Glocksucker

I haven’t had an orgasm since puberty, an ejaculation that nearly killed me. I’ve been careful ever since, and going to the bar with Erica isn’t smart. But when she discovers my little secret and asks me out for a drink, the tattoos of featureless red birds spiraling up her arms and out into the uncaged atmosphere, I can’t decline.

Erica has tanglewood eyes and more ear piercings than I can count without sweeping her chestnut hair out of the way. Her lowcut shirt shows skin beneath her belly button and clings tight to her breasts, which are harnessed in a bra that jostles them about every time she moves. Blue jeans grip her ass like greedy hands.

The bar she chooses, a shithole named Shotgunners, is humid and spongy, with empty shot glasses scattered everywhere like spent shells on a battlefield. The crowd around the bar looms a dozen people thick, so a hundred-dollar bill ensures the bombshell waitress keeps our glasses full while we stake claim to the only vacant table (wet and sticky from spilt drinks).

We drink while bobbing-and-weaving through small talk. She licks her lips and watches my mouth move when I say things. Laughs at all my jokes, places her hand on my forearm when doing so.

“You really named your dick ‘the Alamo’?” She asks, lighting a fresh cigarette before putting the old one out, its bittermint menthol smell swallowing both of us. She takes her smoke like a deep kiss.

“Yep, because you’ll always remember it, hehe.” Even I can’t believe the dangerous, drunken pick up lines I’m weaving.

“Oh, I’m sure,” she mocks.

We drink more. She says her roommate is named Kiko Magellan, which is bullshit—no one is named Kiko Magellan.

At some point an urban beat bounces through the speakers,decelerating life’s natural vibrations. Everyone moves in slow motion, the skin on their faces slinking towards the ground like molten cheese. I hold my breath and count the stars inside my eyelids until the world resumes its average pace.

“Oh—Ilovethis song. Wanna dance?” Erica asks, flushing the rest of her bloody mary down her throat. Without waiting for an answer, she floats out of her chair and moves towards a herd of dancers. I follow her onto a hardwood dancefloor that’s scarred from high heel warfare.

She reaches back and interlocks her fingers behind my neck, shoulder blades against my chest. She strokes my earlobe, bites her lip, touches her face. My fingers slip across her stomach, smooth like top shelf scotch.

She arches her back, pressing her ass into my crotch.

Rolling thrusts against my dick.

Grinding. Twisting.

Her skin reminds me of honey. Her hair is all beachy waves and caramel highlights and giddy pheromones. I breathe it in.

My blood-enflamed penis makes its presence known. I think of naked George Washington with a mouthful of miniature politicians squirming between his teeth; wigless and hogtied to a stick, spit-roasting inside a microwave oven. Orgasmic fluids slow and coagulate, bulging and backlogging at the tip of my dick—a fire hose at the pinch point in an old timey cartoon.

“I’m not sure about this,” I warn, but Erica either can’t hear me or doesn’t care. She rubs her hand against my erection inside my khakis. She bites her lower lip and looks achingly into my eyes. I kiss her, and she bites mylower lip when I try to pull away.

Her apartment is within drunken stumbling distance of the bar.

Sloppy, feral sex. She squeals as I thrust in and out, taking handfuls of her ass and spreading the cheeks apart to get just a little deeper. She arches her back to get herself as far up and out there as possible. Balls slap against her clit as she drips with syrupy satisfaction. I cram my unwashed thumb into her butthole, its acceptance tight and suctioning.

She gasps something about it being “so, so dirty”.

Everything smells like cadmium and other heavy metals.

She slips a vibrator up her ass, alongside my thumb as I plunge away at her from behind. I watch in the mirror as her dangling breasts sway and jolt in every direction—tidal waves that grow from butt-cheek-ripples created by my jackhammering pelvis.

I jerk her head back by a fistful of her hair. Spank her ass until it welts. Squeeze her tit as hard as I can. Choke her from behind. Call her a slut. She screams for me to fuck her. Harder.

The pressure. Builds. Then erupts. In blood, and cum.

And bullets.

9mm slugs spray everywhere like killer rain, ripping open the end of my penis in a pleasureful, painful, pitiful sensation. Tearing through her uterus, lungs, throat, and detonating out the top of her head, leaving a mushy stump where her scalp used to be. Hot shell casings burn flesh as they splay out of me and ricochet off the wall, the mattress, Kiko Magellan’s exposed erection in the corner chair. Bullets, smoke, the smell of gunpowder.

Relief, sweet euphoric relief.

Her body crumples to the bed, tanglewood eyes still open.

