Master of Hell Mountain

By Andrea D’Allasandra

Finally, she meets Mr. Right . . . sizzling, mysterious Sam Donovan. But when he takes the new bride to his remote mansion atop Hell Mountain, she becomes prisoner in a sadistic world of sex, torture and murder. Only too late does she realize that her husband is an escaped sexual psychopath, dubbed by the FBI as the most evil and sexiest guy in the world! He is the MASTER OF HELL MOUNTAIN!

"This latest shocker from an author who is fast becoming the supreme Queen of terror and suspense races along at hurricane pace, completely hypnotizing the reader with its extraordinary tale of sex, evil and characters youll never forget! Andrea DAllasandras stunning exercise in horror will leave you breathless! And that last chapter is something else!"

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 17, 2002
• ISBN: 9781403353375

Andrea D’Allasandra

Andrea d’Allasandra is the pen name of a well-known New York City author. With the phenomenal success of her first suspense novel, DEATH HOUSE, published last year by 1stbooks, Miss D’Allasandra was immediately hailed by readers and critics alike as ‘The New Mistress of Terror and Suspense.’ The writer is also familiar to many readers as novelist ‘Jason Fury.’ "My home is between Central Park and the East River. But I still visit my home state of North Carolina several times a year to research material for my writing. My favorite pastime is to drift along the dark little side streets and the great boulevards of New York City, studying the people and wondering about their lives." Her favorite book? "I still love to read the old Nancy Drew mysteries for relaxation. Also, the great old ghost stories are still my favorite."

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Places, events, and situations in this story are purely fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

© 2002 by Andrea D’Allasandra. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the author.

ISBN: 1-4033-5337-9 (e-book)

ISBN: 1-4033-5338-7 (Paperback)

1st Books-rev. 08/30/02

Contents

Dedications:

Foreward

Part One: Mothers And Daughters

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Part Two: Abigail Foster: A Woman Of The World (Reprinted From Cosmopolitan Magazine)

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Part Three: The Bride Of Hell Mountain

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Part Four: The Storm Approaches

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

About The Author

Dedications:

To the last of the Seven Beauties of Wrightsville Beach N.C.

Circa 1965-68:

Jerry M., Jimmy L., Gene M.,

Carol L., Dolly and Jenny F. and Jason Fury

Also by Andrea D’ Allasandra

Death House

FOREWARD

He was already an old, old man by the time I met him during winter of l948.

Our hotel was an ancient one, hidden away on an obscure side street in Fargo, North Dakota. Trains puffed in and out on the nearby tracks. Their whistles were sad and forlorn as they mingled with the powerful winds of December.

Other tenants glided silently in and out of the dark corridors. Even today, I can’t remember a single face of those long gone ghosts.

Thick carpeting muffled all sounds. Snow never stopped falling.

And the blizzards never stopped howling around the corners of that dust-colored building. Above the narrow entrance glowed the crimson neon sign: Hotel____

But it was this man who called himself Johnny O’Hara who fascinated me from the beginning.

Time had not erased remnants of once spectacular beauty. He was big, well over six feet, and he carried himself like a Viking king. Powerful shoulders and chest still swelled against the flannel shirts of red and rust he liked to wear.

A thick mane of haír, the color of glísteníng ice that covered our windows, framed a rugged face that was eerily chíld-líke.

It reminded me of a little boy, with his half-opened mouth and brows ralsed ln perpetual surprise.

Most startling were those eyes, the hue of azure frost, that peered out from between thick lashes, dark as old blood. His lips were still full, sensual and pink. He moistened them when he spoke.

When some of us gathered in the lobby, to await the opening of the dining room, Johnny O’Hara stood there, too, but always apart. He ate his meals in solitude at a corner table, with his back turned to everyone.

He finished his supper with a shot of bourbon and a Chesterfield Cigarette. Rarely did I see him not smoking his Chesterfield Cigarettes.

No one approached him to talk. They regarded him uneasily. His muscular size and quietness repelled the timorous. An aura of danger also hovered over him. This sinister quality and his angelic face enchanted me.

I had to know more about the mysterious stranger in Room 400.

