A Murder of Elvi

Please note: this story contains graphic violence and subject matter, and is not suitable for readers of all ages.

A Murder of Elvi

It’s Halloween again, and we are back in Sin City. Where else should one be on this special night? The six of us, in our young Elvis costumes this year, pompadoured and blue-jeaned, a comforting and familiar sight, on the hunt for the next luscious bit of flesh. Last year’s choice, my choice, was a young co-ed, traveling in a pack of nymphs, but easily separated from her erstwhile friends with a little alcohol and a key to the best penthouse on the strip. That one had been a fighter and held on for quite some time. Every Elvis had enjoyed a long and savory moment with her.

Elvis Four has the decision this year, and the target is likely to be male. Not my preference, but there are ways to entertain oneself. I’m a heart man myself and men have such nice sized hearts. I spot Elvis Four in close conversation with a young man, no more than twenty, with a soft, almost feminine face. He has grown a scruffy beard that barely qualifies as facial hair in a bid to look older, more masculine. Elvis Four laughs and pats the young man on the back while signaling the waitress for another round of drinks. Elvis Five saunters for the door, Elvis One a few moments behind. I turn my attention back to Elvis Four, knowing that the remaining Elvi will make their way to the appointed spot in plenty of time. I myself stay to watch Four, always fascinated by the easy way he has with people, how even the most jaded of individuals will open up to him, allow themselves to be caught up in the Elvis fantasy. He must be one hell of a salesman in the regular world.

At last, I see Four stand up, his hand resting comfortably on the toy’s shoulder. He gives me a barely perceptible wink and I stand up and hustle for the door. This is going to be tough this year. I will be the last to take my pleasure, but I can already feel the tension mounting inside myself. The only good news is that I need not worry about keeping him alive for the next Elvis to enjoy. If he dies when I finally have him, then so be it. We have never lost one early, but we have rarely had one make it past the first round.

This year’s location is a derelict fallout shelter, a forgotten piece of 60's decor on the outskirts of town. The original ranch house has long since been torn down and the land parceled into postage stamp properties. Cookie cutter homes have gone up, but the fallout shelter remains on the edge of civilization. Elvis Two found it while looking through old planning records. The current owner bought the land as an investment and has never done a thing with it beyond sealing the entrance. A simple problem to fix given our years of experience in breaking and entering.

The neighbors are in the midst of their annual Halloween celebrations when I arrive, and so another car parked along the streets is not even worth noting. I see two Elvis impersonators heading for a brightly lit pool house and we exchange waves. They turn in while I head up the street, towards a tacky yellow house with music blaring from the front porch. Gaggles of children are everywhere, ducking in and out of doorways so fast that the adults who are with them can barely keep up. Laughter and squeals echo along the road, and a festive air permeates the neighborhood. I drink it in, stopping for a moment to let myself enjoy the excitement, despite the constant threat of being knocked over by a running child.

One last inhalation of this intoxicating air and then I follow a group of adults as they slip along one side of the house and into the backyard, where the smell of barbeque fills the air. I snag a beer bottle from a cooler, then drift towards the back edge of the property. One quick check, then I’m across the invisible line, gone just like that from bright lights to total darkness. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, so I stand and sip the stolen beer, watching the drunken masses swirl and tumble, oblivious to the hunter nearby.

At last, I turn towards the welcoming darkness, stepping carefully to avoid making too much noise, though I doubt anyone would hear anything short of a bomb going off. The music maestro for the party has put on some wretched cacophony of noise that must be designed to wake the dead. Or else convince them to stay buried. I find the fallout shelter dead center in the property, as promised, with a chemical lightstick on the ground nearby. I kick the door twice, to alert those below, before opening the hatch. A pitch black hole appears, and I wonder for a moment if I have found the right one. Elvis Two appears then, shining an emergency light up the shaft. I wince at the brightness and he grins.

"Come on down. You’re the last one. Thirty minutes to midnight."

