Ozzmandroid of Oz
For Lesli Spivey and Michelle Fairchild
Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective, stood over the steaming guts-pile that had once been the body of her partner, Joe Oouroboros, late of Bone City PD.
“Oh dear,” she said to herself. “This is not good.”
Fontaine’s long-suffering boss, Sergeant Kent Buttklenche, stood over her, wishing there was a way he could legit grab her by that fine-ass pussay in a way that would honor the Orange Man.
“”Are you even paying attention to the crime scene at hand?” asked Fontaine. “Stop drooling over muh tittays and ass–just because I’m a Slutty Detective that dresses a propos is not an invitation for you to blatantly Big Bad Wolf muh bod. I’m a professional just like you.”
Sgt. Buttklench let our a strangled yelping sound from deep in his throat. He had been found out–so exciting, he’d need to visualize the scenario of his exposure in micro-detail later as he pumped furiously away at the mushroom shaped Man Cannon many had compared to that of The Orange Messiah.
“Yes, of course, Detective Slu–“
Detective Fontaine had meanwhile slipped on the nitrile collection gloves and was reaching into her late partner’s guttiwuts to nimbly seize on a clump of dishwater blond hair that had been repeatedly dyed blue black…
“Our perp would be in his 70s H.E.L.,” she ejaculated, spilling her white hot words helplessly over the scene of her hog-tied, ball-gagged delicious young body on a black velvet carpet. “Had E Lived,” she added, annotating herself.
“Oh no, you didn’t just go there,” she said. The eye-daggers she sent her superior pierced his scrotum like a diamond bullet and kept on going, sending fragments to deeply embed themselves in his crotch.
Sgt. Buttklenche yelped and, unable to control the spasms of Butthurte that cored themsleves deep in his inner child–she knew exactly what it took to wound him–his well-seasoned (often with chives and exotic Orientalist spices) mind continued to process the evidence.
“So what we’re saying,” he said at long last, “is that the Ozzy Mandroid has struck again.”
“Of course that’s what we’re saying,” spat out Detective Fontaine, “Captain Obvious.”
“That’s Sergeant Captain…to…” Sgt. Buttklenche was babbling freely. “I just let loose a thin trickle of butt-hurt butt-jizz that’s leaking out muh ass like you and your sisters in the Muff-Dive Sorority just cream-pied me with a whole bunch of infected prison spunk in a turkey baster.”
“Yuppers,” said Fontaine, but she was distracted.
A long shadow had poured itself across her peripheral vision. Something abominable had joined the scene. The perpetrator had returned, fresh from a return visit to Oz in which it had re-visited all its old stomping grounds and stomped them once more into Abstract Expressionism, with special emphasis on Ozma of Oz and the Tik Tok Man of Oz. Ozzmandroid hated the pair, who he had seen fucking to the Zeena Shreck piece “Bring Me the Head of FW Murnau, Alex S.Johnson, you brave and brilliant lad who brought it first in the pages of HORROR SLEAZE TRASH: PROSE IN POOR TASTE.” Their cum-fest had re-ignited past trauma he had from reading Johnson’s other work, such as the novelette “Ozzymandias of Oz.” While wildly inaccurate, Johnson’s work struck him as, in the end, the only fictional tribute to him that had any sort of impact whatsoever.
“Vengeance from the grave, killed the people you once saved, is that correct,” said Detective Fontaine. As she did so, she lay on her back and throttled her sopping clit like they were going to stop making them. “Amirite.”
“Why yes…how could you fucking tell…I love you all…fuck my former life…being a…Ozmandroid is a great relief and much fucking better than having the Parkinson’s shakes. I feel better than fine. I am the Iron Man they promised you.”
“Ozzmandroid, you are the master of metal and the true metal god,” said now-Sergeant Fontaine, her superior having succumbed to his delicate crotch condition and imploded spontaneous.
“Fucking thank you,” said Ozzmandroid. He paused to scrape some iridescent flung pieces of Buttklenche off his heavy boots of lead. “I just wanted to play rock and roll, you know? Then when Lemmy left…”
The two of them cried tears of blood.
Suddenly God appeared in the heavens above. He reached out with the Iron Fist. At first the two were sore afraid, but the fist held a rose.
“I fucking love you and miss you desperately, mate,” said Ozzmandroid.
“Oh, don’t be such a fucking pussy,” said God, swatting at a cluster of flies that had landed on his muttonchops. “You ARE the Iron Man.”
A floating doppelganger of the director of Lucifer Rising, Kenneth Anger himself, drifted into view. The sky cracked open like a vortex and a sliver of black nightmare flew down from the sky and speared Sgt. Fontaine into the Ozzmandroid.
“I think I’m going to ascend both of you to Heaven n’ Hell along with my matey Ronnie James Dio,” said God.
“Good cross check in ecstasy, mate,” said God.
Nico suddenly appeared, her eyes bug eyed wide open with pinned pupils laser-pointed at the trio from her sunken Death Space where she resided permanently in the dark with guttering black candles and a rictus grin perma-frosting her face like a marble index out of William Wordsworth.
“I’m zo happy you vill be choining ussss for all too-morrow’s paaaaties….” Nico cackled, then passed out once more.
Horror Sleaze Trash 