From what I uncovered from the flirty hotel manager, Johnny O’Hara had lived an amazing past, one that involved a sensational court trial and then prison.

Although it happened many years ago in a large Southern city, controversy over those events had generated national headlines. The shocking nature of the crimes and their ghastly details had enthralled a nation.

Was he wrongfully accused of a hideous double murder of his own sons? Or was he smeared because the demonically handsome Johnny O’Hara spurned sexual advances of a newspaper publisher?

All this obsessed me for I kept notebooks that I hoped to turn into future novels.

Gradually, I broke through his reserve and was very happy the day he invited me into his simple room.

His window overlooked a dark alleyway. Through the faded orchid curtains, snow covered the rusted fire escape, the garbage cans below, overflowing with beer and liquor bottles. A discarded Christmas tree with its silver strings of foil shivered from blasts of wintry wind.

On his nightstand sat a radio that glimmered like golden pineapple. A Bible rested next to it. Bound in red leather, it created the sinister illusion of fresh blood.

His voice was husky, low and caressing. A Southern accent softened his words. He motioned me to sit in a wooden rocking chair beside the metal radiator. An old jam jar held a bunch of red plastic carnations.

And each time I visited, he did something strange.

He went to his sink where a white hand towel hung from its metal holder. He took the towel and bit into it. Then he tore a slender strip with his even white teeth.

He wrapped the material around his wrist like a white bracelet. Then he sat across from me.

In his chair, amber lighting from a small nightstand lamp conveyed the image of a majestic barbarian, inspecting a potential victim.

His room smelt of macho things—like cigarettes, bourbon, MacGregor After-Shave. Of the clean, virile flesh of a sensual man.

I’m flattered you let me visit you, I said.

It’s because you’re very, very beautiful, he murmured.

So are you, Johnny O’Hara, so are you.

Then we have something in common.

His extraordinary body heat startled me. Old people are mostly cold by the time they pass fifty.

To me, it was like time battled to force this stunning creature act his years, but a powerful inner spirit fought back, clinging to an image forged in his youth.

On my third visit, he pulled out a large scrapbook from beneath a cardboard suitcase in his closet. I saw dresses and women’s hats in there.

Yellowing pictures revealed a naked Johnny O’Hara, posing for physique photographs. In one startling shot, he portrayed the god Atlas for a tire company.

His torso was phenomenal. In an era that looked upon muscular men as freaks, he violated that fashion with a body to die for. Yet, he exposed none of the steroid, ripped and chiseled form of modern bodybuilders.

There was nothing of the narcissist about him. Instead of oil dripping like grease from his torso, sweat sparkled on his splendid flesh.

Johnny’s amazing physique was natural and slightly fleshy. His stomach was flat but not rippled. His chest swelled out like two cushions, each crowned with a prominent nipple. Black hair was swept back from his stunning face.

Other pictures displayed this modern Adonis in sexual poses with all genders. He had enjoyed a brief spurt of fame as a performer in stag films.

His expression in all these faded scenes was that of an innocent. Several pictures showed him actually laughing, while in the throes of erotic climax.

In every position, his eyes were opened wide, as if in surprise, while his stupendous torso coupled energetically with his partner.

Sex ruled my life, he muttered several times. I was obsessed with it. I grabbed anybody near me and had my fun.

He hinted of other wild things in his life that I didn’t believe. He boasted that at one time, he was more famous than movie legend Clark Gable because of his adventures.

Just exactly what did you do? I asked.

He gave me hints, pieces of a puzzle that I would have to figure out.

Then I got off the bus here in Fargo one day and decided to fade away, he explained.

Why do you waste your life living here? This is a place for no one going anywhere, or for people hiding from life and for those waiting to die.

His startling eyes glistened.

My life was over before I was twenty-eight years old.

I can’t believe that! Twenty-eight? What happened?

If you’re interested, you can find it out, he answered, with a dazzling smile.

I wish I’d known you when you were young.

