Slaughterhouse High

And possibly in there, he and Blayne would get to gawk at two stripped chicks, blend flesh, Pim's unbagged sexlobe inside his mouth, her letting out little girlish gasps as his steel barbell brushed her forbidden lobe and his greedy fingers parted her zipper-teeth below and snugged their way into her moist hot clench.

"Well okay, give it here," he said. "Will we make it to the lot before buzz-time?"

"Five minutes after gulpdown, it kicks in."

"Works for me."

The pale yellow pill lay bitter on Condor's tongue. It took two hard swallows. Even then, the damned thing stuck in his throatpipe. But its bitter taste finally melted away, and Condor asked Blayne where they were supposed to do the girls.

"In the costume shop, during the search for the stiffs. She and Pim'll be pilling out too. Oughta be dropping it right about now."

Four minutes later, when Condor steered into the parking lot entrance, he felt a giggle bubble up out of his gut. "Oh jeez." It was a wavelet, yep, and he could see huge waves, shiny blue, way far out but edging closer.

"Yeah, I know," said Blayne. "But keep it tamped down till we get past Tweed's tight little kid sister and flash our passes at ol' Dunsmore. Once we're past the front table and into the gym, we can giggle as much as we freakin' feel like it, 'midst the dimness and death-terror and the whole dad-blamed fucked-up mess of a world."

"Blayne?" Condor said.

"Yeah?" The dark blue niobium in Blayne's puffy lips gleamed like a blueberry blintz.

"Tonight," he laughed, then bottled it up and jammed in a stopper. "I have a super-strong feeling that we're going to have the best goddamn time of our whole entire friggin' motherfuckin' lives!"

"Could be, buddy. Could be."

"Blayne?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you, Blayne."

The smile vanished. "Yeah. Love."

Blayne looked out the windshield. "Come on, my man, she's waving you on. Don't blow it."

*****

Zane Fronemeyer'd been a warmup. Offing him and his wives had simply swept obtrusive clutter into the dustbin, which made for clearer lines of action ahead.

But they were peripheral victims.

Sheriff Blackburn, revived to offer up his voice for capture on tape, had given a foretaste of the main event. He, after all, had made the ultimate sacrifice in the school building, and roping him into place had led to a perfect and tasty omniscience.

But even Blackburn was mere prologue.

Now, to watch them arrive, to peer from the heart of concealment, an architectural honeycomb entwined above, beneath, around, and through the school proper-this sanctioned voyeurism drew now together.

It pointed the way toward healing.

How natural it was to identify with this building, a caretaker of the young and a presider over their slaughter. But tonight, this place of brick and mortar seethed with resentment at the pinch and crimp of the law.

One couple and no more?

Too strict.

Healing demanded free rein, and tonight that demand would be met.

Beyond a shelf of trophies, the seated shop teacher's hair shone. Opposite him, kids spiffed in tuxedo satins or fluffed in corsaged ball gowns flashed their pinned-on passes to the teacher and his junior helper and accepted the sealed envelope that bore their names.

At their waists dangled the mini-cleavers awarded them by Lily Foddereau upon successful completion of butchery class, these and the cloudy pastel-lidded Futterware containers.

But above the finery, between each dazzling lobebag and its companion earlobe on the right, their fresh-scrubbed faces wore the same devilish looks that mischievized the hallways, day in, day out. Mayhem directed outward, sex thoughts abuzz inside, as their jaws vacantly snapped gum.

Cobra passed by with Peach Popkin, owning her with a few fingers at the neck, his eyes dead with hatred.

Fido Jenner and Bowser McPhee hove next into view, Bowser's eager eyes glued to Peach's twitch of a rump.

Then the huge bulk of Kyla Gorg and Patrice Menuci, an item since eighth grade, blocked out the twosome waiting behind.

It didn't matter who they were, some of them victims, some victimizers. Every one of them had the play of holes on the brain. Mouth hole over lobe, pussy hole over prick, shove it in, yank it out.

Diversion from deadmarch.

Ah but tonight, how pleasing it would be to taste their fear, see it unclench, seize it right back up, and dole out death-enough to free their minds, those that survived, enough to salve the wounds that every prom night reopened, heal them at last, and find release.

When Kyla and Patrice were gone, a white limo drove away outside. Rocky Stark waved to it, and Sandy Gunderloy tugged at his sleeve. He turned, grinned at the shop teacher, and offered his hand.

Top jock.

Head cheerleader.

The momentary flash of a fuck. Imaginary. But every damned bitch-bastard in school flashed likewise whenever these two walked by.

Tonight's places of slaughter had been firmed up. But Jesus Fucking God it'd be such a pleasure to trash Rocky Stark and Sandy Gunderloy, even if meant veering off-plan in order to do it.