Warren Murphy - The End of the Game

But the rifle wasn't in his hands anymore. That vicious beast, Hamuta, had it, and he was laughing. Loading and firing and laughing. And at this point, the nobleman saw what he might need a strong stomach for. With one shot, Hamuta crumpled the man's left ankle, and with another, his right. The poor creature was on his back, screaming in pain, when Hamuta put a shot into his spine and the legs stopped moving. It was then that the lord saw the pain and fear in the victim's eyes.

And there were no more bullets.

The lord turned away his hand and glared angrily at his friend.

"How could you have brought me to this?"

"You said you wanted a Hamuta."

"I did, but not like this."

"You said you had a strong stomach."

"I did. But I didn't expect this."

The victim's groans mingled with Hamuta's laughter. The gunmaker was laughing as much at the Englishman as he was at the bleeding figure on the floor.

"You won't say anything," the friend said.

"How long does this go on?" the nobleman asked.

"Until Mr. Hamuta has had his fill of pleasure."

The lord shook his head. They listened to the screams for more than fifteen minutes and then Hamuta was brought a box of platinum bullets and stunned admiration replaced the disgust.

Hamuta worked the bullets like scalpels. First he ended the screaming by faintly grazing the victim's skull, just enough to knock him out.

"I wanted you to hear me," he explained to the lord. "First the skull. Then we take off the Adam's apple. Then the lower lobe off the left ear and then the right ear, and then we move down the body until we are at the kneecaps. Good-bye, kneecaps."

He put two more grazing shots against the skull, then told the lord to finish the kill.

The rifle almost slipped from the nobleman's hands because they were so wet with sweat. He knew his heart was pumping wildly.

Sorry, wretch, he thought, and put a single shot into the heart and ended the whole sorry mess, even while Hamuta continued to giggle.

He did not bother to tell the nobleman that he had actually rushed this sale. He wanted to get to California. A most wonderful target was being arranged for him, but he had been told he must hurry.

"It is a challenge for you, Hamuta," the provider of the target had said.

"I have no challenges," said Hamuta. "Only entertainment."

"Then we will both have fun," said the provider, Abner Buell of the United States, a man who certainly knew how to give people what they wanted.

sChapter Nine

They had all gotten used to the fancy life-style, to the fancy cars and fancy homes and fancy women and fancy vacations, and the fanciest thing of all-- being able to buy anything without bothering to ask what it cost.

And then the money had dried up, and Bernie Bondini, checkout clerk who had bought the grocery, and Stash Franko, bank teller who had become a stock manipulator, and Elton Hubble, auto mechanic who now owned two auto dealerships, had spent a month scraping and scrapping to meet their overextended obligations. So when they each received a card that read: "What won't you do to have the money turned back on?" and gave an address and a time in Malibu, they all showed up.

The oceanfront house, jutting out over stone columns, shadowing the sandy beach lapped by the warm Pacific, was a cool three-million-dollar number and just the thing to put them in the right frame of mind to remind them of what they were in danger of losing forever.

They were let into the house wordlessly by a beautiful redhead who silently ushered them to a balcony overlooking the ocean. When she turned to leave, Bondini said, "Miss, what are we supposed to do?"

And the woman replied: "Think about what was on the note you all received."

They thought about it and talked about it. There were things they wouldn't do, not even for money. No. There were certain inflexible rules of morality that they would observe, the things that separated man from beast.

They saw the parade of beautiful beach bunnies walking by on the sand below, looking up at the house hopefully, and finally Hubble forced himself to look away and said sluggishly, "I don't care. There are some things I won't do for money."

"Me neither," said Bondini.

"Such as?" said Franko.

"I wouldn't kill my mother with a stick," Bondini said. "No way. I just wouldn't do that. I don't care about money that much."

Hubble nodded agreement. "That would be terrible, I guess. Unless your mother is real old and sick like mine. I mean, sometimes death is a better solution to life's problems than continuing to live."

"But with a stick?" Bondini said. "No way. I won't kill my mother with a stick."

"Maybe a big stick so it'd be fast," Hubble suggested, but Bondini was adamant. "No way," he said.

"Well, I would," said Franko. He was a small man with sandy wiry hair and thirteen months of secret money going into his secret Insta-Charge account had encouraged him to leave his dullard of a wife and disown his two sluggard daughters. "I remember my wife," he said. "I'd kill my mother. I'd kill your mother too. Anything is better than going back to my wife."

"I don't believe it," Bondini said stubbornly. "There's something you wouldn't do. Both of you. There's something you wouldn't do."

Hubble had grown a beard since he had left the grease pit for the manager's office and he stroked it now, thought a moment, and said, "I wouldn't make a porno film." He thought again and added, "With an animal. I wouldn't make a porno film with an animal." He nodded his head up and down once in reaffirmation of this powerful life principle. It was where he drew the line and it made him feel good.

"Some animals are cute," Bondini said.

"No. No way," said Hubble. "No porno film with no animal. What about you, Stash?"

Franko looked up as if surprised that someone would talk to him. Then he looked back out at the ocean and said softly, "I wouldn't screw a dead person."

"Why not?" Bondini said. He sounded honestly surprised at such a modest qualm.

"You never met my wife," Franko said. "It'd be like screwing her again. I couldn't do it."

"Well, you know your wife better than we do," Hubble said. "But I don't think that's all so bad. There are some good-looking dead people. Maybe you'd get a nice one."

Franko shook his head again. "No, that's where I draw the line. No screwing the dead. What do you call that? There's a word for it."

"Yeah," Bondini said, but he couldn't think of it.

"It comes from a word that means dead," Hubble said. "That much I remember."

"What word?" Bondini asked.

"I don't know. It just means dead," Hubble said.

"Corpse," said Bondini. "Maybe it's like corpse-a-phobia."

"That sounds about right," said Franko. "I think that's it. Corpse-a-phobia. I heard that word once."

The beautiful redheaded woman who had let them into the house reappeared on the balcony. She was now naked. Her breasts were full and the nipples uplifted. She wore only high-heeled shoes and they displayed her long dancer's limbs. Her skin was oiled and her suntan flawless, without even bikini lines to mar it.

She asked them what they would like to drink. She licked her lips as she looked at each of them in turn. Her lips were ripe, red, pulpy, her upper lip as full and pouty as her lower lip. And when they gave her their drink orders, she walked quietly away, but even walking was an erotic act as her smooth baby-skin butt swayed lasciviously from side to side.

"Maybe if it was a real big stick," Bondini said. "So I could do it with one big smack."

Hubble was talking to himself, still staring at the door through which the redhead had reentered the house. "Some animals are really cute," he mumbled. "Being prejudiced against animals just because they're animals isn't really worthy of me. A cute animal. What's wrong with that?"