Blood and dead bird tattoos and cum and bullet-holes and shell casings everywhere.

***

“There’s no way you’re a virgin…virgins don’t fuck that good,” Erica says, lying jumbled in her sheets without any fucking left in her, sharing a minty cigarette with Kiko. Her words suck me back into the current dimension, the one without blood and black powder residue.

My slut slayer did its job, like always. It’s time to go writhe in guilt and grief and regret until the urge to hunt again becomes unbearable. I get dressed and leave without saying a word.

The Wasteland Motel

Bo was unhappy. He should have been grateful to be a member of one of the last few clusters of humanity that’d survived the apocalypse, but whoop-de-doo, he wasn’t.

He decided one Wednesday morning that he wanted more from life. He didn’t like tending the goats: brushing them, feeding them slop, shovelling their shit. 32 years of that was enough. He put in his two week notice with Todd, the goat boss, deciding to try his luck in the wasteland beyond the rusted steel walls of the camp instead.

Not surprisingly, when he said to Todd, “I’m putting in my two weeks notice,” Todd replied, baffled, “You’re what?”

“I read about it in an old book Crazy Charlie gave me, when I was a kid…”

Charlie had been a lunatic, a total drain on the camp, but somehow he’d managed to teach Bo how to read before he died. So that was nice.

Bo said it again, “Two weeks notice.”

No one had ever quit a job post apocalyptically.

This troubled many of the people in the camp. Especially Mort and Linda, who talked rather harshly about Bo to whoever would listen. “He better not think he can waltz over here and get a job with us and our chickens…”

“If he can’t handle goats, he certainly can’t handle chickens.”

“Or the eggs.”

“Or the pecking…”

They all agreed, no one was hiring Bo. But Bo didn’t come around to ask anyone for a job. No, for his last two weeks in camp, he just went about his business, conserving his water and rations, and sharpening a spoon into a small dagger as defense against the unknown dangers beyond the camp’s towering walls.

After his last shift with the goats, he said goodbye to everyone. They’d all gathered around in a loose circle, regarding him nervously. Directly behind Bo was the ramshackle gate marking the forbidden perimeter. Nothing came in. Nothing went out.

“Where you going?” Clara asked.

“Into the Wasteland,” Bo said offhandedly.

The crowd gasped in unison.

Clara opened her mouth to say something but her mother kicked her shin, prompting her to remain silent.

“Dave, open ‘er up,” said the mayor in resignation, motioning to the lone guard on duty. “Let the kid go…”

As unfathomable as it now seemed, really they’d all seen this coming. Bo had always been a strange dreamer, and his dreams tended to prompt two very distinct reactions from others in the camp. Most of them were afraid of people who dreamt, inviting disaster as it often did. The rest of them didn’t fear him at all; he just made them feel guilty about not following their own dreams themselves.

“The Nukies are still out there. S’all I’ll say, boy,” a shrivelled-up old woman said to him. She was blind and could barely walk.

“Nukies, jeez,” the mayor remarked. “It’s been a long time since anyone mentioned them…”

“Maybe there’s werewolves out there too,” Bo said, hoping to lighten the mood.

Nobody said anything in response. It was awkward.

But it’d been so many years, people didn’t know what to believe about the outside world anymore. The camp offered safety, but safety from what? No one really knew, but Bo intended to find out.

Bo shook everyone’s hand as the door was pried open for the first time in a generation. Before walking out into the blowing sands, he turned and said to his campmates, “I hope to see you all again soon.”

“Don’t forget the secret knock,” the mayor reminded him.

“Shave and a haircut, two bits,” Bo replied.

And with that, he walked out into the wasteland.

His destination was supposedly just a short walk across the dunes, maybe half a mile or so, just long enough for him to contemplate what Charlie had told him all those years ago along the way.

“Reason you suck at shovelling goat shit’s cos your family used to own a motel right up the road…”

“A what..?”

“A motel,” the old man repeated, “fer vay-cay-shun-ing. Quite the famous place, if I remember correctly. Why, folks used to come from miles arou…”

Charlie had abruptly stopped talking then. Before Bo could even ask him what either a motel or a vay-cay-shun was, the old man freaking died, right there in front of him.

To make matters worse, it turned out no one else in the camp was any help explaining the terms to him either. “All Greek to me,” Mort had joked.

Bo decided to drop the subject after Charlie was buried in the ground, but for many years after, his curiosity remained.

Cresting the final dune between him and his birthright, Bo gazed down upon the trail of crumbled asphalt lying just on its other side. Following the highway north, it wasn’t long before he caught sight of a severely dilapidated building in the distance. A large, faded sign remained standing out front, its bright red letters having long ago faded to the lightest of pinks.

