FLESH STALKER: 1: The Dirty Hole (The Tales of Daemon the Demon Boy)

  FLESH STALKER

  1: “The Dirty Hole”

  The Tales of Daemon the Demon Boy

  B. Bentley Summers

  Reader Beware:

  Before you read on, please ponder the following...

  If your worst fear is the sight of a rat scurrying across the floor, I can assure you that the coming pages exceed the scales of a damn rodent and go into the realm of gory grit, and beyond. So, if a drop of blood makes you lightheaded, grab the young adult book about the fairy godmother who sips on tea and looks cute. The fairies in this story quaff down blood and are known to have an ugly side.

  Now, the next points are important. Anyone nauseated at the thought of one guy putting his dick up another guy’s poop-chute for pleasure should also try another book. Like, something that’s not gay fiction! Seriously.

  And if you blush at a dude putting handcuffs on another guy, and then shagging him to hell, do not turn to the next page. Please. No one underage is ever harmed, but some adults do get harmed via unwanted foreplay. Of the most importance, I want to note that I value gay people, gay sexual orientation, and anyone under the LGBT spectrum – I’m a gay author, myself. In the stories that follow, there’s going to be a violent sadistic person who is not identified as gay even though individual has same-sex desire. Rather these characters are someone with deep seated psychopathologies and use degrading sex as an outlet to release their hate. Gay people engage in consensual sex that range from vanilla to kinky BDSM, my characters do not believe in anything consensual. Just understand these cruel people serve a purpose for Daemon.

  Finally, once again, if you’re not into horror... if you hate books where limbs get severed, or where the story spirals into despair through torture... then sprint like hell in the other direction, because here lies nothing but a grisly tale with some bad mo-fo’s mixed in with hardcore porn.

  Otherwise, dear reader, enjoy. I do hope you find the tale to be a fabulous, gory, and nail biting one. And, of course, may the heroic bad guy win.

  BOOKS BY AUTHOR

  Published Under Bryce Bentley Summers

  Adult:

  ROTVILLE

  WEHR WOLFF CASTLE (Pre-publication)

  Middle Grade & YA:

  THE AMEN TO ROT SERIES

  THE ZOMBIE SQUAD

  WEREWOLF ON LOWRE FEW LANE (Pre-publication)

  “The Chamber of Doors” (Pre-publication)

  Published Under B. Bentley & B. Bentley Summers (Gay Fiction)

  FRESH MEAT

  “FLESH STALKER” SERIES: The Tales of Daemon the Demon Boy

  MERLIN’S ROGUES (Pre-publication)

  Published Under Bryce B. Summers, Ph.D. (Nonfiction)

  Queer Sense: From Rejection to Love: Queer Guide for Family, Friends, and Professionals (Pre-Publication)

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Dirty Hole started out as an upscale gay club around 1917, catering to the affluent and well connected men of New York City. Its current name then would have been considered a scandal, and so Mr. Wilson, the owner, dubbed it simply The Wilson Club. The clientele who walked through the door found their gaze falling on wallpapered walls with decorative designs of cupid boys holding bows, an arrow notched, and smiles spread over their faces. Celebrity portraits hung on the wall – of Bing Crosby, Charlie Chaplin, and also a handsome actor not known for his skills, William Gaines. His portrait hung to welcome a certain clientele (wink-wink).

  An open bar faced the doorway, and the expected footstools sat at the bar ledge and rows of square tables lined the wall up to a wide corridor. Down the hallway, the wallpaper transformed before a keen eye to boy cupids who no longer held bows, but fucked each other in every position imaginable. When one reached a double set of doors, it opened to a spacious ballroom with vaulted ceilings and balusters along the walls. Once upon a time, men wore masks over their faces, hiding their identities, and 'came out' to one another in a gentile and pleasant way. This custom became known as “coming out”.

  When prohibition came in 1920, the owner moved the booze to the ballroom, the front becoming a façade with splendid entrees where business boomed. At the conclusion of 1933, the police started to raid the bar, throwing out members, but Wilson kept it going. The raids took effect, though, as the clientele thinned out, and rumors spread on the street that a suspicious bar operated and catered to well-dressed men who might be, do not say it too loud, …gay.

