Home Before Day

By Ronald Ayers


CLAUDE BROWN sat on the edge of the bed. He pointed the remote 
at the television screen, then pushed the channel seven button.  
Saturday Night Dead, the Zombies favorite T.V. show as just coming 

      “What's bald, has big clacking teeth, and wobbles?” asked the male Dracula looking host of the show.

A zombie baby wearing the dentures of an elderly woman whose brains it just ate.”  Said the female co-host who looked like a cast reject from Night Of The Living Dead.

“Gloria would love this.” Said Claude.

He looked at his watch. 12:15 a.m. Gloria Jean was supposed to meet him at midnight! Here it was 12:15 in the morning, and she still hadn’t arrived. Claude’s stomach did somersaults in anticipation of feeling Gloria Jean’s cool moist flesh against his own. He felt the bulge between his legs. He fondled his throbbing erection. His hand felt so unbelievably good that he considered jacking off and going home.

      ‘Shit! ‘When is she gonna get here!’ he thought. ‘We’ve gotta do what we gotta do so I can get home before day!

     He got up from the bed, and prowled to the window of his room at the Zanzibar Motel. He pulled back the dingy beige curtains and peered out the window. Against the blackness of the night sky, the motel’s neon sign blinked, blinked, Zanzibar, Zanzibar, spilling its orange, blue, and yellow light out over the rain-splashed parking lot below his window.

No sign of Gloria Jean.

     “It’s just like her.’ He thought. ‘Slow, clumsy…a real freak.’

     Claude turned away from the window and prowled back to the double bed and sat down. He glanced at the mirror on the wall in front of him.  He couldn’t see his own image. He wondered if his hair was combed straight enough, and whether there were snot balls hanging from his nose? Thinking: ‘What the hell! I’ll have to depend on Gloria Jean to be my mirror.’

Brown mahogany nightstands, each holding a brass based lamp, sat on either side of the bed. A painting of Michelangelo’s ‘The Last Judgment’ hung on the wall over the bed’s headboard, centered between the lamps.

‘Damn!’ he thought. ‘Haven’t I been judged enough for my sins? Haven’t I  been assigned an awful enough fate?’

 He reached down and took a brown paper bag from the green Adidas travel bag that sat on the floor next to his feet. He opened the paper bag and took out a basket of red strawberries. The fresh aroma of the strawberries wafted through his nostrils and made his mouth water. He placed the strawberries on the nightstand next to the bed.

     Damn that Gloria Jean? Where is she? He looked at his watch. 12:30 a.m. ‘If she were Catholic, she would have been on time’, he thought.

Time was a precious commodity. That’s what Sister Gertrude, his fifth grade teacher at St. Benedict’s Military Academy  had pounded into his head day after day.

‘Be on time for school Claude. Don’t be late for Mass Claude. Remember Claude,  timeliness is next to Godliness.’

       “Bullshit!” he said.

Claude got up from the bed and prowled to a corner of the room.  near the bathroom door. A pinewood paddle five feet in length, with three holes the size of quarters down the center was propped against the wall.  Claude picked up the paddle with his numb left hand. He ran the knarled fingers of this right hand over the paddle’s smooth shellacked surface. He carried the paddle to the bed, and lay the paddle down on the bed, with its handle propped against a pillow.

      ‘Perfect!’ he thought. ‘Perfect!

      He sat down on the edge of the bed facing the motel room’s door. He tapped his feet. He twiddled his thumbs. With detached amusement he watched three brown roaches tramp single file from beneath his bed and along the soggy beige carpet. He stomped on the roaches, killing all three.

     “How’s that for a final judgment?’ he said, waiting, anticipating Gloria Jean’s knock upon the door.

     ‘Always be on time. Bullshit’  he thought. Except for his altar boys. There were times when he wanted his altar boys to come to the sacristy as early as fifteen minutes before Mass. Fifteen minutes was time enough to fondle a chest; to rub a behind; to get close up and personal so he could squeeze a boys penis, and a boy could squeeze his. Cold chills ran up the back of his arms, and down his spine. His finger tips ached for the warmth  of male adolescent flesh.


