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with cheekbones that jutted out so far they looked like some type of armament. From that twisted lump of meat and bone shone eyes that gleamed with a madness so intense and ferocious that it was like staring into a burning sun. One eye was blue and the other was green yet Billy himself was black as obsidian. But it was his body where nature had been its cruelest. His chest and stomach were untouched and gave a hint of what he may have been. Finely sculpted, heavily muscled pecs like a weightlifter and a washboard stomach made up his torso yet suspended from them were arms so massive and twisted they looked barely functional. The tumors in his right arm were so pronounced that it looked like a kindergartener’s drawing of a superhero with misplaced muscles that were little more than lumps and bulges. His left arm was longer than the right and was just one thick tube with no visible elbow. His hips were tilted askew and massive legs like the gnarled trunks of some malformed tree erupted from them. Billy Meyers made the elephant man look like James Dean.
    This mistake had spent most of his life in hospitals and state foster homes. His parents had left him in the hospital soon after he was born and had never returned to reclaim him. He’d been alone and unloved his entire life until he’d come to the mansion. It was his eighteenth birthday when Farringworth arrived at the juvenile correction facility where Billy was being held on aggravated sexual assault charges. After Billy hit puberty and realized that no one would want to have sex with someone so freakish of their own freewill he’d begun breaking into the homes of elderly women and raping them in their beds. No one knew how many he had done before he’d been caught. He’d been incarcerated for three years before Farringworth had come to claim the young monster for his collection.
    Bent over in front of Billy was a middle-aged nun chained at the wrist and ankles and squeezed into a latex bustierre that pushed her fat oversized breasts up around her neck. She had a choke collar around her neck with the leash firmly gripped between Billy’s countless teeth. Her face was turning blue as she struggled to scream, but even though that blue tint, there was a wantonness raging. From the waist down she was naked… and bleeding. Billy was ramming a fireplug shaped penis roughly eight inches long and nearly seven inches around with a head the size of an apple into her puckered anus as she shrieked and begged and cried out for her savior. Farrington could only hope that he would hear her and come.
    The Metopronil’s working better than anyone could imagine, John thought. Who could argue? He’d dumped a hundred million dollars of his own pocket change under the table into Daye Pharmaceuticals’ coffers so they’d continue developing the new sexual stimulant that FDA had banned further research on. Metopronil, ideally, was to be the next generation of Viagra-like drugs, not only stimulating blood flow to the groin but stimulating libidinal hormone activity. In the end, the technicians at Daye grimly realized that the little red pill worked too well, turning even the most sexually uninspired into rapists and unslakable erotopaths. “What you want me to do is illegal!” the president of Daye had insisted to John. “It’s a federal offense. We can’t develop this stuff anymore.” “Develop it exclusively for me,” John had replied and left the office of company’s Grotten, Connecticut, headquarters. That’s when Michaels had started bringing in the suitcases full of untraceable cash. Money talked.
    The appearance was crucial. There must be lust in their eyes, there must be true desire. Otherwise the videos, pictures, and internet feeds would be seen for what they actually were: forced performances. It was one thing to force nuns and priests into sexual scenarios, but it was another to make them willing. The drug made them willing. There were no guns to their heads here,