Author's warning: Please pay attention to me on this: This fic isn't for sensitive, Christian people. It involves character death, even if it's the death of a not very popular character. And also language, blood and sex that can be taken as rape. So don't flame me on this, because I have warned you. Don't say that I didn't.

Author's note: Umm… Now when I warned you, there's not much to say about this fic. It's just a pretty long one-shot. I guess I just really and truly hate Amy, but when I saw the movie last night, I noticed how Mort looks at Amy in that office after the fire, when she just wears a tiny top. And I realized he still wants her. So I wrote this, and I hope you all like it. An English is not my first language, and it never will be. So if I screw up, I apologize. Enjoy!

Lust For Murder

In moments of truth, we all reveal who we really are.

That's even the case for Mort Rainey. This is a moment of truth, and he just realized who he really is.

Because it is. It's a moment of truth. He just realized that he's a schizophrenic, that his other half if Shooter, that he kills people. That he killed Ken Karsch. If that's not a moment of truth, then what is?

And now, Amy's here. He can hear her push the door open. She wants him to sign the divorce papers. And that's a moment of truth, too. A moment of settlement.

Mort has realized he's Shooter. He's just realized that stupid hat is actually his.

The problem is that he's not Shooter only.

That would have been so much easier. If he'd been evil into his very core.

But it's not that way.

The majority of him is Shooter, the majority of him imagines Amy lying on the floor, bleeding and desperate, screaming for mercy.

But inside of Shooter, inside of Shooter's black soul, there lives a writer.

A lost, confused, bewildered writer.

A writer with a writer's block, a dead dog and a stalker. A writer that's been cheated on.

His name is Morton Rainey. And Mort doesn't want Amy to die. He's mad at her, after all, it's her fault that the past year has been a hell for him. But he doesn't hate her. On some level, he still loves her, even. No divorce papers in the world can change that.

And now, Mort and Shooter are fighting in his head.

Mort isn't a man anymore, he's the battlefield of two powerful forces.

Currently, Shooter has occupied a big part of his brain. And that's why he's on the upper floor, hidden behind a door, with that stupid goddamn hat on his head.

(Todd was right, remember?) Shooter's nasal voice says inside his head. (And you've got a shovel outside. I know you want to hurt her. So hurt her.)

You're not handling this.

Mort knows he's not handling this. He will run amok, and he knows that, too. He will listen to Shooter, because Shooter is stronger than Mort ever was on his own.

"Mort? Are you there? I saw your car outside."

Yeah, Mort thinks with a small smile. I'm here. I'm here and in a moment I will

(hurt you Amy I will hurt you.)

She walks up the stairs. Mort hears the old wood creek under her small feet.

(her pretty little feet you want to break them crush them smash them with a rock)

Now she sees all the 'Shooter's on the walls. Mort knows that, even though he doesn't see her.

In a moment, she'll see more Shooter if you don't shape up. Mort, listen to me, not to him, before it's too late. Before you do something you really don't want to do.

Mort doesn't listen to his own voice. He just puts his hand on the door and waits for good moment to open it. Waits for an opportunity to give Amy a shock that's as big as the one she gave him that night.

Yes. That night when you caught her cheating on you. You're mad at her, you want to get even, but not like this. Please, Mort, not like this.

(Yeah,) Shooter's voice says in his head. (Like this.)

And Mort opens the door.

When he hears Amy's frightened gasp, the two voices explode inside his mind in a terrible scream.

And then he's both.

The difference between Mort and Shooter doesn't exist anymore, they have mixed and became a hybrid, and Mort is the test tube.

Now he's both.

Now he's Shooter, who hates Amy, hates her more than anything, who wants to see her die, who wants her blood on his hands.

But he's also Mort, and Mort doesn't hate Amy. He wants her, wants her with a raw, impatient anger that you can only feel for someone you hate, love, want.

The terror in Amy's eyes fades down slowly.


She slowly walks towards him.

Mort stares at her.

She looks good. Not even Shooter can disagree with that.

But the rage is still there. The hunger. The hunger for revenge.

She was with Ted.

She was with Ted. He got to see her. He got to see her naked, see those tiny pearls of sweat form on her body, see how she arches her back when she comes.

But she was married to me. I didn't get anything in a year and a half, I got to stand in the shower and bring those pictures of her out of the back of my head. Her bouncing breasts, her grip on my hair, her soft honey-tongue against the crook of my neck. I got to bring out those pictures and touch myself to get by.

But now, it's my turn. It's only fair.

"Where did you get that old thing, the attic?"

Mort doesn't answer. He just walks up to her, with lust for murder in his eyes. But also lust for women. Lust for Amy.

"Mort," she says, and the old fear wakes up in her eyes as she starts to back away from him. "What's wrong?"

"It just came to my mind," Mort says without being able to keep Shooter's accent away from his voice, "how pretty you are."

"Thank you… But…"

She quickly gets interrupted by two harsh hands, Shooter's hands, that grabs her upper arms, leaves bruises. She shrieks.