     Claude got up from the bed and prowled across the room to the motel door. He pulled the door open and walked out onto the balcony. He rested both hands upon the balcony railing, and peered across the way to where the lights of Izola’s all night restaurant cast a soft yellow light out onto the parking lot’s black asphalt.

     A sleepy June breeze blowing in from the south felt toasty against the sweaty hairs on his arm. The breeze carried with it a balmy odor of fresh cut grass. He turned his ear to the sound of cars moving along the two lane Illinois I-57  highway that passed in front of the motel. He listened to a dog howling way off in the distance. He looked up at the chubby cheeked pale faced full moon painted against an ebony sky.

     ‘I bet Wolfman is out and on time with the full moon.’ He chuckled. ‘Always be on time Claude…always be on time.’

Maybe if his altar boys had been late coming to sacristy, and he had been late for Mass on that Sunday a year ago, he would have missed Patrick Milhorn walking up to him while he was saying Mass, putting a gun to his head and BAM! Killing him, dead as a doornail for having masturbated Patrick’s son Casey in the sacristy of the church on a Sunday morning before eleven o’ clock Mass. ‘Forgive me father for I have sinned.’ Shit! He wished he’d never reached out and touched the youthful firmness of a young boys ass. ‘Damn!’ Claude went back into his motel room and slammed the door behind him. He sat down on the bed, and looked at his watch. 1:00 a.m. If Gloria Jean did not arrive by 1:30 am, he’d leave and go home.

Claude sat, nodding and napping. Through the fog of sleep he heard tapping, of some one gently rapping, at his motel door.

"Who’s there?  He muttered; looking at his watch ‘1:15 am’ he thought, “knocking on my motel door?”

“It’s me, Gloria Jean.” He heard from beyond the door. “Only me, and no one more."

Claude sprang to his feet, bounded across the room, opened the door, took Gloria Jean by the wrist and pulled her inside the room. Before she could speak, he covered her mouth with a wet kiss, pushing his tongue to the back of her throat, while pressing his rock hardness into the plumb “V” like mound between her soft, succulent thighs.

“Ohhhh, my man has a hard on for me.”

“You’re late! What took you so long? You know I have to be home before day..!”

“I had to make a stop to check on a couple of friends of mine who had their brains blown out.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Gregory and Phyllis Jacobson. You remember them don’t you?”

“Yeah, the Baptist minister and the transvestite wrestler. We had drinks with them at the Harlot’s Hole a while back. Nice couple…”

“They sure were. They were coming from the Harlot’s Hole when the goon squad caught them. They were inside the cemetery, but hadn’t gotten to their graves. Double barrel shot gun blast to the head did them in.”

She pinched his cheeks,  then moved into the room towards the bed. She stepped out of her black penny loafers, unbuttoned her pink sweater, and let it fall to the floor. She unzipped her black skirt, stepped out of it and kicked the skirt away from her. At the bed she turned to face him.

 His erection crawled down his leg beneath his pants as he watched her take of the red lace panties, and red lace bra he’d bought for her from Victoria’s Secret after their first date a year ago. She stood naked before him in all of her undead beauty. Her hair was matted to her head with red-brown coagulated blood, and hung in tangled black strands down around her shoulders. Her bloodshot left eye dangled from its socket upon her cheek by a bloody red strand of flesh. Her right eye, strained with red stress lines emanating out from a dilated pupil, was bucked wide open in a hysterical stare. Pockmarked holes black with red blood, and oozing a yellow-green pus dotted her face. And rising up from the rotting flesh of her armpits and her thighs, from her lips, and from her feet was a rancid odor of death and decaying flesh.

“Damn! You look good enough to eat!”

“I was hoping you would…”

Claude stripped naked.

“Can’t you leave your priest collar on? It really turns me on.”

Claude picked the narrow band of white starched linen that was his priest collar up from the floor and fastened it around his neck.

“How that?”

“Holy Chippendale.” She said laughing as she rolled his penis between her thumb and index finger. “Fuck me father. I want to sin.”

He picked Gloria Jean up in his arms, and lay her down on the bed. He raised her legs, spread them, then  pushed her legs back until her knees touched her breast. Her plump round ass was turned up to him, while her vagina and clitoris lay pink, wide open, and inviting. He took a handful of strawberries from the nightstand beside the bed. He squeezed the strawberries until the rich red liquid splashed into the black forest of her pubic hair, and ran in rivulets over the plump outer lips of her vulva, seeped past her vulva’s inner lips, then washed over her clitoris, only to pool in a red puddle on the white sheet just beneath the cheeks of her ass. 

