Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch

Jack kilborn SErial blakE crouch
farmland. Donaldson pulled back onto the highway and
headed for it, whistling as he drove.
The farm stood just where he remembered it. Donald-
son pulled off the road into a cornfield and drove through the
dead stalks until he could no longer see the road. he killed the
engine, set the parking brake—the accord had transmission
issues—then tugged out the keys to ensure it wouldn’t roll
away.
his passenger whimpered as Donaldson muscled him
out of the car and dragged him into the stalks.
he whimpered even more when Donaldson jerked his
pants down around his ankles, got him loosened up with an
ear of corn, and then forced himself inside.
“Gonna stab me with your little knife?” he whispered
in brett’s ear between grunts. “Think that was going to save
you?”
When he’d finished, Donaldson sat on the kid’s chest
and tried out all the attachments on the Swiss army knife
for himself. The tiny scissors worked well on eyelids. The
nail file just reached the eardrums. The little two inch
blade was surprisingly sharp and adept at whittling the
nose down to the cartilage. and the corkscrew did a fine job on
brett’s adam’s apple, popping it out in one piece and leaving
a gaping hole that poured blood bright as a young cabernet.
apple was a misnomer. it tasted more like a peach pit.
Sweet and stringy.
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