A Sheriff’s Death

Bart Blackbeard sits on the plank of a cot, arms looped behind his big head, eyes like dead sapphires staring at the piss-yellow ceiling. He grins through his beard at the splinters sticking through the wood, flexes his hands behind his skull. Iron bars gleam in the dusk, and he can see the sheriff’s desk, just past his boots. There’s a smudge of dried blood on his pant leg and it bothers him less than the lack of whiskey or a whore’s cunt within arm’s reach.

He’s been in better jails and worse, but none smelled quite like Abraham Goodwest’s: horses, gun oil, scorched beans, and the sweat of two men who once tangled in bedsheets instead of the law. The air is thick with ghosts and tobacco. Through the square glass of the window, sunlight slants in like a gun barrel, painting the floor in golden stripes. A coyote howls somewhere, and Bart’s cock stirs at the sound. Life, he thinks, will go on whether or not he does.

Abe sits behind his desk, hands folded on the ledger, writing in slow, precise script. He’s a hard man, always was, but now he wears his duty like a hangman’s hood: all business, no mercy. His face looks tired, hollowed out by the weeks of hunt, and the fresh gray in his beard catches Bart’s eye. His hair is longer than Bart remembers, curling at the ends, but the eyes haven’t changed: blue and cold and hungry.

Bart waits, lets the silence stretch. He likes watching Abe suffer, likes knowing he’s the reason for it.

“Well,” Bart says, voice grinding like gravel, “you gonna look at me all night, or you got some pretty words about justice to spit in my face?”

Abe doesn’t look up. He draws his pen down the page, signs his name with a flourish, then sets it aside and stands. The gunbelt on his hip creaks. He walks to the cell, slow, every step the funeral march Bart expects.

“Bart Blackbeard,” Abe says, tasting the name. “They’ll hang you at dawn. I told them you’d try to break out, but the doc says you’re too banged up for much excitement.”

“I can still get it up, if that’s what you’re asking.” Bart leers, pushing his hips forward, making sure the bulge in his pants shows. “You wanna give me a sendoff, Abe? One for old time’s sake?”

Abe’s lips twitch, almost a smile, but he clamps down on it. “I have to do this, Bart. I can’t let you run anymore. You’ve killed too many good men.”

Bart spits on the floor, aiming for the shadows under Abe’s boots. “Good men? Fucksakes, they were bounty trash, not worth the powder. You and me, we got more in common than you do with them. Remember that?”

Abe glances away, just for a moment. “I remember you shooting a preacher for cheating at poker.”

“Preacher shoulda been hanged for lying,” Bart says. “Least I’m honest.” He pushes off the cot, stands and stretches, looming close enough the bars seem to bend around his chest. “I was honest with you, wasn’t I?”

Abe steps closer, and now his hands are white on the keys at his belt. “That was a long time ago.”

Bart grins, showing a row of teeth and a tongue scarred from too many barfights. “Ain’t so long. I bet you think of it. How I used to fuck you up against the river rocks. How you begged for my cock, Sheriff. You want a last ride, you know where to find me.”

Abe’s face flushes, but he doesn’t bite. “I have to keep you alive till morning. After that, you can get as hard as you want. The hangman’ll take care of it. They say the big ones go off when the neck snaps. Maybe you’ll get lucky, die with a smile and a wet spot on your pants.”

Bart throws his head back and laughs, a sound that fills the room like a saloon brawl. “That’s good, Abe. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Abe’s voice drops, almost gentle. “I don’t want you dead, Bart. But you made your choice.”

Bart slaps the bars, rattling them like a caged bear. “Choice is what a man’s got, in the end. And I choose to die with a stiff cock and no regrets. You ever think what woulda happened if you ran with me instead?”

Abe’s mouth works, but nothing comes out. The silence thickens.

Bart pushes on. “We’d be kings, you and me. Outlaws in Mexico, guns for hire, fucking in the hot sun. I know you wanted it. I saw your eyes when we rode out the canyon, saw you looking at my ass.”