“That tickles.” She said. Her body was like the chocolate of a Milky Way candy bar come to life, writhing seductively upon the bed as she slid her right index finger into the strawberry juice clinging to her clitoris. She put her strawberry finger into her mouth and began to suck upon her finger as a child would suck at the nipple of its mother’s breast.

Claude wanted to enter her, but he held back. One large strawberry remained in the bowl. He removed it from the bowl, then gently pressed the strawberry into her vagina. His penis hardened as he watched her vagina open, allowing the giant strawberry to slide between her pussy lips with the ease of Vaseline slathered golf ball.

Claude lowered his face between her legs then used his tongue like a ladle to lap, and lick every bit of the strawberry juice from her pussy. He nibbled, nibbled, at the strawberry lodged in her cunt making sure that his fangs dragged over her elongated clit. She YELPED! She squirted. Her ass bucked! She opened her legs wider, pressing her hand to the back of his head, pressing his face, his nose, his mouth into her strawberry wetness. YELPING! Squirting.  He felt her body tremble, himself coming, jizzom, a puddle of jizzom upon  the motel bed sheets. Thinking: ‘have I been redeemed?’

Claude rolled over on his back and fell off into a fitful sleep, dreaming  ‘We have complaints father from several parents that you’ve been touching some of your altar boys in inappropriate ways….”


When he awoke, it was two thirty a.m., and Gloria Jean lay asleep with her head nuzzled into the crook of his right arm. He watched the rising and falling of her breast, and wondered if experiencing her flesh, and spilling his seed into her womb was enough of a sacrifice to sooth Gods anger at him for his taste for the flesh of young boys? Would his acquired taste for Gloria Jean’s cunt free him from his undead existence of a vampire craving the taste of human blood?

     Claude raised himself up on an elbow. He let his eyes roam over the length of Gloria’s body, taking in the black and blue bruises that covered her breast, the white maggots that wiggled and squirmed around her navel, and the gray gnats that swarmed around the gaping pus dripping hole on the inside of her right thigh. ‘luscious.’ He thought. ‘luscious.’ He opened his mouth wide, and sank his cavity filled fangs into the vein in her neck. There was not much there in the way of blood, but the feeling of her pulsating heart against his tired fangs was soothing.

    “You were wonderful Claude.” Gloria Jean moaned. She touched his cheek. He turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand.

     “I’m happy you’re happy.”

     “You’re like an innocent little boy. You try so hard to please me. You remind me of Alex Peterson the star fullback on Hirsh High’s football team. Your penis is about the same size as his.”

     “It’s good to know I have a teenaged sized dick!”

     “Don’t be jealous. You fit so snugly in me just like he did, and when you come, there’s so much sperm. More sperm than most sixty year old men like you have. Maybe its because you were a priest that you have that boyish energy that I like.”

     She rolled over and kissed his chest, then ran her moist cold lips down over his navel, then sucked his limp penis up into her mouth swallowing him.  Her head bobbed up and down, her lips held his penis in a vise like yet tender grip. He felt himself again coming, coming.

     She suddenly pulled her mouth away from him and he spent himself into the air, a geyser of white jizzom squirting, squirting.

     “What the hells the matter? Why’d you do that?”

     She turned her back to him and began sucking her thumb. Her plump limps caressing her thumb was maddening.

     “I can’t concentrate?”

     “What’s wrong?”

     “That picture.”

     “What, what pic…”

     “The one over the bed..”

     “The Final Judgment. So?”

“I know what it is.” She said. She stopped sucking her thumb, and turned to him. “ I’m tired of being judged. I wish God would go on and send me to hell so I can burn like any other sinner! Ain’t God sadistic—giving me all this undeadness just because I fucked a thirteen year old boy! Hell, the boy liked it more than I did!”

     Claude suddenly felt very sorry for Gloria Jean. She was consumed by sin and he wanted to lay his hands upon her and forgive her of her sins. But in his sinfulness, he felt powerless to forgive. So, he listened.