A frown shadowed his enchanting face. You wouldn’t. I was an evil kid and you can’t root out evil if it’s in your blood. People wouldn’t leave my body alone. I wish some of them had. All those women, men, even children…

His glorious features puckered as tears moistened his cheeks. It was like seeing a roguish youth who has suddenly discovered tragedy.

I was so overcome I got up and hugged him. He smelt wonderful—of clean skin, of Macgregor’s Aftershave, of Vaseline Hair Tonic and traces of Chesterfield Cigarettes and bourbon.

His kiss was that of a young man. And just as passionate.

I left that strange little hotel after one blizzard too many. Over the years I dug into newspaper files and finally realized that Johnny O’Hara had, indeed, led an amazing life.

His name was not Johnny O’Hara, but I had figured as much.

Newspaper coverage claimed he had left behind a trail of murder, blood and horror.

He swore he was innocent and many people supported him. He broke out of the state prison but was never caught. No one ever suspected he vanished into obscurity, to endure a secret life in an anonymous little hotel in Fargo, North Dakota.

Was he a demon in disguise or an innocent, wrongfully arrested?

The crumbling clippings quoted prosecutors as saying he killed his sons and then his lovers. His touch of originality was always a strip of white towel, pulled tight until the neck broke.

He later told a fellow prisoner that he did this because his victims always had such pretty little necks.

Evidence was overwhelming. Men and women had found this astounding young satyr irresistible. His amazing figure and endowment and his blazing charisma created the powerful bait that overwhelmed them.

Their bodies were the ones left behind—tortured, mangled and strangled.

A year after I left Fargo, the hotel manager sent me a postcard.

Johnny O’Hara had died in his sleep. Before the coroner came, tenants filled the room to gaze in wonder at the astounding beauty of their mysterious neighbor. No one drew a sheet over the naked corpse. It was as if the dead man was on exhibit in his entire physical splendor, to dazzle everyone for one last time.

Johnny was 82. At the request of the dead man, all his meager possessions, including the scrapbook, were incinerated. Among them a puzzling collection of female garments.

He sought and received complete annihilation of his existence.

Earthly flames devoured all the souvenirs that attested to the bizarre life of Johnny O’Hara—except one.

The hotel manager sent to me in a large envelope the crimson Bible of the deceased. Again, the horrible image jumped into my mind that the volume had been soaked in blood.

On the first page, Johnny had scribbled a curious epigram in a child-like hand that may have summed up his life.*

Today, his tombstone has been weathered by many decades of the ferocious North Dakota winters.

It is small, anonymous and positioned away from all others. A man like that, who possessed a surreal beauty, ravishing looks, surely deserved something more than dirt colored stone.

I can’t forget that last day I saw him.

Snow had piled up even higher outside the forgotten little hotel, in the already charcoal landscape.

He just stood there, in the darkness of his room, with the door cracked open, smoking his Chesterfield Cigarette.

I stayed in the corridor, wishing him good-bye. It was like night for only a single bulb glowed at the end of the hallway. We heard the wind wailing outside.

A train whistle joined in. Nothing was real and I smelt the ancient scents of an old hotel, the aromas of a thousand cigarettes, perfumes and bodies passing through.

No clothes covered his incredible body. It was that of a man forty-years-old. A small lamp with a scarlet shade glowed behind him like a crimson sun.

It created a supernatural aura. I thought of flames nibbling away at his formidable figure.

Then he inched open the door. He put a hand through the sliver. A strip of white towel coiled around his wrist.

His warm fingers caressed my throat. Those startling sky-hued eyes sparkled when he pleaded:

You’ve got such a pretty little neck. Can’t you come in? Just one last time, because there’s something I’d like us to do.

I was terribly tempted. But my train would leave in half an hour. Also, instinct warned me to leave him.

I have to go now.

I wish we’d met before I was twenty-eight—

And what would have happened, Johnny O’Hara?

We would have been lovers, he muttered, because you’re so damned beautiful. You’ve never been loved until Johnny O’Hara’s had you for a night.

And after we became lovers?

Ah, paradise! Or, hell!

I felt his eyes watching me as I went to the old elevator. His sobs were those of an astonishing man whose likes will never be seen again.

