"Nacht Leben"

Pussy's Bow

"Nacht Leben"

From Pussy's Bow

Midway home, Dung heard a car coming from behind with the dull thrum of a hotted-up eight cylinder engine. He felt his neck-hairs bristle but refused to look back. His heart began to race when he realized the car was moving at a snail’s pace. Within seconds it was alongside him. The window wound down as it idled along at walking speed. "It’s a bum-fucking faggot boy–you wanna suck some cocks, queer boy?"

Dung looked at them defiantly.

"Well, looky-look, a chink faggot."

There were five boys in an old white Commodore–boys of Arabic extraction, he assumed. He could smell cigarette smoke and some sort of fragrant Middle Eastern spice emanating from the open window. Dung looked at these hulking guys who’d driven in from the suburbs to flex muscle and do harm. He thought of their mothers–timid Muslim wives, cooking and cleaning all day, feeding these boys up, pumping them full of food to make them big and strong. Big enough to hold down the girls they would marry themselves one day, strong enough to bash faggots.

Fucked over by masculinity, these guys, thought Dung. One racial minority victimizing another one.

They couldn’t believe their luck, a chink and a faggot–all rolled into one. "We’re gonna make you bleed, faggot. We’re gonna tear you open and see what you had for dinner, you piece of slopehead faggot scum."

Dung shuddered with fear and rage. He looked into their faces. All he could see was the smouldering glow of malevolent desires as they sniggered and growled in low, almost seductive voices. He walked on, feeling vaguely hypnotized by the sound as they muttered something else in their own language, some dark cultural incantation.

"Why don’t you just fucking leave me alone," he said, aware of how pathetic he sounded.

"Oh, faggot’s scared. Whatsa matter, ching-chong faggy boy? You no like girlie pussy? You not even like slopehead girlie pussy?"

Suddenly they accelerated, and in three seconds they were gone, leaving only the echoey boom of Metallica. Dung gasped for breath and began to run. What if they came back? He was tripping quite badly but thought he could see two people getting into a car up ahead. He ran towards them, wanting just to be near other people. As he approached, something made him wary and he slowed down.

"Run, poof, run," he heard from one of the men getting into the car. His terror returned two-fold. A cold sweat crawled along his skin. He was in a worse spot now than before, with park on either side of the street. The car pulled out and screeched the fifty meters towards him. This time there were two white guys and a girl in the back.. Surely not with a girl, they wouldn’t, he thought as the men jumped out.

"We’re cleaning up the streets, you filthy jip fag." The bigger of the two grabbed Dung by the arms and twisted him into a headlock. The other, weedier guy came over and hesitantly delivered a few blows to his stomach.

"Punch him harder, Robbo. Punch him hard for being a poof and fuckin’ double-hard for being a slit-eye Asian cunt." The big one was wild, a crazy, aggro yob.

Dung could see the girl watching out the window. She was sipping her alcoholic soft drink, giggling and biting her bottom lip. "Fuckin’ Asians," she yelled as Dung’s captor began to shout fresh orders to his mate.

"Get the crowbar from the boot, Robbo."

"I dunno, Mitch."

"Get the bloody crowbar from the boot like I tell ya, let’s make it worth our fuckin’ while." Mitch smiled down at Dung and squeezed his face between his hands. "May as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, hey? We’ll fix you up real good mate, you’ll be one sorry fuck when we’ve finished with ya. But don’t worry, we’ll try not to kill ya–even though I’d fuckin’ love ta."

Hesitantly Robbo walked over and opened the boot.

All of a sudden headlights beamed down the street.

"Shit," said Mitch, still holding Dung. The car accelerated closer and Dung recognized the sound. It was Doc’s Citroen, lumbering up to a stop.‘

The girl, who’d been biting her bottom lip with the thrill of the violence, cried "Look out!" as Robbo labored over what to do with the crowbar.

"What the fuck!" screamed Doc as he leapt from the car. Dix was close behind.

Crowbar Robbo dropped his tool, slammed the boot shut and bolted to the driver’s seat. He revved the car and took off without a word to his mate. Mitch had released Dung only to receive his first blow from Doc, who was a man possessed.

Mitch sprawled on the ground at Doc’s mercy. "Who the fuck do you think you are, you piece of shit?" growled Doc in a shocked state of hyper-reality.

Dung staggered to the curb. He was shaking but soon had his breath back. Suddenly he was suffused with rage. Fierce mindless bloodlust overtook him like a new drug coming on. "Fuck you," he murmured, slamming his heavy boot into the guy’s stomach. He looked at Dix who seemed unsure what to do. "Hold his legs–apart!" Dix did as he was told and Dung delivered a kick to the crotch, so heavy and forceful the scream registered at a pitch only a dog could hear.

Doc pulled off his belt and bound the basher’s arms behind his back. "What are you doing?" Dix asked.

"We’re taking him to the cops. Take off your belt, Dix, quick, we need to strap his feet together."

Mitch was moaning loudly as beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His face was white. Dung had struck quite a blow to his oh-so-fucking-superior breeding apparatus. Maybe it wouldn’t even work any more, Dung thought with relish.