Abe finally laughs, but the sound is bitter and thin. “You always could talk. That’s why the judge sentenced you to hang instead of the bullet: said the town deserved a show. You’re the star, Bart. Tomorrow they’ll cheer while you dance.”

Bart shrugs, letting the chains on his ankles clink. “Let ‘em cheer. I’ll spit on the crowd. I’ll spit on you, too, if you’re close enough.”

Abe’s eyes flicker, something tender and feral beneath the lawman’s mask. “You were the best I ever had, Bart. But you’re a dead man walking.”

Bart grins, hands slipping from the bars. “And you’re gonna watch every second, aren’t you?”

Abe stands, hands shaking. He forces a smile, but it’s ugly with grief. “Sleep tight, Blackbeard. Try not to jerk off too much, or you’ll disappoint the ladies at the gallows.”

Bart grins wider. “If they want a show, I’ll give it. Maybe you can scrape up the remains and jerk off with ‘em after.”

Abe turns, boots slapping the floor. He goes back to his desk, shoulders hunched. Bart watches him, hunger and hate and something like love boiling together in his gut.

Bart sits. He puts his hands behind his head, stares at the ceiling, and hums an old tune. There’s no use in begging, no use in praying. Bart Blackbeard is going to die at dawn, and if he has to come while the noose tightens, he’ll make sure Sheriff Abraham Goodwest remembers every goddamn drop.

Bart can’t sleep. Not that it’s any different from the hundred nights before, but now there’s a ticking in the walls, a deathwatch beetle gnawing through every second until the sun rises and they stretch his neck. He paces the cell, heavy boots thumping the boards, counting each footfall like a heartbeat. The lamp in the office is out, but he can hear Abe’s breathing in the next room, slow and shallow, like he’s trying to play dead already.

Bart hooks his thumbs in his belt, leans against the bars, and stares into the black. “You awake, Sheriff?” His voice is a growl, a dare.

The pause is too long, too careful. Then: “Can’t sleep with a bear in the next room.”

Bart spits again. “You snore louder than any grizzly I ever fucked.”

Abe says nothing, but Bart can hear the shift of a cot, the scrape of a boot heel.

Bart presses on. “You ever think about it, what we were?” He speaks softly, almost a whisper, the kind of voice he used to use when they lay together in a hayloft, listening for the creak of the barn door. “I do. Every fucking day. Even when I’m balls-deep in some whore and she’s got her teeth on my ear, I think about your mouth, Abraham.”

Abe’s silhouette blocks the door, just a shadow with a badge and a hard jaw. “That was a long time ago.”

Bart laughs, not kindly. “Ain’t so long. You ever touch yourself and think about me?”

“Stop it.”

Bart rattles the bars, sets the whole cell singing. “Why? You gonna be the holy lawman now, forget how you begged for it? I remember every time you whimpered. How you’d clench around me like you’d never let go.”

Abe’s voice is flint and cold water. “Doesn’t matter. You’re a murderer, Bart. There’s nothing left.”

“Bullshit.” Bart’s voice cracks on the second syllable, and he hates himself for it. “I killed scum. You know it. You hunted worse than me and called it justice.” He draws a breath, fists white-knuckled on the bars. “You and me, we ran together for three years. Blood and sweat and spit and cum. Doesn’t that buy me anything, Abraham?”

Abe says nothing. The clock ticks.

Bart tries again, softer this time. “Let me go, Abe. Just for old time’s sake. I’ll disappear. No one has to know.”

Abe moves closer, his face visible now in the faint glow from the streetlamp. “I can’t. You know I can’t. Every lawman from here to Denver would hunt me down. I’d have to kill them all to keep you safe.”

Bart shrugs. “You’re good with a gun.”

Abe shakes his head. “I’m not you.”