The Angel of Death hovered beside me, that dark afternoon. His hand rested on my shoulder, in that long-ago corridor, urging me to succumb to the ultimate act of seduction by a master sensualist and probable killer.

But it wasn’t my time to go.

As we each hurry to meet our fate, how often do we encounter an actual monster in the guise of a great beauty?

And drift away without knowing how close we’ve come to having our pretty little necks broken?

* Joy is an illusion but Death is the lover that awaits us at journey’s end.

Jenka Trezetti, "Dreams of the Dead’ 1901

* * *

Andrea D’Allasandra

December 2002

Manhattan

August 13, 1989

He studied the four bodies.

They hung by their wrists, bound in leather knots, from the low rafter.

Sweat sparkled on their young skin. Blood gleamed like strands of crimson silk on their buttocks and thighs.

The attic was so hot and airless, he felt dizzy but no one could hear the screams from up here. Wetness matted their hair, moisture streamed down their boyish flesh, forming pools beneath them.

The monster was naked, too, and felt more powerful than ever before. He loved being bare-assed. He was so proud of his physical beauty that he wished he had his own TV show: The Body Beautiful!

He wouldn’t wear a stitch to cover an inch of this magnificent torso that nature had bestowed upon him.

He was just crowned Mr. Charlotte, North Carolina. His nearly nude pictures were spattered across TV screens and newspapers.

Everyone could feast their eyes on his incredible form—one that had carried him through his 28 years until he was now one of the most famous men in the state.

Big, Beautiful Billy Mulligan! Father of the Year. Outstanding Boy Scout Leader of the Year! Lions Club Champion of the Year! Mr. USA Citizen! Mr. All-American! Mr. Neighborhood Crime-Buster!

He fondled the leather strap, dark from piss, sweat and blood for he had lashed it lustily on this quartet of youths.

They weren’t dead but they’d better damned well act like they were. This was part of their training. He beat them and knocked them around and they’d better take it like a man. They knew better than to make even a peep, or a whimper.

That’s what separated the sissies from the real men.

That’s the way his Daddy taught him and his father before him.

You’re all Mulligan men now, he muttered. Don’t you go faggot on me and start any of your lousy mewing or I’ll have you really shrieking the walls down.

He suddenly lashed the belt against the wet butt of Skippy, the smallest of the boys. The youth shook, nearly screamed, as he swung like a clock’s pendulum.

The youngster’s body trembled and Billy grabbed the face to study it.

He turned it from side to side, like he held a piece of wood in his huge hand. His big thumb rubbed indifferently the eyes, the mouth, and the nose. It’d be so easy to knock this brat to the floor, then place his foot over the childish features and smash them flat.

The face shook and convulsed but the kid had learned his lessons well.

Good. Skippy was the child-like runt of his adopted litter. His feet dangled inches above the floor. Billy wondered if he should put him out of his misery now, while he was still sixteen, or let him survive awhile longer.

Maybe he would turn out to be a tough, Mulligan boy. He was the latest youth adopted from the Tri-State Home for Children.

The place gave him everything he wanted. He performed free plumbing and electrical service for the orphanage. He saved them a fortune. They spent the savings on trips to New York and lavish banquets and new cars and huge color TV’s.

He gave them his sons, too, for their sexual pleasure and that of their underground network of boy lovers. His Mulligan bums had pleasured hundreds and this had given him complete freedom in taking in as many boys as he wanted.

Sometimes he had about a dozen of the noisy, rough little squirts from the foster home at his modest home for their Weekend with Mr. Charlotte.

The games he taught would never be found in a Boy Scout manual. The kids knew better than to squeal. That would mean an end of trips to the circus and the movies and the beach he treated them to.

In return, he had caught them on video, kicking up their sexy little heels. He frolicked with them, like an incredible, naked god. They all squealed like stuck pigs the first time he stuck his pee wee up their little butts.

Practice made perfect. Also, it helped that he had learned some First Aid as a volunteer firemen. He was good at stitching up fleshy tears and wounds.

In return, the foster home allowed him to by-pass laws and adopt four youngsters. Nearly all of them in their mid-teens. All were boys. Lads that he could turn into fighting machines like him.

