just brought you back to the prison and handed you to your mother, so she could feed you. I always saw her pacing in front of her bedroom window, watching us down at the beach below, whenever you and I were out there. She didn’t like it when I spent time alone with you.

Jesus, she was a crazy fucking bitch.

I folded the letter and slid it inside the envelope. The inmate four cells down didn’t have stamps, just writing supplies, which meant I’d have to blow the nightshift guard for one. His cock had been in my mouth nine times before. It was the perfect size for giving head. A thick crown, a shaft that thinned out as it got to the base, a length that didn’t hit the back of my throat. I didn’t mind gagging. Toy’s cock had made me gag. But that was reserved for dicks that deserved to be deep-throated. The guard wasn’t one even though his cum was fucking delicious.

Almost better than Toy’s.

Hell, it was even better than the sweetness that had dripped from Tyler, the kid’s mother’s, cunt.

I laughed as I thought about her pussy, and my fingers crawled inside my pants.

Flaccid.

There was only one image of her that would get my cock hard.

The one that involved her blood.