AKA and the Cop

      				    AKA AND THE COP

                                                             By Jason


					 Part One


	The cop was young, only in his mid-twenties from the look of him, but
his relative youth was only the start.  It was the way his uniform hugged his
trim, tightly contoured body that really got AKA's attention.  If AKA hadn't
known better, he would have thought the uniform was tailor-made.  It was that
perfect a fit.  It was always interesting to AKA how some guys, apparently
without effort, immediately turned whatever clothes they put on into
sexy-as-hell advertisements for what lay underneath, while others, even when
trying their damnedest, hardly stirred the libido at all.  This cop--and AKA
could see from the silver-lettered, light-reflecting ID pinned to the chest that
his last name was Landon--was one of those naturally handsome young men who
always transformed whatever they wore--your standard suit, jeans and a T-shirt,
slacks and a pullover, or even a ratty pair of shorts and flip-flops--into
first-class fashion statements.  It was icing on the cake that the face was as
good as the rest of the body.  The eyes--a cool robin's egg blue, if AKA was not
mistaken--were set just as far apart as they should be.  The nose was as
straight and as perfectly pitched as one could wish.  The lips were nicely,
sensuously full, the chin admirably sharp and firm, and the cheekbones prominent
enough to call attention to themselves without descending into excessive
pretty-boy cuteness.  A bit of the pretty boy did lurk, if the truth be told,
but it was tempered by the unassuming four-square solidity of the skull and the
broad, tidy flatness of the forehead.  The cop had removed his cap and brushed
his hand through his dark wavy hair as he approached AKA's car, so AKA had
gotten a good look at both.

	"Yes, officer?" AKA inquired. "Is there a problem?"

	There well could be, AKA knew. Stowed in the trunk were the dismembered
remains of AKA's latest victim, a young Honduran immigrant AKA had picked up
outside a local job-bank just the week before.  "Sure. I do anything," hunky,
black-eyed Jorge had said in heavily accented English. Of course, he probably
had not intended that "anything" to include getting fucked and then dancing on
the end of a rope, but that is precisely what his final two "odd jobs" of the
day had entailed.  He was actually AKA's first full-fledged hanging, since AKA
didn't really count Donovan, the gorgeous, seventeen-year-old nephew-by-marriage
whom AKA had found--despite the risk of offing someone so literally close to
home--just too tempting to resist.  Donovan's rather unusual self-executed
hanging had been an interesting variation on the theme, no doubt, but Jorge the
Honduran had danced the true hangman's rope-dance.  And for a good
fast-and-furiously-kicking five fatal minutes too!   
	
	AKA was glad to see that young Officer Landon was not one of those
arrogant, preening, hard-assed cop types.  He did not spread his legs and lean
in, one palm slapped onto the roof of the car, the other menacingly caressing
his holster, with a phony, passive-aggressive,
I-know-you're-guilty-of-something-you-shithead smile plastered on his face. 
Instead, he simply stood straight and fit and tall--if somewhat under six-feet,
if AKA was any judge--with a basically unassuming, late-night-tired,
I'm-just-doing-my-job air about him.

	"I wondered if you were okay," he said as his eyes--in what was clearly
an automatic professional reflex--moved to scan the night-darkened interior of
AKA's car.  "You pulled off the road rather fast."

	It was true.  AKA had abruptly driven onto the shoulder as soon as he
realized he had missed the turn he had been looking for.  The night was that
dark; the turn, as a result, that hard to see.  Thus, AKA had overshot it. 
There had been a pair of lights behind him for several minutes, but AKA had not
realized they belonged to a police car until the vehicle slowed and pulled off
in front of him--with no lights flashing, fortunately, but, caught in AKA's own
headlights, finally identifiable for what it was.

	AKA's heart had immediately missed a beat, but not because of the
dismembered body parts stowed in the truck.  No, his heart had missed a beat
when the cop emerged, so obviously young and handsome and finely formed beneath
that sexy, body-hugging uniform of his.  His slow approach, his cock-arousing
removal of his cap and brushing of his neat, slim-fingered hand through his
hair, had been--in and of themselves--cause for even more palpitations.  AKA
knew that, as a result, his voice, when he spoke, was a bit unsteady, but he
also knew that the young cop--Officer Landon--would most likely attribute it to
a motorist's natural nervousness when confronted in the early morning hours (it
was going on 3 AM according to the clock on the dashboard) by a representative
of the law, even in such seemingly innocuous circumstances as this.

	"I missed my turn," AKA announced with an aren't-I-the-stupid-one grin. 
"I'm blaming it on the darkness."

	The policeman stifled a yawn, looked up, then back down and said, "It is
that.  Late too.  So where were you headed?"

	AKA's first thought was, None of your fucking business!  But he quickly
checked himself.  That was not the smartest tone to adapt when you had thirteen
neatly wrapped body parts in the trunk.  So what should he say?  That he lived
near here?  AKA didn't, and the cop could easily determine that if he wanted to. 
All he had to do was ask to see AKA's license.  It also wouldn't do to say AKA
had some garbage he was planning to deposit at 3 AM in the trash-bin behind the
isolated, off-the-beaten-track (not to mention long-closed by now) restaurant he
had been heading for.  To be honest, AKA felt oddly, ridiculously trapped. 
Nothing really passable in the way of explanation came to his mind at all.

	The cop tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

	"You were saying?"

	AKA shrugged, opened his mouth, and heard himself reply, "It's a little
embarrassing to admit, but there's this woman, you see.  Unfortunately, she's
married and it was about time for her husband to come home, so . . . ." 

	He grinned a big, fake, conspiratorial grin.
	
	Officer Landon frowned. 
	
	This one's a real straight arrow, AKA decided as he drank in the
virtuous, square-shouldered, disapproving posture of the delectable young man on
the other side of the car door.
	
	"That doesn't tell me where you were headed."
	
	The voice was a light, normally friendly (AKA suspected), smooth-toned
tenor, but it had now gone decidedly cold.  AKA's manly little "confession" had
clearly won him no Brownie points with this guy. 
	
	"Truth is, nowhere, Officer.  That is, I was just driving around a bit
before heading home.  To wind down from all the excitement of the evening, if
you know what I mean."
	
	The cool robin's-egg-blue eyes--yes, they were definitely robin's egg
blue--probed AKA's own darker, hotter gaze.
	
	"Could I see your license, please."
	
	It was, of course, a command, not a request.
	
	AKA fished out his wallet, then the license itself.
	
	The young policeman took the license from him, pulled a small spotlight
from his shirt pocket, and slowly examined it.
	
	"You been drinking, Mr.                     ?"
	
	For the first time, AKA got uncomfortable.  The fact was that he always
drank when dismembering a corpse.  Something to numb the senses was not only
desirable, it was also necessary.  At least, AKA had always found it necessary. 
Guts and gore had never been his thing. 
	
	"Well, earlier in the evening, yes.  A Scotch or two."
	
	"You mind stepping out, Mr.                      ."
	
	Once again it was a command, not a request.
	
	AKA's hand slowly rose to grasp the door handle. 
	
	Glancing into the rearview mirror, then as quickly looking ahead, he saw
that there was darkness both ways.  Darkness coming and darkness going.  For all
practical purposes, he and the young cop were not only alone on the road, they
were alone in the universe. 
	
	Later, AKA would realize that he never really thought.  He just acted. 
Fortunately, the Dark Gods--those ever-lurking, ever-lusty deities whom AKA had
always liked to imagine presided over his on-going, highly successful (fifty and
counting!) serial killer career--were once again looking out for him. 
	
	The door caught the young policeman right in the solar plexus.
	
	The flashlight and driver's license went flying.
	
	AKA was out of the car and on his feet before the gasping, scarlet-faced
officer had even collapsed to his knees.
	
	His adrenaline pumping, AKA dove down and wrenched the gun out of the
young man's hand just as it cleared the holster.
	
	Switching the safety off, AKA then lurched back up and pressed the
barrel directly into the officer's violently pulsing right temple.  Even in the
darkness, AKA could see the bold veins beating.
	
	"Move and I'll blow your fucking head off!"
	
	The young officer had made it--shakily, breathing hard--up onto one
knee.  He abruptly stopped there, his hands lifted, inadvertently genuflecting
before the sinister fate that had so suddenly placed him at AKA's mercy.
	
	"On your belly!" AKA ordered.
	
	The officer didn't move.
	
	AKA cocked the pistol.
	
	"I said on your belly, buster!"
	
	The young policeman slowly bent forward, his arms out, and sank down.
	
	"Flat out!  Stomach to the pavement!"
	
	The officer hesitated.
	
	AKA pressed the pistol into the back of the young man's neck.
	
	"Now!"
	
	Reluctantly, cautiously, Officer Landon complied.
	
	AKA straddled the backs of the leanly muscled thighs and jerked the
handcuffs from the hook on the back of the young officer's belt.  AKA had a
similar pair of cuffs in his car--just one of the serial killer basics he always
traveled with (since you never knew when you might get lucky)--but on this
occasion it was safer, not to mention oddly entertaining, to secure the
policeman with his own hardware.
	
	"Hands behind your back!"
	
	The upturned palms slowly rose and joined at the base of the spine.
	
	AKA squatted and secured the cuffs.  Very tightly, just to be on the
safe side.  Then he stood up again.
	
	"You don't want to do this," young Landon finally managed to say.
	
	His voice was raspy, still struggling to recoup its normal tenor range.
	
	"Well, I didn't intend to, but you gave me no choice, did you?  You
wouldn't leave well enough alone.  You pressed your luck.  You're not the first
one to do that, of course." 
	
	AKA's mind immediately leapt to Ryland Devore Davies, the
fabulous-looking, gap-toothed, nineteen-year-old lawncare worker who had tried
to muscle a fairly large amount of money out of AKA the previous summer.  Good
old Ry had pressed his luck bigtime.  Not to mention, dramatically ended the
rather serious slump AKA had been in at the time.  Even serial killers have
their downtime, AKA had discovered.  But not since Ry Davies.  The Honduran kid
was the sixth to go down in as many months.  Not a bad average at all. 
	
	"Up!" AKA ordered.  "And no funny stuff.  As you may already have
figured out, I know how to use this." 
	
	The truth was, AKA didn't particularly like guns.  In particular, he
didn't like the mess they made.  But he had decided to learn about them.  He had
even got some fairly expert training in their use not that many years back.  Now
he knew why.  So he would be able to take advantage of a situation like this!
	
	"I got you on the video," the young officer protested as he struggled to
get back onto his feet.  AKA was forced to reach down and catch him under the
arm as he launched his final, off-balance heave-up.  "The one in the patrol car. 
You won't get away with this."
	
	"You're a liar," AKA responded.  "I went off the road so quickly that
you had to pull in front of me, remember?  As a result, my headlights gave me a
pretty good view of what you were doing before you got out.  Besides, you were
so tired you didn't even bother to turn on your emergency lights.  Which is how
those cameras usually get activated in the first place, if I'm not mistaken." 
AKA scanned the young man's shirtfront.  "I've heard a body-mic can be used to
do the same thing, but you don't appear to have one of those.  This Podunk town
you work for can't afford it, can they?"
	
	AKA had done a little homework on this business as well.  Given what he
so often got up to, he never knew when he might have to deal with the law in
just this way, so better to know as much as he could about how they operated. 
He had been amazingly lucky until now.  This was only the second cop who had
ever stopped him when he was in serious serial-killer mode.  The first one had
been a lot smarter than Officer Landon, however.  After going through the
motions--that is, after delivering a tedious little lecture on the dangers of
running a yellow light (yes, a yellow light, of all things!)--he had simply let
AKA go.  This, despite the fact that seated beside AKA was a skinny, pug-nosed,
fifteen-year-old hitchhiker AKA had only picked up five minutes before.  That
kid--an impressively endowed, tousled-haired runaway who readily agreed to be
introduced to the cop as AKA's own son so as not to "cause any problems," was
soon trussed and fucked and castrated and strangled not ten miles from where the
cop had stopped them.                
	
	"Move!" AKA ordered, and herded the young man around to the other side
of his car.  There was not enough room, really, in the trunk, so he would have
to join AKA up front. 
	
	AKA opened the passenger door with his free hand.
	
	"In."
	
	For a moment, the young officer's body tightened, as if he intended to
hurl himself at AKA.
	
	"Think . . . twice!"
	
	AKA reinforced the point with a hard poke of the pistol in the young
man's side.
	
	Clearly frustrated, Officer Landon exhaled, angrily bent his head, and
got in.
	
	AKA slammed the door and quickly sprinted back around to the driver's
side.
	
	Thanks to the Dark Gods--that was the only way to explain the sudden
recollection that his driver's license was still lying on the pavement where
Landon had dropped it--AKA stooped and retrieved it.
	
