Shredder - part II - Sex Stories

Shredder - part II

... snapped shut and from near his feet, the sound of a crank turning. Deep in his memory he remembered a guy who worked for an undertaker telling him about steel coffins having a lock that was cranked shut and kept the coffin airtight for twenty years. He screamed, trying to claw the lid, but there wasn’t room to move. Outside, Christine switched on the lights, walked over and knocked on the lid of the coffin. It went quiet inside. “Eddie?” she called. A muffled response. “Have a nice death, you sick son-of-a-bitch!” she yelled. Outside, the big rental truck stood by the door; all the antiques or things of value from the house on board. The coffin stood in the middle of a pentagram painted on the living room floor in tar, with red death marks, pieces of Sandy’s body scattered around on the floor. As she was about to leave, Christine went to the basement. Returning, her gloved hand set the big chainsaw on top of the coffin lid. She’d drop back in a few days to make sure all was well and thought how the heroin in the capsule she’d dropped down his throat just as he was coming to would be kicking in soon, in a race to see whether he’d suffocate from lack of air or overdose on smack first. She went out, locking the door behind her and drove away in the truck. The stuff in the rear was sold the same day and the truck went back a day early. Heading to her apartment, she bought a paper, which had a sidebar story about the theft of a coffin from a local funeral home two nights ...

... before. One below it mentioned the shooting of a drug dealer in the hall of an old apartment building - someone blew out his heart with a 38 firing dum-dum slugs and had taken whatever he’d been carrying. His car was missing too. Police felt confident when they found the car, they’d find his killer. Christine smiled as she thought of her wagon with it’s new mag wheels, cool tires, big stereo, rebuilt engine, and the kid from a city a day’s drive away, who was motoring about in a purple metal-flake Ford Crown Victoria on stock wheels, an engine that burned a bit of oil, but shit, he got it for five hundred bucks! When he went to register the plate from the wreck at the junkyard she’d bought for fifty and a blowjob, the dealer’s car would disappear forever. Three days later, she stopped by the house. The coffin was on the pentagram and the saw was in place. The pieces of Sandy were drying on the floor as she went to make sure the cuffs and keys were pushed through the hole where they dropped the fragments of Sandy’s body. She left the door unlocked but closed, the windows covered. The truck out in the barn was left as were the lamps that burned inside. It was a month later when a tax assessor drove up the long lane before anyone paid any attention to the place. He knocked on the door and getting no answer, left a notice. Six months after, when the monthly notices had stacked on the doormat, a different assessor tried the door and stepped in. With a crash he fell through the cut-out ...