{SoC} Survivors of Cascadia • View topic

Cruising slow as summer heat, the killer prowled the street, searching for the 'one'. The Perfect Victim. He scanned the strutting parade of half naked boys who tried to entice their next trick, some of them already wasted by drugs and abuse, some still quite attractive, but none of them was just right. Already the killer had, in the golden trophy box under his bed, six locks of hair, from cotton candy pink, to midnight black, each bound with a scarlet ribbon, and tonight he intended to acquire his seventh. 'Lucky number seven', he thought to himself and smiled.
The killer's name is James Huntington; he is thirty-five years old, neither short nor tall, with a well toned athletic form, light brown hair and dark brown eyes starting to thin a bit on the top- he is neither remarkably handsome, nor is he unattractive. By day he is a successful junior partner in a law firm specializing in malpractice litigation; by night, at least on select and special nights, he is simply a predator.
James often watches those programs on television which document the exploits of those he considers his secret brothers in the night, other serial killers- in fact, he is almost obsessively devoted to such programs, setting the VCR to record any he is forced to miss due to work or other obligations; he reads, almost exclusively, fiction and non-fiction both, books on the same topic.
From this fraternity of death, the killer learns, both from the successes and failures; he sees it as an aesthetic duty to perfect his dark art. James always finds himself laughing, however, at those who attempt to analyze why such killers exist, why they exist. His father did not molest him, his mother did not force him to wear his sister's clothes, neither of them had beaten him. In fact, his childhood, often pointed out as the shaping force in the case of such killers as himself, had been much like the following years of his life up until the point when he began killing, a model of bland and comfortable normalcy, James single deviation from middle American average being a preference for young prostitutes, no older than sixteen at the most. He kills for the same simple reason his colleagues might play tennis or keep a mistress or play the piano- he enjoys it.
James believes in using whatever methods accomplish a desired goal most efficiently- when, on one occasion, the young streetwalker whose services he had purchased turned out to be male, despite an appearance which suggested otherwise, rather than female as James had anticipated, he hesitated only for a moment. In the pursuit of a helpless body to abuse and a hole in which to satisfy himself, gender really was irrelevant.
That experience proved not only acceptable, but more fulfilling than with the boy's female counterparts, and James is a man who goes with what works. From then on, he chose his 'partners' from the streetboys. The first killing had not been carefully planned- it was, in fact, entirely an accident. James, by no means a gentle lover at any time during his life, discovered that, perhaps due to work related stress, he increasingly found that using his fists to batter and hurt these boys was as important to his his pleasure as the act itself; the frightened whores rarely fought back much, if at all.
That night, though, it had gone differently- the dark eyed little streetboy had defended himself not only with remarkable ferocity, but considerable skill; James would reflect later that had he not killed that boy, strangling him despite the painful blows and kicks the boy was dealing out to him, he himself might well have ended up dead at the hands of the little prostitute.
Once the boy stopped twitching, James carefully removed one hand from around his throat, searching for a pulse- there was none. Rather than being deflated by what he had just done, the killer found himself more aroused than he had ever been before, and, after all, the body was still warm, and a hole is a hole.
The corpse dumped in the desert, James spent the following weeks in a miserable anxiety, certain he was about to be arrested at any moment; he was, however, never even suspected, and that fact gave him the courage to repeat, some months later, the experience he had found so profoundly liberating and enjoyable. And nearly two years passed in this way, with the authorities never even suspecting the sort of predator who was at work among them, after all, the victims were only prostitutes, with months between the deaths, and James, cleverly enough, varied the method by which he killed each one. Tonight, in his jacket pocket, was a surgeon's scalpel, and the killer could all but hear it pleading to be set to its task.
James turns the corner, and all but slams on his brakes, spotting him, the one he has been searching for; he pulls the van alongside the pavement, rolling down the passenger side window, studying the boy. He is no older than seventeen, if that, perhaps five feet eleven inches tall, slender, wearing only lowslung jeans, tight around an perfectly rounded ass, barechested, his small pink nipples both pierced with small silver loops; the whore's hair was a halo of gold framing the face of Michaelangelo's David, except that this child was even more exquisitely beautiful, his pale skin and fragile delicate features a beacon drawing the killer to him. The boy sauntered over, and smiled, flashing even white teeth, as he leaned in the open window. James almost hesitated, at the expression in the boy's alluringly turquoise eyes- amusement, and anticipation, but only for a second, then the boy was climbing into the van, and James was driving west, toward the mesa, with his new acquisition.