  Four years before the U.S. entered World War II, in the early evening when a good number of patrons made polite conversation in the ballroom, five masked marauders stormed into the bar wearing trench coats. Two brought up shotguns that had been hidden in their coats, and blasted away at the clientele on their barstools. One intruder pulled out a revolver and fired at point blank range at the owner, hitting him between his eyes. Three men pulled out automatic rifles from under their trench coats, these as favored by the mafia – the Thompson Submachine Gun. They strode down the corridor, whipped open the double set of doors, stepped into the partially filled ballroom, and spread out. They lifted their weapons towards the masked men who laughed and saluted one another with their champagne glasses and they opened fire. Rounds exploded from the muzzles, blood splattered over wall, champagne glasses plummeted to the floor and shattered. Victims staggered over the floor, falling dead one after another. A few survivors sprinted towards the back exit, but only to be cut down by a hail of bullets.

  Blood streamed over the floor and, no pun intended, but dead quiet pervaded the entire area. The gun men ran out of the bar and disappeared into the night, never to be arrested or identified. The police investigation concluded the killings to be mafia related. Truth be known, the policemen became more concerned that certain secrets of upstanding citizens may be revealed and they wanted to shut the case quick. Whispers circulated that the killed men were… queer. The chief, the mayor, everyone agreed this incident best be left alone. After all, reputations could be smeared, and it was God’s will if He wanted to smite down a bunch of fags. Investigations could only cause more harm, unearthing truths about the secret identities of these men that would devastate wives, and cause children to lose faith in a future wherein a righteous world existed.

  The Wilson Club closed and stood as a vacant lot until early in 1955. A millionaire by the name of Hubert Jones purchased the space, turned the ballroom into a meat packing plant, and sent his scrawny faced son to be the manager. George Jones became known as having fewer scruples than his father. He employed Chinese immigrants for cheap labor, many of them mere children. George exploited his employees, prostituting the woman who struggled financially and selling some children to high bidding customers. Rumors eventually surfaced that he abused young men in the back room at night. A few whispered that bondage and torture were his only means to orgasm. Rumors floated, that he used his father’s men to dispose of the corpses. Business boomed until 1963 when a fire raged inside, killing several employees. George did not care – he made a fortune and moved on.

  The neighborhood around the area grew impoverished, buildings crumbling on some streets and getting condemned. George returned in the same year Robert Kennedy was assassinated, in 1968. Barely in his mid-thirties, his life had taken a turn for the worse. His big wad of cash from his savings account gone, he now had no inheritance to look forward to. His bedridden father had become sickened when he'd learned his only son was a fag. Reports had followed that the old man lifted his head from his pillow and jabbed his finger at George, telling him he'd once killed a score of fags in that place with a Tommy gun, and
would love to do it again. He snarled, “You’re a dirty, dirty shit.”

  The father died five minutes later. He left his fortune to his daughter, and George had only the meager money he’d managed to save over the years.

  George rebuilt the bar and called it The Dirty Hole. He transformed the spacious ballroom into a club dance floor, and after closing time, he occasionally carried out sexual adventures on volunteers, with handcuffs, tie-downs, and whips. A few times, the receiver happened to be a non-volunteer, instead being a mere stray George had found and pulled off the street.

  One autumn day in 1982, his ex-wife came to his work and shoved a thin boned, preteen boy into the bar, and jabbed her finger at George. “Your son is just like you. The devil is inside you both.”

  George cursed his ex-wife, and she fled, got into her car, and raced away, leaving her son to run out onto the sidewalk after his mother, who sped away around a corner.

  George regarded his son who he barely knew. Henry.

