Birthday present for Raganoxer. I...probably wouldn't have written it otherwise. God, forgive me.
I hope you enjoy it, Rag, and I hope you, everyone else, won't desert me for what I'm about to post.
Lincoln Loud grabbed his coat from his locker, shrugged into it, and slammed the door closed, his heart skipping a beat when he got a face full of Ronnie Anne Santiago. "Hey, lame-o," she said slowly, her eyes half-lidding.
At eleven, Lincoln didn't have much experience with women, but he did have that peculiar natural male instinct that told him when a woman wanted his pee pee, and brother, right now, alarm bells were going off. "Hey," he replied easily and leaned his shoulder against the locker, "what's up?"
Ronnie Anne's lips turned up in a sharp, predatory smile that made Lincoln's balls tighten. "I was wondering," she said, "if you wanted to come over to my house later...you know, to play a game."
There was a suggestive little hilt to her voice that told him 'play a game' really meant 'do something sexual.' The Log stirred and keeping it from popping out and wrapping itself around Ronnie Anne's waist like that rapist vine from The Evil Dead was an epic struggle that he barely won. "Sure," he said and flashed a grin that he hoped was equally suggestive, "I'd love to play with you."
Her brow lifted. "Oh?"
Shit, did he overplay his hand? "Yeah," he said. Oh well, I set a course now I gotta stay on it.
Her eyes darted to his crotch. "My joystick's broken, though. You gotta -" she looked him dead in the eyes "-bring your own." Her smile widened and Lincoln's heart started to race. Holy shit, we're talking dirty.
"I dunno," he said with faux incredulity, "it's pretty big. Think you can handle it?"
She snickered. "I know I can."
"When I go to plug it into your console it might stretch the input hole a little."
She pushed away from the locker and brushed past him. "Only one way to find out," she said over her shoulder.
When she was gone, Lincoln pumped his fist. Fuck yeah, I'm gonna fuck the dog shit out of Ronnie Anne! Can you believe this shit? Six months ago she was shoving sandwiches down his pants, now she was begging for his dick. Funny how quickly things change, huh?
Feeling happy and light, he threw his book bag over his back and went down the hall. I hope she lets me put it in her mouth. I hear that feels really good.
He pushed through the double doors, pounded down the steps, and hung a right, following the sidewalk toward home: He'd duck in, take a quick shower, put on fresh undies, and...damn! I don't have a rubber. What if she's one of those chicks who won't let you hit raw? Sorry, lame-o, we're just gonna have to play a different game. Call of Honor okay?
No, Call of Honor was not okay, the only game he wanted to play was Pussy Poppin' 64. Sigh. Alright, new plan: He'd hit the pharmacy then go home. Hopefully the assholes who ran the place wouldn't make an issue of him buying a condom. Little boy, are you being touched inappropriately? No, and if you don't hurry up and gimme my damn raincoat, I'm not going to be.
At the intersection of Harris and Richmond, he took a right and followed it to Main Street. It was a warm early September day, and all of Royal Woods was out enjoying the weather, the sidewalks jammed with a crush of humanity that Lincoln wound up ducking and weaving between. No time to lose!
The pharmacy was up ahead on the left next to the bank; an alleyway ran between, and in it Lincoln spotted two men, one short and the other tall. The short one leaned against the graffiti covered wall with his hands in his pockets. His hair was shaggy black and tucked under a baseball cap with a very long bill (compensating for something, buddy?). The tall one stood against the opposite wall, one knee bent, foot flat against the surface. He wore a leather jacket, big sunglasses, and, as Lincoln watched, lifted a cigarette to his lips. His hair was slicked back like it was 1958 and his jeans were so tight Lincoln could see his massive bulge.
Two fags on a Grindr date, Lincoln thought and snickered.
He crossed the street and started past the alley, but froze when 1958 spoke. "Hey, kid."
Ugh. No, I don't have any pocket change, fuck off. He turned just as Long Bill pushed away from the wall, his hands going to his belt and his lips pulling back from his teeth in a leer that wasn't much different from the one Ronnie Anne gave him back at school.
1958 took a drag from his cigarette and blew out a plume of blue smoke that danced and whirled around his head. "How's it goin'?"
"Uh...fine," Lincoln said and nodded nervously. Alarm bells were starting to go off again. He took a jerky step backwards.
"Come on," 1958 said, "you don't gotta be afraid of us. We're cool cats." He nodded to Long Bill. "That's Rag and I'm Flagg. We're new in town and we were looking for someone to show us around, ya know? Clue us to where the fun is." A demonic smile spread across his face; his teeth were big and shark-like.
Lincoln swallowed thickly. "I don't...uh, I gotta go…" he hooked a thumb over his shoulder and started to back cautiously away, suddenly aware that the sidewalk was totally empty now and that he was alone with Rag and Flagg.
Flagg's face darkened, and Lincoln turned to run, but Rag struck, snaking one arm around Lincoln's neck from behind; ge grabbed Lincoln's other arm and twisted it upwards. Lincoln cried out as red hot agony streaked into his brain. "You ain't goin' nowhere, kid," Rag panted into his ear and uttered a low, hissing laugh. His rank breath broke across Lincoln's ear, and he shuddered. Rag spun him around to face Flagg, who flicked his cigarette away and reached into his jacket pocket. Lincoln's heart began to race, and when Flagg pulled out a switchblade, his eyes widened with terror.
He tried to pull away, but Rag yanked his arm up between his shoulder blades, and he cried out. "Relax, kid," Flagg said and shoved away from the wall. "We're not gonna hurt'cha...bad."