It read simply, “MOTEL”, just like Charlie said it would.

Bo crouched behind a rock and waited, staking out the hills for any sign of life. He hadn’t seen much since leaving for the motel, but he wasn’t about to get ambushed in all his excitement to get there.

Once he felt certain the coast was clear, Bo came out from his hiding place, took a deep breath, and bravely marched forward.

He stayed there all alone that night, a little lonely and just a tad bit frightened. He occupied himself by straightening up the place, which looked like it had survived a nuclear war. Digging around in old piles of papers, sorting thorough various debris, it wasn’t long before he discovered some brochures that gave him a pretty good idea of what a motel was supposed to be.

He was stunned, gazing at the old photos of a time before he was born, when people actually traveled freely, occasionally coming in from the road to rest, relax, put their feet up and enjoy a nice, ice-cold beverage.

Wow, imagine that? An ice-cold beverage…

A week later, when Bo returned to the camp and announced his new motel, they all just laughed at him. He explained to them in detail what a vacation was. They all just laughed even harder.

“A wasteland vacation!” cried Linda, Mort’s wife, clutching at her belly as she doubled over with laughter.

“No wonder you didn’t want to shovel my goat’s shit,” Todd the goat boss said, “you’re a comedian, not a goat tender!”

Bo had been hoping for a warmer reception, but he resolved to win his former campmates over eventually. He traded some goods discovered in the rubble for some much-needed supplies, returning over the dunes to his new home that night.

Sometime the next morning, his first guest arrived. Turned out Clara didn’t like living in the camp anymore either. She traded some sex action to Bo in exchange for room and board at his motel.

He set her up in a room around back. “Sorry about the giant concrete hole in the ground,” he said. “When my funds get fluffier, I’ll have it filled in. For now, just be careful around the edge.”

Clara looked down into the concrete hole and frowned.

With Clara having taken up residence there, a few men from the camp came to visit the Wasteland Motel as well. Turned out the other prudes back at camp just couldn’t turn as good of a trick as she could.

Business wasn’t great for Bo, but it was good enough for now. He filled the vending machine with long-expired orange sodas he found in an old storage room.

“I can add the continental breakfast soon, if business keeps improving,” he said.

One day, Bo found a set of keys. He had no idea what they were meant to unlock. He showed them to Clara. She had no idea, either. Bo regarded the keys curiously for a while before hanging them up on the wall behind the front desk.

A few days later, the camp mayor paid a surprise visit to the Wasteland Motel. He came on his ancient, sputtering dune buggy in a swirling haze of sand and noise.

Bo took the mayor all around the grounds, showing off the motel and all its amenities with pride. The mayor just laughed at first.

“Place is a dump!” he said.

That was before Clara invited him into a room. When he came out, he wasn’t laughing anymore.

“I’m still not sure of this place,” he said, buttoning his pants as he prepared to leave in his dune buggy.

The next day, he came back with Linda. He rented a room, fucked her in it. Then Linda came and sat around in Bo’s office afterwards. They shared a can of beef stew while the mayor went into the room with Clara once again.

That day Bo finally discovered what the keys were for.

There was a hatch around back, next to the big concrete hole in the ground. Bo unlocked the hatch and went down into the darkness. He was scared for his life but just had to find out what was down there.

What he found was stacks and stacks of white plastic bags. Inside the bags were chlorine pellets. He didn’t know what chlorine was or what it was used for, but he figured it out rather quickly from the writing on the bags.

The concrete hole in the ground was supposed to be a swimming pool. How nice…

There was something else down there, too. Something like 4,000 pounds of red string. In crates. This too puzzled him, for some time afterwards, until the day he found the plaque beneath a large pile of rubble out front.

“THE WORLD’S BIGGEST BALL OF STRING”, it read.

What a turn of events. No one was laughing at Bo anymore.

Eventually, the motel became a very popular place for all the people from the camp. They came there to get away as time and work allowed, and they always brought goods to trade in return for their stay.

On the one-year anniversary of its reopening, Bo decided to throw a big party at the motel and he invited the whole entire camp, free of charge. They all came over the dunes and celebrated together. It was a very happy day indeed.

How foolish they felt as they all milled about, joking, laughing, and drinking by the pool that night. It felt good to swim in the cool, clear water, far away from camp.

They spoke about the odd curiosity of “The World’s Biggest Ball of String” and what it must have meant to travellers from times past, back when the road outside still went somewhere. But that was the other thing.