  George, a violent drunk, beat his son, but he nevertheless managed to teach Henry the bar business. As one could expect, Henry happened to witness his father’s dark side. Henry forgot his keys one night, went back inside the bar, and picked the set up off of a table. A cry wafted his way from down the corridor. Henry looked over, and crept through the corridor, into the archway where the dance floor sat dark... and there he froze in place. His father lorded over a tied–up, whimpering young man. A taut gag was fastened over the man’s mouth, his clothes having been stripped from his body. George brought up his hand, a whip gripped in it, with spikes on the lash, and he swung. A stinging slap resonated through the room and a muffled cry erupted from under the cloth. Henry’s hand fixed over his mouth, he couldn’t move. His father lashed the whip down over and over again, and then tied a plastic bag over the man’s head. The young man’s body shuddered. His father loosened his pants, and did the most grotesque act imaginable.

  Soft cries came from Henry’s mouth, and he backed down the corridor and fled the bar.

  Too many nights to count, Henry sat up with a scream flowing from his mouth. Henry kept away from his father as much as possible after that. But a few months later, Henry suffered at the hands of bullies who beat him senseless, calling him a sissy and a fag. Henry took his revenge on the leader when he got his chance, knocking him out with a bat and dragging him to his father’s bar. The next acts he performed reflected his inner, dark barbarianism. Henry stood naked over the battered corpse in the middle of the dance floor, and a shadow fell over him. His father stood close by.

  George gazed at his son from the corridor. He then showed Henry how to dispose of the body.

  When George later died in a drive-by shooting that many considered to be drug related hit, Henry took over the family’s bar business. His inner beast was better caged than his father’s, though. He carried out sexual acts in the backroom, but did not do it on a frequent basis, and only snagged strangers who’d been lost in their seedy area of New York. Most of the lucky victims found themselves blocks away from the bar afterward, nude and with their flesh scarred with raw, red whip marks on their backs. A few pretty ones died in agony in darkness, the sounds of their screams being their only solace.

  In late July of 2000, a wayfarer entered The Dirty Hole. He stepped right into a fly trap, and the predators eyed him.

  Little did the hunters know that this striking stranger was not really prey…

  CHAPTER TWO

  Prey: Henry Jones

  Age: 44

  Late July, 2000. Seedy Area of New York City.

  Thunder rumbled outside, rain pattering on the cars parked on the street’s side. Henry glanced out from the nearby smudged and cracked window of his storefront. Streamlets ran along the curb’s gutter, dumped into drains, and made a loud gargle. Water dripped from the ceiling around him in a couple of locations, tapping inside of already filled buckets.

  Henry shifted one butt cheek on the barstool and a sharp fart blurted out.

  Ted cried out from across the bar counter. “Fucking to hell, Henry. You’re stinking the place up.”

  The rotten egg smell hit Henry, and he glanced up to Ted. “It is my place.”

  Ted cleaned a beer mug with a stained towel, placed it on a shelf, and leaned on the counter. “You see the new arrivals over there, Boss? You seem buried in your newspaper.”

  Henry swiveled his stool, a screech bleating out. His protrusive stomach brushed against the side of the counter. Two bearded white men wearing leather jackets, each with earrings and tattoos painted on their faces and necks, chatted at a nearby table. One of them, a bald man with a shiny, glossy top, looked up in his direction. His beady eyes measuring Henry.

  Henry nodded, wheeled back around, and scratched his face. His wiry whiskers bristled. “Ted, they ain’t new. That bald one with the devil tat on the side of his face is Joe Kidd. Not sure about the other. Joe was up in Riker’s Island on a murder rap. Got out a few months ago.”

  Ted rubbed his salt-and-pepper goatee with one hand, his narrow face gazing over at the men with new appreciation. He turned to Henry. “Heard about Joe Kidd. Killed a police officer. Thought they gave him two life sentences.”

  “Killed four police. Charged and convicted of only one. He was a hitman for a couple of gangs here in New York. I’m sure his rap sheet of hits is long, but his case was thrown out. The forensic specialist turned out to have a cocaine habit. Joe’s well paid lawyer argued the forensic specialist fucked up the evidence. Probably didn’t help – forensics guy ended up overdosing on cocaine. Think Joe had some connections. All I know is, I say fuckoff to the entire fucking system. Fuck the courts. Fuck the police and fuck the jail house.” A second fart blurted out.