Fear coursed through Lincoln's veins and tears began to flood his eyes; as Flagg approached him, he knew intimately what it felt like to be a scared, quaking rabbit cornered by a hungry fox. "Let me go!" he yelled, finding his voice. "Help! Help me, please!"
When Rag kissed the side of his neck, he froze. "Come on, don't be like that." He reached his arm around and grabbed Lincoln's belt buckle: Lincoln's heart dropped into his stomach. "What'cha got in there, kid?" Rag asked, his voice husky and his breathing heavy.
Lincoln swallowed and squeezed his eyes closed.
"Huh?" Rag pressed.
"N-Nothing," Lincoln stammered.
"Oh, you got somethin' alright," Rag said.
Lincoln shook his head.
Rag's forearm tightened suddenly, cutting off Lincoln's air supply. "What's in your pants?" he asked savagely.
Lincoln started to cry.
"Answer the man's fucking question," Flagg said and flicked his wrist; the blade shot out of the handle with a terrifying snap.
"M-M-My weiner."
Flagg and Rag both laughed evilly. "Your weiner, huh?" Flagg asked. "You ever use it before?"
Lincoln shook his head violently back and forth. "P-Please l-let me go."
Flagg grinned. "I dunno. Should we let him go, Rag?"
Rag tilted his head to one side as if in thought. "Hmmm…" he pressed his lips to Lincoln's ear. "No."
Flagg nodded. "Ya see, kid, today is Rag's birthday, so I'm lettin' him be in charge for once. If he says you ain't leavin', you ain't leavin'."
"You should cut it off, Flagg," Rag panted and cupped Lincoln's package in his hand. Lincoln's eyes widened and his blood turns to ice water. Tittering madly, Rag squeezed, and a leaden balloon of agony expanded in the center of Lincoln's stomach. A pained, blood-curdling scream wrenched from his throat and the edges of his vision went gray.
Flagg chuckled darkly. "You want me to?"
Rag nodded.
Lincoln shook his head. "P-Please, m-mister…" his throat was raw, his nose stuffed. "D-Don't cut off my thing." He started to sob hysterically.
Flagg looked at Rag, and Rag furrowed his brow. "Hm...I know." He kissed Lincoln's ear again. "I'll let you keep it...if you piss on yourself."
Lincoln nodded. "A-Anything."
"Do it."
Bowing his head in shame, Lincoln tried to pee but couldn't; after almost ten years of being potty trained, allowing himself to go in his pants, with people standing around watching, was next to impossible. Flagg chewed his bottom lip, then flashed, slamming the heel of his palm into Lincoln's shoulder. "C'mon! We ain't got all day!"
"Do it, kid," Rag breathed, "piss for Rag."
Lincoln swallowed and closed his eyes; after a moment of straining, his bladder released, and hot urine coursed down his legs, dripping into his socks and onto his shoes. "He's doin' it," Flagg laughed.
"Good boy," Rag said, and when Lincoln felt his erection, he stiffened. "That makes papi happy."
"I got an idea, Rag," Flagg said and brushed the blade against Lincoln's cheek. It was cold, hard, and he winced. "How 'bout I carve you a little birthday card into this geek's chest?"
Rag, tongue hanging out in deviant lust, nodded eagerly, "Yeah, do it."
"No!" Lincoln wailed.
Flagg grabbed the front of Lincoln's shirt and yanked, tearing the fabric with a sharp rip. If he didn't get away now, Lincoln realized, these two psychos were going to kill kim. Summoning all the strength and courage he could muster, he stomped his foot down onto Rag's and threw himself forward at the same time. Rag yelped, but his grip only tightened.
Frowning deeply, Flagg grabbed Lincoln's face and squeezed, smooshing his lips together. "You think you're fuckin' tough, huh, kid?" Before Lincoln could reply, Flagg brought his fist around and smashed it against Lincoln's temple. Stars burst across his field of vision and his knees gave out: Rag's forearm held him up entirely now. He couldn't breathe and panic gripped him. Flagg punched him again, and again, his teeth bared and his face hard; he hit Lincoln's nose, and it shattered wetly; he hit Lincoln's eye, and blood vessels popped; he hit Lincoln's mouth, and broken teeth slid down the back of his throat, tearing the lining of his esophagus on the way down.
Darkness stole over Lincoln...but the world came roaring back when he felt the sharp sting of the knife jamming into his stomach. "Little white-hair fuck," Flagg sneered and yanked the knife out in a gush of blood. The blade jabbed into Lincoln again, and he began to cry again. Rag brushed his lips along the side of his throat and ground his boner against his butt. Lincoln let out a strangled sob, and Rag moaned, his hips thrusting forward. "Awwww, fuuuuuck," he trembled. He let go, and Lincoln toppled over, falling to the ground in a heap.
Shadows were beginning to creep in, and with it cold. Through tear blurred eyes, he watched Flagg sink to one knee, watched as he touched the knife to his chest. He didn't feel his flesh tearing, nor did he feel the many aches and pains emanating from his ruined face. He was beyond that now, sinking into the dark, wintery embrace of death.
Flagg got to his feet and stared down at the boy's broken body, arms thrust out on either side, one leg bent and crooked.
I'm dying, Lincoln thought, and if he wasn't numb, that realization would have hurt.
When Rag spoke, his voice was echoey and far away. "Heh. Good one, Flagg."
Flagg bent and wiped the bloody knife on Lincoln's pants. "Now let's go pay his sisters a visit"
Those chilling words, and the knowledge that his family was in mortal danger, carried Lincoln into death.
Etched into Lincoln's flesh was this:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, RAG, YA SICK BASTARD.