Bart slams a fist into the wall, making the nails rattle. “Fuck you! I’d rather take a bullet than swing from a tree while a bunch of goddamn farmers laugh at my prick twitching. You know that’s how I’ll go. Pissing down my leg, shitting myself, and they’ll cheer. You really want to see me like that?”

Abe’s voice is barely a whisper. “No.”

“Then do something about it!”

Abe grips the bars, knuckles tight. “I can’t. I have to do my job. If I let you out, what kind of man am I?”

Bart’s eyes blaze. “You’re the man I loved, once.”

Abe closes his eyes, shoulders shuddering. “That’s gone.”

Bart leans in, voice low and savage. “It ain’t. You just buried it, same as you buried all those bastards I helped you put in the ground.”

They’re close enough now that Bart can smell the old sweat on Abe’s shirt, the hint of whiskey on his breath. For a moment, neither speaks.

Bart breaks the silence. “I’m not afraid to die, Abraham. But I want it to mean something. Not some fucking circus show.” His hands tremble, but his voice is steady. “If you loved me, even once, you’ll give me a clean death.”

Abe looks away, shame written in the tightness of his jaw. “I can’t.”

Bart laughs, a bitter bark. “Then you never loved me at all.”

Abe says nothing, just turns and walks back to his cot, each step heavy with regret.

Bart collapses onto the bunk, staring at the ceiling, fists balled at his sides. He can almost feel the rope burning his throat already. His cock is hard, but there’s no pleasure in it, just a sick, gnawing ache.

In the darkness, Bart thinks of running, of fucking, of killing, of the man he used to hold tight in the night. All of it is dust now, and tomorrow it’ll be nothing at all.

It’s midnight, the town dead quiet. Bart counts the bells of the church clock and wonders if he’ll hear it again before the hangman’s noose. He stares through the bars, waiting. He knows Abraham won’t sleep, not tonight. Sure enough, after an hour of silence, Abe’s boots thud across the planks.

Abe leans in the doorway, arms folded. In the dark, he looks like a specter, some hard-bitten angel sent to keep Bart in Hell. He lights a stub of cigarette and the match flare shows the pain in his face—creases around the mouth, eyes rimmed raw.

“Can’t stay away, can you?” Bart says. His tone is softer, the fight gone to embers.

Abe smirks. “You’re the best show this shithole ever got. Figure I ought to see how it ends.”

Bart tilts his head. “You like watching me suffer?”

Abe shrugs, smoke leaking from his nose. “You always did put on a show. I remember you shooting two men in the balls for calling you fat. Town still talks about the blood on the billiard table.”

Bart laughs, then turns quiet. “This is different. This is me, strung up and twitching while they all clap.”

Abe’s voice drops. “You think I want to see that?”

Bart studies him, seeing the twitch of his jaw, the way he can’t meet Bart’s eyes. “You’d rather see me run.”

Abe looks away, flicking ash onto the floor. “Doesn’t matter what I want. You ever read the Bible, Bart?”

Bart snorts. “Only the parts about fucking and fighting.”

Abe smiles, a flash of old warmth. “There’s a story. Man named Abraham, told to kill his only son. All for duty. He almost did it, too. That’s what the world expects.”

Bart leans against the bars, muscles bulging under the sweat-stained shirt. “You think I’m your son now?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Abe’s eyes are hot, burning into him. “But I am the one holding the knife.”

They stare each other down. For a moment, Bart feels a flicker of something like hope—like maybe, just maybe, Abe will open the cell and say fuck the law. But it dies as quick as it comes.

Bart spits into the bucket, wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “Let’s say I knocked you out, took your gun, and bolted. You’d chase me?”

Abe’s answer is instant. “I’d hunt you to the end of the world.”

Bart grins. “Bet you’d like that. All that running and catching. Maybe you’d drag me back and fuck me in the dirt, like the old days.”

Abe’s mouth twists, and Bart knows he’s landed a punch. But then Abe says, quiet: “You want to escape, Bart, you’ll have to kill me.”

Bart’s laughter is harsh and empty. “You want me to?”