     She told him of how she came to the United States from Haiti with her parents to escape the horrors of the Tonton Macoute, Haiti’s feared secret police. Her family settled in Chicago, and Gloria took a position as  an elementary school teacher in Chicago’s “Little Haiti” community where she taught eighth grade. For some reason she couldn’t explain,  Gloria said  that she took a liking to Justin Gespard, a thirteen year old Haitian boy in her class.

     “I  had sex with Justin lots of times” said Gloria Jean. “Young boys are so grateful and appreciative of an experienced woman who can give them an orgasm like they’ve never felt before. Shit! Justin gave me orgasms like I’ve never felt before. Things were good until the boys moma caught me in bed with Justin.”

     She told him how Justin’s mother went to a Mambo—the local voodoo priestess-- and paid five hundred dollars for a spell to be cast that would turn her into a zombie.

     “I wake up one night and there’s this mambo standing over my bed. She sprays this puffer fish powder in my face, and the next thing I know, I’m being stabbed to death in an alley by some weirdo. After the weirdo  killed me,  I killed him. I ate his raw flesh, and I liked it.

     “So, as far as I’m concerned, fuck a final judgment! I’ve suffered enough for having sex with one of my students. Being turned into Zombie is no joke. Being half dead, half alive, skin rotting, smelling like spoiled meat---it ain’t easy being me!”

     Claude rolled over and took a pack of Cool cigarettes off the nightstand by the bed. He lit a cigarette, offered one to Gloria Jean,  which she refused, then lay on his back, smoking. He blew smoke rings into the air, and stared up at the cracks in the ceiling, seeing in the ceiling’s cracks  the fractured sinews of his priesthood.

     “I think God’s had it in for me from the day I was born.” Said Claude.

     “Come on. You’ve had it easy, being a priest in all…”

     "Not really. You can’t imagine what it’s like being the first black priest to be assigned to a predominately Irish parish in Englewood. The Irish parishioners expected me to be as holy as St. Patrick, and the black parishioners doated on me like I was the second coming of Christ himself. Do you know that in the seven years before I was shot, my greatest joy was not in Christ Jesus, but in having my altar boys masturbate me just before I was to say Mass. I don’t understand why God would allow me to be a priest. He had to know I was a pervert at heart.”

     Gloria Jean pinched his cheek.

    “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re my pervert. I like what you do to me.”

    Claude moved Gloria’s dangling eyeball to one side, and kissed her on the cheek.

    “The best thing that’s ever happened to me is when I found you.

    We have so much in common….”

   “You know what?” said Gloria Jean. She sat up on  the side of the bed.


    “I’m hungry.”

    “Me too. Come here, let me eat you.”

    “Later silly. I’ll call the restaurant for delivery.   I’ll order steaks cooked very rare. Would

 you like that?”

     Claude looked at his watch. Three a.m.

    “Great. We’d better hurry. My time is getting short. I have to be home before day.” He fondled her breast. She arched her back, offering her nipple up to him.

    "Will you whip my ass when we’re done eating?”

    “Sure. Anything you want baby.”

    Gloria Jean picked up the telephone from the nightstand on her side of the room, and dialed Izola’s all night restaurant.

    “We’d like two steaks sent up to room 203. One very rare, and one raw.”

    At three fifteen Claude heard someone rapping at the motel door.

   “Izola’s restaurant. Food delivery.” A woman’s voice from beyond the door.

    “You’d better put your clothes on.” Said Gloria Jean as she took the lampshade off the brass based  lamp on her nightstand. She unplugged the lamp, then limped across the room, and stood behind the door with the lamp raised high above her head.

    “Go ahead.” Said Claude. “Let her in. We’ll have a little fun.”

    Claude sat on the bed facing the door. He rested on his left hand, while he used his right hand to masturbate., stroking his member up and down slow enough not to come to, yet fast enough to make himself squirm with anticipated release.

     "Come in.” said Gloria Jean.

     Claude quickened the pace of his masturbation as he watched the motel door open. A black woman in her thirties, wearing a starched powder blue uniform, that had a white apron around the waist, came into the room, carrying a bag of food in front of her.

     “Here’s the food you ordered sir.” Said the woman as she came into the room, her dimpled brown cheeked smile warm, and engaging.

