Apt Pupil 2
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Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
21
Views:
1,350
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Category:
1 through F › Apt Pupil
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
21
Views:
1,350
Reviews:
0
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own Apt Pupil or any of the characters associated with it. They belong to Stephen King and Brian Singer. No money was made from this wiriting.
Chapter 18
It was torture – the urge to go to her home was unbelievably strong and, against his better judgment, the idea of killing her in her own bed had tremendous appeal. And when you get right down to it, the “meat” of the matter as his high school law teacher used to say, wasn’t one less whore just as good as one less wino? All women were whores: Pam, his mother. Dick Bowden had given her the roof over her head and now he wasn’t even allowed to live there. She was probably already dating. I want to feel attractive again, Todd-O, she’d whine. As if she didn’t already know. As if a dozen guys wouldn’t be lined up, especially if she gave out.
He closed his eyes; blocking out the thoughts of Monica’s sex life, and embraced the small voice that shattered the empty feeling inside, “Kill them all, boy. You must kill them all.”
When he opened his eyes again he felt better. So good, in fact, that he even called Monica. She was on her way to the grocery store, she said. It was nice to hear from him, she said. She missed his father, but was still pursuing a divorce, she said. A million other mundane sentences, but, in its own way it was good. Once more for old time’s sake, as the saying goes. After he hung the receiver, with a quick “I love you too, Monica-o”, he cleaned his rifle.
Hand up and down the barrel, much like his hand often went up and down his intimate parts. He dreamt an old dream. Dussander was taking readings and he was fucking some Yiddish twat on the laboratory table, a dildo snuggly over his penis. One hand polished his gun, one hand brushed over the bulge in his jeans. By the time his spunk began to spread through the denim, the girl lying on the table wore his mother’s face.
He closed his eyes; blocking out the thoughts of Monica’s sex life, and embraced the small voice that shattered the empty feeling inside, “Kill them all, boy. You must kill them all.”
When he opened his eyes again he felt better. So good, in fact, that he even called Monica. She was on her way to the grocery store, she said. It was nice to hear from him, she said. She missed his father, but was still pursuing a divorce, she said. A million other mundane sentences, but, in its own way it was good. Once more for old time’s sake, as the saying goes. After he hung the receiver, with a quick “I love you too, Monica-o”, he cleaned his rifle.
Hand up and down the barrel, much like his hand often went up and down his intimate parts. He dreamt an old dream. Dussander was taking readings and he was fucking some Yiddish twat on the laboratory table, a dildo snuggly over his penis. One hand polished his gun, one hand brushed over the bulge in his jeans. By the time his spunk began to spread through the denim, the girl lying on the table wore his mother’s face.