Dix handed Doc his belt, and grabbing a demisting rag from the floor of the car he gagged Mitch to muffle the increasingly loud moans that were rising to a crescendo.

Nothing like this had ever happened before, to any of them. Doc had been punched once in a bar fight and Dung had survived all kinds of taunting and schoolyard brawls, but tonight the odds had been stacked against him.

"C’mon, let’s get him in the car." Doc motioned to Dung and together they dragged Mitch into the back seat where he twisted and turned, his face flushing crimson.

"Who do bastards like you think you are?" snarled Doc, still wild with rage as he walked over to the driver’s seat. Dung was trying to keep the guy’s legs still. Dix pulled a bottle of amyl from his pocket and reached over from the passenger seat. He doused the gag with it, spilling some right up the guy’s nose. "That should knock him out a bit."

"Knock him out? It’ll send him fucking wild, you dickhead," yelled Doc as he took off with them in the car. As if on cue, the prisoner made a last-ditch effort to free himself. He maneuvered himself frantically, trying to disengage his legs from Dung’s grasp. They flew up kicking the roof. He was writhing like a freshly snagged trout. "Grab his legs, quick," shouted Doc, swerving to a halt.

"I can’t, he’s flipping out."

"Keep still, arsehole." Doc leaned over, grabbing the prisoner by the neck.

Mitch’s kick shad managed to loosen the belt that was restraining his legs and the back seat had turned into a kicking gallery. Dung, pummeled by the guy’s trainers, felt his head thump against the glass. Doc squeezed tightly, his fingers on Mitch’s throat, but he struggled all the more. His legs were firing like loose cannons, threatening to break the side windows. Dix wondered if this crazy bastard would defeat them all.

Doc was in a rage, worse than anything they’d ever seen from the steroids. "Keep still, you fucker, keep still!" But the more he choked him, the more his legs kicked out. Mitch was going blue in the face. He tried to swivel around and escape the strangling grip, but Doc just squeezed even harder. Finally, he felt he was winning. Choking this bastard was the only way they’d quiet him. Raging and tripping, Doc focussed on the hard ridge of thyroid cartilage that pressed up against his thumbs. He had declared war on Mitch’s Adam’s apple and began to willfully push down on it, determined to bring it into line with the rest of the throat. The thrashing was easing, there was less movement. It seemed the harder he pressed, the safer they were.

"Doc! Doc!" Dung was screaming. "What are you doing? You’ll kill him."

At that moment, something deep in Mitch’s throat popped, rasped and sighed. Doc heard the pop and knew at once he’d punctured the trachea. "Fuck, fuck!" he said as the flailing legs slowed to a gentle, rhythmic motion.. Their captive was convulsing, his eyes wide with terror, his face blue for want of oxygen. "I’ve punctured the windpipe–he’s fucked."

"Can we get him to the hospital?" asked Dung, still recovering from the kicks. He wiped the blood from where his own teeth had punctured his pummeled lips.

"It’s too late," said Doc to the hideous, whistling tune of Mitch’s last breaths. Dying, hopeless breaths which never reached the lungs. Doc observed the vanishing vital signs, and his rage subsided with them. He watched the last remnants of life vacate the boy’s face and, suddenly, that’s all he appeared to be. An angel-faced boy of about eighteen.

"Jesus, you’ve really killed him," moaned Dix as they share, in silence, the realization of their crime. Their heads throbbed. Amyl vapors pervaded the car. The chemical fumes almost rendered the horror scene surreal.

"Get that amyl rag out of the car," said Dung at last. "It’s making me crazy."

‘Don’t throw anything out of the car," warned Doc. "We’ve got to figure this out."

"We’ve got to go to the cops." Dung opened the window to let some cold night air in. "It was self-defense."

"Yeah, right," answered Doc.. "His ankles and wrists’ll be bruised from the belt, he’s probably nearly had a seizure from the amyl–why the fuck did you put amyl on that rag, Dix, you bloody idiot? And there are three of us and only one of him. He’s fucked but we’re even more fucked."

"How was I to know you’d kill him for Christ’s sake," protested Dix.

"He wouldn’t have kicked so crazy if he hadn’t been breathing poppers constantly–he nearly put Dung’s head through the window."

"H-e-l-l-o guys," interrupted Dung. "I have a dead guy lying across my lap. He’s a piece of shit but I wish for our sake he was still breathing–only because it would have been easier to deal with. I’m fucking glad he’s dead. He wanted to kill me. We just turned the tables on him–they don’t expect that. We’ve got to look after ourselves now." He began to cry.

"This is not a good situation for me," said Doc. "C’mon guys, what’ll we do? What’ll we do? I can’t think straight from these drugs."

"Oh, and I suppose we can." Dix leaned across and turned off the lights so as not to attract the attention of an oncoming car.

"Fuck!" said Dung. "That’s their car. They’ve come back to search for him."

"Did they see us?" Doc asked.

"I expect so, they drove right past." Dix nearly lit a fag then abstained, remembering the fumes. "Let’s get this car home, it’s too obvious. And let’s think, gentlemen. Let’s think very fast indeed."