Len Levinson - Without Mercy

“Okay,” said the guy, a sissy in a suit.

The three of them got into the back seat. Kowalchuk slammed shut the trunk and slid behind the wheel. He shifted into gear and stepped on the gas. The cab accelerated away from the curb. He turned on the meter so he wouldn’t get a ticket on the Kennedy road complex, intending to turn it off when he hit the Van Wyck Expressway.

His passengers said nothing about the meter. If he used it like he was supposed to, the trip would cost a total of sixteen dollars, and he’d have to give half to the Metropolitan Garage. This way he’d take in forty-five dollars and only give eight to the garage.

He smiled as he sped over the cloverleaf road. At this rate he’d have a few hundred dollars by Saturday, and then he could become the Slasher again.

It was ten o’clock on Saturday night. Kowalchuk was back on Times Square for the first time since he’d killed the whore in the Polka Dot Lounge. His beard covered his features, he wore his visored cap low over his eyes, and had on the blue bomber jacket. Walking past the peep shows and porno movies on Forty-second Street, he could smell lewdness in the air. His hands were in his pockets and his right hand fingered his switchblade.

He drifted into one of the shiny new peep show establishments, gave two dollars to the guy behind the counter, and got some quarters. Clinking the coins around in his big paw, he walked past the peep show booths, looking at the pictures in front for something interesting.

He stopped cold before one that had a photo of Barbra Streisand outside. The caption underneath said the famous star had made a fuck film when she was starting out in show business, and it could be seen for only a quarter. Kowalchuk turned up a corner of his mouth. He didn’t think it could really be Barbra Streisand in the movie, but for a quarter he could find out for sure. It would be okay if he could just see someone who looked like Barbra Streisand getting a stiff cock shoved up her ass.

He went into the booth, closed the door behind him, dropped a quarter in the slot, and pressed the button for the Barbra Streisand film. He noticed there was a little puddle of something on the floor. Somebody must have shot a load down there. The screen lit up and showed a close-up of a man with a mustache going down on a woman. The woman scissored her legs and swayed her fanny while the guy slurped away, his eyes closed in ecstasy. The guy looked like a real degenerate, and was that supposed to be Barbra Streisand? Maybe they’d show her face after a while. Kowalchuk watched impatiently, and the screen went black. He dropped in another quarter. The guy still was going down on the woman and Kowalchuk thought the guy’s tongue must be made of steel. The camera pulled back. The guy rolled over and the girl got on her knees over him. She definitely wasn’t Barbra Streisand although she resembled her a little. Kowalchuk had been ripped off again.

The movie stopped. He got out of the booth and sauntered along, looking at the pictures in front of other booths. Some of them showed black guys screwing white girls, and he moved quickly past them, because he didn’t like that stuff. He stopped at a photo of an Irish Setter doing it to a girl, and that provoked his curiosity. He’d never seen a woman doing it to an animal before. Entering the booth, he latched the door behind him and placed a quarter in the slot. The screen lit up and showed a pretty girl rubbing dog food between her legs. Then the Irish Setter came out of nowhere, sniffed, and licked her. Kowalchuk shook his head. Women were so depraved it was disgusting. Was there anything they wouldn’t do? Next the girl made the dog sit on the rug, and she sucked his skinny red thing. Kowalchuk wanted to throw up. Females were perverted deep in their souls and they’d do anything for money. The screen went black. He took another quarter from his pocket and put it in the slot. The girl got onto her hands and knees, and another girl came and put the dog on top of her, inserting its pecker inside. The dog lay back his ears and screwed the girl spasmodically, and she shook her ass and smiled happily at the camera. Kowalchuk couldn’t believe his eyes. Women really must be crazy, he thought. Maybe after enough of them are killed, they’ll wake up and try to lead decent lives.

The screen went black and Kowalchuk decided he’d seen enough of that. It had made him feel queasy in his stomach. He left the booth and looked around, wondering what to do next. He decided to go to the booths where you could see live naked girls doing piggy dances, and had moved a few steps in that direction when he remembered seeing a theater marquee on Forty-second Street that advertised a live on-stage sex show. It occurred to him that it might be more fun to watch a live sex show than just live dancing girls.

He walked out of the peep show to the sidewalk and made his way through the hawkers and bums toward the marquee he’d seen. Passing a saloon with a big open door, he looked inside and saw black guys standing around the bar. They were a bunch of dirty rats and yet the whores and dancing girls gave all their money to them. The world was going nuts and somebody had to try and set it right.

He approached the marquee. It advertised a movie and a live sex show for only two dollars and a half. The front of the theater was plastered with photographs of attractive young white girls and guys having sex. Their private parts were inked out but Kowalchuk still wondered how they could show such things on a public street. America was turning into Sodom and Gomorrah, and the women were to blame. They’d do anything for money. You couldn’t really blame the guys. Why should a guy turn down free pussy?

A small bulb of pain began to glow above his left eye, the manifestation of two contradictory ideas colliding in his mind. Sexual displays were evil, but he liked them anyway. He rationalized the contradiction by telling himself that if women were crazy enough to show their cunts, why shouldn’t he look?

A young Puerto Rican guy was in the ticket booth. Kowalchuk slipped his money under the window, then walked through the turnstile and entered the lobby, which was about the size of his kitchen on East Ninth Street. He pushed through the door and found himself in a narrow theater with an aisle down the middle and chairs on both sides. On the big movie screen a woman was chained to a post, and a guy in a black leather jockstrap was clamping clothes pins on her nipples. She whinnied in pain and the guy called her a stupid dirty cunt.

Kowalchuk walked down the aisle, looking to the left and right for seats. He wanted to sit as close as possible to the stage, but all the other guys had the same idea. There happened to be only a few isolated empty seats up front, but Kowalchuk didn’t want to sit next to anybody if he could help it. He didn’t like to touch other people, and never knew what to say when strangers talked to him.

He sat in an aisle seat about fifteen rows back, left his hat on, and crossed his thick legs. No one else was sitting in the row. He looked at his watch and wondered what time the stage show would begin. He hoped it was soon.

On the movie screen, the man in the black leather jockstrap stood with his arms crossed before the cowering girl. She was young and a little on the chubby side, still tied to the post. If you saw her walking down the street in regular clothes you might take her for a secretary or a bookkeeper, but there she was bare-ass in a fuck film.

“I want to suck your cock,” she said tremulously to the man in the black leather jockstrap.

“Why you filthy disgusting cunt!”

“Can I suck it?” she begged.

“Can you suck it what!”

“Can I s\x±\t please?”