Part Seven
AKA finally got the T-shirt gripped in both hands right up under the
young policeman's chin. The neck-strap somewhat awkwardly separated the upper
and lower halves of the shirt, but that only meant that it would provide an
additional asphyxiating anchor once AKA began to press down.
"I think you pulled the back up as well," Landon said in a voice already
sounding a little strangulated.
The ever-observant Eagle Scout had apparently registered that AKA had
"made a mistake" in pulling the entire T-shirt back up over his head and assumed
he had not noticed.
"Yes. I think you're right," AKA replied with a wry smile. He paused.
"Actually, Keith, now that I think of it, there's one other thing I'd like to
do." He paused and smiled again. "No, two things actually." A final pause. A
final smile. "What the hell! Make that three."
Landon looked confused, and opened his mouth to reply, but he never got
the chance because AKA immediately lifted up, straightened his arms, braced his
shoulders hard up against the roof of the car, and then bore down on the
elegantly tendoned throat in such a way as to cut off the blood and air flow in
fairly instantaneous fashion.
By this point in his life, AKA was an expert when it came to putting a
guy under--and quickly. He could even put a guy under without seriously
disfiguring his face. That was a goal AKA usually aimed for when the guy was
pretty (like Keith Landon) and THE GAME had not yet run its course, which, AKA
had decided toward the end of the face-fuck, this particular game definitely had
not. So what if he didn't finish with the cop until close on to sunrise? This
smooth-skinned, gorgeously toned Michelangelo masterpiece was worth the extra
risk.
AKA's technique was so good that the policeman hardly made any noise at
all, but he did get off two or three fairly fierce kicks--none of which, given
how far back AKA had moved the "hot seat," came close to reaching the
windshield, however, much less breaking it, as in "The Godfather."
In less than a minute, the young cop had gone rigid. His spine had
arced and locked. His legs had stretched, flexed, and held. His handsome,
fear-startled face had frozen in sweat-drenched, blood-suffused immobility.
The tip of the tongue poked timidly through the marginally thickened
lips.
AKA carefully adjusted the degree of pressure on the neck arteries.
The glassy eyes hollowed, then bulged--slightly--then darkly webbed.
AKA adjusted the pressure once again.
A spurt of blood suddenly shot from the right nostril.
AKA continued to bear down.
Another spurt of blood shot from the left nostril.
Unable to resist the temptation, AKA pressed slightly harder.
There was a large and third and final spurt of blood from both sides of
the nose.
Then, not unpleasantly, the nose-prickling odor of fresh urine wafted up
from the car seat. The highly absorbent material in the special-order
seat-cover would handle most of that, of course.
Then all was still . . . in that stunning stillness unlike any other
stillness in the world.
Young Keith Landon's wildly beating heart, his radically stifled lungs,
his brutally pressurized brain all lurched toward that indescribable moment of
moments when life bowed low in the direction of death, when being dangerously
flirted with non-being, when identity tottered toward complete and utter
annihilation.
AKA was hard again just from the thought of it.
He began to count down.
Sixty.
Fifty-nine.
Fifty-eight.
Another minute for the brain to blaze, for the lungs to burn, for the
heart to thump and stutter, for death to loom up and threaten to destroy this
otherwise gloriously fit, at-the-peak-of-its-perfection male human machine.
Then.
Then AKA released his grip on the neck.
For a second, there was nothing.
Then the smooth, sweat-coated, classically chiseled chest erupted in a
single, explosive, lung-wrenching inhalation. It seemed to go on for a full
minute, down the wide, desperately stretched, blue-tinged mouth, down the
flared, cyanotic, blood-wet nostrils.
AKA felt the stiffened legs of the young cop jerk and splay behind him.
Once.
Twice.
Then young Landon inhaled a second time.
A bit less violently.
Then a third time.
Less violently still.
Then again.
And again.
More normally each time.
AKA sat back.
Good! The "kid" was going to live, but, just as AKA intended, his brain
was now well and truly blitzed. For a good ten to fifteen minutes, anyway.
Even if guys came round faster than that, and some did, they were usually too
dizzy to do more than moan and groan and list and lean like a bad actor's
imitation of a drunk for minutes on end. A coherent sentence could take as long
as half an hour to produce.
AKA pushed the bunched-up T-shirt apart and undid the neck-strap that
had held his captive so effectively attached to the "hot seat." Then, shifting
back over onto the driver's side, AKA clutched the young cop by his dark wavy
hair and pulled him forward and down over his loose, knobby knees. There was a
low, involuntary grunt, but nothing more.
It took AKA a second to locate the key to the handcuffs, but, once he
had done so, he undid the cuffs and pulled them off. The young cop's hands
immediately slipped, palms up, off the base of his back, which, AKA noticed,
bore a cluster of angry-looking groove marks where the hard steel of the cuffs
had dug into the skin. The dark heavy-weave duty-shirt and the thin rib-knit
T-shirt went next. Once they were freed from the clumsily inert, awkwardly
angulated arms, AKA tossed them up onto the deep, lightly illuminated
rear-window ledge. Now Keith Landon truly was buck-naked.
If you didn't count his watch and school ring, that is. Well, nothing
identifiable should be left on the body. Just in case it was ever found.
Besides, the unfortunate advance in modern forensics aside, AKA liked the idea
of guy going out of the world as naked as the day he came into it. Almost all
of his kills had been given that last, symmetrically symbolic sending off.
Thus, the ring was soon tugged free, the watch more easily removed. Both were
then dropped into the tidy little storage-well located between the two seats.
AKA would dispose of them later, along with the uniform and the socks and the
shoes and the underwear--not to mention the holster and gun and ID-tag and
whatever other cop-related paraphernalia there might be. AKA had a couple of
internet friends with over-the-top cop fetishes who would just love to get their
hands on some of that material, but AKA knew he would play it safe and dump the
lot. He was tempting the fates enough as it was.
The young policeman was soon re-cuffed, his hands once again firmly
secured behind his back. AKA then gripped him by the front of his neck and left
shoulder and hauled him back up and then back down onto the lowered seat.
AKA then bent around and rummaged about for the black stretch socks he
had removed early on. Once retrieved, one was balled up and shoved into young
Landon's open, sexy-slack mouth, the other pulled to its full extension and used
to make a sturdy tie-gag that would hold the first sock in place. AKA wanted as
little noise as possible once he got the cop out of the car. You never knew.
Some hunter out hunting before the official opening of the season could well be
trespassing on AKA's parents' land.
AKA paused and took stock. What else?
He flicked the cop's limp, piss-damp dick as he thought. A few flecks
of golden dashboard-lit urine flew up, glittering, onto the bare, sweat-washed,
night-shadowed chest.
Should he secure the guy's feet? No, he decided. Keith Landon was
going to be unsteady enough long enough that such an additional measure wasn't
needed. Besides, he would be easier to fuck if AKA could spread those lean,
superbly toned legs of his.