  Ted grimaced, stepped back, and pulled his tattered white t-shirt up to his nose. “Shit, man.”

  Henry shifted off of the stool and grunted at the resulting jolt of pain in his back. Fuck everything hurts neck down. Fucking age sucks. “A plump shit sounds nice.” He tapped the newspaper sprawled out in front of him on the counter. “Speaking of Riker’s. You see that shit about that fire a couple weeks ago?”

  Ted stared down at the newspaper. “Heard something. Told you that guy Jarv just got out. He mentioned there was some fire.” Ted leaned up, and whispered, “Remember. Told you he was coming tonight, right? Wants to replace the kitchen guy you fired. He’s a good repairman, too.”

  Henry searched his memories. Fuck. Maybe I’m using more meth than I mean to. Can it fuck up your memory this bad? “What was he in for again?”

  Ted wiped his hands on his shirt smudged with black streaks, whispered, “Jarv used to dispose of bodies. Knows all about solvents. You, uh, said you’d be interested in meeting him…” He clucked his tongue, and jabbed his thumb to the corridor leading to the back door. “Jarv’s willing to do anything.”

  Henry grunted. Ted had become an assistant to those of his projects that had occurred periodically, a couple of years back or so. Ted had happened to snoop in back, and found the area with handcuffs, ankle ties, spiked whips, garrotes, and then noticed the blood splatter. Henry came up Ted, who’d followed a maroon streak over the white tile floor. Henry made up some excuse, took him to the front, and considered killing him then. But Ted had told him a story one night of how he’d tortured animals at a young age, and killed a homeless person when he turned twenty years old. He’d grown bolder, he said, but feared getting caught. He tortured an immigrant woman for a year, and kept her prisoner in his apartment until the police arrested him and he got fifty years, though he was out in twenty-five.

  Henry had found a natural ally.

  Now Ted turned around, fiddled with the bottles at the bar, and said over his shoulder, “But what’d it say about the fire? Fucking thing burned down to the ground, I hope. Made those correction officers crisp critters.”

  Henry scratched inside his collared shirt where it missed a button, his fingers scraping over his hairy be
lly. “Well, says a good section burned down. A hundred-fifty inmates missing. Another thirty mutilated beyond words.”

  Ted turned halfway around. “Shit. A fuckload turned to ashes. The rest burned beyond recognition?”

  “No. I mean the hundred-fifty are missing bodies. Some fucktard prisoners say there was some kind of creature there.”

  Ted’s eyes met Henry’s, and he massaged the back of his neck, his long hairs sticking out from the back of his shirt. “Creature?”

  Joe stepped up to the counter next to Henry, held up two fingers. “Two more.”

  Ted placed ice in glasses, poured whiskey up high, and then added a splash of coke. He scooted the glasses over. Joe eyed Henry, saying, “I remember you. You’re the owner. Supposedly, my father knew yours. Business partners.”

  Henry nodded. “Roger Kidd. Met him. How is he?”

  Joe pursed his lips. “Dead.”

  “Mine, too. Good riddance to the bastard. He was an asshole.”

  Joe chuckled. “Mine, too. But he taught me how to fight. Use a knife.”

  Henry said, “I remember you coming in. Brought me some clientele.”

  Joe pointed up in the air. “Say, you still have that 1970s red cherry convertible you parked out back?”

  The corner of Henry’s mouth turned down. “Sold it.”

  “Hmm. You talking about a fire at Riker’s? Friend over there heard some fucked up shit.” He turned back toward his table, calling out, “Nick, what was it you hear?”

  Nick leaned back in his chair, twiddling the end of his thick moustache. A layer of dark whiskers covered his face, and a scar zagged from his temple across his face. He shifted in his seat, opened his leather jacket decorated with buttons, and removed a can of snuff and took out a pinch of chew. “Some hack I know said they found pieces of bodies spread over the yard in the back. Legs, arms, shit, intestines. Quite fucked up.”