Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller Read Online Free Page B
Author: Jeff Menapace
It worked, and I now had my left hand back.
Good thing too. The freak was awake and on his feet.
He’d dropped the bat after I cracked him with the lamp, and for some reason did not attempt to grab it again. There was a good chance he was still on queer street from the lamp and wasn’t thinking properly, and to be honest, I didn’t give a shit; the fact that he was no longer wielding the thing gave me hope.
The freak dove at my waist, shooting both of us backwards, crashing against the wall. Although the impact momentarily took my breath, I was happy the wall was there; it kept me upright and prevented me from landing on my back with his big ass on top.
With his shoulder driving into my stomach, I felt him reach down to grab the back of my legs so that he could scoop me up and slam me. Fuck that. I immediately took both hands and pushed down onto the back of his head until it was at my knees, preventing him from getting any leverage. I then snaked one of my legs free, and began hammering the bottom of my fist onto the back of his head like a jackhammer. After about five or six of those, he gave up trying to slam me and covered up.
I snaked my other leg free, clamped both hands around his neck, and drove my knee up into his face with everything I had. It sounded like a football being punted. He dropped instantly.
I slumped back against the wall. My lungs burned. My body shook. I was certain I was going to puke. And then I felt a frantic pull on one of my ankles.
I looked down and actually gasped: “ Are you fucking kidding me? ”
The tough fucker was now clamped onto my shin. His fingers groped and clawed my flesh as he tried to climb to his feet.
I spotted the discarded bat. Picked it up and raised it overhead.
Although he never looked up, I now suspect the freak realized what was about to happen; he stopped his futile struggle at my legs and seemed to brace himself for the inevitable.
I could have stopped after the first blow (he went limp immediately), but I didn’t. In retrospect, I can think of many reasons—some reasonable, if not damn well justifiable—as to why I didn’t, but who cares, right?
I didn’t.
Over and over again I brought the bat down onto the freak’s masked skull, deforming it with each sickening wallop.
It was my breath—or lack thereof—that finally stopped me. Realization as to what I’d done soon began filtering into my pool of rage and I instantly flung the bat into the corner where it landed with a definitive clang.
I looked down at the now lifeless mass at my feet. His body was still moving, but it was involuntary, just a convulsive twitch or two until he was officially a corpse.
A corpse.
He was dead. The guy was fucking dead . And I’d killed him. I had killed somebody. This wasn’t just pummeling someone in a street fight. This was murder. Yes, I’d acted in self-defense, but I was excessive and I knew it and the result was still the same. Death—by me.
What to do? I had to get away. Leave.
Wait a minute.
Angela. Where the hell was Angela? My head whipped all over the room. I saw nothing.
She must still be in the house though, right? After all, this was her house, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave me alone here would she?
Maybe you’re not alone, I thought. Maybe there are more people in the house. More people like the freak.
This terrifying prospect stopped me from calling her name and made an immediate exit priority one.
I quickly gathered my stuff and darted from the room. Gripping the railing, I took the stairs two at a time until I was at the front door, still ajar from when Angela had kicked it open and for a split-second I marveled at how relative time could be. Mere minutes ago I nearly came in my pants when she kicked that door open. Now I feared I might shit them.
For the second time this evening, I was in my car and speeding away from a barbaric scene I’d committed.
The Bar
“So you’re saying you killed the
Good thing too. The freak was awake and on his feet.
He’d dropped the bat after I cracked him with the lamp, and for some reason did not attempt to grab it again. There was a good chance he was still on queer street from the lamp and wasn’t thinking properly, and to be honest, I didn’t give a shit; the fact that he was no longer wielding the thing gave me hope.
The freak dove at my waist, shooting both of us backwards, crashing against the wall. Although the impact momentarily took my breath, I was happy the wall was there; it kept me upright and prevented me from landing on my back with his big ass on top.
With his shoulder driving into my stomach, I felt him reach down to grab the back of my legs so that he could scoop me up and slam me. Fuck that. I immediately took both hands and pushed down onto the back of his head until it was at my knees, preventing him from getting any leverage. I then snaked one of my legs free, and began hammering the bottom of my fist onto the back of his head like a jackhammer. After about five or six of those, he gave up trying to slam me and covered up.
I snaked my other leg free, clamped both hands around his neck, and drove my knee up into his face with everything I had. It sounded like a football being punted. He dropped instantly.
I slumped back against the wall. My lungs burned. My body shook. I was certain I was going to puke. And then I felt a frantic pull on one of my ankles.
I looked down and actually gasped: “ Are you fucking kidding me? ”
The tough fucker was now clamped onto my shin. His fingers groped and clawed my flesh as he tried to climb to his feet.
I spotted the discarded bat. Picked it up and raised it overhead.
Although he never looked up, I now suspect the freak realized what was about to happen; he stopped his futile struggle at my legs and seemed to brace himself for the inevitable.
I could have stopped after the first blow (he went limp immediately), but I didn’t. In retrospect, I can think of many reasons—some reasonable, if not damn well justifiable—as to why I didn’t, but who cares, right?
I didn’t.
Over and over again I brought the bat down onto the freak’s masked skull, deforming it with each sickening wallop.
It was my breath—or lack thereof—that finally stopped me. Realization as to what I’d done soon began filtering into my pool of rage and I instantly flung the bat into the corner where it landed with a definitive clang.
I looked down at the now lifeless mass at my feet. His body was still moving, but it was involuntary, just a convulsive twitch or two until he was officially a corpse.
A corpse.
He was dead. The guy was fucking dead . And I’d killed him. I had killed somebody. This wasn’t just pummeling someone in a street fight. This was murder. Yes, I’d acted in self-defense, but I was excessive and I knew it and the result was still the same. Death—by me.
What to do? I had to get away. Leave.
Wait a minute.
Angela. Where the hell was Angela? My head whipped all over the room. I saw nothing.
She must still be in the house though, right? After all, this was her house, wasn’t it? She wouldn’t be stupid enough to leave me alone here would she?
Maybe you’re not alone, I thought. Maybe there are more people in the house. More people like the freak.
This terrifying prospect stopped me from calling her name and made an immediate exit priority one.
I quickly gathered my stuff and darted from the room. Gripping the railing, I took the stairs two at a time until I was at the front door, still ajar from when Angela had kicked it open and for a split-second I marveled at how relative time could be. Mere minutes ago I nearly came in my pants when she kicked that door open. Now I feared I might shit them.
For the second time this evening, I was in my car and speeding away from a barbaric scene I’d committed.
The Bar
“So you’re saying you killed the
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