Randy and Walter: Killers Part 1

RANDY AND WALTER.

KILLERS.

TRISTAN SLAUGHTER.

Foreword.

Fire.

Fire can come from anywhere, from anything; it can burn everything and everyone.

The fire of pa.s.sion, the fire of anger, of hatred, of disgust, revulsion, seclusion, obscurity, obscenity.

Any man can start a fire, any man can keep it going, anyone can feel the burn, anyone can taste the ash and everyone can feel the same... but it takes a true man to put it out.

Truth doesn't always mean good; sometimes truth can be evil, can't it?

We see now don't we?

Just how disillusioned we are...I wonder, is there any truth left in the world?

Or is there just fire?

In retrospect, perhaps the fire is the truth... Think about it, and while you do that, wonder: Is it truly evil to be oneself? Is evil even true?

Do you really and truly care?

Somehow... I doubt it.

Tristan Slaughter.

August 2009.

Chapter 1.

The white wooden door slammed closed behind Randy Barcer. Sunlight stung his eyes as they adjusted to the bright light around him. He had spent too much time in the dark, been a bit too cruel. It was now over though; it didn't matter anymore. The screams of pain and anguish had long since pa.s.sed, along with the sounds of his pleasure and rage. He hadn't meant to be so cruel or so vicious, but it was done now.

He would return at night and clean up the mess.

For now, though, the little coffee shop six blocks away called his name. He could drive, but why waste the gas? Besides, he needed the fresh air and the long walk. Perhaps on his way past the school he would spot something pretty.

I need to repaint the house, was his only thought as he descended down his wooden, rickety front steps. The wood beneath his feet was splintered and stained with past fluids. The white paint covering the house was cracked. There were a few spots that had begun to turn a greenish color. The concrete blocks in the ground, which were the path to the public sidewalk, were no prettier. The color of the blocks was fading and the edges were becoming gravel.

Maybe I'll replace the blocks also, he thought to himself as he walked towards the street.

Once he reached the street, he turned right onto the sidewalk, beginning his trek towards the school and the coffee shop. He checked the time on his wrist.w.a.tch and saw that it was 7:30 a.m.

The perfect time for coffee and a perfect time to see some pretty things. Right now they would all be standing around outside, waiting for their day to begin.

Careful though, he thought, some of the elders are getting suspicious. Through years of hunting his precious prey, Randy had never even come close to being caught, despite the fact that he'd done it on the same street at the same school for several years. Eight years to be exact. Eight years of hunting and searching, of torture and s.e.xual humiliation.

Looking back now, he remembered exactly when everything began. It had all begun with his daughter, Georgia Lynn Barcer. She was so precious and beautiful, so innocent.

It had turned him on, made him hard for her.

When he f.u.c.ked his wife, he'd pictured his daughter. In the shower he would rub himself to the mental image of his sweet, sweet daughter. The ideas and feelings intrigued himaand scared him. As time pa.s.sed, the fear he felt dissipated and all that was left was the intrigue that plagued his mind and body like a parasite. Then one day, she came home early, with no mother in sight.

Randy had been lying in bed when he'd heard the door close, then he'd heard her voice calling for someone announcing her return home. He answered and asked for her to come into the bedroom.

Now, as he walked down the chilly street, he felt his member stiffen against his leg as he remembered the memorized encounter.

Georgia stood in the doorway, staring at her father as he lay in bed, her face puzzled as to what exactly he wanted. He patted the spot next to him and motioned for her to come and lay with him. Her puzzlement became fear and she turned to walk away.

Randy had became infuriated, feeling betrayed and alone. He just wanted to touch her, he wanted her to understand what she meant to him. But no, she didn't care about his feelings, just like his b.i.t.c.h of a wife. He pounced then, not caring that he was nude.

Randy pounced onto his daughter like an animal, his hands wrapping around her small throat. He slammed her head into the bedroom door and then into the wall. Blood flowed freely, spilling onto the floor and across his genitalia. He remembered he'd liked the feeling.

Randy slid his hand into his pocket and slowly stroked his member through the hole in the material as he thought back to that wonderful day.

Georgia's skull was crushed; he'd destroyed it completely. He had slammed it onto the hardwood floor dozens of times as he slid his d.i.c.k in and out of his daughter's pink, bleeding orifice. She never had time to scream, she hadn't made a noise, and that angered Randy even more. She was no longer pretty or precious. Now she was ugly and destroyed. He'd killed his daughter then, and enjoyed every second of it.

Right now he yearned for it, yearned for her, and stroked himself remembering her as he walked down the street towards his destination.

But the images were in his head now and they wouldn't go away. The scream came suddenly without warning. Randy looked up to see his wife, her face frozen in horror at the ghastly sight. He couldn't help but smilea aand he smiled now.

He never heard the door open, or anything else. But now he heard her gasps for air, her tears strike the floor; then he heard her yell something else.