I can pick out the ladder welded into the side of the tunnel now and I begin my unsteady descent. When I finally step onto solid ground, I heave a quick sigh. I shake Two’s hand and we make our way along a narrow tunnel that eventually widens into a large, square room. The old generator still works and has been pressed into service. A lightbulb hanging in the center of the room has been turned on, and someone has even managed to get the old radio going, tuned into an AM station that is broadcasting nothing but Elvis tonight. There are still cans along the shelves and two cots that have been pushed against the walls, their mattresses slowly disintegrating, leaving a trail of white powder to show where they have been moved out of the way. A sturdy steel table has been centered in the room, and polished until it looks brand new.

I exchange nods with the others, but there is little to say. These are the moments we all crave, and it would ruin it to engage in idle chatter. At seven minutes to midnight, we hear the hollow sound of someone pounding on the hatch. Two and Six disappear down the tunnel, and I can feel the excitement in the room begin to rise to a fever pitch. It feels like an eternity, and I am nearly dying as my desire threatens to overwhelm me. I see the same sizzling glare in the eyes of the others, and I cannot control the soft moan that escapes my lips. One bites his own lips in response, and I see a small drop of blood form. The toy is not even in the room yet and already we have seen that first beautiful bit of scarlet.

Two and Six finally return, carrying tonight’s dish, now wrapped in a black shroud. They heave him on the table and we hear a grunt from inside the shroud. One shoots them an inquiring look and Six says, "He’s moving the car. He doesn’t want anyone to get curious about a car parked on an empty lot."

We all nod, accepting this as a wise action. One checks his watch, frowning slightly. It will mean a small delay in tonight’s festivities. One has always been particular about starting at midnight. With seconds to spare, Four arrives, out of breath and slightly sweaty. The rest of us step back from the table, which we have approached like wolves on a scent. Four steps forward with his hunting knife and quickly cuts the ties for the shroud. He pulls back the plastic and we have our first glimpse of our dish since the casino bar. He has a frightened look now, but not yet terrified. He doesn’t realize yet what fate awaits him.

Two and Six step forward, each grabbing an arm as Four slices through the plastic bindings he has used on the toy’s wrists. He struggles, but Two and Six have done this so many times. The toy’s arms are quickly tied to the table, the legs soon after. He is spread eagle before us, and for a moment, we stop and simply stare. He tries to plead with us, but the gag makes his words unintelligible. Four glances around at the group then, one last check for approval. With a delighted grin, he begins to cut away the clothing, teasing us with his careful knife work. When the last strip of cloth is gone, he carefully removes the gag. The boy immediately begins screaming for help, but this only causes Four to smile widely.

The rest of us step back, letting Four begin his work. Four has always had a fondness for the face, especially the eyes. He begins with a few quick strikes across each cheek. Only the barest slicing of flesh, but enough to start the blood flowing. The toy keeps trying to turn his head, but Four has become a master over the years. He can hold the toy still with his meat hook of a left hand while he begins probing with the knife in his right hand. By the time he has reduced the face to a bloody pulp, the toy has stopped struggling. He is whimpering now, the pain exquisite as it courses along his nerves. I can actually feel the electricity of it in the air.

Four begins his final work, forcing the toy’s head around so that they are eying each other. For this, Four prefers both hands, and Five steps forward, already prepared. A thick black belt is carefully positioned over the forehead and cinched as tight as Four can make it. A heavy cord is tied through one of the holes, the other end wrapped along the table legs and pulled taut. The toy’s neck is angled backwards by the force, giving a wonderful glimpse of the pulse that beats in his still pristine neck. Five caresses the unblemished skin along the throat ever so gently before stepping back once again.

Four begins carving out the eyes with pride and joy. There is screaming again, and those of us awaiting our turn begin to itch with impatience. Five begins pacing around the table, his hands clenching spasmodically with each twitch and groan from our new favorite toy. When Four has finally finished his piece and carefully placed the eyes in a Ziploc for storage in the cooler, Five rushes forward, nearly knocking Four out of the way. Four scowls but Five doesn’t even notice, his mind already focused on the genitals that are on display for him. As Five begins his own special bit of handwork, I close my eyes and try to find my Zen place. This is the only way I’m going to hold on until it’s my turn.

