The Rat leaned over and got his CD headset. He put the earphones on and hit Play. . . . Satan T. Bone's raspy voice filled his head with glorious hatred: Hit on the girl, screw her at last, Cut off her arms, plug up her ass. The screaming will end when the body goes soft. The fucking will start when her head is cut off. He swayed to the music in the cooling air as he worked. He had saved the head for last. The Rat knew there were more than one hundred identification points on the face and neck. For the Beast to come to life, it had to look like Shirley. So far, all of his searching had found nobody who answered his need. He had always known the head would be the hardest. The head would be his final victim. He was being pursued now, so he had to turn away from this difficult selection and deal with his enemies. Using his modem and cracking kit, it had taken The Rat almost two hours to penetrate security blocking codes in the computer at the U. S. Customs Service. As was always the case, he had searched for a hole in the system, and had finally broken through.