Abe steps close, hands tight on the bars. “You want to run, you kill me first. That’s the only way it works.”

Bart stares at him, caught between fury and a wild animal’s love. “What if I promise not to run? You let me out, I just walk away.”

Abe shakes his head. “You’d be gone before I turned around. And I’d never find peace again.”

Bart’s hands slide down, gripping the bars right where Abe’s are, knuckles brushing. “You make it sound like we’re both getting hanged tomorrow.”

Abe looks at their hands, then up at Bart’s eyes. “Maybe we are.”

Bart draws in a breath, holds it. He wants to break the bars, to take Abe in his arms and fuck the whole world, but all he can do is stand there, muscle and rage and nothing left to lose.

Abe breaks the silence. “You want to live? You know what to do.”

Bart’s face splits in a slow, terrible smile. “You always did like it rough.”

Abe lets go, backing away, eyes never leaving Bart’s. “Goodnight, Blackbeard. Last one you’ll get.”

Bart watches him until he’s gone, then sinks down on the cot, blood pounding in his ears. He thinks of the gun on Abe’s hip, the feel of bone and flesh under his hands. He wonders if he could do it—if he could end Abraham Goodwest for a shot at living, or if the taste of him would always be sweeter than freedom.

He stares at the ceiling and dreams of hands around a throat, squeezing until the world goes quiet.

In the night the world is dark and silent. The town is a sheet of ash, the only light a thread through the warped glass of the jail. Bart stands at the bars, breathing slow, watching Abraham in the office, jaw clenched, back ramrod straight.

Abe feels him watching, looks up, and their eyes lock. No words, just that old wild heat, the one that used to curl their toes in bed and leave them bruised and hungry for more.

Bart says nothing for a long time. Then, “You know what I’d have to do, don’t you?”

Abe doesn’t flinch. “Yeah.”

Bart licks his lips, feeling the air crackle. “If it’s the only way, I could kill you.”

Abe holds his gaze, blue eyes sharp and wet. “You’d do it?”

Bart nods, slow, like the hangman tightening a noose. “If you left me no choice.”

Abe laughs, dry as desert bone. “Figures.”

They hold each other with their eyes, neither one giving an inch. Bart sees it then: the truth Abe’s been hiding behind that badge and those laws. He wants Bart to run, wants him alive, but can’t break himself to let it happen. So he offers the only exit that fits his code: death at Bart’s hands.

Abe says, “If you can get out, I won’t stop you. But you’ll have to go through me first.”

Bart grins, the big beastly grin that used to get him into trouble every time. “You sure you can handle me, lawman?”

Abe steps closer, presses his forehead to the bars, close enough to kiss or bite. “You break out, Bart, you better make it count.”

Bart presses back, feeling the heat of him, the old chemistry like dynamite in the small space. “It’ll be quick. Or maybe slow, if you want.”

Abe’s smile is pure sin. “I want you to make me feel it.”

Bart’s cock is already hard, aching at the promise. “You always liked it that way.”

They stand there a minute, breathing the same air, hearts pounding against iron. Neither is afraid. Not anymore.

Then Abe steps back, hands at his sides. “It’s almost time,” he says, voice thick. “Don’t waste it.”

Bart nods.

It’s gonna be one hell of a night.

Abe unlocks the cell. He comes in with the keys loose at his belt, no gun, no badge, just himself: a man stripped bare of everything but purpose. His hands don’t tremble, but his jaw is stone. Bart stands in the center of the cell, arms folded, every inch of him a weapon waiting to be loosed.

“You ready?” Abe says, voice flat.

Bart nods. “You sure you want to go out this way?”

Abe shrugs. “It’s cleaner than a rope. Less messy than the mob.”

Bart grins. “It’ll still be messy.”

Abe steps close, a whisper from Bart’s chest. “I’m counting on it.”