The foster home never questioned the bruises and injuries of their throwaway bastards. Their wonderful Billy Mulligan was training them on how to become real American heroes. Besides, it tickled them to see how skilled they had become behind the bedroom doors of the home.

He was only 28 but people told him that he was a walking miracle. They’d never seen a man as big and beautiful and bulging with muscles as himself. Why didn’t he think about becoming a movie star, an action hero, a model?

Well, he’d thought about it, but he could never leave Charlotte. This was his home. He told them he wanted to help make it a better and safer place to live.

His small plumbing and electrical company made money. For an extra tip, he often offered more than just the skills to install wiring and repair the old. It didn’t matter if they were male or female, if they were sixteen or ninety-six. If they paid him what he wanted, he made them feel like a million dollars.

And if they were willing to fork over even more dough, they could pick out one of his sons for a roll in the hay. A few times, some old crazy couples would buy the whole brood for a wild weekend in the country.

He had raised himself after running away from his old man. But it was his physical beauty that stunned everyone. Men, women, children. He was born a big boy and became even bigger, growing to six foot five.

Black hair, cut short, brought out the startling light blue of his eyes.

Billy didn’t have to look in the mirror to know he was a knockout. He was born a star and he could get anybody he wanted in bed.

There was only one Billy Mulligan—the strapping, powerful, six foot four giant, the outstanding civic leader, Boy Scout leader, Pee Wee Coach. You name it, he was it.

The Mighty Billy Mulligan!

The leather strap sliced into the flesh of l6-year-old Freddy. He was a little over five feet five tall. Slender. Hard muscles. The kind the girls liked. Billy reached around and pulled on the kid’s tinkler. Quickly, he had it standing a full-mast.

Billy made the boys have sex with the sluts you found for a coupla dollars at the bus station.

While the kids did it with those scumbags, Billy hid in a closet and watched. He snapped Polaroid’s to study for hours. It tickled him to see his adopted boys try to act like grown men in bed.

Sometimes the stepfather jumped out of the closet, scaring the hell out of the whores and then he joined in the fun. He taught his sons how to hit those worthless sluts hard where it wouldn’t show up.

And how to dump them out in the middle of nowhere with no clothes on—after taking their money and cheap watches and beads and earrings. They were all junk but it meant something to the whores.

Billy made sure the kids knew how to laugh at those clowns, not showing them any pity. He didn’t want his boys to be tender to anybody or show them any love. In the real world they were to be polite. Smile a lot.

Being sensitive is what caused you all kinds of trouble. He wanted his boys to look at people like they were things. You used them, but you didn’t care about ‘em.

Poor little Skippy worked hard to be a sex machine. The kid was so scared he could barely get it up but he always did in the end. He had to or Billy would beat the shit out of him.

The other brothers told him a few weeks ago that Skippy got exhausted too soon and couldn’t get his pecker up. The following night, the father had all the boys to climb a ladder up to the roof of his four-story house.

Strip bare-assed, he barked.

They knew something was going to happen. He guessed they could tell by his expression he was pissed off. They saw the coil of rope in his hands. Their eyes wouldn’t leave it. Blood drained from their faces.

Skippy, put this rope around your feet.

The boy started to whine and beg him not to hurt him. Billy grabbed the rope, whipped it around the brat’s feet and threw him off the roof. Skippy didn’t have time to make a peep. He just flew through the air like a bucket of tar.

He came within a few inches of smacking the concrete drive. The little shit screamed and crapped all over himself. Billy and the others howled. They let him dangle out there through the night. Somehow, he managed to get free and limped back to his bed in the basement.

He wasn’t allowed to sleep upstairs in a bed. Billy wanted to toughen him up. So he made the smallest of his sons curl up on a pile of old rags down in the basement. He wasn’t allowed to take a piss or crap either during the night.

He knew if he couldn’t control his bladder or bowels, then there’d be hell to pay. Billy put duct-tape over the brat’s holes so he couldn’t get rid of his crap even if he wanted to.

