C0rrupt3dSpy: LOL, You mean my Nikkicoln story "Cruel Summer"? The one set at the summer camp?
Chandler McCann slipped on his denim jacket, buttoned it, and grabbed his cell from the nightstand, glancing at the screen to make sure it was fully charged.
It was.
Shoving it into his pocket, he went out into the second floor hall, hit the bathroom, and tumbled down the stairs. Mom was stretched out on the couch with an icepack on her head; she and Dad went to a cocktail party the night before and she had too much to drink, but, hey, that's Mom for you. Standing in the threshold opening onto the living room from the foyer (pronounced foy-yay because Mom and Dad were uppity snobs), Chandler could smell the sour stench of booze enshrouding her as though she had just bathed in it, and a grimace of disgust flickered across his lips. Dad was locked away in his study doing only God knew what. Probably looking at gay porn.
"I'm going out," he said, "I'll be back in a little while."
"Okay," she murmured.
Outside, the day was bright and cold with a westerly breeze that mussed Chandler's hair and sapped the heat from his face and hands. Yellow leaves blanketed the ground and barren branches whispered in the wind - if he listened closely, Chandler was sure he would hear them singing his praises.
Slipping his hands into his pockets, he bowed his head and started toward the park. As he walked, he thought of Lindsey Sweetwater.
It had been two weeks since he put Lola Loud in her place, and the urge to do it again had been growing stronger with every passing day. At night, he dreamed of the things he did to her, and during the day, he turned them over in his mind like a boy fondling a favorite item. Sometimes he closed his eyes and could see Lola's cum and blood splattered face, and other times, it was Lindsey's. Lindsey, who lived two streets over from him, was small and thin like Lola, and he imagined she would feel a lot like the Loud girl. He wondered how her ass would feel. He didn't fuck Lola's and he regretted it. This time, he'd start with that.
At Ridgedale Street, he paused and checked his phone. A text from Poppa Wheelie asking where he was. Chandler rolled his eyes. The other day, Loud invited him, Chandler, and Rusty to watch Lynn play softball with her dyke friends. Saturday at noon, Loud said, we're all gonna be there. By 'all' he meant his entire family, including Lola. The promise of her face going pale and shudders tearing through her when she saw him was too good to pass up. Snooty little bitches like her tend to forget their lessons, so why not pop in and remind her?
A half mile later, the trailhead appeared on the right. Chandler followed it into the forest, crossed the bridge, and smiled to himself at the memory of what happened here two weeks ago. The boulder behind which he fucked Lola Loud's brains out was ahead, its craggy face splotched by furry patches of moss. He slowed his pace and considered ducking behind it to see if her panties were still there. Every couple days, he came back to relive that glorious day, and each time, her underwear was balled up in the grass where he left it, the fabric still steeped in her scent. His phone buzzed with a text, and he decided against it. He had to hurry. On the way back, he'd check.
He passed the rock, and the path bent sharply to the left.
"Chandler."
Chandler turned. He caught a glimpse of Lincoln Loud's face, then something smashed him hard in the head and he knew no more.
Sometime later, Chandler came slowly and groggily awake, his eyelids peeling back from grainy orbs and the dense mist in his head burning off like morning fog. Hot pain throbbed in the center of his head and the sunlight filtering through the treetops stung his eyes. He blinked and tried to lift his hands to his forehead, but they were tied behind his back.
What happened?
He tried to remember, but the pressure in his skull made thinking hard. A gust of wind washed over him, and he shivered, realizing then that he was naked save for his underwear. His heart started to race his chest to heave.