"You f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

The fear had given way to anger. She was running at him full speed but he never flinched, never moved, he just kept smiling. He knew how weak she was, how pathetic and stupid. He stood quickly and put out a hand. She ran into it and fell down onto the floor, in front of their now dead daughter. Naked and still hard, Randy stood silently over his wife; staring at her, searching for a meaning she would never have and he would never understand.

He straddled his wife's chest and began to punch her in the face. After a few punches, her face was a bleeding mess of destroyed flesh and bone, but still she lived. He grabbed her by her jaws and opened her mouth.

His hand stroked violently as he walked down the sidewalk, feeling the sensation of pleasure run throughout his body.

The lower half of Randy's body s.h.i.+fted forward so his d.i.c.k stuck into his wife's mouth. She may have known what was going to happen but was powerless to resist him. He began to f.u.c.k her mouth, going as deep as possible; deep into her throat. She made violent gagging sounds and he felt something wet was.h.i.+ng his d.i.c.k, probably vomit and blood. He didn't care; he just got more violent, more intense. He could feel the sensation coming to him. His wife had died vomiting; so what was wrong with a little sticky c.u.m in the throat added to the rest? He lifted his head and cried out in blissful ecstasy. He was finished. He slowly got to his feet and looked around the room, now covered in blood. He smiled to himself, knowing from this point on, he would do this to countless women and young girls forever.

He smiled to himself now as he reached the school.

The precious little ones were walking around the schoolyard. They were laughing and talking and thinking of nothing in particular. None of them even suspected the weird man standing at the school gates of beingasick.

Randy's hand was still in his pocket, gently stroking himself through the hole in the material.

His smile widened when he saw her, the little red-haired girl. So young and sweet, so innocent and beautiful. Oh yes, she would be his. Whether or not she wanted to be, she would be. For now though, he had to keep walking. The coffee shop still called his name. Before he left the schoolyard gates, Randy lifted his head and closed his eyes, his mouth widening a bit; the pleasure of his e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n clinching his muscles.

His sperm ran down his legs and stained his jeans but he didn't care.

Randy then walked on towards the coffee shop, blissful but ignorant.

And he was ignorant of the man standing not very far from him, watching him ever so closely.

Caruthers Coffee shop stood perched on the corner of an intersection. The decrepit three-story building beside it was a library long due for retirement. Still, it dwarfed the little coffee shop beside it.

Randy had been visiting the shop for years, at times spending countless hours alone. Just as he did now, sitting alone at a table next to a window while sipping his tasty coffee. He was watching the women go by, the women and the girls. All of whom he undressed with his eyes. Once again his erection sprouted as he enjoyed the view. Some of the girls were blondes, others were brunettes, but he had yet to see his favorite.

That is until she walked by. The little girl with bright red hair and freckles that covered her face. She was so innocent and sweet she unknowingly enticed his appet.i.te.

Randy stood and paid for his coffee and put a five-dollar bill in the tip jar, smiling at the woman at the counter as he did so. Then he left to follow the red-haired girl.

She was walking mighty fast, so fast that at times he had to run to catch up to her.

Behind him was the watching man, following Randy as he followed the girl.

Then Randy took a side alley, one that could place him in front of her if he was fast enough. A slob of drool appeared on his lips and he licked it away. The thought of the girl was antagonizing. He wanted her; he wanted to treat her as he had his daughter.

Randy broke off into a sprint through the alley, hoping to appear in front of her and catch her off guard.

Then he heard the pop and stopped dead in his tracks. His chest was leaking something hot and sticky. He looked down to see a gaping hole in his chest and fell to his knees.

Behind him, the watching man continued to point the gun at Randy. He wasn't going to give him a chance. The man walked around Randy and stood in front of him and then looked him right in the eyes.

Randy looked into the man's eyes and saw a fire in them that quelled his own. This man was here out of pure hatred. This man was after revenge. For what though? Randy didn't know this man; he had no beef with him.

Then, the man spoke and put a nightmare in Randy's head that would never be quieted.

"You may not know me, but I know you. I've watched you and hated you. You've tormented children and my daughter was one of them. Do you even remember her name? You don't do you? You don't even know her name."

Randy's eyes began to roll in his head, the world around him spinning.

Yet, a name came to his mind. He wasn't sure why, but it was there and he answered the question.

"Tiffany."

For a second the fire dimmed in the man's eyes, but then it relit, ten times as bright as before. Once more Randy could see that this man's madness exceeded his own.

"Yes, that's right. My daughter's name is Tiffany. But you took that from her, just as you took her virginity and her life. She was only eight years old." A single tear dripped down the side of the man's cheek as he spoke, "Her birthday was today. Today, d.a.m.n you! And you took her life. You tortured her for three days before finally killing her."

Curious that this man knew this, as her body, as far as Randy knew, was still lying in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his home.

Randy replied, smiling, "Not three days. Three hours."

The man seemed not to hear this statement as he said, "You want to know how I know all this, don't you. Well, do you? He wanted me to tell you. He wanted you to know who it was that signed your death warrant."

Randy smiled and closed his eyes; he knew the answer now. His own dear brother had done this, he was the one who had finished him. After everything, he'd won. Walter had kept his promise. His threat hadn't been empty.

