TV Eye
Squatting, she adjusted her black stockings and closed her sterile white lab coat over her jutting, dripping nudity. The pile of gutted TV’s rose on all sides of the capacious warehouse, as monitors fed back her image on video screens.
“Silly wiring slobs,” she said. “Well, that’s what ya get for free.”
The neurogreen circuitry frothed, hissed and emitted a belch. She took the scalpel to a mass of fused ganglia, hacked off a piece and dialog/dualoged with it. It spat out a fizzing phlegmy discharge on the floor, a spreading iridescent pool that began to nibble at her bare feet.
“Alas poor Shmoreick, I knew him, Fellatio.” She glanced around to see if her partner, Dr. Herman Groinslab, was paying any attention whatsoever to her cutting wit. He wasn’t. She brandished the scalpel in his eye. “One of these days,” she muttered.
“You’re so sexy when you’re homicidal, Fontaine.”
Kandy Fontaine shook her short, sharp,shocking locks which looked like serpents of blue neon gas. She winked lewdly at her co-conspirator in Project TV Eye.
“When we’re through, no flesh will be spared remote interrogation by our box clones,” she said. “Everybody and their little dog will have the same bad dreams.”
“Do you actually speak that way, or are you just doing it for the meta-fictional fun of it all?”
“I suppose the latter would apply like a corporate decal sewn into your retina by nanospiders,” said Fontaine. She paused to take a heroic hit off her DMT vape. “And I know whereof I speak.
“Oh dear, mechanical fucking elves, and they’re getting down and dirty by the Luminous Shore,” she said after awhile.
“Never mind those weird fuckers, Fontaine. We have work to do!”
Without another word, Kandy Fontaine pulled the final hunk of slippery brain-plant muck out of the machineflesh cube and just slapped it into the cobalt TV Eye casing.
The fluorescent light battery sputtered, flashing a psychedelic Mario Bava display of alternating blue, red and yellow against the TV Eye array.
“They’re already starting to do Lucifer’s own work,” said Fontaine with just a hint of pride. “Baal be praised.” She did the sign of the Southern Cross.
Groinslab filtered some cannibalistic crumbs out of his bread, held the remote with a jittering hand, and stabbed at the “Go Go Doppelgangbangers” button.
The video screens filled with a lurid display of pornographic violence to make Caligula blush and cause Gilles De Rais just a smidgen of envy. Men and women were thrusting hacked off partially cybernetic limbs into the glistening orifices of a purple skinned whore. An assembly line of minotaur men squeezed off ghastly jets of glowing green jissom that splattered against the faces of priests and nuns who shamelessly masturbated themselves with bullwhips and whipped cream of corn. Cyclotron shit, kajillions of raw, peeled Dream Police, dripped down the walls. A man with lips for eyes shit in the gaping mouths of a highly mutated Mandelbrot sequence of Popes. Henry Kissinger’s skeleton was raped in perpetuity by a scythe machine for sore eyes. Und so weiter, und so fort.
Meanwhile, the general population was visited by nightmares so hot, torrid, morbid and carnivorous that it mutated consensual reality itself.
“Welp, I guess our work here is done,” said Fontaine, slipping off her nitrile gloves and rubbing her clitoris raw, killing her hunger with ecstasy. “And it’s only Monday. What will we do for an encore?”
Dr. Groinslab, deceased beneath mountains of black leather, beat his meat against the waves, eternally recurring like the Dutch sailors saddle-stitched together with the Sirens of the Thames estuary.
Horror Sleaze Trash 