The boy did not speak during the drive, once a price was settled on, other than to give James a name to call him which was no doubt not his real name, and neither did James who did not introduce himself; twenty minutes later, he was driving up a dirt road, finally parking safely invisible from the road behind an hill just tall enough to hide the van. James turned to the boy, "Get in the back." Without a word the young prostitute obeyed, and James followed him.
Once there, he directed the boy to undress, lie on his back on the thin mattress in the back of the van, and raise his hands above his head; these orders too were carried out without the slightest hesitation- the boy did not even flinch when the handcuffs snapped tight around his wrists, holding him in place. James undressed, quickly, his excitement already evident, then sat, straddling the boy's chest. The first blow snapped the boy's head to the left, and was followed by another, and a third. It took James a moment to realize what was wrong. The boy did not whimper, or yell, or cry; he was utterly silent, merely staring at his abuser with the same gaze of bored amusement and vague anticipation; James felt not only disturbed by this, but annoyed. It was much less satisfying without the tears and pleas. He hit the boy again and again; still, no reaction whatsoever. James reached down to his chest and twisted the rings in the boy's nipples hard, cruelly, and was rewarded with a sound, but not the one he had hoped for- it was a low moan of pleasure. The frustration must have shown, then, on the killer's face, because the moan broke up, like leaves scattered in the wind, into a soft and entirely mocking laughter.
Truly angry now, James began to claw at the boy, and hit him even harder; without even bothering with a condom as he normally did, he changed position, shoved the boy's legs up, and entered him, thrusting his large manhood up the boy without lubrication, in one violent motion. The boy's eyes fluttered half closed, and he arched toward James, who began plowing into him with furious abandon- the boy was crying out now, but not as James wished; The boy's little whimpers were purely pleasure, somehow, and nothing else, writhing himself up to the length pounding into him as if he was enjoying this fully.
The killer felt himself growing soft inside the child, and though he attempted to revive his flagging organ with a few more thrusts, it was no use. Snarling, enraged at being cheated of his pleasure, James grabbed his jacket, and reached into the pocket, pulling out the scalpel. The boy's eyes widened, and for a moment the killer relished what he naturally interpreted as fear, until he heard the hideous sound, once more, of the whore's laughter; the boy actually tilted his head back, baring his throat to the blade, inviting it. He was not denied, as James brought it down with a scream of rage, slashing across the slender neck as deeply as the inch long blade could bite, severing jugular, windpipe, carotid, in one stroke; blood sprayed furiously, splattering all over James and the van, and for that moment the killer felt considerably better.
But for a moment, only, then James watched in astonishment, and horror, and yes, fear, as the gaping, invariably fatal wound began to heal, the flesh rapidly knitting back to its original state without even a faint scar to show it had ever been cut. The killer, eyes huge and round, began to babble in shock, over and over saying "How, how?!" with an almost comic desperation, simply staring at his intended victim. The boy giggled, but James never heard it, not over the screech of metal rending and tearing free as the handcuffs, and the thick link which held them, bolted to the van, was sheered away, the cuffs snapping with a pop as the boy sat up. The first punch knocked the killer across the van and into the back doors so hard that the doors flew open as James's felt the agony of his jawbone shattering, spilling the killer out onto the packed scrub dirt below. The boy was standing atop him before James had time to fully register the pain, reaching down to grab James by this hair and pull him up. The killer shrieked in primal terror as the boy laughed in pure delight, an expression which allowed James to see the wickedly sharp looking incisor fangs.
The boy waited for the James to stop screaming, and pulled him closer, grinning, his angel's voice soft as he murmured, "My turn to play," his tongue darting out and tracing along the killer's cheek, delicate as a cat; the little whore, the vampire, purred softly, speaking quietly, "Mm.. tears. Salt. But blood.. blood is sweeter. And we.. we have all night, my James. No.. Do not look at me so, as if this is horror," smiled the vampire, his hand tangled into Huntington's hair, and tore free a lock of it, scalp attached, making the killer scream again, and the vampire laugh, yet again, "Yes. Mine," as he wove the hair around his finger, smiling, "Though perhaps we should be properly introduced- I am Karl Aensland of the Toreador, once known as Karl Tobeck and you, are not James Huntington anymore. Now you are Toy. You may call me Master. You may beg for death, but I doubt I will grant it, for you are mine, for as long as I want this to last. We could have, all the nights unto forever. Blood is sweeter, my pet. As sweet as the sound of your screams. As sweet as eternity, and forever." Karl embraced his new pet into a ghoul and sent him on a misson to raid the home of the Sabbats, He stole the van and Road it for Cascadia ... Warrior of the Crimson Dawn and Toreador .. it was time for him to come home.

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