The Hit Man

[Toon]

Remember 'yahoo groups'? I sure do. About a decade ago. I belonged to several dozen of them. There was a group for every kink and fetish you can imagine. I always thought of myself as deeply perverted and used to try find the most depraved folks I could to chat with. It was harmless fun until my whole world came crashing down. My mom died from a sudden heart attack and only weeks after her funeral, my dad was diagnosed with stomach cancer that had already spread to his bones. He was being moved into a hospice just as I had a mental breakdown. I quit my job, shut out all my friends and started drinking all day. Rum and Diet Coke was my only nourishment for weeks. At night I haunted those yahoo groups and finally found one that really stood out. It was for men (mostly gay I'd guess) who wanted to get the shit beat out of them OR who wanted to beat the shit of someone else. 

I was probably pretty wasted when I sent a message to this group asking if anyone would be willing to beat me to death. I wanted to die and didn't have the courage to off myself. It was worded pretty straightforward. I figured it was worth a shot because, I mean, there are so many weirdos online that I figured I'd at least find some leads or suggestions. Well, the normal dudes came out of the woodwork to express sympathy and urge me to get help. I was too far gone for help. I wanted to die. Then the replies dried up and so I moved on. I was working out a plan to get a double prescription of Xanax from my clueless doctor, when an email arrived from a guy who called himself "Joe". He lived one whole state away but was familiar with my city since he'd grown up here. He was game, but needed some inspiration. He wanted me to write out my death fantasies explicitly. He liked that I called him "Killer Joe" and I'm not a half-bad writer so he was pleased with the stuff I sent him. Even though I didn't ask him to, he sent long emails detailing his own murderous fantasies...most of which involved shooting up steroids, viagra and assorted drugs. He would wear big boots he'd use to flatten my balls before breaking my spine and stealing my wallet. It became a story-sharing email relationship that I started to get bored with. I blew him off and went back to wallowing in my private misery.

And then he sent an email with the subject "See You Next Week". He was coming here! For real! I responded in a rare sober moment and asked him if we could really for real arrange my death. The answer was "yes", but I had to follow his instructions exactly. I had to find an isolated spot somewhere near an area with a lot of crime and be there just before sunrise with no phone or wallet on my person. I was also supposed to destroy the computer we'd talked on and leave fake clues all around my house. He suggested random phone numbers written on scraps of paper. He told me to buy maps of various states (not his) and draw arrows and circles in red narker. He really seemed to know his shit and I wondered if he'd done this before. ?? He would be here on Saturday night and told me to get ready for Sunday morning...my last morning ever. He said to wear a yellow sweatshirt and to put 300 bucks in my eight back pocket. That was his fee.  After a few more emails we decided the best spot for this would be a rundown park just off an avenue where hookers were always going missing. I knew just where it was. I agreed to everything. 

The night before, I trashed my computer, poured a full rum and coke drink into the modem. I also squirted Super Glue into every open port. That was that.  The sweatshirt I had was more orange than yellow, but I knew Killer Joe would recognize me. It practically glowed in the dark. I left maps and fake phone numbers all over my living room. I also left a note apologizing to a fictional person named "Lou". Fake leads to keep Joe safe. At 5 am Sunday morning, I made a very strong drink and put three crisp hundred dollar bills in my pack pocket. The sun wasn't up yet, but it was raining so the sky was misleading. It was a fifteen minute drive so I took off. I'd already given my dog away so there was nobody to say 'good-bye' to. I was on the road.

I parked in front of a boarded-up nightclub on dead hooker street and made my way down a steep, muddy trail down to the sad, sad park. A headless child had been found here a few years ago. There were a few picnic tables there and a passed-out bum was lying on top of one of them. Still raining. I didn't care about getting wet, considering what I was there for. Despite the weather, a single ray of the ghetto sunrise broke through. I moved further down the path and the muddy puddles had soaked my shoes, socks and hems of my jeans. I suddenly felt stupid. There was no "Killer Joe" coming. He was just an internet kook who was probably a hundred miles from here now. I'm really dumb sometimes. The sun was almost completely up anway. As I started to turn around, I felt a horrific whack ot the back of my head. I staggered, tried to regain my stance but then slipped backwards in the mud. I looked up and saw a compact muscle guy gesturing wildly like a maniac. Killer Joe. He was blonde which I never would have expected.. A frat boy gone crazy. He hauled me to my feet and then punched me in the jaw so hard that I' prettty sure a couple of my back teeth were loosened. Pain. Bad, bad pain. He had a small bag with him and proceeded to pull some syringes out of it. It was still too dark to see what was in them, but I'm almost certain one of them contained blood. The phrase "Blood in the mud." appeared in my brain. Surely there was a band or horror movie with that name.

He injected each needle into my neck while I did nothing to stop him. Then a big, black boot came down and stomped me in the stomach. If I didn't hurt so bad, I would have tried to escape. I just gave up and lied there helplessly. He straddled my chest and started pounding my face with his fists. My whole head was numb so I missed out on probably half the pain I should have felt. I probably have also noticed him pull down his pants and beat off. I might have enjoyed seeing him do that but just couldn't think or feel right then. He came into his hand and smeared the cum all over my bloody mouth. 

It was morning now. The rain had stopped. "I'm still alive", in a hoarse voice that sounded like something from a movie. He was spent and annoyed. He reached back into the bag his needles came from, took out a hunting knife and plunged it right into my heart. Or at least he thought it was my heart. Wrong side. But I was bleeding so heavily from the puncture that his mood instantly improved. He injected me with one more syringe and then decided to beat off again. This time he put the head of his cock directly into my chest wound as he came. Unbelievable. And then he was gone. Some walker or jogger saw me that morning and I was taken to the hospital. 

There are severe infections in my neck and it's hard to talk, I plan on staying silent as long as I can. The longer I say nothing, the further Killer Joe can run.

[Txbottom88]

Damn that's pretty damn hot 

[Yeolad]

Hot 

[Yeolad]

Will he find out joe is poz?

will he see him again?