	He then slid back behind the wheel, pressed the automatic
door-lock--clack!--and quickly but carefully took off.  But not before doing a
u-turn.  Just in case the policeman had somehow thought to start the police-car
video.  Young Landon may have pressed his luck by deciding to see if AKA were
DUI, but there was no reason that AKA should do the same. 
	
	As for Jorge the Honduran--or, to be more precise, the various and
sundry parts of Jorge the Honduran--well, there would be plenty of time to
dispose of him later, AKA decided.  Autumn had come.  The nights had turned that
distinctive fall cool a couple of weeks back.  Hunky Jorge would keep just fine
in the trunk--for as long as it was going to take to deal with this new, and
totally unexpected, offering of the Dark Gods anyway. 

					Part Two
	
	As they sped down the highway, AKA jerked the policeman's hat off,
tossed it onto the back seat, and motioned with the pistol. 
	
	"Put your head between your knees and keep it there."
	
	It was always safer if your captive was unseen, as well as unseeing. 
For extra insurance, AKA often actually draped something over whoever was in the
"hot seat," as he liked to think of it.  Tucked away under the passenger seat at
this very moment, for example, was a large beach towel--a trophy from his
youngest victim, a cute eleven-year-old who had been hitching home from the
local pool one late hot summer Sunday afternoon.  Boy, that kid had been a cute
kid!  As well as a feisty one!  He had resisted his fate better than many guys
twice his age!  AKA had used that beach towel several times by now, but he had
used other things as well.  His own jacket.  The hitchhiker's jacket.  A plastic
garbage bag.  A sheet.  A blanket.  He had even used a roadmap on one occasion. 
(There was a very funny story about that one!)  At the moment, however, AKA
decided that no such precautions were necessary.  The night was that dark, and
where they were headed was poorly lit backroads over ninety-nine percent of the
way.    
	
	Landon awkwardly shifted in place, grunted, and then half-heartedly
leaned forward.
	
	AKA tapped the back of the dark-haired, hard-boned head with the
pistol-butt.
	
	"All the way down."
	
	A second, louder grunt, and Landon slowly--but with impressive
ease--buried his face between his legs. 
	
	He is as fit as he looks, no question, AKA decided.
	
	"We're going to drive around for a while and talk about this, okay?" AKA
declared.  "There must be some agreement we can come to."
	
	This was the purist window-dressing.  The fact was that AKA had no
intention of letting the young policeman go, but he knew from experience that if
he could convince whoever was in the "hot seat" that the situation was not
immediately life-threatening, then the guy would be a lot less likely to so
something stupid and thereby put himself--or more especially AKA--in jeopardy. 
	
	AKA looked down at the bumpy ridge of spine outlined beneath the tightly
stretched, night-blackened police shirt.  Nice, AKA thought as he ran his eyes
up and then down the trim, attractively tapered torso.  Very nice indeed.
	
	"So how long have you been a cop?"
	
	The reply was muffled but reasonably clear.
	
	"Two years."
	
	"How old are you?"
	
	"Twenty-five."
	
	"Married."
	
	AKA did not see a wedding band, but you never knew.
	
	"I'm going to be married next month."
	
	You were, AKA thought.
	
	"Local girl?" he asked.
	
	"What?"
	
	"I said is your bride-to-be a local girl?"
	
	"From Mitchellville.  Yes.  But listen.  This is really dumb, Mr.                  
.  You don't want to get yourself into this kind of trouble, believe me.  I
don't know right off the bat what the penalty is for assaulting and kidnapping a
police officer, but you could end up dying in jail if you aren't careful." 
	
	AKA took this last remark as a subtle reference to his own "advanced"
age, although he was actually only a tad more than twice Officer Landon's
admittedly youthful 25 years.  He could be my son, AKA suddenly thought and
wondered, not for the first time, if he might have been tempted to "do" his son
if he had been so lucky as to have one.  He was afraid he might have.  If the
kid had been good-looking enough, that is. 
	
	The policeman shifted his fanny on the car seat.  As he did so, his left
thigh pressed up against AKA's hand, which was perched atop the gearshift.  AKA
pressed back against it.  It felt nice and firm, just the way AKA liked them. 
	
	"You talk about coming to some kind of agreement," Landon continued,
"but that's not how it works.  The best thing is to turn around right now and
take me back to my vehicle, uncuff me, and then give yourself up.  You do that
and I'll testify to how you thought better of all this and peacefully turned
yourself in.  Okay?  There'll be some jail-time, there'll have to be, but a lot
less.  A whole lot less.  That's the only kind of agreement we can come to, I'm
afraid."
	
	It struck AKA as rather gutsy actually.  Another guy might have been far
less insistent on the real consequences that AKA would face even if he suddenly
repented and turned himself in, as the policeman suggested.
	
	AKA decided to play along.
	
	"How do I know you'd do that?  Speak on my behalf, that is?"
	
	"Because I said I would, that's why."
	
	AKA believed him.  There was an Eagle Scout earnestness about this guy
that instantly persuaded.
	
	"I'd rather give you and your bride-to-be a super-nice wedding present,"
AKA replied in his best bargaining voice.  "That way we would all be happy. 
What were you planning to do for your honeymoon, for example?"  The past tense
just slipped out, but young Landon appeared not to notice.  "You say where you
want to go, and there you'll go.  For as long as you like, too.  I promise."
	
	"I can't do that," the muffled voice shot back.  "I been wanting to be a
cop all my life.  Ever since I was nine years old.  It may sound pretty jerky,
but I intend to be a good one too.  That's why you can trust me to honor my word
and do right by you.  What you did back there was a stupid, spur-of-the-moment
thing, right?  But what you're now doing gets into serious, premeditated
law-breaking."  You don't know the half of it, AKA smiled to himself.  "Don't
fuck up your life like that," Landon went on.  "For what?  Because you screwed
around with another guy's wife and had a few drinks and then drove DUI?  Neither
one's a capital offence.  But this--well, this is deep fucking shit we're now
talking about, Mr.                         .  And if I get hurt or
anything"--AKA liked that "anything"--"then you'll wish you were dead for sure,
believe me." 
	
	"You're a real straight arrow," AKA replied.  "I've even got you pegged
as an Eagle Scout.  Am I right?"
	
	The bent shoulders shrugged.
	
	"Sure.  Yeah.  If you like.  But what about you?  You don't seem like a
criminal type at all."  A fact which has helped me more times than you can
imagine, AKA silently replied.  "I saw where you live, Mr.                   ,
the address on your driver's license.  I don't know                         as
well as I know Mitchellville, but I know that part of town you live in so I know
it's way above average, right?"  Another thing that has often helped me more
times than you can imagine, thought AKA.  "One big house after another, is what
I remember."
	
	AKA smiled in the dark.
	
	"Mine's one of the smaller ones actually." 
	
	Landon ignored the remark.
	
	"The point is you're clearly a guy with a lot to lose, so why risk it? 
I mean, let's take this car even.  It's one of the main reasons I didn't turn on
my emergency lights or bother to video you, if you wanna know.  I didn't think I
needed to.  You had been driving along fine.  In this super-nice car.  It was
fun just being behind you and watching the way it hugged the road.  So I did
think you might have just had a sudden problem of some kind when you pulled off
like that.  I'll be honest.  I thought before I got out to see about you that
maybe I should run a check on you, but I didn't.  Being a bit tired was part of
it, I'll admit that.  The nightshift tends to wear you down, I don't care how
young you are.  But it was mainly this car itself and the feeling I got as I
pulled by you and got a quick look at your face that made me think you were what
you looked like--the real thing, a good guy, a solid citizen.  Don't ruin all
that now."
	
	I haven't ruined a thing, buddy, AKA thought, but you sure-as-hell just
did!  Talk about signing your own death warrant!  Thank you once again, O you
Dark Gods, for all that you do for me! AKA offered up in silent thanksgiving.
	
	"What's your first name?" asked AKA.  "I saw your tag, so I know your
last name's Landon,"
	
	"Keith."
	
	The young policeman once again shifted in his seat.  AKA knew from
experience that being bent over like that for any period of time soon got to be
uncomfortable, no matter how flexible you were.
      
	"And what's your lucky girl's name?"
	
	"Sara."
	
	"How long have you been going together?"
	
	"You're not listening to me, Mr.                      .  We need to be
talking about you, not me!  You're the one in the hot seat here!"
	
	 "Now that's funny," AKA chuckled, "because I was just thinking a second
ago that you were the one in the hot seat."
	
	The young man actually chuckled in turn.
	
	"You've rather ruined my night, I'll give you that," he said.  
	
	AKA smiled.  It was always a good sign when a guy could manage some
humor in a situation like this.  It meant that he had the capacity to deal with
stress in a relatively rational way, and that made AKA's job that much easier. 
	
	"But we're just talking about me being made the butt of some bad jokes
and ragging for a while," Landon continued.  "You're in a whole different and
much more serious situation." 
	
	The young cop actually seemed to believe it.  That he was not in real
danger, that is.  All the better, thought AKA.  You just keep thinking that,
buddy, because when you stop thinking that it'll be way too late to do anything
about it.   
	
	AKA had already decided he was not going to take young Keith Landon
home.  The fact was, he couldn't.  After a series of interminable delays, the
painters were finally scheduled to come tomorrow.  That was why hunky young
Jorge had had to be dealt with tonight actually.  The painters--all three of
them--would be in and out of the house for a week or more.  There was no way AKA
could squirrel away a strapping young cop for that period of time.  So
GAME-time--if, in fact, given the lateness of the hour, AKA was actually going
to play THE GAME with this one--was going to be pretty severely limited.  AKA
reckoned he would have an hour, maybe an hour-and-a-half at most once they
reached the wooded area where AKA had successfully, if somewhat reluctantly
(because his own aging parents owned the property) disposed of two previous
victims.  Of course, he could just shoot and then bury the guy in a shallow
grave as soon as they got there, but the young cop seemed too tasty a
proposition to up and waste that way.  Some fun should be had!     
	
	AKA now made the first turn that would lead in the direction.
	
	"But that embarrassment is just what I'm saying you can skip," AKA
finally replied.  "Besides, what if it's more than embarrassment?  What if your
chief decides you have been too big a fool to keep on the force?  I've known it
to happen.  A young cop makes a mistake and out he goes.  Besides, I bet you're
such a straight arrow there'll be some in your department who won't be sorry to
see you go."
	
	Sometimes AKA was impressed by his own leaps of the imagination.  This
was one of those times.  He had clearly hit a nerve.  Young Landon's somber
silence spoke volumes. 
	
	Pursuing his advantage, AKA immediately went on.
	
	"You're the holier-than-thou, by-the-book, new-kid-on-the-block, right? 
You must be driving all those bribe-taking, pot-bellied old-timers nuts!  That's
why you get saddled with the lonely, lousy, late-night nightshift, right?"
	
	More telling silence from the young policeman.
	
	AKA shifted the gun and then dropped his newly freed right hand down on
the young man's warm, tightly muscled left thigh.
	
	He squeezed.
	
	The thigh immediately tensed.
	
	Nice!
	
	AKA popped the thigh a light slap, and then lifted his hand.  No need to
press his luck.  Yet.
	
	"Think, kid.  Really think.  I'll give you five grand--hell, six!--and
then we call it a night.  You can take more than one honeymoon with six grand!"
	
	The response, when it came, was low and resentful.
	
	"I said no and I meant no."  Landon lifted his head above his knees in
order to be heard better.  "You may be right and you may be wrong about how I
been getting along in my job, but I won't be bought, understand?  I won't be
bought.  Now turn around and take me back to my fucking car!  'Cause if you
don't, I'll have your ass, whether I lose my job or not!"
	
	Again, there was no doubting the sincerity. 
	
	A minute later, AKA made another turn, off the larger dark road he had
been on and onto a smaller and, if possible, even darker new road.  Another ten
minutes or so and they would be there.  AKA started to get hard, and adjusted
the growing rod in his pants.
	
	"Okay.  I'll think about it.  Talk to me about how it will go.  Maybe I
will do what you want, but you better make it sound good.  Real good.  Be
specific.  Give me the details." 
	
	This was all done partly to fill the time and partly to keep the young
officer distracted until they got where they were going.
	
	Young Landon flexed his shoulders, stretched his arms (to the extent he
could), and raised his head slightly higher.  Then taking a deep breath, he
started to pitch his pitch.  AKA would do . . . .  He would say . . . .  AKA
would say . . . .   He would do . . . .  The young officer went through the
whole routine.  Down to the actual charges he would file.
	
	"I can see my way to limiting it to assault and resisting arrest.  Which
means I won't press the kidnapping thing.  But that's as far as I can go.  After
that, it's up to you and your lawyer.  You can use all that money you're
offering me to get a good one, right?  Who knows?  You may only get a fine and
probation, given who you are and where you live and the fact that you have no
record.  Assuming you have no record, that is."
	
	Strange but true, AKA had no record at all.
	
