Storm (or, Batter Up!)

Mark stepped just inside the front door and glided the thin, black gloves over his short, skinny fingers. Closing the door behind him, he sauntered to the bathroom to take a quick piss. When finished, he zipped up and looked in the mirror. He was probably the cutest he'd ever been, his hair spiked stiff and straight up, his blue eyes clear and non-bloodshot, the skin of his face slick, pimple-less, naturally hairless.

He grabbed the aluminum Louisville Slugger from the utility closet across the hall, then nudged open the bedroom door with his shoulder, Jenny's grunts cascading into his ears from over her shoulder, the crack of her ass open to expose her purplish hole as she rode Mr. Cook's cock like a starving squirrel hungry for nuts. Mark took one step into the room and swung the bat in the widest arc he could, so that he had to pry it out of the back of Jenny's head with a thrust of his foot against her spine, her blonde hair soaking gray brain and black blood as she fell to the side of their teacher in a lump of cooling bones.

Mr. Cook's eyes widened behind his glasses, his pupils narrowing, as they met Mark's, and he let out a scream that Mark could have sworn could only have come from Jenny. He looked at his teacher's starved body, which was stretched across the length of the bed, the bony wrists and ankles handcuffed to the metal bars of the headboard and footboard, and laughed.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" He stretched his arms out to each side. "One of those fuckin' sorry dime-store hack novelists you like so much couldn't have written it any better. This is gonna be fun."

"Please don't kill me, please don't kill me," blubbered Mr. Cook, tears plopping onto his pale bird chest and wetting the three hairs he'd been so thankful had grown there.

"Shut the fuck up." Mark flicked the end of the bat in Mr. Cook's face. "You're such a fuckin' girl." He opened the drawer on the night stand, pulled out a chocolate bar, unwrapped it and took a bite. "And to think I wanted you to fuck me when I first met you. You know I would've let you, right?"

"No, I didn't know that," said Mr. Cook between short inhalations. "I didn't know you were gay-"

"I'm not. I just like to fuck-"

"I mean, if you want to talk about anything-"

"What? Like what Principal Voorhees is gonna say when he finds out about you fucking a student?"

"Please. Don't. Listen-"

"I'm listening-"

"Look." Mr. Cook swallowed a deep pocket of air. "Let's forget about everything. Let me go. I'll help you get rid of her. I won't say word. You don't say a word. I swear-"

Mark shook his head. "Nope. Too late."

"You fucking little faggot-"

"Dude, you know she was my girlfriend, right?"

"Fuck you. If you knew how to fuck her with that little homo dick of yours-"

"I mean, Irwin, you let underage kids fuck in your house. You gave 'em beer and weed. Then you fucked one of 'em. You sick fuck-"

"You're the sick fuck-"

Mark laughed. Then reached into his pockets and laid their contents on Mr. Cook's empty, striated belly: straight razor, X-acto knife, pliers, and a pair of tin-snips he'd found in the kitchen drawer at home. "You ever been skinned alive?"

Mr. Cook's mouth opened so wide that Mark could see his uvula swinging freely and emitted a sound that was a cross between the locked tires of a semi and the haunted purr of a kitten. "Please. Haven't you done enough-"

"It's never enough-"

Mark reclaimed his tools as he finished the last of the chocolate bar and re-pocketed them, with the exception of the tin-snips. He laid the bat against the closet behind him. With his left thumb and index finger, he stretched his teacher's scrotum to its maximum length. The tin-snips glided through the rubbery, wrinkled skin as if cutting paper, and he lost his grip as the sweaty body jolted against the crisp sharpness of the cold metal.

"You know, if you keep moving like that, it's only gonna hurt worse," said Mark. "And stop fucking yelling like a woman." He shook his head. "I'm glad we never fucked. It would've been like fucking Carol Channing or something. Plus, your dick's not much bigger than mine. I wouldn't even have felt it."

With a few more clips, Mark reached the base of the penis, then retraced his movements until he had circumscribed a perfect ripping arc back to the perineum. He wiped off and pocketed the tin-snips, then grabbed each side of the scrotum and pulled, the testicles and a loose gaggle of thick, clotting blood and soft, tubular coils falling onto the bed between Mr. Cook's legs.

"Does moaning like that make it feel better?" said Mark. He removed the glove from his right hand and picked up one testicle, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger several times. "Wow, it's not at all like I expected. It's like a hard-boiled egg but much firmer. Not as slippery as I thought. Kind of dry actually. I wonder what would happen if I stuck a needle through it?"

"Please," Mr. Cook howled. "Please just kill me-"

"Okay-" And Mark put his glove back on and left the bedroom. He filled the tea kettle with water in the kitchen and put it on the stove. When it whistled, he took it off and made his way back to the bedroom, whistling himself. He set the kettle on Mr. Cook's belly, the man's body jerking with such force that his lungs couldn't expel any sound. "Oops, sorry, didn't see you there." Mark put the kettle on the night stand, then sat on the side of the bed.

"Stop breathing so hard, you pervert." He took out the tin-snips again. "I usually take the eyes or teeth, but that m.o. is so tired. I'll take these." He grabbed the testicles in one hand.

"You?"

"Jesus Christ, you're so dramatic. I swear to God if I didn't see these balls in front of me right here, I'd swear you were a woman." Mark giggled. "Well, you kind of will be in a second-" Quickly, he removed the testicles with the tin-snips and pocketed all three items.

He pulled out his straight razor and flicked it open, holding it up for Mr. Cook's blurred eyes. "Huzzah!" he said. Then shook his head. "Don't you hate it when people say shit like that? Whoever came up with fucking 'Huzzah'?"

Mark stuck the tip of the razor into the man's throat, under the Adam's apple, and drew it down the length of the man's body, the blade disappearing as he reached the abdomen, just below the sternum, and reappearing at the pubic line. The only sound in the room was that of a little boy crying, quick, hearty sobs that emerged from Mr. Cook's lungs in rhythm to the blood spilling from the crevice dissecting his frame.

Mark reapplied the razor to the man's stomach and dug at his incision several times, his strokes so deep that his right wrist was dyed with blood and what must have been compacted feces. He wiped the razor on the back of Jenny's firm ass, then grabbed the kettle, which he tipped over Mr. Cook's body, the fleshy man-made cavern of entrails filling and unfilling, a muted wail thrumming Mark's eardrums with a song of what never was.

With a great heave, the kettle caved in the left side of Mr. Cook's face, settling itself cantilevered to the man's temple when Mark let go. He looked at the two lovers lying in their own waste of bodies and sighed. He rubbed his stomach, then grabbed another chocolate bar and exited the room, munching the candy as he strolled down the sidewalk on his way home.