     “What the hell is you doin?” said the delivery woman, with a snarl of disgust. “You a nasty fucker!” She said as she whirled around to leave.

     Gloria Jean kicked the motel door shut. She swung the lamp like a lumberjack wielding an axe, bringing the lamp down on the woman’s head. THUD!

      Claude’s nuts burst out of his phallus in a geyser of white foam as the delivery woman’s head became a watermelon splitting open, sending tiny droplets of blood splattering against the motel room’s beige walls, and into his face.

     “Lovely…! Lovely!” said Claude reveling at the salty taste of the delivery woman’s blood upon his lips.

     Claude catapulted off the bed and across the room to where the delivery woman lay on the floor flapping like a goldfish out of its bowl. He knelt down and made the sign of the cross over the woman’s twitching  body.

     “In nominee patri et felius et spiritu sancti.”

     “The cross ain’t taboo for you?”  asked Gloria kneeling at his side.

     “Only if someone holds up a cross made of silver in front of me. I haven’t been excommunicated yet, so I can still administer Extreme Unction to the dead…”

     Claude ripped the woman’s blouse open, tore off the woman’s bra, and cupped her breast in the palm of his hand.


     He sank his fangs deep into the woman’s pulsating jugular vein drawing the nectar of her life into himself. Her blood was tasty, with the grainy texture of cornbread, and the sweet taste of collard greens. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Gloria Jean rip the woman’s panties from her body then plunge her face between the woman’s legs where she began to greedily gobble at the soft underbelly of the woman’s vagina.

     When he was done dining, Claude sat on the floor with his back against the motel door. He belched. He rubbed his blood engorged belly. He felt full, content, and just a little bit sleepy.

     “Blood wasn’t as rich as I like it.”

  Gloria raised her blood covered face from between the dead woman’s legs.

     “Pussy’s dry. You sucked all the damn blood outta her.”

     Claude winched at the cracking noise made when Gloria Jean bit off the woman’s left hand at the wrist. She held the severed hand by its thumb and ate first one finger, then another.

     “Hummm, tender. Want some?” she held the dismembered hand out to him.

     “No thanks. I’m full”

     Claude turned and looked at “The Last Judgment” painting on the wall over the bed. He looked into the dead woman’s brown eyes open and staring at nothing. He looked at the blood and puncture marks on the woman’s breast where he had sucked her blood. He fought to hold back the tide of nausea swelling in his stomach as he watched Gloria Jean bite huge globs of brown flesh from the woman’s thighs and stomach.

      'Is this her final judgment?’ he thought. Had wondered what evil the woman had done in her life that God should decide  her fate would be that she would be supper for himself and Gloria. Jean? Was this woman’s sin as great as his? Thinking "if anyone causes one of these little ones who believes in me to sin, it would be better for him to have a large millstone hung around his neck and to be drowned in the depths of the sea". Thinking: ‘merciful lord give me a millstone…”

     “Aren’t you full yet Gloria?”

     “Yeah, I’m good.” She said She licking blood from her fingers and smacking her lips.”

     “What should we do with the body?” said Claude “Here, I’ll push it under the bed. She’ll be undead and one of us in about  three hours. Then, she can eat the next couple that takes the room.”

While Gloria pushed the delivery woman’s  body under the bed, Claude got up from the floor. He went to the bed and picked up the wooden paddle. 

     He turned to Gloria Jean.

     “Can you whip my ass now? Please?”

     “That’s what I hate about you Claude. Bip! Bam! Thank you mam!

     You’ve got your pussy and your ready to run! What about me?” She sat down on the side of the bed. “I want more! You know one orgasm is not enough for me! That’s what I like about young boys. They have such stamina! A young boy can ride me all night, and bust his nuts till the sun comes up!”

     “You know I can’t be here until the sun comes up!”

     Claude got down on his knees before Gloria Jean. He kissed her toes, her ankles, her kneecaps. He weaseled his way between her legs, and nuzzled his nose into the soft warmth of her cunt.

     “Please Gloria? Whip my ass, please?” He held the paddle out to her. She snatched the paddle from his hands.

