The Joy of Killing Read Online Free PDF Page A

idea of what was happening. The hardest to fathom was the girl; she was enchanting, with soft lips and lovely, uncertain eyes. That was why she chose me tonight; she saw something not quite right.
    I’m caught in the image of the blonde hair splayed on my lap, rising and falling to some unheard rhythm, when another image, startling in its clarity, intrudes into the story. There it is, shining like a black pearl in white sand: my first wife on her hands and knees on the bedroom floor, with my best friend poised behind her. He is inserting his cock slowly, carefully into her. One hand reaches around for a handful of hair, and the other palm pushes down squarely on her ass. She backs into his cock and winces. After four or five thrusts, he reaches around and grabs her tits. He begins fucking against his hands. Her face is frozen in a noiseless cry, and he can see it because he has her facing the mirror on the closet door.
    The three of us had come back drunk from a party, and I’d made us another round of drinks. Half an hour went by, and my wife said she was wiped out and going to bed. After a few minutes, my friend went to the kitchen to get more drinks. Minutes passed, and more minutes, and I didn’t hear anything. Finally some dimalert sounded in my brain, and I rose and glanced in the kitchen—no friend, no drinks. I heard sounds coming from down the hall, like some sort of assault. I proceeded down the hall, until I came to the bedroom door. It was half open. I pushed it a few inches more. When I saw him poised over her like that, I could also see the rubbery outlines of her pussy, and I figured from the look of it and the position they were in that he must have started fucking her the moment he walked in.
    That image is one that never mutates or blurs or bleeds or decolorizes. Vivid and sharp, willing to materialize at the best or worst of times. He pulled his cock out so just the tip of the head remained inside. My wife shook her ass, and he pushed in knowingly, as if he had been fucking her for years, and I wondered if perhaps he had been fucking her for years. He caught me looking at them in the mirror, grabbed her ass and squeezed hard as if to confirm that it belonged to him now. These images live on in a world of their own, appearing without regard to what I’m doing or thinking or what else might be in my head at the moment or the consequences thereof. There is never anything I can do about it, except, as in this case, try to limit the intrusion to one image, or two, rather than running the whole tape through to the very end where she is crying and begging him to come and finally his body clenches and he bellows like a wounded bull. Just like the image of the gray fedora and the fleshy creased face below it could seep into the most innocuous moment and leave in me the realization that most likely the sights and sounds of that scene would accompany me to the grave. I sometimes saw it as a form of insanity, the unwelcomeintrusion of another reality into my own; although on occasion I would let the sights spin on their own way so it would be me behind my wife, slamming in and jarring her head down onto my friend’s cock. The details and vividness of it felt as real as anything else in my life. I had learned some resistance to the images of the men at the door—they both wore sport coats, slacks and ties, cheap Sears stuff, except for the fedoras—but it always gave way in the end, and more pieces hooked together, and the colors grew shaper, and the voices more distinct, and the look on my mother’s face more disgusted. I can feel it in my gut, as I sit here writing. And you can see another serious problem with this porousness: it flavors and affects everything else I’m doing or thinking about. Like now—the image of my wife and friend is severely interfering with my recollection of that night on the train and my ability to relive it here on paper, which is troubling, because