Billy always had to laugh when he came down to unlock the chains of the retard. Skippy would be jumping up and down, he had to go to the can so bad.

Billy lashed Freddy a second time. The handsome body swung in the air, but no sound came out of him.

Freddy might be the one to carry on the Mulligan name. Or maybe a guy who could become his drinking buddy.

Billy cared nothing for their childhood or teenage feelings. He saw them only as grown guys who he could pal around with, go drinking with, ball with the gals and fags and show off in front of the other one. No weakling could do that.

Suddenly, a surge of fury raced through him at all the things life had denied him. He could be a damned big movie star, a stuntman, have his own TV show, if he had only had the courage to go after those things.

But that kind of life he’d have to work hard to achieve. Here, in this stupid, little, respectable neighborhood, he was like a king. And his boys were like his servants.

Yet, his tremendous beauty and body and charm were doing nothing for him out here. Everybody told him how incredible he looked, at what a fantastic physique he had. What did it get him?

He slammed the leather belt brutally against the skin of Jimbo. A muffled sob escaped the boy’s mouth. His body shook and his head wagged back and forth.

Well, Billy would have none of that. He lashed the body again. Only this time, Jimbo didn’t make a sound. The stepparent yanked the boy’s face around to look at it. Jimbo’s eyes and mouth were squeezed tight.

His face shook. He was trying like hell not to scream.

Laughing softly, Billy released him to dangle again. Jimbo was so all-American looking. Red hair. Freckles. A big smile always on his face—although it sure to hell wasn’t there now.

Jimbo was everybody’s favorite.

His teachers said he looked just like Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn.

So All-American it was funny.

Open your mouth, Jimbo.

The kid obeyed and Billy crammed his tongue down so deep into the boy’s throat that he gagged. Billy used his right hand to arouse the kid. Billy’s fist swiveled up and down until the boy finally delivered his sexual relief.

All the boys had spurted that morning and the floor gleamed with whiteness, like somebody had spilled milk all over the place.

It’s like he had four life-sized dolls to play with. He could do anything he wanted to and they’d never fight back.

Last Sunday, he’d taken the boys out on High Rock Lake in his motorboat. It was nearly dark and freezing. Billy stopped the boat in the deepest part of the lake.

Then, with no warning and the guys still wearing their jackets and caps and other clothes, he threw them all into the water and left them.

He didn’t tell them where he was. It was so dark you could barely make out the shore. He sat on the bank, drinking beer, watching them flop around until they spotted him.

When they finally struggled to safety, he grabbed them and put them in the boat and took them out into the middle of the big lake and threw them back in the water. He did this two more times until the boys started puking.

Skippy nearly died. Blood came out of his mouth. Billy laughed and slapped his face over and over until the weakling opened his eyes.

Ha,ha, that’d been fun.

Now, he saved the best of his boys for the best. This time Billy dropped his leather weapon. In its place, he wrapped his hands around the end of a wooden paddle. It had holes in it. The kind that felt like nails were slamming into you.

Billy waited, chuckling over the terror that rose steadily in Gary. For some reason, the father enjoyed beating up this skinny kid the most. Because Gary startled him by proving to be the strongest.

Billy let him have it good. He whacked the youth’s butt, so that it sounded like somebody hitting a baseball. Gary’s head jerked up, then fell hard against his chest. He stiffened himself.

Billy smashed the paddle against the rump again and again. Still, no whimper or cry.

Grinning now, the father went in front of his sons, studying them. All that physical trauma had aroused them yet again. He used his fist to brutally exercise their young manhood’s until Gary gasped.

Wooo! whooped Billy. Gary does it again! Why can’t you guys do it?

He stopped before the remainder of his boys and didn’t move until he’d made them climax. Even then, he wasn’t finished with them.

From around his bulging bicep, he removed a strip of white towel. He went to Skippy, who glanced at the length of material, and gulped.

Billy grabbed a handful of the boy’s wet hair and yanked at it.

What’sa matter, you little shit, huh? Huh? You scared or something, huh?

No, Daddy, not scared! I’m not scared! Just—just don’t do that again, Daddy! Please!