Bart peels his shirt off, chest hair matted with sweat. His scars catch the lamp light, a map of violence and survival. His gut is thick, not soft, the kind that comes from years of beer and beef, but his arms are slabs of muscle. Then Bart tears open his own pants, cock bursting free, fat and purple at the head.

There’s a beat of silence, long enough for both men to remember the nights they used to fuck till dawn, bruises blooming on both sides. Then Abe says, “If you’re gonna kill me, you might as well fuck me first. One last time, for both of us.”

Bart’s cock is already thick, blood hot. “You asking or begging?”

Abe’s smile is crooked, brave. “I figure you owe me. Might as well do it right.”

Bart grabs the collar of Abe’s shirt, yanks him close. Their mouths crash together, teeth clashing. Abe tastes like cigarettes and regret. Bart bites his lip, and Abe bites back. There’s no tenderness left—just the old, wild hunger that used to set fires in both their bellies.

Bart shoves Abe down on the cot. Abe goes willingly, eyes never leaving Bart’s. Abe strips down, rough hands moving fast, until he’s bare as a newborn. And hard. They stand naked, staring at each other, like a pair of stags sizing up before a final rut. Neither blinks. The heat between them could set the hayloft on fire.

Abe drops to his knees first. He knows his place, at least for now. He wraps his hands around Bart’s cock, thick fingers stroking the shaft, tongue tracing the vein like a line of dynamite. Bart groans, head falling back. Abe works the cock slow at first, then rough, not holding back. He licks the head, sucks it deep, nose buried in Bart’s sweaty bush. Bart grabs the back of Abe’s head and fucks his face, making him choke, making him take every inch.

Abe doesn’t gag—he’s done this too many times—but he moans, low and needy, as Bart fucks his face, fingers tight in Abe’s hair. Saliva foams at the corners of Abe’s mouth.

“Always said you sucked cock better than you shot,” Bart growls.

After a minute, Bart pulls out. “Turn around and get on all fours, lawman.” he growls.

Abe does, bracing himself on all fours, ass in the air, shameless. Bart spits on his hand, slaps Abe’s ass hard enough to leave a welt, then pushes two fingers in. Abe hisses but doesn’t flinch. Bart lines up, presses the tip of his cock to the hole, and thrusts in slow, deep.

It’s brutal, but that’s how they both want it: Abe panting, Bart grunting, the cot slamming into the wall with every stroke. Abe’s own cock is hard as iron, pre-cum dripping onto the floor. Bart fucks him like an animal—like he’s punishing the world for making them enemies.

Bart leans in, presses his chest to Abe’s back, whispers in his ear, “You always loved this, didn’t you?”

Abe nods, taking every inch Bart gives him. “Fucking hell, Bart,” he gasps.

The room fills with the sound of flesh on flesh, Bart’s hips slamming into Abe, grunts and curses echoing off the walls.

“Goddamn, you’re tight,” Bart pants. “You been saving it for me?”

Abe hisses, sweat streaming down his face. “Fuck you.”

Bart laughs. “You’re doing a good job of it.”

Bart pounds harder, hands gripping Abe’s hips, sweat pouring off his body. He knows this is the last time, knows he’s got to make it count. When he’s close, he reaches around and fists Abe’s cock, jerking him in time with the thrusts. Abe shudders, hips bucking, and Bart feels the surge in his guts.

He leans over, mouth at Abe’s ear. “You want me to kill you while I’m inside you?”

Abe doesn’t answer, but his cock is hard as a pistol, leaking onto the floor. Bart jerks him in rhythm with his fucking, not gentle. Abe moans, the sound raw and wild.

He holds there, both of them trembling. “You ready?” Bart asks, voice ragged.

Abe looks over his shoulder, face flushed, eyes bright. “Do it.”

Bart slams home one last time, filling Abe’s ass with cum and when he’s finished, he collapses beside him on the floor, both of them gasping, ruined and alive. Even at the end, they’re both still animals.

Abe wipes his mouth, grins. “Best you ever had, admit it.”