     “Okay you little whimp! Punk ass son-of-a-bitch!” She slapped him hard across the face. “Get your ass up here you worthless boy fucka!” Claude lay across her lap as Gloria positioned her knees and thighs, locking his cock between her legs.

     WHACK! WHACK! WHACK! The sound of the paddle slamming against his bare ass was like the sound of a gun-shot.

     “Spank me! Harder!”




   “Forgive me Jesus for I have sinned.” Claude whimpered,welcoming his spanking as a  penance for his sins; welcoming his spanking as  a pleasure for his flesh, coming, spilling his seed,  laying  spent and limp across her lap, feeling loved and protected  as Gloria Jean  messaged the red hot paddle welts on his quivering ass cheeks.

*    *     *     *     *

    Their shower together was warm and soothing, and now Claude and Gloria Jean stood before the full length mirror that hung on a wall in a corner of the room. He held her around the waist and rubbed her right hip. She slapped his hand away.

    “Stop.” She said straightening his  priest collar around his neck, “We’ll be back in the sack! You wouldn’t want that would you?”

     “That’s okay with me. I can’t get enough of you.”

    He pulled his protruding fangs back behind his bottom lip and kissed her on the neck. The coolness of her flesh against his lips made him dizzy.

    “That tickles Claude.” Her giggle was child like.

    He smiled as he eyed her through the mirror. He realized he didn’t want to acknowledge the strange sense of tenderness he was feeling towards her.  She was more beautiful then he’d ever seen her. She was no longer a walking mass of rotting, putrid decaying flesh. She was instead a radiant, warm, mature woman, sweet, and succulent. She had put her right eyeball back into its socket. The shower had washed the dried and caked blood from her scalp, and her hair was arranged in a neat round black afro.

   “Damn! I wish I could see how we look together. I bet we make a fine looking couple. You know I can’t see myself in the mirror.  How do I look standing next to you?”

    “Way to handsome to have been a priest. Your hair is straight, and black and wavy. A little gray around the temples, but that makes you look distinguished. Your skin is pale, and a little ashy. You know how colored folks can get ashy after they take a shower?” You’re a dead ringer for Billy Dee Williams in a priest’s habit.”

     Claude turned to Gloria Jean and took her into his arms. He kissed the tip of her rotting nose. The touch of her nose against his lips suddenly shook him down to the furthest reaches of his soul. He realized that in those few times that his lips had touched her flesh that he’d experienced a shudder of arousal unlike anything he’d ever known with one of his altar boys. Thinking: ‘Is this what I should have been feeling all along?’

     “God, I wish I’d had a chance to know you, to…to love you before I became a priest. Before I sinned with those boys. I’ve wasted my life.”

     She pushed back from him and looked deeply at him, a hint of a smile upon her chapped lips.

    “Would it have made a difference in either of us? We have a taste in our mouths for forbidden

 fruit. Even now, I crave it.”

    “Me too. Next time…when we meet…we can taste and share that fruit together…”

    She pressed her fingers to his lips silencing him.

    “We’ll see.” She picked up his right wrist and looked at his watch.

    “It’s time for you to go. You have to be home before day.”

    Claude led her by the hand out of the motel into the cool blue black darkness of the morning--down the tree lined road that ran past the motel.  He looked to the east. The yellow-orange light of the sun burned his eyes, and stabbed at his skin. BUMP, BUMP, BUMP, BUMP! His heart pounding with the fear of being caught in the rays of the rising sun. He wanted to run from the light; hide himself beneath the shade of a rock. And yet, in his fear of the light, a giddiness. He began to skip.

    “I feel like I’m on my way to school with my girlfriend. Can I carry your books?”

    “You so silly Claude.” She said skipping along with him.

   He led Gloria Jean through the black wrought iron gates of Burr Oak Cemetery. Inside the cemetery gates he stopped in front of a gray stoned mausoleum that had the word: USHER carved in large Greek letters above the door.

    Claude took Gloria Jean into his arms and kissed her. “Ohhh, my man is a horny man.”

    “I ain’t horny. I….I love you is all I’m trying to say.”

    She put her hand upon his cheek.

    “You’re going to make me cry….”

    “I’ll see you next Saturday, okay?”