	"No, I have no record.  Which is why I'm trying to avoid one now.  You
can understand that, right?  I've never been in trouble with the law.  Ever. 
That's why this bothers me so much."
	
	Officer Landon said he could understand that, but . . . .
	
	While he continued to talk, AKA made the final turn onto the bumpy dirt
road that led to his parents' isolated and untenanted (if you didn't count the
two corpses buried there) forest acres.
	
	Young Landon noticed the change at once.  His head lifted its highest
yet. 
	
	"Where are we?  Why have you turned off the main road?"
	
	AKA shifted the gun back into his right hand.
	
	The butt once again tapped against the back of Landon's dark, neatly
trimmed head.
	
	"Down." 
	
	Tap. 
	
	"Down!" 
	
	Tap. 
	
	"I said down!"
	
	The last tap came close to being a blow. 
	
	Landon finally lowered his head.
	
	With every bump in the road, the silence grew between them.  AKA could
tell that the young man, for the first time, had finally begun to have serious
concerns about how bad a bind he might be in. 
	
	They soon reached the property, and AKA slowed to a crawl, turned left,
past the weather-frayed "Do Not Trespass" signs, and into the deeper dark of the
low-branched tunnel of trees beyond.  Because autumn was well underway, a number
of leaves had already fallen, but there was still a fair amount of foliage
between the road and the distant, late-night sky above.
	
	They crunched and bumped their way along, deeper and deeper into the
still, receiving darkness.
	
	"This doesn't make any sense, mister," Landon finally said.  "I mean,
we're talking about a fucking DUI.  At base, that's all we're fucking talking
about."
	
	"Not to mention assault and resisting arrest," AKA added.
	
	Landon bobbed his head like a dickey bird's. 
	
	"Shit!  Okay!  You win!  Fuck the charges!  This ain't worth dying for! 
This certainly ain't worth frying for!"
	
	"Who said anything about dying?" AKA asked as he pulled to a stop.  "And
as to frying, if it's the electric chair you're referring to, I have no
intention of ever darkening that particular door."
	
	AKA doused the headlights, but left the car running.  The glow of the
dashboard illuminated the interior fairly well.  Well enough for the
up-and-coming purposes of THE GAME, anyway.  It was even rather sexy when you
came right down to it, this low "romantic" lighting.
	
	"Okay, you can sit up," AKA said.  "But slowly.  Carefully.  No sudden
moves."  He re-cocked the pistol.  "I have no intention of shooting you.  I hate
guns.  But I will if you make me.  You understand?"
	
	Landon nodded. 
	
	Then slowly and carefully, just as AKA had ordered, the young man sat
up, his face rigidly directed forward in response to the cold round of the
barrel pressed into his newly pulsing left temple.
	
	"All the way," AKA ordered.  "Flat back against the car seat."
	
	The young man complied.  Admirably slowly and carefully yet again.
	
	The "hot seat" had been outfitted with straps of varying kinds shortly
after AKA bought the car.  He had done that with a number of the vehicles he had
used in THE GAME over the years.  That is why he was now able to undo the hidden
strap attached to back of the headrest and loop it around the young officer's
neck, then, using his free hand, secure it on the other side.  Tight, but not
too tight.  The idea was to hold a victim in place, not strangle him.  At least,
not yet.
	
	Keith Landon gulped, his vulnerable, awkwardly up-tilted adam's apple
heaving and then heaving again just above the inch-wide length of strap-leather.
	
	AKA had also seen to it that the passenger seat itself was reinforced. 
"I have a fat--I mean, a really fat!--business partner," he had opined to the
mechanic who did the job.  "He gets in here and throws his god-awful weight
around and the damn seat actually acts like it's going to break loose.  I'm not
kidding.  I want you to make it so strong that the guy could have an epileptic
fit and nothing would budge."  AKA wasn't sure the mechanic had believed him,
but he had done the job and done it well.  Not surprisingly, many of AKA's best
innovations were the result of experience.  This was one.  There had been more
than a few car kills over the years, and any number of the guys involved had
close to throwing what amounted to epileptic fits.  One had actually succeeded
in cracking the base of the seat in a van AKA had had at the time.  His
thrashing was that violent.  When faced with death, a strong young guy (like
this cop) could suddenly find reserves of strength that might put Superman to
shame. 
	
	There was no use taking chances.

				          Part Three
	
	
	Young Officer Landon finally spoke.
	
	"This is nuts.  Pure nuts."  He canted his head in AKA's direction. 
Their eyes met and held in the dark.  "Have I been wrong about you altogether? 
Is this not your car?  Are you not who the license says you are at all?"
	
	"This is indeed my car," AKA assured him, "and, yes, that is my real
license with my real name and my real address on it.  I am exactly what I seem
to be.  Up to a point, that is."
	
	Landon exhaled a perplexed sigh.
	
	"Then what the fuck is all this?  Bringing me out into the middle of
nowhere like this?"  He jerked his head against the restraining neck-strap. 
"Fucking belting me to the car seat like this!  I don't get it!  I just the fuck
don't get it!"
	
	AKA placed the officer's gun on the top of the smooth, night-shadowed
dashboard and turned his attention to the automatic seat controls.  He pressed a
button, and the thickly cushioned passenger seat slowly began to purr its way
backwards.
	
	Young Landon uttered a surprised, "Huh?!" as the seat slipped back, then
further back, then softly bumped to a stop at its extreme rearward limit. 
	
	With the press of another button, the seatback began to recline.
	
	"Jesus, man!"
	
	The exclamation was the result of the shock the young cop felt when he
realized that he needed to push himself up and back in order to escape the
distinctly unpleasant constriction that the lowering of the seat instantly
placed on his neck.
	
	AKA kept his finger on the button until the seat was about three-fourths
the way down.  It was designed go all the way down, of course, and AKA knew that
he eventually might want to do just that, but, for the moment, this was a very
nice angle to start with. 
	
	AKA surveyed his now seriously anxious, semi-reclined captive.
	
	Talk about sexy!  That body in that uniform!  That face awash in those
shadows!  Those eyes staining to see through that darkness! 
	
	AKA's pulse picked up bigtime.
	
	Leaning to the left, he bent down and began to untie the policeman's
shiny black left shoe.  He expected some sort of protest.  An instinctive,
resisting kick or two, at least.  But young Keith Landon's foot remained
surprisingly inert, completely unresisting.  
	
	AKA lifted the foot and tugged the shoe off.
	
	A slight but not unpleasant odor of warm young-male foot-sweat rose into
the air.
	
	AKA turned his attention to the other shoe.
	
	He met as little resistance with it.
	
	At this point, getting the shoes off was as much a practical matter as
anything else.  A much younger AKA had seen THE GODFATHER (Part One) when it
first came out.  He had enjoyed, but did not necessarily wish to repeat, the
dramatic strangulation scene in that movie in which the fairly handsome jerk who
was being garroted in the front seat of a Corleone family auto shattered the
windshield with his frantic, hard-soled kicking.  AKA had actually thought at
the time, I bet that wouldn't have happened if they had taken the guy's shoes
off. 
	
	AKA caught hold of both of Keith Landon's shoes, then sat up, turned and
dropped them in the back--on the floor behind the driver's seat, where, he
noticed, the young cop's cap had ended up as well.
	
	"Feel more comfortable now?" AKA asked with a smile.

	He reached out and placed his left hand on the policeman's knee.

	The young man's sexy lips parted. 

	His confusion-filled eyes widened. 

	Yes, there was no doubt about it.  Officer Keith Landon finally had a
clue.

	He anxiously licked his lips.

	AKA less anxiously licked his own. 

	Then he moved his hand up along the twenty-five-year-old's hard, hot
thigh. 
	
	The texture of the uniform was smooth, rich-feeling.  A light,
pre-winter wool?  Maybe. 
	
	The tensed flesh underneath felt even better, however.
	
	Why prolong the suspense? AKA wondered.
	
	With that, he brought his hand up and then down, directly on top of the
bunched, zipper-defined cloth gathered at the policeman's crotch.  He located
the dick--which, although at rest, was easy enough to identity--and manipulated
it away from its lefty, tucked-away, heads-down perch.  A little more
manipulation, and it slipped up and onto the left hip, into a small tunnel made
by the crumpled cloth of the pants there.
	
	It extended at once. 
	
	AKA never ceased to be amazed, as well as amused, at this phenomenon. 
That a guy could be in the kind of situation this guy was in and STILL get a
hard-on was one of life's greater mysteries, but so it was.  And had always been
in AKA's experience.  With only two exceptions.  But they had been wimpy wusses
both.
	
	"You gotta be . . . kidding me," Keith Landon finally managed to say. 
His voice was disbelieving, breathy--indeed, nearly breath-less.
	
	AKA stroked the still extending rod.  It was going to be a nice slim six
(maybe even seven?) inches, it seemed.
	
	"You going to tell them about this as well, Keith?" AKA replied.  "When
you turn me in, that is?  After I give myself up like you want?"
	
	The cop's cock wasn't as hard as it could get--AKA could tell--but it
was hard enough for now.
	
	He reached up and began to undo the thick, heavy holster. 
	
	"I ain't gay, man!  I ain't no way gay!"
	
	"Who said you were, Keith?" asked AKA as he wrestled to loosen the
holster's big square silver buckle.  "But I've said it once, and I'll say it
again, a dick's got a mind of its own.  Lift up."  Landon actually obeyed.  The
buckle came undone.  Landon sank down.  "Again," AKA ordered.  Landon once again
arced up.  AKA jerked the holster free, out from under its wearer, and tossed it
into the back as well.
	
	AKA decided he needed more access, more elbow-room.  Returning to the
seat controls, therefore, he pressed the button that would lower his own
seatback.  And back it went, all the way down--or nearly.  A special feature
that AKA had specifically requested.
	
	AKA shifted up so that he could more easily get at the cop's pants. 
	
	The young policeman's mouth, which had been open, opened even wider.
	
	AKA undid the hook at the waist, then the zipper.
	
	"So how much head have you ever been given in your life?" he asked as,
having spread the flaps, he began to tug the pants down off the young man's
slender, hard-boned hips.  "You do know what I mean by head, right, Mr. Eagle
Scout?"
	
	As the pants descended, a pair of gorgeously form-fitting white boxer
Jockeys came into view.  The young cop's half-aroused dick was beautifully
etched underneath the underwear's sexy stretch-fabric.
	
	AKA stopped and drew a finger up the length of it.
	
	The cock actually jerked under the cloth.
	
	"Looks to me like joyboy wants to come out to play.  What do you think?"
	
	Leaning over, AKA proceeded to tug the pants down the thighs and then
over the knees.  A wide scar ran diagonally across the left one. 
	
	AKA tapped it.
	
	"How'd you get that?"
	
	"Grade-school.  I fell off a bike."
	
	The voice was low, interspaced with soft, barely audible inhalations.
	
	AKA drew the pants all the way until they were bunched at the ankles. 
	
	"Knees up," AKA ordered.
	
	Young Landon obeyed.
	
	Gripping the cuffs, AKA pulled the pants off altogether.
	
	Landon began to drop his legs.
	
	"Not yet."
	
	The legs rose back up, and AKA pulled off first one, then the other of
the two finely-ribbed, dress-black stretch-socks.
	
	In the old days, AKA might have used one of these socks to strangle
Keith Landon to death.  He had had a fetish at the start of his career about
killing his targets with a piece of their own clothing.  But like many things in
life, the routine had gotten a bit boring after a while, so AKA had launched out
into other and even more interesting modes of dispatch.  Still--he pulled the
sock to its full (and fully serviceable) length--this might be a nice way to off
the cop, he thought.  He would just have to wait and see how the spirit moved
him.  AKA often didn't know himself how he was going to finish a guy until the
very end.
	
	"Okay, you can put your legs down now."
	
	Landon dropped his long, slender, bare feet to the floor. 
	
	Bending over, AKA massaged the fronts, then the backs of the lower legs. 
	
	Young Keith Landon's calves were both rock-hard and baby-smooth.  As
were his fabulously lean and shining thighs.  The chest and arms would
undoubtedly be much the same since legs as smooth and hairless as this almost
always portended an equally smooth and hairless upper body.
	
	AKA licked, then kissed, then nibbled at the scarred left knee.  As he
did so, his right hand moved up along the tensed, hard-muscled thigh, reached
the form-fitting boxers, then slid up and over them until his fingers bumped
against the by-now, no-question-about-it, fully aroused, still imprisoned seven
slender inches of Landon joyboy mancock.
	
	Rising up, AKA leaned back, propped himself up on his elbow, then
changing hands, gripped the rod beneath the cloth, squeezed, and looked to see
Keith Landon's reaction. 
	
	The young man's eyes were shut tight, but his face was charged with a
heady combination of shock, resistance, yet undeniable (if totally involuntary)
pleasure. 
	