Bart laughs, a rough, broken sound. “Ain’t nothing better.”

They lie together for a moment, the world outside forgotten. Then Abe sits up, looks Bart in the eye, and says, “Now do what you have to.”

“Ready?” Bart asks.

Abe grins. “Do it. I want to see your face when you finish me.”

Bart wipes sweat from his brow, chest heaving. “Suck it clean,” Bart growls, shoving his cock toward Abe’s mouth. The shaft is smeared with blood, jism, and streaks of shit.

Abe doesn’t hesitate. He opens wide and takes Bart in, tongue swirling, licking up the mess. Bart watches, eyes burning, as Abe works the shaft like a starving man, cleaning every drop with a thoroughness that’s almost tender.

When he’s done, Bart lets go, watches Abe slump back on the floor, face glistening with spit and sweat.

“You’re a good whore,” Bart says, voice like gravel. “Almost a shame to kill you.”

Abe grins, lips shiny. “Do it, then. Don’t fuck around.”

Bart smiles, slow and cruel. “You always wanted it from me. Now you get it.”

Abe nods, eyes clear, ready.

Abe pulls his clothes back on, hands steady even as his cock stands up, swollen and angry from the beating it’s taken. He fastens his shirt, buckles the holster, not bothering to tuck away the bulge. Bart wipes off with a dirty sleeve, tugs his pants up and grins, watching Abe do it all—like a man dressing for his own funeral.

Abe walks out of the cell, keys dangling at his waist, but doesn’t go far. He stands by the bars, face-to-face with Bart, so close their breath fogs the gap between them.

Bart steps up, fits his hands through the iron bars and cups the sides of Abraham’s neck. His thumbs brush the pulse, feeling it thump, thick and fast.

Abe tilts his head, inviting the grip. “This how you pictured it?” he asks, voice low.

Bart’s eyes are wild, hungry. “Better.”

Abe’s cock strains against his pants, the pressure almost painful. He sees Bart’s hands trembling, not with fear, but anticipation. “You ever think about killing me before?” Abe asks.

Bart smiles, tongue darting over his lips. “Sometimes. Mostly thought about fucking you. But I like this, too.”

Abe’s eyes go half-lidded, his breath shallow. “You get off on it?”

Bart tightens his grip, just a little. “You have no idea.”

Abe’s own hands come up, fingers running along Bart’s forearms, feeling the power there, the inevitability. “You want me to beg?” he says, a taunt and a prayer in one.

Bart shakes his head. “Never liked you on your knees. Want to see you fight for it.”

Abe grins, baring his teeth. “Then make me.”

The tension between them crackles, thicker than blood, thicker than the iron bars. Bart’s hands flex, the want and hate and love all boiling in his chest. Abe leans into the pressure, lets himself feel every ounce of Bart’s strength, every ounce of longing.

He thinks, just for a second, that there’s no better way to go than like this: hard and full of fire, with Bart’s hands around his throat.

“Do it,” Abe says, voice almost a whisper. “Let’s see if you’re as good at killing as you are at fucking.”

Bart’s answer is a growl, raw and animal.

Bart leans in, breath hot against Abraham’s ear. “You know why I like you? You never back down. Always made me fight for it.” His grip tightens, just a little, enough to make Abe’s face flush.

“You like killing strong men, don’t you,” Abe says, not a question.

Bart grins, teeth bared. “Best there is. Fucking you was always good. Killing you’ll be even better.”

Abe chokes a laugh, the sound strained. “You always were a bastard, Bart.”

“Never claimed otherwise.”

They stand frozen, Bart’s hands on Abraham’s throat, Abe’s pulse thumping like a war drum. Neither speaks. Bart’s cock stiffens, pressing against the seam of his trousers. Abe’s hard too, balls tight with anticipation.

“You want this, don’t you,” Bart says, voice ragged. “You want me to choke you out.”

Abe nods, the pressure making his eyes swim. “Yeah. Always wanted it to be you.”