What’d you say, you fucker? Did you ask me not to do it, boy? Huh? Huh?

Skippy gulped again. His eyes rolled his terror.

Suddenly, Billy wrapped the sliver of linen tight around the child’s throat. Each hand held the ends of the thong. The father pulled the cord tight.

Skippy gasped for breath. His innocent eyes bulged.

Billy put one end of the strip between his teeth and used his free hand to stick it up brutally into the kid’s ass-hole.

He moved his fingers back and forth as he held the cord twisted.

Skippy struggled to escape as his father pulled the thong ever tighter. The boy’s eyes swelled upward, like they were ready to bust out of his skull, his face turned purple and his tongue slid out between his lips.

Laughing in delight, Billy loosened the strip of towel. Skippy panted as he sucked in air.

You ain’t smiling, Skippy! threatened Billy Mulligan. You want me to do it again?

Desperately the boy forced a smile on his face.

No, Daddy, please don’t do that again!

Sometimes he’d tie Skippy to his bed and he and the other three boys would gather around and take turns pulling the cord around Skippy’s neck.

It was like a game. Billy took one end of the thong and the others grabbed the other. Then they’d start pulling and pulling, watching it cut deeper into Skippy’s throat and the kid gasped for breath.

They howled as the boy kicked his feet and tried to get free. His tongue inched out. His face got blue, like water paint.

They’d release the cord, laughing as Skippy gulped crazily to get air. Then they’d start it all over again.

Sometimes Billy would order the other three boys to do the pulling while he really let the baby brat have it. Pushing Skippy’s legs back, Billy crammed his hips forward and pushed in so deep the kid would nearly be standing on his head.

He’d lunge and pump, while Skippy screamed and the boys whooped and pulled that cord. They’d push the clown off the bed and laugh even harder as he staggered around the room.

He’d be nearly dead and dizzy and puking and then Billy would have the other boys rape the kid over and over.

It’ll toughen him up! the father explained to the others. He needs it. He looks and acts like a queer. Shit, I shoulda left him back at the foster home. But it’s a good thing I got hold of him. I’ll toughen him up so he won’t be scared of nothing out there.

It tickled him as he noticed how the runt was going down hill daily. His balance was all fucked up. He fell sometimes. He ran into things. His left eye blinked crazily. His hands had started shaking.

He walked with his shoulders slumped, like he knew his life was nearly over. When Billy threw him naked out into the backyard while it was freezing, the father and the others sons whooped as they watched him from a window.

He’d walk around and curl up under the tree and jump up and down.

Yet, he kept that stupid little smile on his face. The clown. The Retard. Sometimes, Billy wanted to get a straight razor and cut that smile off that stupid face.

Now, the father went to each of his other sons as they still hung by their wrists.

He performed the same ritual on them. He pulled the cord tight around their necks until they were kicking and bucking and tossing their heads.

Only until their tongues began inching out of their mouths and their eyes bulged did Billy loosen the hand-made noose.

Several times he wanted to see how they’d look if he didn’t let them breath. Just the night before, he made them all lay naked on the floor and went to each one.

He wrapped his hands around their throats and slowly throttled them.

Their bodies flopped on the floor, their faces turned purple and snot streamed from their noses. He didn’t see human creatures writhing around on the floor. They were like things that had no meaning.

He gave them artificial respiration and brought them back to life. It thrilled him, though, to think that he could either end or restart their young lives. Because they were his to control and to mold into Mulligan Fighting Machines!

He loved to fuck them all when they were like that. Their brains weren’t working right and they’d flop around and kick their feet. Especially Skippy. He was so little for his age Billy could hold him up in the air, then ram his hips upwards and screw the hell out of him like that.

He unwrapped Gary’s manacles. The boy collapsed on the floor—but only for a moment. If he stayed there for more than three seconds, then Billy slammed his wrists back into the manacles for another whipping.

The boy sprang to his feet and stood there stiffly at attention. Staring straight ahead. His eyes glittered with terror. He waited while his father used his fist to brutally bring his other Little Billies to orgasm.

Then he made his sons get on their knees and lick up all the wet stuff and