	AKA flipped around and knelt in the car seat.
	
	Time to see the kid's chest. 
	
	The young cop's eyes immediately fluttered open.
	
	"What?" he murmured.
	
	His head rose up against the neck-restraint.
	
	His eyes darted down to see what AKA was now up to.
	
	AKA began to undo the buttons of the shirt.
	
	 "Please, Mr.                    .  Don't do this.  Please."
	
	The tone of the pleading took a good ten years off Keith Landon.  As a
result, AKA had no trouble at all imagining what he had looked like at fifteen
or sixteen.  He had surely been as hot then as he was now. Even hotter, if you
preferred them younger.  AKA often did, in fact, but not tonight.  No, not
tonight.  This smooth-bodied mid-twenties hunk on the verge of getting married
was exactly what the doctor (or was it the Dark Gods?) had ordered.  AKA had no
complaints, no complaints at all.
	
	"Relax and enjoy it," AKA responded.  "Isn't that what a girl is
supposed to do?  Besides, apart from the fun of it, I'm doing this for a reason,
you know.  By the time we're through, you won't be able to tell a fucking soul
about this.  I mean, imagine if all those macho, pot-bellied old-timers heard
about this!  You'd be out of a job for sure.  Thus, you will forget you ever saw
me tonight, right?"  AKA tugged at the shirtfront.  "Right?"
	
	"Right."
	
	For the first time, it was not so easy to judge young Keith Landon's
sincerity, but AKA suspected that if he should up and decide to let the cop
go--and he actually had let a few go in his time--the young man wouldn't have
the balls--if AKA could use that expression--to go through with the arrest. 
Girls might scream "Rape!" and run to the police, but not your average guy. 
Especially not your average, heterosexual, rookie policeman type of guy!  AKA
would bet the farm on it.    
	
	  He undid the last button and pulled the dark, autumn-thick,
rich-textured cop-shirt open.  Underneath was a sleek, sleeveless, rib-knit
T-shirt and, outlined under it, two flat, firm, perfectly proportioned pecs. 
	
	AKA cupped one, then the other.
	
	"You are one fucking gorgeous guy, you know that?"
	
	The young policeman took a long, deep, noticeably ragged breath.
	
	"Your girl is one lucky piece of ass.  Because you two are already at
it, aren't you?  I mean, nobody these days, not even a straight-as-an-arrow
little Eagle Scout like you, waits till after the wedding to start screwing, do
they?  Do they?" 
	
	AKA reached down and tugged the T-shirt up over Keith Landon's
rock-solid, if not quite six-pack abs.
	
	"And I bet you're one good pussy-pounding motherfucker of a fucker too,
aren't you?"
	
	AKA pushed the T-shirt higher, exposing the full expanse of the stomach,
then the middle-chest, then the firm, hairless, perfectly proportioned pecs
above it. 
	
	"Jesus!  They don't get any better than that, do they?"
	
	Shoving the T-shirt up onto the young cop's neck, AKA dropped his head
and began to mouth the pointy, nickel-wide nipples, which immediately tensed and
hardened.  
	
	"Okay.  Okay.  You've had your fun.  You're right.  I won't tell . . . I
couldn't . . . I couldn't . . . tell about this." 
	
	Then Keith Landon sobbed.  He actually sobbed. 
	
	AKA ignored him and sucked, first one, then the other tasty, pointy
male-hardened nipple.
	
	As he sucked, his hands once again dropped onto the young cop's crotch.
	
	Still hard after all these years! 
	
	As his left hand massaged the long, slim, hard-boned dick still trapped
beneath the smooth white Jockey boxers, AKA smiled against the firm flesh at his
mouth, then tongued the sexy vale between the perfectly molded pecs, then licked
his way up between the hard-ridged collarbones, into the delicate pit at the
bottom of the sweaty, violently pulsing throat, then, proceeding all the way up
to and under the hoisted T-shirt, licked and sucked his way onto the throat
itself, or at least that part of it below the thick, restraining,
not-to-be-dislodged (until AKA wanted it dislodged) leather neck-strap. 

					Part Four
	
	The car slowly heated up.  By the time AKA lifted his head away from
Keith Landon's neck, the windows were completely steamed.  The filmy wash of
perspiration covering the young policeman's neck and face and chest seemed to
catch and hold every ambient glint of the eerily glowing interior dashboard
light.  The prominently pulsing arteries along each side of the velvety, strong,
and now saliva-slimed neck were a real sight to see!  A vampire's wet-dream if
there ever was one!  As a kid, AKA had in fact often wished he were a vampire.
	
	AKA examined the cop's shadowed, sweat-polished face.  Tears glistened
in the dark hollows of the open, staring, no-longer-quite-so-cool
robin's-egg-blue eyes.  Even as AKA gazed, one tear began a slow slide down the
young man's handsomely high-boned cheek.
	
	AKA squeezed the still rampant cock. 
	
	Keith Landon was clearly a sensitive type, in every sense of the word.
	
	Yes, thought AKA, this one's not your typically arrogant, hard-assed
cop.  All the better. 
	
	All the better because the "nicer" the victim was during the course of
THE GAME, the more AKA actually relished the idea of "doing" him at the end.  A
paradox, but true.  Yes, it was exciting (and then some!!!) to have a guy
struggle and kick for all he was worth during the final, end-game part of THE
GAME.  The death-struggle was--let there be no misunderstanding!--the
incomparable, not-to-be-surpassed climax of climaxes!!!  But AKA had never liked
a non-stop, hostility-filled fight from start to finish.  No.  He genuinely
enjoyed getting his victims to relax, to the extent they could.  He even enjoyed
building a weird kind of relationship with them, if possible.  Then, and only
then, did he give them the greatest gift he could imagine giving:  the sexiest
fucking death ever invented by man!  The means might be various--Death does
indeed have many doors, as someone once put it--but the ultimate result was
always the same:  the forced stifling of the breath, the willed cessation of the
heart, the not-to-be-reversed death of the brain.  Fini.  Kaput.  The true peace
beyond all understanding.   
	
	"So let's get a better look at that scrumptious little joystick that
that scrumptious little honey of yours has been sucking on all this time, shall
we?"
	
	"Little" was not the right word, of course.  A trim, but impressively
long rod of manflesh was a far more accurate way to describe the cock that AKA
soon released from its stretch-cotton boxer Jockey confines.
	
	AKA tugged the Jockeys down the legs and off and then, just as he had
done with the rest of the officer's clothing, carelessly tossed the underpants
into the back.
	
	Jesus!  What a beautifully honed and toned masterpiece this guy was! 
AKA was reminded of Michelangelo's David.  Keith Landon was every bit as
perfectly, classically, gorgeously sculpted.
	
	AKA stroked the tops of the marble-hard, but far from marble-cold
thighs.
	
	The popsickle dick waved obscenely in the air above the lightly haired,
cum-tight scrotum.
	
	"You know, they called Dean Corll, the Houston serial killer, the Candy
Man.  Maybe you've heard of him?  I always assumed he got the nickname because
he literally used candy to lure into his house all those poor young kids he
liked to fuck to death.  But looking at this"--AKA sent the dick before him
bouncing with a single thump of his finger--" I wonder if the 'candy' involved
wasn't something else altogether."
	
	Flushing with shame at his continued erection, Keith Landon's
night-darkened face darkened even more.  AKA could see the black-red blaze of
embarrassment flare. 
	
	Well, looked at a certain way, it was rather embarrassing, wasn't it? 
Which is why the guy deserved some kind of compensation, right?   Something to
balance the scales a little?  AKA decided there was nothing for it but to give
him the best kind of compensation he knew.
	
	Thus, without further ado, AKA lowered his head, closed his eyes, and
engorged as much of the long, slim, blood-suffused penis as he could. 
	
	Keith Landon immediately rocked back in the seat and gasped "No! 
Don't!" 
	
	Then he groaned.
	
	There had been a time when AKA had hated giving head.  He had been
pretty bad at it, to begin with.  But time and experience had educated him into
the pleasure to be gained, even for the one who was engineering the pleasure. 
He had improved each time, AKA felt.  Thus, as he now began to make his way back
up the tall slim hard smooth shaft, using every trick in the book to increase
the sensation of ecstasy, however unwilled and even (in this case) unwanted that
ecstasy might be, AKA decided that this bout of fellatio was going to be the
best one yet.  He wanted young Keith the Cop to compare it to all the other head
he had been given in his life--because even Eagle Scouts got head on occasion,
didn't they?--and find every one of those previous experience wanting. 
	
	To intensify the experience, AKA softly, rhythmically tweaked the cop's
balls with one hand while lightly pinching the nickel-round tits on those
perfect Michelangelo pecs with the other.  
	
	Silence reigned the while. 
	
	If, that is, you didn't count the intermittent sound of AKA's
occasionally slurpy upward (or downward) slide.
	
	Young Keith Landon, in any case, did not groan or grunt or comment
again, but the increasing tension in his body, especially the increasing tension
in his long, smooth, sturdily muscled legs, told the story. 
	
	AKA loved making the victim's own body betray him like this.  There was
nothing more humiliating, more intensely guilt-inducing for a straight guy than
to cum like a horse when his studly straight-guy's mind was screaming the while,
"I can't the fuck believe this is happening to me!!!"  Something on that order
must be going through Keith Landon's violated, upstanding, Boy Scout,
all-American brain right now.  But not a single peep of protest or gasp of
pleasure had passed his sensuous, tightly pressed lips since that first,
instinctive, inadvertent outburst. 
	
	When Keith Landon came, it was one huge thick rich mouth-filling
explosion of cum, an eruption which was followed at once by a series of
surprisingly wracking full-body shudders that literally made the young man's
teeth chatter in his head. 
	
	AKA pulled back and gazed.  He had never seen anything quite like it.
	
	"Jesus!" he said, once he got the load of fresh, cream-smooth,
sperm-rich cum down, "do you do that every time?"

					 Part Five 
		
	The young policeman continued to shiver and shake.  If the inside of the
car hadn't been so hot-house hot by now, AKA would have thought it was the
result of his being stripped buck-naked.  Yes, technically, he was still wearing
his dark, long-sleeved, heavy-weave duty-shirt, but it had been unbuttoned and
effectively pushed back off his beautifully toned shoulders.  Yes, technically,
he was still wearing his sexy athletic T-shirt as well, but it remained bunched
high up on his smooth, elegantly tendoned neck.  But nakedness, however relative
a matter, was clearly not the issue.  The on-going body tremors were obviously a
combination of physiological and psychological reactions to what had just
happened to him.       
	
	AKA decided they could both use some cooler, fresher air--shivers or no
shivers.  Given what still lay ahead, the temperature inside the car would only
rise.  Better to cool things off now.  Otherwise, on top of the fifteen minutes
or so it would take to plant the policeman the few feet necessary in the soft
forest earth--assuming that that was how this particular playing of THE GAME was
actually going to end tonight--AKA would have an unnecessarily time-consuming
window-mopping job to do as well.  The point was that the clock was ticking. 
Time did not stand still.  Either for cops or for their killers.  
	
	Wiping the sweat from his brow with one hand, AKA reached for the
automatic window controls with the other and lowered two of the four windows
about three inches each.  A cross-ventilated chill immediately began to make its
way through the interior of the car.  The cold currents were quickly followed by
a variety of suddenly audible outdoor deep-night noises--the rustling of
undergrowth, the creaking of branches, the hootings of a nearby owl.  The only
other sound was the erratic hiss and release of young Keith Landon's still
labored breathing.    
	
	AKA dropped a hand onto the scarred left knee, so far as AKA could tell
Keith Landon's one and only physical flaw.
	
	"So how was that?  The best you ever had?  Tell me that was the best you
ever had."
	
	Landon shifted his eyes in AKA's direction but said nothing.
	
	"I mean it.  Tell me.  Was it?"
	
	AKA squeezed the knee.
	
	"Fuck you."
	
	It came out a low growl.
	
	Despite his manfully clenched jaws, Landon looked his youngest and most
vulnerable yet.  It was as if AKA no longer was able to imagine the cop when he
was fifteen or sixteen, he was actually beginning to look fifteen or sixteen. 
Nudity has a way of taking the years off, of course.  But, despite what people
might think, so does fear.      
	
	"No, fuck you, baby," AKA replied with a grin.  He squeezed the bony,
scar-ridged knee again.  "You ever been fucked, by the way?  You know what I
mean.  Up the ass?" 
	
	AKA shoved a determined, sweat-slick hand under the left buttock.  It
immediately tensed and hardened as the cop pressed down in an unsuccessful
effort to thwart the grope.
	
	"You fuck me and I'll kill you.  I swear I'll kill you."
	
	AKA laughed.
	
