Hally – page 2
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He woke on the emerald grass. Tears, blood blurred his eyes. Faces loomed above
him. Tow-hair. The one with the knife, grinning, laughing—hideous, awful laughter, then the monster’s foot in a boot came down on his face and pinned his cheek to
Spitting out dirt, he saw someone sit on her face, naked buttocks straddling her, mouths nuzzling her naked breasts, heads, hands, penises at her crotch. He yelled, he cried out, shouted, struggled to get up.
The foot came at him kicking him in the balls. Half conscious, with every ounce of strength he could muster he wriggled out from under the boot, was kicked in the head as they rolled her over and took turns mounting, humping, pumping at every orifice, every fold, every crease of her flesh.
Blinded by the dirt, blood pouring from his forehead, he heard her screaming. Caught glimpses of her arms flailing, their arms, legs, hands, feet pinioning her. Saw the glittering blade of the knife. Heard voices yelling, chanting, "Nigger bitch, Indian cunt, get her, scalp her!" Saw the tow-haired monster pull her long hair taut like black
silk yarn, yank her head back—saw the knife cutting in, hacking, hacking slashing, hacking.
His scream became one long scream blending with hers.
The hand rose up triumphantly holding a hank of hair, a bloody black dark dripping swatch of hair and scalp.
A red dark wave swept over him.
The man didn't know, couldn't know that everything in his life, everything he stood for had changed. Everything went black.
The grass definitely needed mowing. George Murray's yard was larger than his neighbors' on Greentree Lane, and Hally Murray enjoyed that fact even though she was annoyed about ending up with the mowing chore. But that was Hally—she could feel annoyed and at the same time love George and admire him.
She was thirty-six. He was forty-six. They weren't newlyweds, but after seven years of marriage they were still lovers. In Heart City, population around nineteen thousand, oldy-weds mostly looked sun-dried and acted grouchy.
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