In Laymon's Terms

Chrome Dome was still scowling. “And what’s that on the end of your nose?” He squinted and leaned closer. Then he burst out laughing. “It’s a zit.”

Will frowned. “Is not.”

Chrome Dome cackled some more. “It’s a giant, malignant-looking blackhead.” Tears of hilarity leaked from the corners of his eyes. “Ha-ha! The pizza geek has a pizza face.”

Will couldn’t see his nose, of course, but he knew there was no zit there. “It’s not a zit. It’s blood. Are you blind?”

He heard the girl chuckle.

She sidled up next to the big guy.

Despite the direness of his predicament, Will was unable to resist the opportunity to ogle the girl. She was a curvy little thing. She wore tight blue jean cutoffs, a little half-shirt that just covered her jutting breasts, and nothing else. Will saw himself running a hand up a tawny thigh, up higher, moving outward with the sweet swell of her hip, then stopping to cup a handful of that delectable ass.

She was the most mouth-watering piece of girl-candy he’d laid his eyes on in some time.

Her full, pouting lips looked custom-made to provide oral pleasure.

The lips turned up a barely perceptible notch. “He’s sorta cute, Hank.”

Hank scowled. “Shut up, you horny slut.” He clubbed Will upside the head. “Stop checkin’ out my bitch, asshole.”

A fresh blast of agony squashed Will’s libido.

The world went away for a moment, then came back blurry.

“Oh...” He groaned, feeling a tickle of bile at the back of his throat. “Oh, man...I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Hank laughed. “That’s the least of your worries, pizza face. And it is too a zit. Looks ready to burst.” His face screwed up in disgust. “Dude, it’s pretty gross.”

Will opened his mouth to retort, but Hank was done arguing—he pushed Will through an archway into the home’s living room.

The lights were out here, too, but the flickering screen of a large television provided some illumination. Enough illumination to confirm Will’s darkest fears. The room was tastefully decorated. There were two plush sofas, a big recliner, and an oak coffee table with glass insets. Real Martha Stewart stuff. Two hairy guys who looked like bikers occupied one of the sofas. They wore leather chaps over blue jeans, big shitkicker boots, and denim vests over black T-shirts. Their bulging biceps and forearms were profusely tattooed.

Another girl was curled up in a recliner. A blonde babe every bit as tasty as Hank’s girl—in that cheap slut sort of way.

Will was sure these people were not the legal residents of the house.

They fell into a category one might generously label “uninvited guests.”

The people who called this once-idyllic slice of suburbia home were present, though. To Will’s left was a kitchen with a long, white-tiled island and an L-shaped counter with a gas-powered stove. A man’s severed head sat in a pan atop a burner. A headless body lay sprawled next to the island. It wore a robe that hung open to reveal a torso punctured by numerous knife thrusts. The TV screen glowed brighter for a moment, and Will saw that there was a tremendous amount of blood.

Splashes of coagulating crimson on the island tiles.

Dark pools of deep red on the floor.

The woman of the house was still alive. Will got a good look at her when he jerked his gaze away from the grisly tableau. She was a good-looking brunette in her late-thirties. A sexy silk nightie that barely reached the tops of her thighs made her look like a Victoria’s Secret model. She was prone on the floor in front of the TV, with a gag in her mouth and her hands and feet bound with duct tape.

Hank slammed the base of a palm into Will’s back, driving him farther into the room.

“Have a seat, pizza face, so’s we can sort this out.”

Will stumbled forward on legs that felt shot full of Novocain. He stepped past the smirking bikers and settled into the empty sofa. Hank stepped into the middle of the room, impeding the view of the TV.

One of the bikers groaned. “Aw, Hank, you’re blockin’ our view of the fat lesbos on Jerry Springer.”

Hank directed a malevolent glare at the insolent biker. “Shut up, Spike. We’ve got some serious business to discuss.” He eyed each of the assembled scumbags in turn, allowing them long moments to feel the fury emanating from him.

They squirmed.

Hank was the obvious leader of this gaggle of wackos.

They feared him.

Will felt a mad impulse to laugh.

Shit, you’d have to be a goddamn moron not to fear Hank.

That, or the Terminator.

“I’m gonna ask a question, and I don’t want any bullshit. Which one of you stupid meth-heads thought it’d be a good idea to order a pizza right smack in the middle of a home invasion?”

Silence.

The bikers and the blonde girl squirmed some more, fearing the sure-to-be-terrible wrath of their inquisitor.

Hank was seething. “Answer. Me. Now.” The veins on his bald scalp stood out, his eyes bulged, and his nostrils flared. His voice was low and hoarse, almost demonic. “I’m going to kill all of you if I don’t get an answer.” The blonde girl huffed. “J-Dog did it.”