	"God!  I wish you guys could be more original!  Do you have any idea how
many times I've heard that stupid threat?  Look, I'm still here, okay."  AKA
lifted his head.  "Isn't there a Sondheim song about that?"  He nodded to
himself.  "Yes, I think there is."  He looked back down at the young policeman. 
"Besides, you can't just go around killing people.  That's illegal.  Even if
they've fucked you.  You're a cop.  You know that." 
	
	Taking a deep breath, AKA gave the aggressively flexed buttock an
equally aggressive squeeze.
	
	"Well, you've had yours, so what good fun can I have in the short time
we have left?" he said.  "Because the truth is we are rather pressed for time. 
Thanks to the season of the year, the sun will come up a little bit later than
usual, but this is farm country we're in here.  Those big, strapping farmboys
get up early, I hear, and I'd really like to be on my way home before anyone
much is on the road.  If I'm not seen, I wasn't here, right?  At least, not
being seen increases the odds is my favor, it seems to me.  If there should ever
be any question about where I was tonight, that is." 
	
	AKA unzipped and released his own cock.
	
	Kneeling up in the seat so that the young cop could see it, AKA once
again impressed by the amount of headroom there was in his car.  The headroom
was yet another reason he had purchased this particular automobile, of course. 
A van--and AKA had had three in the course of his GAME-playing career--was
definitely preferable for real, no-holes-barred, sex-and-violence action, but a
car--at least a car this size--was perfectly suitable for your occasional fun
quick-kill.  The "hot seat" was not only reinforced and outfitted with all the
restraining straps AKA could wish, even the removable seat-covers and floor-pads
were designed to absorb whatever fluids might be involved.  The truth was that
some guys on their way out often either pissed or shat their guts out.  One
simply had to get used to it.  Or, at least, be prepared for it.         
	
	"I like giving the guys I meet choices.  Yours is head or ass.  You can
take it in one or you can take in the other.  I'm game for either, actually. 
There's a kid in the trunk whose ass I had bigtime--several times over
actually--so head would even be nice for a change.  But it's up to you.  You
could think of it as turnabout being fair play?  What do you say?"
	
	Confusion vied with fury in young Landon's face. 
	
	Fury won.
	
	"You put that in my mouth and I'll bite the whole fucking thing off!"
	
	Undaunted, AKA undid his belt and unhooked his pants, further freeing
his cock.
	
	"One kid actually tried to do that once.  I had to go to the emergency
room.  It was very embarrassing, speaking of being embarrassed.  But no serious
damage was done."  AKA pushed his pants and underpants down onto his thighs and
then hoisted his cock in the young cop's direction.  "As you can see. 
Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the kid's dick."
	
	The culprit had been one of AKA's earliest (and youngest) victims.  A
feisty, shaggy-haired fourteen-year old AKA had lured away from an isolated
tennis court with a promise of "some really great grass."  (A bait that AKA had
used, with variable success, on several kids over the years.)  The kid had been
hitting solo on the tennis backboard for half an hour before AKA approached him. 
The seduction was easy, oh so easy.  Partly because they had seen each other
around for several weeks by then, but mainly because of the grass.  What hadn't
turned out to be so easy, however, was the face-fuck AKA had attempted once he
got the boy securely handcuffed in the back of the van.  The kid really had
bitten down for all he was worth.  Fortunately, he had not done much in the way
of chewing or AKA's serial-killer career might have ended hardly before it
began.  Clutching his groin, the blood flowing, his fury rising, AKA had gripped
the kid by his long hair and banged his screaming head against the van floor. 
Bang!  Bang!  Bang!  Then he had bagged the dazed little motherfucker.  While
the carnivorous little asshole bucked and sucked the clear plastic bag's
all-too-soon exhausted supply of oxygen into his all-too-soon airless lungs, AKA
had literally ripped and gnawed the kid's cock and balls free of his convulsing
little body.  AKA could tell when the kid was dead because the blood stopped
flowing.  All too soon, he had thought at the time.  Then set about doing his
best to staunch the flow of his own blood.
	
	AKA didn't know how he knew, but he knew that young Keith Landon would
never carry out the threat he had just made.  It just wasn't something Boy
Scouts did.  Maybe that was it.  Or perhaps it was because AKA detected a deeply
ingrained fastidiousness in the young policeman, a fastidiousness that would
recoil, when push came to shove, at the whole messy (not to mention gory!) idea. 
In any case, AKA was not intimidated.  Far from it.  He was now set on having
the cop blow him.  They could do it easy or they could do it hard, but it would
get done.  That sexy twink mouth with those sensuously full lips just begged to
be plugged with dick, whether it knew it or not.   

				Part Six
	
	
	"So what's it going to be?  Heads or tails?"
	
	The young cop just stared. 
	
	"Can't make up your mind?" 
	
	Silence.
	
	"As I said, time waits for no man."
	
	More silence.
	
	"Okay, then.  You've lost your chance.  I'll just have to choose for
you.  Hmm.  Well, sweet as your tail might be, and I do bet you have a terrific
one, let's just go with heads, shall we?"
	
	Young Landon still made no sound.
	
	AKA nodded as if the silence signified agreement.
	
	"Okay, then."
	
	He lowered the "hot seat" all the way back.  Then, straddling Keith
Landon's bare, trim, sweat-tacky midsection, he gripped the front of the
sleeveless, rib-knit T-shirt with both hands and forced it up and over and then
behind the young man's handsome, hard-boned head.  Once it was in place, the
T-shirt made something of an impromptu neck-pillow that lifted the cop's head up
on an angle that would do quite well for the blow-job, surely young Landon's
first.  At least, in so far as he would be the one giving the head.
	
	Landon finally spoke.
	
	"I swear I'll bite it off.  I swear."
	
	It was a desperate, almost sobbed, but reassuringly unconvincing
protest.
	
	"No you won't, Keith.  Because if you do, I'll make you eat it.  Then
I'll blow your fucking head off with your own fucking gun.  I'm sure I don't
need to tell you what kind of a mess that can make, but I would be angry enough
to do just that.  I would."
	
	The young man's adam's apple jumped like a startled rabbit.  Then it
jumped again.
	
	"You believe me, right?"
	
	Landon's dramatically blinking eyes betrayed the tense inner-debate that
was now underway. 
	
	Then in an almost inaudible voice he said, "If I do . . . what then . .
. after?"
	
	AKA always felt a uniquely uplifting glow at the moment of surrender. 
Even if the cooperation was only temporary--as it very often was--he had won! 
That first surrender could not be undone, no matter how much the guy might fight
to resist his fate later on.
	
	"After?  After, I drop you off a few miles from where we left your
patrol car.  You walk back, get in, drive off--it should still be running--and
forget you ever met me.  That's all.  As I said earlier this evening, I have
never been in trouble with the law.  You now know how serious I am about keeping
it that way."
	
	"I wanna live."
	
	It sounded unbearably sweet in its way.
	
	"Sure you do!  I mean, look at all you've got ahead of you!  In the
first place, there's that nice fiancee you have, your lovely bride-to-be.  And
I'm sure she's both nice and lovely, right?  I mean, a guy like you doesn't
marry a beer-soused bar-hag, does he?  Then there's your promising new job, the
one you've dreamed about having ever since you were nine years old!  And all
that doesn't even take into account the hot water I'd be in if I actually hurt
you in some way.  I know how serious cops get when it's one of their own on the
receiving end.  So relax.  Trust me.  Go with the flow."  As if to emphasize the
point, AKA sank gently back onto Keith Landon's tummy and playfully tweaked a
tit, and not just any tit.  These had to be the sexiest goddamned pair of pecs
he had ever seen on a man.  "I tell you what I'll do," he continued as he
tweaked the other tit, "you try your best to give me the kind of pleasure I just
gave you and I'll finance that honeymoon, just like I said I would.  Five
thousand dollars.  In cash.  No strings attached.  Except the one we've already
agreed on.  That silent-as-the-grave forgetting about everything that's happened
between us tonight."
	
	Young Landon's lips pressed together. 
	
	Then his brow furrowed, to the extent so perfectly smooth a forehead
could furrow.
	
	Then he said, "Okay."
	
	AKA couldn't so much hear the word as read the lips.  That's how softly
the young cop had spoken. 
	
	Outside, an owl hooted.
	
	AKA smiled.
	
	"Great."
	
	With that, AKA squeezed his knees into the sides of the young man's
leanly tapered waist, lifted back up, and braced himself over the policeman's
face.
	
	Just at that moment, a particularly cool and refreshing breeze slipped
through the lowered car window nearest AKA's head.  It brushed along the side of
his hot face and neck as if to encourage him. 
	 
	Young Landon closed his eyes and opened his lips.
	
	With his free hand, AKA positioned his cock and then slowly slipped it
into the hot, wide, wet, receiving dark hole.
	
	Landon's mouth was hot, literally, but the warmth, combined with the
cool, forest-flavored night air that continued to caress the side of AKA's face,
made for a delicious, if unexpected contrast.  The teeth were withdrawn, of
course, but there was, nonetheless, the occasional, inadvertent grating of
strong hard dentals along AKA's sensitively pumping cockskin.  Yet even that
sensation was pleasant, not menacing at all.  Landon even made an effort
(admittedly somewhat clumsy) to use his grainy-warm, satin-wet tongue, which was
nonetheless nicely (even thickly) cushiony. 
	
	There were only two serious gagging spells.  One near the start, one
about half-way through the blow-job.  On both occasions, the young policeman
manfully struggled to get a grip on his gullet and once again took the shaft
down the best he could.  His technique, even for a beginner, was not going to
win any prizes, but the excitement of the situation more than made up for
whatever deficiencies attended the actual performance.
	
	As AKA neared climax, he gripped the sides of young Landon's neatly
trimmed head and held it still.  He wanted to go deeper.  To his credit, Landon
managed to adjust to the new and increasingly faster pumping of AKA's cock.
	
	Yeah!
	
	Yeah!
	
	Yeah!
	
	And AKA came!  A full, body-flushing flood!
	
	The young policeman immediately choked and heaved, but AKA held fast to
his head until the last good gush of jism had gushed, until the last orgasmic
spasm had spasmed. 
	
	Fuck!  That had felt so damned good!
	
	AKA collapsed back onto Keith Landon's abdomen, momentarily forcing the
air from his lungs, which were already gasping to breathe through the thick
cascade of cum filling the throat. 
	
	The young cop once again heaved as if he were going to vomit, but AKA
quickly sealed his mouth with his right hand and commanded, "Don't!"
	
	He didn't.
	
	Like John Wayne Gacy, AKA had unfortunately had a couple of kids drown
in their own vomit.  Both had been gagged, however.  Gags were always a risk
that way, especially if they were too big and you got into anything really
stressful like tit-torture or ball-busting, the very activities AKA had been
rather vigorously involved in in both of those earlier cases.
	
	"Not bad," he complimented young Landon once the last inchoate threat to
heave had subsided.  The kid had done his best.  A few kind words were in order. 
"For a beginner, not bad.  Really." 
	
	AKA had actually begun to think of the policeman as a kid by this time. 
Sans his uniform, sans everything to suggest control over his own destiny, but
especially given his inordinately beautiful, youthful body, he seemed that young
now.
	
	AKA brushed his hand across the "kid's" hot, sweaty brow.
	
	Landon licked his lips, worked his mouth, once again licked his lips,
trying--AKA could tell--to remove, as much as possible, every trace of the cum
that had just flooded his mouth. 
	
	"So," AKA said.  "We need to get you dressed again, don't we?"
	
	The young cop seemed too dazed to hear at first.
	
	"I said, Don't we?" AKA repeated.
	
	Landon finally nodded.  To the extent he could.  The combination of the
thick leather neck-strap and the bunched-up T-shirt-turned-pillow wedged behind
that same neck had reduced the mobility of his head pretty severely.
	
	AKA rose up and began to tug the T-shirt back up over the constricted
head. 
	
	Young Landon actually strained forward in an effort to help the process. 
	
	Getting the T-shirt up took some doing because AKA wanted to make sure
he got the whole shirt up, the back as well as the front.  The more material he
had, he reasoned, the easier it would be to strangle the cop into
unconsciousness.  Because THE GAME was about to take another dramatic turn. 
Unknown to young Keith Landon, of course.

				          Part Seven
	
	
	AKA finally got the T-shirt gripped in both hands right up under the
young policeman's chin.  The neck-strap somewhat awkwardly separated the upper
and lower halves of the shirt, but that only meant that it would provide an
additional asphyxiating anchor once AKA began to press down. 
	
	"I think you pulled the back up as well," Landon said in a voice already
sounding a little strangulated. 
	
	The ever-observant Eagle Scout had apparently registered that AKA had
"made a mistake" in pulling the entire T-shirt back up over his head and assumed
he had not noticed.
	
	"Yes.  I think you're right," AKA replied with a wry smile.  He paused. 
"Actually, Keith, now that I think of it, there's one other thing I'd like to
do."  He paused and smiled again.  "No, two things actually."  A final pause.  A
final smile.  "What the hell!  Make that three."
	