All the sudden, she's pressed up against the wall, the wood creeks under her weight just like it did in the stairs, and Mort is pressed against her. His foot has already separated her legs a little.


"Shut up," Mort hisses, and his fingers bury themselves even deeper in her arms. "Shut the fuck up. I'm going to get my reward, and you're going to shut up and give it to me."


"I never laid a hand on you," Mort mutters, and his black eyes glitter, glisten in a disturbing way when hate and desire is mixed in them. "As soon as I touched you, you yelped and squirmed like a puppy. Like I raped you. Just to go and fuck Ted in motel rooms."

"Is that what this is about?" Amy says helplessly and tries to wriggle her arms out of his grip.

Mort barely seems to hear her. He just smiles, a disturbing and evil smile that matches his eyes.

"So I held back. I didn't get anything in almost two years. And for that, I deserve a reward."

Amy stares at him. Her eyes are wide.

She's longed for this. Every time she had a fight with Ted she would finger on her cell phone, always thinking about calling Mort, have one last night together just to get it out of her system. But she never did it.

But she can't keep a little spark of excitement from shining through the fear.

But before she gets a chance to say anything, Mort mouth is pressed against hers. He does it hard, it hurts, his teeth draw blood and Mort tastes warm, sticky liquid metal and Amy's sweet saliva.

Amy shrieks once again, into his mouth, grabs his hair and tries to pull his face away, but Mort gets off her lips voluntarily to look into her eyes.

How beautiful she is.

How beautiful and fragile. Like a porcelain doll with a big, terrified gaze.

So he'll break her.

The thought comes from Shooter's side of his brain, and it's black an evil and true.

She's a porcelain doll. If you drop her, she will get spread over the floor as thousands of white shards.

She broke his life.

(So I'll break her.)

Mort grins and caresses Amy's cheek, almost lovingly, before he pulls off her jacket.

(I'll fucking break her.)


Amy doesn't know if she ever stopped loving Mort. But she never stopped being attracted to him, she knows that for sure. Even a kiss that makes her mouth bleed and leaves a bite mark that makes her tongue swell up is arousing, as long as it's from him.

Mort's grin is still there.

(If she doesn't say yes, I'll rape her. I'll break her.)

Amy gulps. She wants him to stop. Wants him to go on. Wants him to make her want him to continue.


"Shut up," Mort growls and breaks the straps when he pulls the bra out of her shirt and tosses it aside. Amy can't help but notice that it lands on his desk. "You cheated on me. You wrecked my life. This is the least I can possibly ask for."

He separates her legs with his knee.

"Stop it."

His hands on her breasts.

He bends down, and she gasps with surprise and pain when he bites her shoulder. Hard. The red stain spreads on her blue shirt and she feels the bulge in his pants against her thigh.

"Stop it."

But the exact moment she says that, he draws his thumb over her nipple, and out of a reflex, she thrusts her hips against his. It's just a minor relief to feel his erection against the aching spot between her legs.

She's turned on. Mort has always been good at that.

But in the meantime, she's so senselessly scared.

She wants him to stop continue hit her love her.

Mort pulls her shirt over her head. The grin has disappeared from his face and been replaced with a determined look. Almost businesslike. Like he's doing something that has to be done.

He throws her shirt on the floor and cups her breasts again, squeezes them tight, too tight, and forces her bloody mouth into another kiss. And when he pulls back, his teeth are bloody, too.

Vampire, Amy thinks.

That scares her even more.

Mort unbuttons her jeans, impatiently, and pulls them down to the floor along with her panties. She is now completely naked and he's fully dressed, and he doesn't waste any more time on foreplay. He just unzips his fly and forces himself into her.

"Stop it," Amy whimpers, but she disagrees with herself, since she wraps her legs around his back, and he picks her up, slams her into the wall, harder and harder for every angry thrust.

But she keeps whimpering.

"Stop it," she whines once again, but then Mort grabs her waist and buries his nails in it, draws blood, and she cries out in pain.

"If you say that one more fucking time," Mort mumbles next to her ear, "I'll cut your tongue out. Okay?"

Amy doesn't answer. She's too frightened, she's mind-numbingly frightened. When they're done with this he'll hurt her, she knows that.

But if she says no now, he will rape her.

"Oh, God," Amy whispers. "Mort…"

Mort face is clenched. He does absolutely nothing to make this good for her, but her back still arches just like he remembers it two times before he comes with a grunting.

Amy collapses immediately. She's not awake, but not quite asleep. But in any case, Mort doesn't care. He's going to do it now.

Mort Rainey will never be Mort Rainey again.

He's one hundred percent Shooter now.

His attraction to Amy was the only thing holding him back.

But, he thinks when he carries Amy's lifeless body away, it will still be nice to get rid of all this.

The attraction.

And the subject of it.

Everything that you're doing is wrong, the last trace of Morton Rainey says when he drops Amy, that's asleep by now.

But she wakes up by the steps, the fear, the shovel that gets jammed into her neck.

Everything that you're doing is wrong.

I warned you, didn't I? Anyway, what did you think? Please review, but this is my first SW-fic, so go easy on me.