   He released her hand, turned, and hurried down the left fork of the cemetery  road, past the mausoleum, past rows and rows of graves with crucifixes jutting up from the ground that he dared not look at.  Off in the distance, not a hundred yards in front of him, was his own three columned gray stoned mausoleum.

    Claude began to run now, and as he ran, he tried to shield his eyes from the sun pushing its way up in the eastern sky. Fifty yards now, and he’d be home. He broke into a full run towards his mausoleum door.

    BAM! BAM! He heard the shot gun blast in his left ear, felt the pellets ripping through his left arm, hand and shoulder, but he felt no pain as he stumbled head first into the gravel road.  He was suddenly surrounded by the neighborhood goon squad of more than one hundred boys some carrying torches, but most  armed with shotguns and pistols and all  wearing the red and white habit of altar boys serving at a High Mass. 

     “WEE doggie! We got us one Earl. Got us a goddamn vampire sure as shit!”

     The sharp toe of a boot slammed into Claude’s face. He rolled up into a fetal ball trying to protect himself from the kicks, and gun butts  that pummeled him into semi-consciousness. He felt the course fabric of a rope being put around his neck. The rope was yanked tight cutting off his ability to breath and to swallow. He clutched at the rope frantically trying to free himself as he was dragged along on his back to a tree.

     “Stop! No! Please don’t!” said Claude stretching out his hand, trying to stop one of the altar boys from tossing one end of the rope over a tree limb. He choked and gasp for air as he was hoisted up until his toes just barely touched the ground.  The morning sun seared his eyes. His skin sizzled like bacon. The odor of his own burning flesh was sweat in his nostrils.

     A tall white man dressed in the black habit of a priest stepped out from the boy mob that surrounded him. The priest held up a silver cross with the image of Jesus crucified on it.

     “In the name of Jesus I command the unclean spirit within you to return to the fires of hell!”

    Claude writhed and struggled against the ropes to break free.

    “Let me at that bastard!” yelled an altar boy who rushed out of the crowd at Claude wielding a knife. The boy unzipped Claude’s pants, took hold of Claude’s penis and sliced it off. The boy held his penis trophy high above his head to the approving cheers of the altar boys.

     “Oh God, have mercy!” Claude cried in his agony. “Please boys, have mercy!”

    Claude watched a blonde haired, dimpled cheek altar boy of ten come out of the crowd. The boy carried a long silver spike in one hand, and a small sledge hammer in the other. The altar boy pressed the tip of the spike against Claude’s heart then struck the flat head end of the spike, driving the spike through Claude’s chest. The rope was pulled tighter, lifting Claude’s body up off the ground.

    His feet kicked at the air around him. His body swung back and forth like the pendulum of a  grandfather clock, Claude thinking, ‘Is this the final judgment?’ knowing that his dying would never end. Through the fog of undeadness that rushed away from him towards eternity he heard a boy’s voice. 

    “Altar boys are you ready?”

    “Ready,” came the unanimous response.

    “One, two, three—fire!”

    The volley came as the fire from a machine gun.

 *     *     *     *     *


    Gloria Jean Jackson turned the latch on the door to her mausoleum and found the door locked.

   “Open the door Bradley! Let me in. I’m tired and need to lay down.”

   “Miss Jackson…?”

   Gloria Jean turned around. Eleven husky boys dressed in Hirsh High school’s maroon and white

 football uniform stood in a huddle in front of her. Each of the boys had a double barreled shotgun.

     “We have a gift for you Miss Jackson.”

    The boys tossed bright red Washington State apples into the air. Gloria Jean looked up into the blue morning sky. She watched the shower of apples rain down on her thinking: ‘So many boys, so little time.’


    The shotgun blast ripped her head from her body sending it slamming against the mausoleum door. Through her dangling left eye, she winked up at a boy as he pressed the barrel of his shotgun to her skull.



The End   


Copyright c 2012 by Ronald Ayers and Aegis Publishing House, Blue Island, Illinois 60406 

Read the short stories, and columns of 

Ronald Ayers at Aegis Publishing House: http://aegisbiz.net/wp



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writing rayers
Creative writing is my only intrest.
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Having a undisturbed sexual rendevous can be tedious if both parties have to be home before day.
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11/21/2012 12:00:00 AM
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Aegis Publishing House: http://aegisbiz.net/wp
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