	Landon looked confused, and opened his mouth to reply, but he never got
the chance because AKA immediately lifted up, straightened his arms, braced his
shoulders hard up against the roof of the car, and then bore down on the
elegantly tendoned throat in such a way as to cut off the blood and air flow in
fairly instantaneous fashion. 
	
	By this point in his life, AKA was an expert when it came to putting a
guy under--and quickly.  He could even put a guy under without seriously
disfiguring his face.  That was a goal AKA usually aimed for when the guy was
pretty (like Keith Landon) and THE GAME had not yet run its course, which, AKA
had decided toward the end of the face-fuck, this particular game definitely had
not.  So what if he didn't finish with the cop until close on to sunrise?  This
smooth-skinned, gorgeously toned Michelangelo masterpiece was worth the extra
risk.
	
	AKA's technique was so good that the policeman hardly made any noise at
all, but he did get off two or three fairly fierce kicks--none of which, given
how far back AKA had moved the "hot seat," came close to reaching the
windshield, however, much less breaking it, as in "The Godfather." 
	
	In less than a minute, the young cop had gone rigid.  His spine had
arced and locked.  His legs had stretched, flexed, and held.  His handsome,
fear-startled face had frozen in sweat-drenched, blood-suffused immobility.
	
	The tip of the tongue poked timidly through the marginally thickened
lips. 

	AKA carefully adjusted the degree of pressure on the neck arteries.  

	The glassy eyes hollowed, then bulged--slightly--then darkly webbed. 
	
	AKA adjusted the pressure once again.
	
	A spurt of blood suddenly shot from the right nostril. 
	
	AKA continued to bear down. 
	
	Another spurt of blood shot from the left nostril.
	
	Unable to resist the temptation, AKA pressed slightly harder.
	
	There was a large and third and final spurt of blood from both sides of
the nose. 
	
	Then, not unpleasantly, the nose-prickling odor of fresh urine wafted up
from the car seat.  The highly absorbent material in the special-order
seat-cover would handle most of that, of course.
	
	Then all was still . . . in that stunning stillness unlike any other
stillness in the world.
	
	Young Keith Landon's wildly beating heart, his radically stifled lungs,
his brutally pressurized brain all lurched toward that indescribable moment of
moments when life bowed low in the direction of death, when being dangerously
flirted with non-being, when identity tottered toward complete and utter
annihilation. 
	
	AKA was hard again just from the thought of it. 
	
	He began to count down.
	
	Sixty.
	
	Fifty-nine.
	
	Fifty-eight.
	
	Another minute for the brain to blaze, for the lungs to burn, for the
heart to thump and stutter, for death to loom up and threaten to destroy this
otherwise gloriously fit, at-the-peak-of-its-perfection male human machine.
	
	Then.
	
	Then AKA released his grip on the neck.
	
	For a second, there was nothing. 
	
	Then the smooth, sweat-coated, classically chiseled chest erupted in a
single, explosive, lung-wrenching inhalation.  It seemed to go on for a full
minute, down the wide, desperately stretched, blue-tinged mouth, down the
flared, cyanotic, blood-wet nostrils. 
	
	AKA felt the stiffened legs of the young cop jerk and splay behind him. 
	
	Once. 
	
	Twice.
	
	Then young Landon inhaled a second time. 
	
	A bit less violently.   
	
	Then a third time.
	
	Less violently still.
	
	Then again.
	
	And again.
	
	More normally each time.
	
	AKA sat back.
	
	Good!  The "kid" was going to live, but, just as AKA intended, his brain
was now well and truly blitzed.  For a good ten to fifteen minutes, anyway. 
Even if guys came round faster than that, and some did, they were usually too
dizzy to do more than moan and groan and list and lean like a bad actor's
imitation of a drunk for minutes on end.  A coherent sentence could take as long
as half an hour to produce.
	
	AKA pushed the bunched-up T-shirt apart and undid the neck-strap that
had held his captive so effectively attached to the "hot seat."  Then, shifting
back over onto the driver's side, AKA clutched the young cop by his dark wavy
hair and pulled him forward and down over his loose, knobby knees.  There was a
low, involuntary grunt, but nothing more. 
	
	It took AKA a second to locate the key to the handcuffs, but, once he
had done so, he undid the cuffs and pulled them off.  The young cop's hands
immediately slipped, palms up, off the base of his back, which, AKA noticed,
bore a cluster of angry-looking groove marks where the hard steel of the cuffs
had dug into the skin.  The dark heavy-weave duty-shirt and the thin rib-knit
T-shirt went next.  Once they were freed from the clumsily inert, awkwardly
angulated arms, AKA tossed them up onto the deep, lightly illuminated
rear-window ledge.  Now Keith Landon truly was buck-naked. 
	
	If you didn't count his watch and school ring, that is.  Well, nothing
identifiable should be left on the body.  Just in case it was ever found. 
Besides, the unfortunate advance in modern forensics aside, AKA liked the idea
of guy going out of the world as naked as the day he came into it.  Almost all
of his kills had been given that last, symmetrically symbolic sending off. 
Thus, the ring was soon tugged free, the watch more easily removed.  Both were
then dropped into the tidy little storage-well located between the two seats. 
AKA would dispose of them later, along with the uniform and the socks and the
shoes and the underwear--not to mention the holster and gun and ID-tag and
whatever other cop-related paraphernalia there might be.  AKA had a couple of
internet friends with over-the-top cop fetishes who would just love to get their
hands on some of that material, but AKA knew he would play it safe and dump the
lot.  He was tempting the fates enough as it was.
	
	The young policeman was soon re-cuffed, his hands once again firmly
secured behind his back.  AKA then gripped him by the front of his neck and left
shoulder and hauled him back up and then back down onto the lowered seat.
	
	AKA then bent around and rummaged about for the black stretch socks he
had removed early on.  Once retrieved, one was balled up and shoved into young
Landon's open, sexy-slack mouth, the other pulled to its full extension and used
to make a sturdy tie-gag that would hold the first sock in place.  AKA wanted as
little noise as possible once he got the cop out of the car.  You never knew. 
Some hunter out hunting before the official opening of the season could well be
trespassing on AKA's parents' land.
	
	AKA paused and took stock.  What else?
	
	He flicked the cop's limp, piss-damp dick as he thought.  A few flecks
of golden dashboard-lit urine flew up, glittering, onto the bare, sweat-washed,
night-shadowed chest.     
	
	Should he secure the guy's feet?  No, he decided.  Keith Landon was
going to be unsteady enough long enough that such an additional measure wasn't
needed.  Besides, he would be easier to fuck if AKA could spread those lean,
superbly toned legs of his.

					Part Eight
	
	
	As AKA hauled the latest too-delicious-to-resist offering of the Dark
Gods from his quietly humming, night-shrouded automobile, his mind drifted back
to the previous two times he had come here for this purpose.  He had always been
tempted to bury some of his victims in these dense, abandoned, moss-covered
woods.  From one point of view, what could be safer?  The property was isolated,
owned by his own parents, and eventually would be inherited by AKA himself.  It
seemed like a slam-dunk proposition.  What had made AKA hesitate was the very
same thing.  If a body were ever discovered--having been dug up by a hungry
bobcat or a prowling bear and then stumbled upon by a couple of illegally
trespassing hunters, for example--the link to AKA would be much too direct for
comfort.  That had actually happened to a guy in Minnesota.  Herb
something-or-other.  Good old Herb finally got so casual about his kills that he
simply dragged the bodies out into the woods behind his house and tossed a few
leaves over them.  Nature did take its course.  The bodies disintegrated just as
good old Herb had expected, but his own kid had come upon a telltale human femur
one day and the next thing poor old Herb knew his unsuspecting wife had called
the cops and dozens of police were scouring the property,
inch-by-incriminating-inch.  Besides, the hack-and-pack method of disposal--once
AKA had steeled himself to it--was a much more trustworthy means to the same
end.  You could dispose of a head here, a foot there, an arm or two someplace
else.  All at your own leisure.  You simply kept the carefully wrapped parts
nice and frozen until the spirit of dispersal moved you. 
Then--abracadabra!--after a few quiet trips to this dump or that trash bin,
there was no more body to worry about.  Partly because of the painters, but
mainly just because he just felt like getting it over with this time, AKA had
decided to get rid of hunky young Jorge all in one go, but that was the result
of a rare lack of patience. 
	
	Dismemberment was, however, the last of many possible solutions to the
"body problem" that AKA had experimented with.  Early in his career, with all
the crazy over-confidence of youth, he had simply left the bodies where he
killed them--in a dusty mote-filled barn (his first kill), in their generally
untidy university dorm-rooms (where he had taken his next few victims), then,
after that, in various boyishly cluttered suburban latch-key-kid bedrooms, or in
any number of hustlers' or bar-pickups' ugly city apartments, or in the stall in
an unusually clean interstate restroom on one occasion, or beside a lonely New
England hiking trail on another, or in two big-city public parks at different
intervals, or, finally, along a fairly large number of well-traveled roadsides
(all totally successful "kill-them-in-the-car-then-dump-them-and-go"
operations).  He had buried three guys--including that famous boyband
singer--whole and entire in the sandy Nevada desert.  Four others he had gutted,
weighted, and sent to the bottom of a nearby lake or river--the gutting (it
encouraged the body not to float back to the surface) a trick he had learned
from reading Mark Twain, of all people.  
	
	As the years passed, however, AKA's pattern had been to do more and more
of his kills in the privacy of his own home.  That way, he discovered, he could
really take his time and enjoy THE GAME for as long as his interest lasted.  In
some cases, he had remained interested for several days running.  A week was the
record, but that boy--an emerald-eyed, lithe-bodied bagboy at a local
supermarket--had been uniquely exciting, what with his absolutely
too-fucking-beautiful-to-believe face and a contrastingly combative "tough"
teen--"Don't fuck with me!"--spirit!  Unlike John Wayne Gacy, however, AKA never
considered planting his corpses in the crawlspace.  What a dumb idea that had
been! 
	
	But twice before AKA had in fact brought his kills here, to these
isolated woods, where--thanks be to the Dark Gods!--they still remained,
unearthed and thus undiscovered.  The last time he had checked--it must be over
a year ago now--both hastily hollowed graves--Keith Landon's grave would, of
necessity, be hastily hollowed out as well--had so thoroughly returned to nature
that AKA had actually had trouble locating them.  He was still unsure about the
one.  The sailor's.  What a ballbusting, smooth-skinned, twenty-year-old,
serial-killer's wetdream he had been!  Hitchhiking back to quarters after his
buddies had left him stranded at some funky seaside nightclub or other. 
Beer-soused and butt-friendly, he had been enjoyed to the hilt!  Literally! 
Until, that is, AKA put him down by means of his own military dogtags.  Insert
one modest little steel-hard 12-inch tire-wrench and twist!  It was as easy as
that!  The kid had flipped and flopped about on the floor of the old van AKA had
at the time for a good fifteen minutes before "crossing the bar."  But, then,
AKA had intentionally tried to see how long he could keep Sailor Boy kicking.            
	
	The other guy AKA had planted in these woods was a depressed,
middle-aged, former star college-football quarterback AKA had chatted up in a
gay bar.  It was the guy's first visit to the big city AKA lived near, and he
didn't even know what kind of joint he was in.  Well, it was one of the tonier,
less blatantly obvious gay bars in town.  Of course, the guy's
depression--rooted in on-going wife-troubles, surprise, surprise!--had made him
rather oblivious to his surroundings as well.  AKA had made sure Frank--his name
had been Frank--drank even more than he had intended to in an effort to drown
his woes, then AKA had literally drowned him--after an appropriately athletic
fuck--in a shallow, nearby creek-bed.  Frank was the oldest guy AKA had ever
done, but far from the worst when it came to looks or talent.
	
	Now, cute young Copper Keith Landon was going to join them.  After
having been suitably "released from this life," of course.  But that was only
one of three things AKA had said he was going to do to the young policeman. 
There were two almost-as-exciting preliminary things to accomplish before they
reached that (always dramatic!) final event.
	
	The first was the aforementioned fuck, the brief strangulation in the
car having aroused AKA all over again.  For that reason alone, AKA wasted no
time in pulling his latest and most unexpected GAME victim out of the
car--impressed (and not for the first time) by how heavy a comatose male body
could be. 
	
	Catching the policeman under his hot, moist, virtually hairless armpits,
AKA hoisted him, with his heels haphazardly bouncing and dragging along the
ground, over to a flat, thickly needled area between two tall pine trees.
	
	Despite the lateness of the hour, a full harvest moon was at last on the
rise.  Long shivery slivers of slowly shifting light had begun to work their way
through the otherwise eerily empty surrounding forest.              
	
	A hoot owl hooted. 
	