"Walter told me. He also told me where to find you. And there's one more thing. He wanted me to tell you that he always knew and never cared. He just wanted you to know that before you died."

Over the years, Randy had cried over several things and now he started to cry once again. After hearing what Walter had to say he just couldn't help it. The tears flowed freely. Then, as the man put the gun to Randy's forehead, he had one last thought.

He saw his daughter's face and she was smiling at him. Then she frowned and turned her back on him; and he knew why.

Then the gun exploded and everything went black.

Randy Barcer was born March 17, 1979. His childhood was a sheltered one. His father had run out on his family years ago and his mother had become nearly insane. She was an alcoholic and a multiple drug user. Outside the home, however, she hid her problems from everyone else. She posed as a devout Christian woman, always attending her Baptist Church whose name was New Hope. It was, of course, all an act. When they got back home from church, her temper would flare. She called all her friends worthless; she called the preacher a fiend. In fact, he was a fiend. This, Randy found out the day he was invited to the preacher's office, supposedly to talk about G.o.d. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

You could say they talked about G.o.d, that is if G.o.d allowed a man such as the preacher to exist. Which for some reason, He did. Randy always questioned that up until the day he decided G.o.d didn't exist. The preacher had helped with that the night he came to his house. His mother had brought him, thinking it was just for wors.h.i.+p, or maybe she knew and didn't care.

That night the preacher had been really drunk, he talked Randy into drinking with him. At eight years old he was easily controlled. He didn't know what the drink was, but it was strong. So strong it almost made him puke. But he didn't puke. Before he knew what had happened, the preacher had grabbed him and demanded him to undress before him. Randy, drunk and scared, did as he was told. He would always remember that night, and he would always curse G.o.d for it.

If He existed, he hoped He heard it.

After that night, Randy couldn't sit for close to a month, and his mother never asked him why.

Then one day after coming home from school, his mother changed. When Randy walked into the door, she grabbed him and kissed him. She began to apologize and told him how he was the only man she needed. If only he knew exactly what that had meant, if only he knew that for the next six years, he would be his mother's plaything.

Something to do so she wouldn't be lonely.

That afternoon, Randy received his first b.l.o.w.j.o.b. A violent one at that. His mother left bite marks on the sides of his p.e.n.i.s. The pain was excruciating, but at the same time, Randy began to like it. After several months of practices such as that one, the two became nearly inseparable. He was fifteen when he stopped going to school and she stopped leaving the house.

In fact, the pair never left the house. They usually just stayed inside watching movies and cuddling together on the couch. Afterwards they would retreat into the bedroom and make love, if you could call it that, for hours upon hours.

Then, one day, something changed. They were cuddling on the couch as they usually did when suddenly his mother yelled for him to get away from her. Confused and unsure as to what was wrong, he obediently did as he was told. She told him to leave, so he did.

Randy walked the cold streets alone for several hours before finally deciding to head back home. When he got there, he immediately knew something was wrong. Someone was there, someone's car was in their driveway. His mother didn't have a car, so who was here? Curious, Randy went in and almost fainted when he saw who it was and what he was doing. The preacher was in the living room, his mother bent over the coffee table, her legs spread apart and knees shaking, her moans impressively loud.

The preacher looked at Randy and winked, his smile showing his yellow-stained teeth. His naked body showed an amazing display of muscles working as he jabbed himself into his mother. Randy closed his eyes, wanting to hide from the sickening sight and walked towards his bedroom, tears close to pouring. He was able to hold them off until he was safely inside his bedroom.

Randy slid onto his bed, weeping, slamming his fists into the pillows. It wasn't really because of his mother; it was because of the preacher. This man had once again raped him, stole from him the one thing he truly loved. That was truly unforgivable. He promised himself right there that he would have his revenge; the preacher was going to pay and so was his mother for betraying him.

Randy lifted his head from his soggy pillow and smiled to himself. He would have his revenge, tomorrow. For now he would sleep, but not before he had one more look. He crept out of his room and into the living room. His back was pressed tight against the wall as he slowly snuck closer to the sound of his mother's moans. When the dark hallway ended, Randy peered around the corner and sneered.

His mother's long, blonde beautiful hair was wrapped around her face and was stuck against her sweating b.r.e.a.s.t.s as she rode on top of the preacher, who was lying upon the wooden coffee table. His hands felt their way to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and squeezed them and pulled. Their cries of pa.s.sions entangled as each enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. Randy turned around and went back to his room with tears in his eyes and a smile on his face.

Randy awoke with the sun in his eyes and wind slapping him in the face thanks to an open window. He yawned and got to his feet; today his revenge would come. He walked out into the hallway and went into the kitchen. He poured himself some juice and drank it quickly. When he was done, he walked into the living room, but it was empty. There was no sign of anyone ever being in the room. Confused, he looked around quickly then ran into his mother's room and gasped.

Nothing. Nothing and no one at all was in the room.

Except a single white piece of paper in the middle of the room where her bed should have been. On it was a note that simply said in large black letters, I HAD TO LEAVE.