yards of exclusion, stalking orgasm

A news story intrigues Lloyd for an hour, he googles details and fits it together. Enters through roof and kills the kid riding his Wii, Lloyd puts his head next to trophies atrophied plants and swimming pools. Puts the kids decapitated head amongst the fake gold, the Perspex, the twisted glass and distorted reflections. Hands clutch pens, golden DVDs, a book unravels its pages on the coffee table. The trees hiss in wind, whisper above fatal fame headless in sticky pool, on thick carpet, over tiles Italian, and too shiny. Lloyd masturbates feckless, to tunes of latex and disposable teen glamour, to the feet and the thickness of thighs. He mixes landed semen in sticky pool red, streaks it out like sun striations looping, and then speaks into the bare neck, words to swallow throatless, direct to still gurgling belly of lifeless star.
The night is long with body-star, with corpse moon, with waiting to do something else. The Hollywood house is white and gold and South East Asian hard wood. He caresses surfaces. Perfect smooths and fake distress. Runs his reflection along gold handrail climbing up a staircase with modernist rectangles cut into it. Has a shower. Looks in hiding places for another persons porn. Intimate items trickle through his hands. Calm hands at peace open clean sealed packages found in a stack of goody bags. Sprays expensive, sprays it all into linen, into one spot on a fancy sheet the accumulated scents of Europe evaporating in the precision light of inset circles. Light that tilts and can be focused about the room through use of a black rollerballs mounted by the door and in the bedside tables. With a click the rollerballs become dimmers, controllers of shadows, of emergence and submergence. Sending signals across the hills, he sits on the bed in confused fragrance.
Exploring on hands and knees, crawling in a night of riches, freezing as a statue each time the worried phones ring. Time perhaps to leave this pad, find the garage, the petrol, move on slink back.
The flames race high, fingering blackness, exploding dry shrubs. Lloyd scrambles into vague spaces, tearing skin on shrubs, finds a road, ignores and crosses it quickly into a laborious tangle of escape.