	A dry twig snapped. 
	
	There was a hectic rustle in the nearby underbrush. 
	
	Otherwise nothing. 
	
	Except the barely audible hum of AKA's still running, now somewhat
distant automobile.
	
	The pre-dawn air was decidedly cold, but refreshingly so.  Particularly
after the virtual steam-bath AKA and his captive cop had generated in the car.
	
	AKA let the young policeman down, then worked him over onto his stomach. 
The legs crossed at the ankle as he did so. 
	
	AKA bent over, unhooked them, and then spread them a suitable distance
apart. 
	
	Jesus!  Keith Landon was as beautiful from the rear as he was from the
front!  Not that AKA had doubted it, but to actually see laid out before him
that perfectly molded milk-white butt, that darker, elegantly tapered
straight-spined back, those broad, flawlessly toned young shoulders and
beautifully muscled upper arms, and, last but not least, those smooth,
splendidly proportioned, athletic-looking legs was enough to justify all of the
risk AKA was taking. 
	
	So what would it be?  A wet or dry fuck?  There was a small jar of
Vaseline back at the car.  Another item in AKA's ever-ready-for-action
serial-killer road-kit.  So it could be wet. 
	
	The cop moaned through the sock-gag.
	
	That determined the issue.
	
	It would be dry, then, because AKA suddenly wanted to hear more moans
just like that one and a dry fuck would be much more likely to produce them.
	
	AKA undid his pants and pushed them down below his knees. 
	
	He then knelt between the slim, neatly spread legs in what felt like an
act of worship.  And in his own strange way he did worship this beautiful
nature-wrought male "divinity" lying prone before him, didn't he?  Not the least
part of the thrill in fact was to kill the "deity" one adored.
	
	Heaving an appreciative sigh, AKA parted the unexpectedly ice-cold
ass-cheeks, located the delicate, inviolate (but soon not to be) bud of an
asshole, and moved in for the actual penetration. 
	
	It took three fairly aggressive, punishing heaves to make it all the way
in.  A deliciously protesting moan accompanied each hard, gut-piercing shove. 
	
	By the time AKA began to pump for real, Keith Landon was fully,
violently conscious of what was happening to him
	
	The young cop immediately did all that he could to buck AKA off.  They
actually moved six or seven feet across the forest floor during the struggle,
but AKA not only stayed atop, he stayed well inside for the full, almost-comic,
bronco-busting way! 
	
	Ride 'em, cowboy!!!
	
	AKA had actually ridden a cowboy in just this way once.  The
sun-bronzed, trail-toughened, twenty-something hitchhiker from big-sky Montana
named Rafe.  Rafe was one of the three guys buried in the sandy Nevada desert.  
	
	This bucking, however, was even more vigorous than "Cowboy" Rafe's had
been.  AKA was surprised.  He had fully expected the policeman's return to
consciousness to come later and be a lot less action-filled, if the truth be
known.  Once again, AKA learned the old lesson.  Each guy was different and
different in totally unpredictable ways.  The uncertainty added no little spice
to THE GAME, of course.
	
	The moaning, however, was as satisfactory as AKA had hoped it would be. 
His own excitement, in consequence, was soon high and mounting.  No pun
intended!  Thus it came as a serious shock when, as hard as it might be to
believe, young Landon did something no force-fucked guy in all of AKA's
considerable experience had ever done.  The cop suddenly shoved his tightly
manacled hands down into AKA's groin in a determined effort to force AKA to
withdraw.  His nails ripped along the sides of AKA's hard-pumping dick, his
fingers tore at AKA's wildly swinging balls. 
	
	It hurt!
	
	And AKA did not like being hurt!    

			 		Part Nine


	"What the fuck?!!  Stop it!!!  Now!!!"

	AKA drew back a fist and banged the policeman upside the head.

	Hard!	

	Young Landon grunted, but not so much in pain as in protest.

	AKA banged the side of the young man's head a second time. 

	The angry, muffled protest continued.

	As did the pushing, tearing action of the steel-manacled hands buried
deep in AKA's groin.

	There was nothing else for it.  AKA was forced to pull out. 

	He tugged the furiously gripping fingers away from his privates and
scrambled up above the cuff-locked arms.  Then, with all the force he could
muster, he sat down on the bare bony center of Keith Landon's awkwardly flexed
upper-back. 

	Gag or no gag, the heavy gush of weight-expelled breath actually stirred
the dense mix of pine-needles layering the ground in front of the young cop's
face.   

	AKA rose and fell a second time.

	Even harder than before.

	More breath burst from the violently compressed lungs.

	AKA reached around and clamped his right hand over the hot, hissing nose
and sock-filled mouth.  Then, placing his left hand on the bone-hard, fever-wet
forehead, he jerked the young cop's head up and then back as far as he could.

	Panicked twisting and wrenching immediately ensued, but AKA held on,
determined to drive his message home.  The message?  You fuck with me and I'll
make things even worse for you than they were, you asshole!

	The policeman's legs and feet thumped and scrabbled in the rich,
autumn-soft earth behind them.

	AKA reared back.

	The neck was actually in danger of snapping now, but AKA didn't care.

	I should break your fucking neck! he thought.

	The radically thrashing legs became, if anything, even more hysterical
in their useless, flailing, toe-scraping motion.

	AKA slowly began to rock the distressed body below him.

	Up and down.

	Up and down.

	As if Keith Landon were some stunted, torso-constricted rocking horse.

	Ride 'em, cowboy!  Take two!

	AKA began to rock faster.

	Up and down.  Up and down.  Up and down.

	The frantic features of the face in his hand suddenly ceased to work.

	The wrenching, back-bent torso suddenly ceased to wrench.

	The hysterically thrashing legs and feet suddenly ceased to thrash.

	Still AKA rocked, his head lifted high, staring straight up into and
then through the moon-silvered branches of the stiff, high-towering pines above.

	Up and down.  Up and down.  Up and down.

	Stars peppered the black canopy of the world.

	They were so beautiful.

	Truly beautiful.

	AKA's cum, when it came, flew up and out across the dark back of the
young policeman's tightly-held head.

	Splat!

	Except there was no sound.

	Not really.

	Just the soft rhythmic crunching of Keith Landon's muscle-taut belly
against the thickly cushioned, autumn-cool forest floor.

	Up and down. 

	Up and down. 

	Up and . . . .

	When AKA let go, the face flopped forward--thunk!--into the mat of
pine-needles.

	AKA banged the side of the inert head one last time.  Just for good
measure.  Then got off.

	Well, that wasn't quite the pleasure he had anticipated, but it had been
an interesting turn of events even so.  It would count.  But once again, the
point was proved.  You could never predict how THE GAME would actually go. 

	AKA pulled up his pants, then re-hooked and zipped them.

	The car hummed in the distance.

	AKA took a deep breath.  He was at last beginning to feel tired.  Really
tired.  He wasn't as young as he used to be.  That was one thing.  But it had
also been a while since he had pulled an all-nighter like this.

	What the hell!  When he got home, he could just load Jorge back into the
freezer and then deal with him anytime.  The painters weren't going to go
rummaging through tightly wrapped packages in a nice man's freezer.   

	The end-game really was in sight now.

	Just those two things left to do--not counting the quick burial--and
homeward he could go. 

	Those two things, unfortunately, required going back to the car.

	But, fortunately, even with the ground-covering struggle Landon had put
up, the car wasn't that far away.

	AKA wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, turned, and retraced
his steps.  Or, to be more precise, followed the trail he had made earlier when
he dragged the unconscious cop's body to the quiet spot between the two pine
trees.  

	He found what he wanted fairly quickly and then made his way back to
where he had left young Landon, face-down, hardly breathing, out-cold yet again. 

	Out-cold yet again?

	AKA had been sure of it. 

	But if young Landon had been out-cold, he had recovered consciousness in
what had to be record time. 

	Because he was not where AKA had left him. 

	Worse. 

	He was not to be seen at all. 

	AKA turned this way, then that way.

	Nothing.  Not a sound.

	What the fuck now?!!!

	AKA squatted and examined the mat of pine-needles.

	It was hard to tell anything, even in the ever-increasing pre-dawn
moonlight.

	It looked like the kid might have gone that way. 

	Maybe.

	AKA stood and moved a few feet in the direction.

	There was sudden crunch and snap behind him.

	He turned.

	And saw the naked, punch-drunk figure of the policeman weaving its way
as straight as it could manage through the intermittent bars of moonlight back
toward AKA's car.  Dizziness was clearly interfering with the effort to make a
direct beeline, but the kid was clearly going to make it to the car before AKA
could reach him.  There was no doubt about that. 

	Shit fucking shit!!! AKA exclaimed to himself.

	And dashed after.

	AKA had left the car door open.  Why not?  .  No one else was around,
and, besides, the interior light was always kept switched.  But what this meant
was that the kid wouldn't have to struggle to get it.  Another advantage he had. 
The question was, when he got in, would he be able to close the door, then
locate and press the door-locks before AKA could stop him?  If AKA wasn't able
to prevent that, would he then get behind the wheel and somehow try to drive the
thing away?  Could he do that?  But how could he do that, handcuffed behind his
back the way he was? 

	A surreal scenario in which all of those things nonetheless happened
galloped across AKA's madly racing brain.          

	Keith Landon only had a few feet to go when he slipped once, then again,
then lost his balance, tilted, spun about, and tumbled to the side.  

	He hit the earth with a noisy whop!, strained to right himself, failed,
then painfully, slowly, rolled over onto his back. 

	By then, of course, AKA had reached him.

					     Part Ten


	"Did you really think you were just going to hop in the car and drive
off, handcuffed like that?"

	AKA slammed the butt of the pistol he was holding in his right
hand--Keith Landon's own pistol--into the cop's left temple.

	"Did you?"

	AKA struck the young officer a second time on the same sore spot.

	Landon's right leg kicked out in reaction to the pain.

	With the knife he was holding in his other hand--AKA's own knife, one of
a set of three he kept in the car--AKA flicked at the young man's tits--those
the-most-beautiful-AKA-had-ever-seen-on-a-guy tits of tits.

	Landon tried to flinch away, but AKA followed the movement, catching the
razor-sharp point of the knife right on the sweet pointy peak of the right one.

	A tiny bubble of blood sprouted like a small liquid ruby.

	"I say when this is over.  Haven't you understood that yet?"

	AKA once again nicked the tip of the tit.

	More blood sprouted.

	He lowered the knife to the genitals and lifted the left testicle with
the flat of it.

	"How many useless babies had you planned to make with this, I wonder?"

	AKA pulled the knife away.

	The testicle dropped.

	"Or with this one?"

	AKA jabbed the point of the knife at the other testicle.

	Landon attempted to pull his legs up.

	"Don't!" AKA ordered.

	The young cop froze, then steeled himself to lower his legs again.

	AKA bopped the butt of the knife along the length of the slim, rosy,
touch-tender penis.

	"You really need this, though, or it doesn't matter how packed with
sperm your furry little balls are, right?"

	The young man trembled, a combination shiver and shake.

	Rising up, AKA swung a leg across Landon's body and--facing the bare,
earth-soiled, heaven-pointed toes of the young man's long, slender feet--settled
down onto his terrific (even if not-quite-six-pack) abs.

	AKA lay the gun on the ground beside him and playfully coddled the cock
and balls.

	"This is a beautiful set.  Your fiancee has told you that, I'm sure."

	AKA cupped his hand under the perfectly matched, plum-soft pair of
testicles and lifted them up.  The slim, flaccid penis rose up as well.

	"Let me see.  There's gelding, properly understood, and then there's
complete genital castration.  But you already know that, I'm sure.  Hmmm.  Which
shall it be, I wonder?"

	AKA tapped the balls.  First one.  Then the other. 
	
	Then he drew the dull edge of the knife along the base of the
fear-shrunken dick.
	
	Young Landon's trembling intensified.
	
	"It doesn't actually hurt that much, you know.  I mean I haven't really
done it that often--only twice before in my life, to be exact--but I know from
those two experiences that there's a pretty sharp initial burn, then, fairly
quickly apparently, hardly any pain to speak of at all.  That's not really so
bad as torture goes.  It's mainly the idea of it that hurts, I guess, not the
actual emasculation itself.  That's what both of those other guys told me
anyway.  Once they found their tongues again, that is."
	
	AKA switched the knife to his right hand and grappled to grip the root
of the genitals with his left.
	
	Landon's legs flexed along the ground in fear.
	
	His tensed thigh muscles visibly bulged.
	
	"So.  What do you think?  Shall we count to three?"
	
	AKA glanced over his shoulder at the up-tilted, moon-lit, terror-filled
face behind him. 
	
	If eyes could scream, those two blue robins' eggs would be screaming
bloody murder right now.  No question about it.
	
	But then that's exactly what was happening, wasn't it?   Bloody murder,
that is.
	