So it continues, on through Two’s turn, the real nail-biter of the evening for the rest of us. Two is fascinated with the brain, and this is the spot where we have come the closest to an early ending to the night’s festivities. Fortunately, Two has become quite knowledgeable over the years on the inner workings of the human brain, and his slices rarely threaten the autonomic functions. He probably has a better map of the mind then the greatest neurosurgeons of the day.

Two’s preference also involves talking, much more so than the rest of us. We may grunt and groan, or cry out in our joy and ecstasy, but Two will often pose questions and demand answers while he is working. This can be tricky, depending on the work that has already been done, but Two always seems to find a way. Just now he is leaning in close, whispering really, into the remains of the right ear as he carefully inserts his scalpel in the area he wishes to test tonight. There is a sob, apparently answer enough for Two as he smiles in a kindly manner and moves deeper into the brain.

At last, Two is done and I finally move in for my turn. The body is lax now, no more straining against the binds. The bloody chest is moving in great shuddering sighs, and the sobs have been reduced to a slight whistling noise that escapes from between the chipped and broken teeth. This will be it then, the last event of the evening. I lean in, my right hand seeking out that special place, feeling for that magical rhythm. I pause for a moment when I find it, savoring the sudden change in pace. Even as far gone as he is, he still responds fearfully to my touch. I tell myself that I must remember to mention that to Two. Two always likes to know what lessons the brain holds onto the longest.

I have my favorite knife with me tonight, but Six has already done so much work with the chest, pulling back the skin, squeezing and kneading the muscles and organs underneath. I decide to really enjoy this final moment, and I start tearing away the intervening layers with my hands, searching for that marvelous gem. At last, it lays exposed before me. Even now, it has reached near-panic levels, and I can feel myself harden again in response. I lean in, caressing the heart with my hands, ever so softly. The toy makes a jerky motion then, and I squeeze the heart, just enough. The body goes limp and I pat the side of the head, a bit of praise for such a quick learner.

Ah, the miracle that is the human heart. How amazing this little engine is, this machine that regulates the life that flows and ebbs through each body. I love to caress it, slowly at first, just to learn how each one works. Each heart is different, a miniature of the toy it sustains. This one is young and sweet, not as muscular as some but large nonetheless. And oh! What an amazing feeling as I clasp it in my hands, to feel it respond in kind, like a lover responding to that secret touch. I am nearly panting now as I feel the energy flow from the toy into my hands and up my arms, to spread throughout my own body. I am stroking the heart now, hard and fast, demanding more. The heart responds, quickening, pulsating like it has never done before. I climax with one last squeeze, a hard, demanding squeeze that crushes the wondrous little creation. A few brief flutters, one last desperate push, but the final blow has been struck and the heart lies still finally. I give it one last caress, a thank you for the magic it has given me.

When I finally look up, there are nods all around. This year’s toy has done well. We bow our heads in a moment of silent acknowledgment, and then Four moves forward to cut the bonds. It will be his duty to destroy the remains, as it was mine last year. While Four begins carving, the rest of us retreat up the tunnel. There is no shower here, but we pass around stacks of wet wipes, making sure to remove any obvious blood. This year’s Elvis costumes are added to the pile of material to be destroyed, a signal that another successful year has passed. When we are cleaned and in our regular clothes again, One gives us each a last inspection before sending us up the shaft to the work-a-day world. One by one, we creep outside, and I am surprised to see the first hints of sunrise. The toy did very well indeed.

I make my way to my car, following a circuitous route. The revelers have all but vanished, only a drunken showgirl ambling haphazardly along one sidewalk remains as a hint of the celebration that had run riot along this street last night. I make it to my car and take a moment to enjoy the fresh air and the new memories that I will have to carry me through until next year. Next year will be a red-head, of either gender. Five loves his red-heads. The toys should thank us, really. What better way to leave this world than surrounded by a murder of Elvi?