A shadow fell over him, and he stiffened. Lincoln Loud, his fists balled at his sides and murder in his eyes. Chandler blinked in confusion and started to sit up, but fell back with a breathless oof when the tip of Lincoln's shoe crashed into his chest. His head hit the ground, and the pain flared white hot. Before he could recover, Lincoln dropped his knee onto his stomach and punched him in the chin. Pain exploded from the point of impact, and Chandler's brain jarred. Hissing an impassioned string of obscenities, Lincoln hit him with his right fist, then his left, right, left, right left. Streaks and whorls of color detonated across the backs of Chandler's eyelids and his nose burst under Lincoln's assault, warm blood gushing down his lips and chin. He whipped his head to the side in a vain attempt to protect his face and blindly kicked his legs. Lincoln's fist slammed down on his temple and Chandler let out a strangled cry.
"You fucking piece of goddamn fucking shit," Lincoln spat, punctuating each word with a blow. Spittle sprayed Chandler's face and the coppery taste of blood filled his mouth. Lincoln's hands closed around his throat and squeezed, and Chandler's air supply cut off. Panic clutched him and his vision strained. Lincoln stared down at him with an expression of hatred and Chandler was certain he was going to die.
Right before he passed out, Lincoln released him. He sucked great, rasping gulps of air into his burning lungs, his chest rising and falling. Lincoln got off of him and rolled him onto his stomach. "Linc," Chandler huffed, "please, Linc -"
"Shut the fuck up," Lincoln said and slapped him across the back of the head.
Chandler groaned...then his blood turned to ice water when Lincoln yanked his underwear down. "No! Stop! Linc, stop, wait!"
Ignoring him, Lincoln pulled his underwear over his ankles and threw them away. "I'm gonna do to you what you did to my sister," Lincoln said ominously.
At the mention of Lola, Chandler's heart dropped. "It didn't happen like that," he said. "She wanted it, w-we did it and she wanted it rough."
Lincoln punched him in the side, and he cried out. "You fucking hurt her, you piece of shit, now I'm gonna hurt you." Chandler turned his head just in time to see Lincoln reach into a bag. He pulled out a Phillips head screwdriver, and Chandler's heart sank.
"Please, I swear to God, please," he babbled.
Cold steel touched his butthole.
"Please, stop, don't do it, please, Lincoln, I'm sorry!"
When the shaft drove deep into his rectum, the tip tearing the lining of his insides, Chandler howled so hard and loud that his vision grayed and his vocal cords strained. Lincoln rammed it in to the hilt and twisted, the sharp bit ripping Chandler's tender butt walls asunder. Blood and pink, quivering bits of tissue oozed out around the handle and fiery agony consumed Chandler's entire being. Lincoln pulled it out to the head, then drove it in again. Convulsions wracked Chandler's body and he screamed even louder, his voice tapering off in a throat rending gargle.
Lincoln jerked the screwdriver from side to side, destroying soft flesh, then pulled it out and dropped it. Chandler closed his eyes against a rush of tears and tried to control his breathing. Sickening waves of pain radiated out from his ruined anus and his heart blasted into his ribs. Something cold and sharp pressed to his back, then turned hot and stinging. He gasped, then screamed when the wicked point of a knife plunged into his shoulder. Lincoln twisted, pulled it out, then dragged it across the back of Chandler's head, opening his scalp.
Surprising himself, Chandler began to cry.
Half-standing, Lincoln rolled him onto his back and sat on his knees. Through a blur of tears, Chandler saw something in his hands.
A pair of pliers.
He tried to plead, but his voice broke and all that came out was a breathy grunt. Lincoln grabbed his dick and Chandler fought back, throwing himself from side to side and violently kicking his legs. Flashing, Lincoln brought the pliers down onto the spot above Chandler's groin, and Chandler's back arched. "Fucking piece of shit hold still," Lincoln said. He grabbed Chandler's dick in one hand and pulled hard, bringing fresh tears to Chandler's eyes. He closed the vise grip around the head, then squeezed.
Agony greater than anything Chandler had ever imagined rushed through him, and his eyes bugged from their sockets. His scream came out as a strained shriek and his vision went completely white. He whipped his head from side to side and stomped his heels against the ground, hips thrusting up and down in a final attempt to buck Lincoln off. Lincoln flicked his wrist and Chandler's flesh ripped, spilling blood down his shaft. Chandler's head swelled with pain, then darkness.