	AKA generally had an aversion to blood--in large amounts, anyway--but,
for whatever reason, he had decided to make an exception on this occasion.
	
	"One."
	
	AKA felt even more of Keith Landon's body freeze.
	
	"Two."
	
	There was a ragged intake of breath. 
	
	AKA felt the young cop's diaphragm vibrate underneath him.
	
	He tightened his grip on the base of the genitals, pulled the appendage
as far away from the body as he could, and flipped the knife to the sharp edge.
	
	"Th . . . ."
	
	Landon's bone-locked body suddenly heaved like an earthquake.
	
	AKA, just as the young cop had hoped, tumbled right off.
	
	AKA had expected this actually.  He was even hoping for it in a way. 
Surely the guy wouldn't just lie there and let AKA cut his cock and balls off!
	
	AKA adroitly rolled to his left, the knife clutched safely in his
quickly extended hand.
	
	He actually took his time getting up.  After all, Keith Landon wasn't
going anywhere.  AKA was sure of that.  Besides, if he did make another mad dash
for it, there was always the gun.  Not that AKA really wanted to risk the sound
of pistol reports, even in this isolated place, but necessity was often the
mother of necessity--forget the invention part.
	
	Thus, AKA was both surprised and rather impressed, to be honest, when he
came about and saw young Landon doing his damnedest to get the gun, which AKA
had laid on the ground near the cop's right hip, into his frantically grasping,
back-bound hands. 
	
	Poor Keith nearly managed to do it too.  Another second and AKA could
have found himself doing a weird knife vs. gun death-dance in which his
awkwardly handcuffed opponent tried his best to aim the gun from somewhere near
the base of his spine while AKA, opposing knife in hand, circled to close in on
him from the front.
	
	As it was, AKA's solidly soled shoe caught the desperate, squatting
policeman in that same sore temple he had been battered about before.
	
	The gun went flying, and so did Landon.
	
	AKA moved forward three steps and kicked him a second time.
	
	Right in the stomach.
	
	The young cop grunted through his gag--a fine, satisfyingly deep grunt! 
	
	Then he looked as if he was going to retch, but somehow caught his
breath and gulped the badly churning bile back down.
	
	He slowly turned onto his stomach, agony filling his face.
	
	It was just what AKA wanted him to do.
	
	Like some kind of sleek, white-assed, humanoid worm the young cop began
to inch his way across the flat, crunchy, leaf-covered ground. 
	
	They were no longer under the pine trees.  Oaks rather, AKA thought.
	
	AKA followed along behind for a moment, then bent down, caught a
slender, hard-boned ankle in the act of flexing, and stopped the halting,
half-hearted progress altogether.
	
	Landon's barely lifted head dropped.
	
	His slim body went limp, all ability to resist apparently gone.
	
	For the second time this night, AKA knelt and spread the beautifully
toned, athletic young legs. 
	
	For the second time this night, he moved in on the beautifully mounded,
moon-candied ass.
	
	But the ass was not his target.
	
	Yet.
	
	No, it was the cock and balls trailing underneath on the ground in the V
made by the cop's inert, sweat-washed thighs that AKA wanted.
	
	For the moment.
	
	He reached forward, once again gripped the genitals at their root,
stretched them back and up as far as he could, brought the knife in, and . . .
sliced.
	
	It took three strong strokes to remove them altogether.
	
	Three strong strokes accompanied by three--gag or no gag--barely stifled
screams.
	
	There was always something disagreeable about a guy screaming like a
girl.  AKA had never gotten used to it, but there were just some things you had
to put up when you played THE GAME for real.
	
	The screams ceased, and muffled sobs filled the void.
	
	But only half the job was done.
	
	AKA plopped the severed genitals in the bony indentation at the base of
the young policeman's spine.  They were contained quite nicely there.
	
	He then spread the smooth ass-cheeks--those still muscle-tense, ice-cold
ass-cheeks--located the recently violated, if not fully fucked asshole and drove
the knife into it.
	
	To the hilt.
	
	It was as if young Landon had been given a big fat jolt of electricity,
but then the knife was a fairly thick, wide-bladed affair.
	
	AKA pulled it out and then drove it in again.
	
	The sound young Landon now made was more in the way of a full-lunged,
animalistic bellow. 
	
	That's much better, AKA thought.  Much more manly than those earlier
girlish screams.
	
	He drove the knife in a third time, held it, then twisted.
	
	Landon jerked and fainted, his body flattening along the ground like a
balloon that had suddenly lost all of its air.
	
	AKA worked the knife in and out several more times.
	
	First this way.
	
	Then that way.
	
	Then he picked up the severed cock and balls, brought them to the now
thoroughly ensanguinated foliate rose of the no-longer-quite-so-virginal
asshole, and proceeded to push them in.
	
	"You wouldn't let me fuck you, so you can just go fuck yourself," AKA
said.
	
	And laughed.
	
	Not that loudly, but with considerable satisfaction even so.
	
	AKA then wiped his bloody hands along the tops of his pants-leg.  He
would ditch the pants later on.  They were an old pair anyway.
	
	AKA got to his feet.
	
	The time had finally come to hollow out that special third forest spot
for the young policeman.
	
	The kid was far from dead, of course, but he was certainly well on his
way now.
	
	In addition to all the other things AKA stocked in his always
ready-for-action serial-killer kill-car, a short (but totally adequate for the
purpose) shovel was tucked away in the trunk.  It took a bit of doing to free it
from the uneven pile of packages that constituted the tidily dismembered whole
of hunky young Jorge, but once that was done, AKA returned to the quiet spot
between the two tall pines where he had first dragged the cop, pushed the thick
layer of pine-needles aside--in order to clear a more-or-less six-by-three-foot
space--and began to dig.  
	
	He had clearly gotten a second wind.  Fortunately.  Otherwise, the work
might have been more than he was up to at this point.  It had been an
unexpectedly long and challenging night by any standard.  But, once again, the
forest soil proved agreeable, the soft earth generously dark and moist and
giving, and in fifteen minutes--at the max--the shallow grave was dug.
	
	Only the last heavy-duty task remained. 
	
	To drag the young (and all-too-foolish!) cop to his final (at least, AKA
certainly hoped and trusted it would be!) resting place. 
	
	It's not such a bad deal really, AKA thought as he returned to the still
comatose body lying near the still humming car.  To be returned to the bosom of
Mother Nature in such a peaceful forest setting?  What more could a guy ask for?   
	
	AKA knelt and undid the cuffs.  He tossed them toward the car.  He would
pick them up when he got ready to leave.  The same with the socks he had used to
make the gag.  They came off as well.  They too were tossed in the direction of
the car.
	
	Then, grabbing young Landon by his ankles, AKA hauled him face-down back
over the now twice-traversed ground to the shallow, waiting pit AKA had prepared
for him.
	
	"You should really thank me for this," AKA said into the vaguely clearer
near-dawn dark.  "So you married, had a few babies, grew old, got fat, and then
died quietly in your bed.  What a bore!  Truly.  Or, worse, say you ended up
getting your cute face blown off by some piss-mad whisky-drunk husband during a
wretched little domestic dispute.  What an ignominious way to go!  I mean it. 
But this!  To go out this way!  Think of the pleasure--the ultimate in
pleasure!--this has been!  I mean that!"
	
	Once Landon's body was parallel to the grave, AKA dropped the legs, bent
down, and rolled the cop in.
	
	He landed on his face in a fairly tidy line.  AKA did have to lean
forward and adjust the arms a bit.  The left one straightened out down the left
side of his body easily enough, but the right one (which was more recalcitrant
for some reason) AKA finally just bent at the elbow and tucked up in front of
the cop's bloody, heavily hissing nose.  The legs, on the other hand, were
perfectly straight, the blood-gashed rump the only visibly disfigured thing, if
you didn't count the bleeding nose.  Of course, if the body had landed on its
back, there would have been the old scar on the knee and the new hole where the
genitals had been.  But, all things considered, even in this condition, Officer
Keith Landon--the Eagle-Scout, Michelangelo-gorgeous
finest-in-Podunk-law-enforcement--still looked unbelievably "hot."  But, then,
he had always been that kind of guy, the kind who always look so fucking good,
no matter what they wore!  Or, in this case, didn't wear!  AKA had seen that
from the start. 
	
	AKA lifted the shovel and began to cover the body.
	
	The kid was indeed still alive.
	
	But that was okay.
	
	He soon wouldn't be.
	
	AKA started with the feet and moved up. 
	
	Should I whistle while I work? he wondered with an ironic grin.
	
	The handsomely muscled calves disappeared.
	
	Then the smooth, sweat-shiny thighs.
	
	The palely glowing ass-cheeks went under next.
	
	Along with the garishly gashed, obscenely filled asshole.
	
	Then AKA moved on to the slim, flawless, beautifully tapered back.
	
	Then the broad, attractively toned shoulders.
	
	Then the long, elegantly tendoned neck.
	
	Finally, AKA reached the head. 
	
	He paused and sighed.
	
	The head was turned on its side, facing right.
	
	It was almost sad to think that such superior young male features were
about to disappear from the world forever, but--hey!--you couldn't have your
cake and eat it too.  That--like many another cliche AKA had come across in his
life--had a lot of truth to it. 
	
	AKA covered the head.
	
	Once that was finally accomplished, AKA filled in the cracks, made the
mound, tapped the whole thing down, and hurriedly covered it with a thin layer
of forest-pungent pine-needles.
	
	Satisfied at last, AKA straightened up, stuck the shovel in the ground,
and briefly leaned on it. 
	
	In order to take a final look. 
	
	In order to make a final assessment.
	
	Yes.  It looked good.  Certainly as good as the other two graves had
looked at this point.  Maybe even better. 
	
	The rest was now up to Mother Nature.
	
	AKA and the Dark Gods had done their part.
	
	AKA took a deep breath and prepared to turn away.
	
	Imagine his surprise, then, when the ground in front of him moved!
	
	Jesus fucking Christ!
	
	It moved again!
	
	Fuck!  The cop was actually trying to rise from the dead!
	
	It was just like something out of a bad horror movie!
	
	The shoulders--it had to be the shoulders--were clearly shoving upward
in an instinctive effort to break through the all-too-recently-packed foot of
earth.
	
	They would have succeeded too.
	
	That is, if AKA had not moved forward and stepped straight up and onto
them.
	
	They immediately sank.
	
	It might have been a trick of the ear, but AKA was almost certain he
heard a muffled, earth-locked cry emerge from the ground below him at the exact
same moment. 
	
	Don't you know you're supposed to die, you fucking little
motherfucker??!!
	
	AKA moved one foot forward to where he guessed the head was.
	
	The earth gave.
	
	Good! 
	
	AKA shifted about until he felt he was fully on-target.
	
	Yes!  That did it!  He could tell!
	
	AKA looked over his shoulder. 
	
	For a moment there was nothing, then the whole newly-carved
six-by-three-foot plot cracked and shifted--a little here, a little there.
	
	In addition to seeing, AKA could actually feel the frantic, constricted,
subterranean struggle now underway underneath him.
	
	Suddenly the earth rippled a few inches to the right of his right foot.
	
	An untidy clump of pine-needles buckled up into the air.
	
	What the fuck?!
	
	First the tip of one finger, then three fingers, then all five
desperately-stretching digits emerged. 
	
	They were quickly followed by the back of a lean, soil-covered,
upward-striving hand.
	
	Another moment, and the dirty wrist appeared. 
	
	Then--believe it or not, Ripley!--a few inches of begrimed lower arm.
	
	Give it up, kid!!!  Give it the fuck up!!!
	
	AKA shifted both feet to where he was certain the head was and bounced.
	
	He bounced again.
	
	Then again.
	
	The hand suddenly jerked, all five fingers flexing to the limit. 
	
	Then--in one slow curl--the eerily exposed fingers quietly closed in on
themselves. 
	
	AKA stood and waited, his feet firmly planted on the spot that had
finally done the trick.   
	
	He stood that way until he was certain.
	
	Then he stepped away.
	
	What a scream! he thought.  What a bloody fucking scream!
	
	Squatting down, ignoring the slight ache in his back, he quickly
re-buried the absurdly protruding arm. 
	
	The skin was distinctly warm, even hot to the touch.
	
	Nonetheless, dust to dust and ashes to ashes, AKA silently intoned as he
brushed the soil back over it.
	
	When he was finished, he patted the newly restored earth three times,
then stood back up.  Once again ignoring the slight aches and pains all the
recent exercise had engendered.
	
	The dead would now--surely--keep their dead, right?
	
	Forever and forever?
	
	AKA--that Also-Known-As whom oh-so-many-police in oh-so-many-parts of
the country oh-so-wanted to catch (there would now be even more on the hunt as a
result of this night!)--prayed a serious (if unconsciously silent) "Amen."
	
	
	  			      THE END

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