The Bully of Order by Brian Hart Page B

a little twist to their spine, and their peckers go the opposite way.” He flopped out his prick to show Tartan the proof. “We’re all turned. We’re all screwed. If a man asks how you dress, he’s talking about your cock.” Tartan was surprised that Bellhouse was circumcised and not bigger, and also relieved when the pale grease weasel choked by a fist was grabbed by the mannish whore and slipped delicately into her mouth. Tartan watched her and then reached out and slid his hand between her legs and probed her morosely with one finger, and then two.
    â€œMy sweetest time,” Bellhouse said to the top of the woman’s head, “was when I was a boy on the farm, Fritztown. We had cattle and it was butcher day and my cousin ran to me with a still-beating steer heart and we went in the milkshed and both fucked it at the same time. Warm as your mouth.”
    The whore glanced upward, and Bellhouse caressed her hair. Her split lip was bleeding again and the blood dripped from her chin onto her chest. Tartan stopped his finger fucking for a moment when he saw the blood but then continued, driven to it, wanting to share this moment with Bellhouse. The woman lifted her hips and worked herself against Tartan’s hand, slick and open. He fumbled his prick from his pants and slid it over the arch of her foot and she pressed him there with the top of her other foot and he fucked it, closed his eyes, and thought of Bellhouse and the cow heart.
    â€œWhen I got older,” Bellhouse said, “I had the opportunity to do the same to a man’s heart. I was a mile from the Liberty Bell when I did that. Evilest thing I ever did if there’s ranking, which there is.”
    The whore kept sucking, but she pressed her hand to her chest to protect her heart, and Bellhouse smiled down at her. “Not yours. Oh no, not yours. None was as good as the steer’s, anyhow. My cousin was there, is why. He made it what it was. I believe we come from the devil, or at least he did. I loved him.”
    Tartan didn’t have the energy to enter her so he kept at her feet and increased the depth and force of his fingers. She whimpered and pushed harder against him.
    â€œSadly,” Bellhouse continued, “my cousin lost his eye after he fumbled the rape of Auntie’s kitty cat, so they put him in an asylum and he hung himself, or they hung him. However it went, he died an eye short and covered in scars and scabs. Riddled with all the diseases of beast and men. Just as I imagine he would’ve liked.” Bellhouse had his hands in the woman’s hair, tracing the edges of her ears with his thumbs. “You’re a sweet spot too, sweetie. Sweet as anything. Warm as blood.”
    Tartan rolled onto his knees and buried his face between her ass cheeks, and then rushed her and pushed himself inside. Bellhouse smiled at the ceiling and Tartan whispered his name. The whore offered her bloody hand to Tartan and he took it and held it tight.
    Then the half-wit Willy Toker was suddenly there above him with his Russian .44. Schofield impersonator, coal-field bounty, in his hand.
    â€œThere’s something amiss with the trigger,” Toker said, interrupting but not really. This meal wouldn’t end. “See the way it hangs?” Tartan thought of Bellhouse’s cock speech, screwed; but mostly there was a gun and he wanted to hold it. He had some familiarity with the model and its workings, but Bellhouse snatched the gun from Toker’s hand before he could. Tartan brought his prick out of the girl’s slit and then put it back, stayed there inside her, gripped, unmoving.
    â€œYou unloaded it, didn’t you, Toker?”
    â€œCourse I did, Tartan. Course I—”
    And they’d never known what surprise was until that unloaded, apparently friendly tsarist pistol blew off part of Bellhouse’s skull. The whore spit out his prick, and Tartan saw she’d very nearly