Popcorn 9: Page 7     George knew, with a little luck and some drugs, how to lure a man home. He just did not know how to kill one, which was understand-able given that Michael was his first murder. For an ingénue, he did a fine job. Michael struggled, as anyone would. The speed he had snorted combined with impending death caused his flailing arms to aim for George's face. He man-aged to drag a fingernail down one of his mur-derer's cheeks before George, rather subcon-sciously, pinned down Michael's arms with his knees. In that position, all the victim could do was bloody the killer's thick thighs with his fingernails and pound his back with his knees before death brought the struggle to an end.     For a few long minutes, George's eyes, like his hands, remained clamped shut while the corpse's cold orbs bulged. He finally relaxed his lids and his grasp, sliding off of the body he had brought home a little over half an hour back.     That body, long and slim. Muscles graced its smooth arms and trailed down its legs. Michael had swum regularly since high school, where he had played on the water polo team. Later, swim-ming had become a necessity. Not to sustain his health, but to keep his blond hair blond and his appealing body appealing.     The exercise certainly kept his butt firm, and George had eagerly cupped the cheeks in his hands when the two men had first stripped. Mi-chael had encouraged the stroking, even allowed the slapping, but drew a line at the fingering. Over and over he had pushed George's heat-seeking digits away from his anus, a first refusal that started George down a path of frustration to murder.