Free The Last Motel by Brett McBean Page A

shivering, nodded his head. His eyes were puffy from crying.
    Wayne turned and saw himself in the mirror.
    That was a close one , he thought, shaking his head.
    He was proud of himself for remaining calm, though. His face was still slightly flushed, but his wig had looked good and convincing. He knew no one would be able...
    He drew in a sharp breath. “Fuck!” he snapped.
    The boy flinched with fright. He watched Wayne from the corners of his eyes.
    “The moustache,” Wayne sighed. He could not believe he had forgotten to put it on.
    Had she noticed? he wondered. He had been in such a mad rush when she knocked, having just finished cleaning the mess in his underpants, that the black moustache lying on the bedside table had completely slipped his mind.
    How could I have remembered the wig but not the moustache?
    The woman didn’t let on that she had noticed, but what if she had?
    “Get back on the bed,” Wayne growled.
    The boy hurried over to the bed, a slight limp in his walk. Wayne followed close behind, glancing at the moustache as he went past.
    “Lie back down on the bed,” Wayne told him. “You know the drill.”
    The boy placed his skinny arms above his head and then Wayne tied them securely with the pillowcases. When the boy was again bound to the bedposts, Wayne took the small towel he had brought from the bathroom and gagged his mouth. The boy gave no resistance.
    “Remember, you spit that out and scream, you’re dead.”
    The boy stared up at Wayne with frightened eyes. Sweat dripped from Wayne’s forehead onto the boy’s chest.
    He wandered over to the door and clicked the lock. “Just in case,” he said. “We don’t want any more interruptions, do we?”
    The boy continued to stare at Wayne, his nostrils flaring in and out, which made a loud hissing sound. His entire body quivered.
    “Now, where were we?” Wayne said as he approached the boy. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the knife. He saw the boy’s eyes grow wide with fear.
    Wayne decided to turn on the radio. Some light, fluffy jazz tune that Wayne had never heard was playing. He turned the volume up enough so it wasn’t a disturbance to the other guests, but loud enough to cover some of the noise.
    “You like this music?”
    The boy didn’t respond.
    Wayne thought about the boy kicking at him again. He was certain that he wouldn’t try it, but it was best to make sure. He was about to go over and take the cases off his pillows, when suddenly a better idea came to him. He grinned.
    With the knife in his right hand, Wayne ventured to the boy’s legs. The boy watched with a terrified frown.
    Wayne swung his right arm downwards at the boy’s left leg. The knife struck him just beside the kneecap, into a bony part. The knife remained imbedded stiffly inside the leg as he worked the blade deeper. Wayne laughed at the boy’s unbridled cries, and laughed even harder when the sheet underneath turned a pale yellow.
    He must’ve hit a part that also had some muscle, since the knife was burrowing deeper into the knee. There were loud crunching sounds as Wayne jabbed and ground the knife hard. The muffled roars of the boy weren’t even loud enough to drown them out. Blood poured from the wound and onto Wayne’s hand. There was now a sizeable gap in the boy’s knee, where bone, muscle and cartilage were grotesquely exposed. Wayne pulled the switchblade out with a gravelly tear. He went around to the other side of the bed, then lifted the boy’s right leg. This time he slipped the knife under his knee, and with a sawing motion, cut his tendons and muscles.
    He immediately felt warm sticky blood pour onto his hand, and instead of a grinding bony sound, he heard the sickening snap of sinew.
    The boy’s body jerked in a series of sharp jolts.
    By the time Wayne had finished cutting the underside of the boy’s knee, he had stopped shouting and crying. Wayne straightened up and gazed at the boy. His eyes were closed and his