Bart laughs, low and hungry. “Didn’t think you’d admit it.”

“I’m dead either way. At least this way, you get to win.”

Bart softens his grip, just for a second. “Anything else, lawman? Any last request?”

Abe’s lips curl in a wicked grin. “Piss on me before you leave. Make it a good one.”

Bart’s laughter explodes, rich and filthy. “You fucking pig. Couldn’t go a day without begging for it, could you?”

Abe grins, teeth bloody where he bit his lip. “Make it count.”

Bart licks his lips. “I will.”

They look at each other, two animals at the end of the world, and for a moment, nothing else matters.

Then Bart squeezes, and the real show begins.

Bart tightens his grip, thumbs pressing deep into the corded muscle of Abraham’s neck. The first shock is pain—clean and bright, like a gunshot—but it’s quickly chased by the slow burn of suffocation. Abe’s eyes widen, then narrow. He bares his teeth, fighting even as his windpipe closes under Bart’s palms.

“You like this, don’t you?” Bart hisses, voice thick with lust. “You love feeling my hands on you.”

Abe’s face goes red, veins standing out along his forehead. He tries to reply, but all that comes is a wet, rattling grunt.

Bart laughs, pulling Abe tight against the bars. “You’re fucking hard, you sick bastard. Bet you’re close already.”

He grinds his cock against the iron, hips pistoning as he chokes the life from his lover. Abe’s knees buckle, but Bart holds him upright, savoring the fight. He squeezes harder, fingers digging into flesh, thumbs pressing the life out inch by inch.

“Not so tough now, are you?” Bart spits. “You always wanted to lose to me. Always wanted to die with my cock in your mouth.”

Abe’s vision goes gray at the edges. He claws at Bart’s arms, but the grip is unbreakable. He can feel himself slipping, the world narrowing to the roar in his ears and the taste of blood in his mouth. His cock spurts, wetting the front of his pants.

Bart sees it, laughs again. “Fucking knew it. Go out like a real man, Abe.”

Abe wants to curse him, to call him every name he knows, but all he can do is gasp, tongue lolling. He can hear Bart’s voice, hot and dirty, pouring into his head.

“You feel me? You feel how much I love this? Love you?” Bart sneers, but there’s something raw behind it. “You wanted it rough. I’m giving you everything.”

The world tunnels, black at the edges. For a split second, Abraham remembers the first time Bart kissed him, the taste of whiskey and blood. Then there’s nothing but Bart’s face, twisted in victory.

The pain is a starburst, then nothing. Abraham’s body spasms, cock pumping the last of his life into his trousers. His bladder lets go, piss running down his legs, pooling at his boots. His guts cramp, and he shits himself, the heat and wetness spreading through his pants. Bart sees, and the laughter turns savage.

“Look at you—fucking mess. Knew you’d do it.”

Abe’s body slackens, all fight gone. Bart holds on, squeezing another minute just to make sure. When he finally lets go, Abraham sags against the bars, face purple and slack, eyes open but gone.

Bart stands over him, chest heaving, cock tenting his pants. He unzips, pulls it out, and strokes himself slow, looking down at the ruin he’s made.

“Goodbye, Sheriff,” Bart says, voice softer than he meant. “You did good.”

He jerks himself off, staring into Abraham’s dead eyes. When he comes, he aims for Abe’s face, marking him one last time.

He pisses in Abraham’s open mouth, streams of yellow pooling over the blue tongue and drooling down the chin. He paints the face, the chest, marking the kill like a dog claiming his territory.

“Rest in peace, you stubborn bastard.”

Bart buttons up, then kneels, whispering something low into Abraham’s ruined ear. He smears the blood across his own cheek.

“Wish you could see me now,” Bart says, but he knows, deep down, that Abraham always did.

He turns and walks into the night, the taste of victory bitter on his tongue.

RACCONTI

STORIES

LINKS

MATERIALI/ MATERIALS

GALLERIA/ GALLERY