For a long time, he drifted, then, gradually, he rose to the surface like a diver from the depths. The world swam into focus and the aching pain returned by degrees. He swallowed against a sandpaper throat and winced at the soreness in his eyes. "Welcome back, faggot," Lincoln said.
He knelt next to Chandler with a hammer in his hand. He bent, jabbed a nail into Chandler's balls, and lifted the hammer. Before Chandler could plead, he brought the tool down in a wide arc. It hit the nail and drove it deep into Chandler's testicle. Chandler's body jolted and he screamed.
Flipping the hammer over, Lincoln pried the nail out, grabbed the knife, and snatched Chandler's dick. He held the blade to the head and began to saw.
Chandler was awake for most of it, but by the time his dick head was half off, hanging on only by a thread of skin, he was numb. Blood spurted from the stump and into the air in a rich, red geyser and Chandler's ears rang. The world spun, getting faster and faster, then he was gone again.
Sounds and images dogged him through the darkness. Lincoln's face hovering in the void, jaw set and eyes narrowed in hatred; pliers gripping a human tooth, pink, quivering pulp attached to its root; a knife blade covered in blood; a curious scrape that Chandler was sure he could recognize and identify if he tried. When he came fully awake, the light spreading through the treetops was weak and fading, and the wind was sharper. He lifted his fevered head, and his stomach turned, threatening to spill its contents. His brain swam and he verged on passing out again. Everything hurt and when he swallowed, the tip of his tongue prodded empty holes where his teeth should have been. He remembered his dick, and his chest clenched.
Please, let it have been a dream.
He lifted his head again and looked down at himself.
What he saw made him cry.
His tip was gone and tied off with twine to staunch the bleeding. His shaft was swollen and purple, his balls ripped and deflated like two popped balloons. He flopped back against the grass and closed his eyes. He didn't have long to dwell: Lincoln grabbed his feet and started to drag him. Suddenly, he was falling and his heart launched into his throat. He opened his eyes. He was lying in the bottom of a hole, earthen walls surrounding him. Lincoln loomed over it, then tossed a spade full of dirt onto Chandler's chest.
"Wait," Chandler hitched, "Lincoln, wait!"
"Fuck you," Lincoln said. He tossed another clump of dirt onto Chandler's face. It got in his nose, mouth, and eyes.
"Please stop! I'm sorry! Just call the cops!"
"Fuck you," Lincoln replied.
Little by little, cold dirt covered Chandler's thrashing body. Soon, there was so much that he could no longer move.
Finally, there was so much that he could no longer breathe.
This couldn't be happening, he told himself over and over as he died, it just couldn't. He was special, he was gifted, his life couldn't end this way.
But, believe it or not.
It did.
Lincoln patted the dirt down with the flat end of the shovel, then covered it with leaves. Unless you walked across the grave, you would never know it was there. Soon, November rain would harden it and no one would ever find it.
Putting his things away, Lincoln walked home through the gathering gloom. He was cold inside, his fury spent and his heart still. At home, he stowed the shovel and hand tools in the garage and washed Chandler's blood from his face and hands in the slop sink next to the door. He went in through the back door, climbed the stairs, and fetched a change of clothes from his room. In the bathroom, he stripped and showered, doing his best to scrub the grime from his body. Somehow, though, he still felt dirty when he was finished.
Done, he dressed and found Lola in her room. She had been distant and quiet since the day Chandler raped her, and it broke Lincoln's heart to see her that way. At least she wasn't starving herself anymore: She'd gained a little weight, and for that he was happy.
Like he did every evening, Lincoln cradled her in his arms and brushed his fingers through her hair. The bruises had faded and the cuts healed, but she wasn't the same little girl she was before, and thinking about the mental scars she would never recover from made Lincoln mad all over again.
His only regret about today was that he could only murder Chandler once.
"I love you," he said softly and ran his fingernails over his sister's scalp.
"I love you."