“The road could go somewhere, couldn’t it?” Mort said.

“I suppose…” The mayor was forced to admit, floating on his back in the pool.

The people began to smile, considering the possibility. The thought of the world opening back up to them, when it had seemed so lost and destroyed and closed off for such a long time before.

Bo looked up at the stars and lost himself in reverie. He felt great pride for having left the camp, re-staking their claim on the outside world, when everyone else had been so fearful and close minded. For the first time in his or anyone else’s recollection, they felt hopeful, unworried as tribe.

Certainly no one was worried about the silent, shadowy forms closing in on them.

Deformed. Scab-faced. Hairless humanoid mutations. Armed with cinderblock clubs, repurposed car parts, and sharpened, ax-like stop signs, let’s just say they were far less concerned with “The World’s Biggest Ball of String” than they were with the pool of floating meat there before them.

Reclining peacefully in her pool chair, the old blind woman whispered, “told you so…”

Hump Day

Suckin’ my unlit Winston, I swerved the Buick longside the curb, on the corner of Grape and Vine. And fought to squelch a yawn. Twelve-hour-grinds three days straight dancin’ the graveyard shift, and my weary old ass shoulda been crashed, in my otherwise empty studio.

But Slim Grady owed me money. Accordin’ to his ex, Slim had slunk off like a skunk five nights earlier—to shack up with some ho out here in the Red Light zone.

I almost stepped in dog shit climbin’ out the Buick. While the dank, rank air that greeted me smelled like Godzilla’s ass. Graffiti choked the chipped brick buildings—all the doors and first-floor windows barred with metal gates. Shards of broken glass—in every color of a Skittles rainbow crunched beneath my boots: the gutter strewn with cans … needles, bottles, bloated condoms—and chunks of rotting puke. Not a single red light anywhere. Looked like a cockroach zone to me.

If his ex was right, and she wasn’t slingin’ bull to protect her man, Slim lived half-way down this block on my side of the walk. This time in the mornin’, most of the human roaches had holed themselves away, and wouldn’t scurry out till nightfall. But closing in on Grady’s squat, I spied a piece of tail, leanin’ against a shit-box Civic, idlin’ at the curb. New to the streets for sure; she still had all her curves. Since drugs had yet to waste her … smooth coffee skin still gleamed as sweet as melted caramel. And jeans not yoga pants: bonus points for me. By the time I reached them, the Civic sputtered off.

“Can you bloody believe that?”

“Believe bloody what exactly?”

“Guy wanted me to blow him for a measly twenty bucks. What is he fucking nuts? I gotta get me thirty for the likes a that.”

“Well, today’s already Wednesday, doll. Dude’s probably low on cash. Most folks don’t get paid till Friday rolls around again.”

“Hell, you’re probably right. But if he wanted me to blow him, he shoulda thought a that before blowin’ all his cash.”

She amped her smile a thousand watts: “How ‘bout you, baby? You got any money?”

Greed filled her drug-starved eyes when I reached inside my pocket—

Her mood sinkin’ like the Titanic when I flashed a badge instead. “I get paid on Fridays, too, doll.”

Gotta give her credit. She rebounded like Dennis Rodman in his NBA prime—ampin’ that smile brighter than all the marquee lights in my little corner of China Town. “Why didn’t you say so, baby. Five-O’s always free.”

I cupped her elbow in my palm, steered her toward the Buick. Kept her pressed against my side: in case she thought of boltin’. My boots and her silver stilettos grindin’ those Skittle rainbows.

“Best news I’ve heard all week, doll. Let’s get this Hump Day party started. We can launch with fucky-sucky.”

I bought that badge in a fucking dollar store. Best money I’ve ever spent.

Bring Me the Head of F.W. Murnau

Anton Shreck peered through the sliding glass door that led to the patio and the outdoor heated pool, checking on the girls.

They were well-secured and squirming, and their sounds of muffled protest pleased him. He supposed on reflection that their frogties and pimp goggles were a bit over the top, but the visual gave him a hard-on and focused his powers.

Soon the juices would trickle together into the steaming blue soup, the girls tumbling into the mix in a fleshy fireworks display of sizzle, crackle and pop. And then…

He smiled, and the universe seemed to smile with him. Then it frowned, studied the situation, did some quick calculations and smiled again. Alternatively, the black acid had begun to kick in, because the moon was dripping gore that slid down the white tile matrix surrounding the pool, crawled up naked thighs and planted its crimson fingers inside the girls, one by one.

A scent of iodine and sulphuric acid bloomed in the night air. The stars were in alignment, the lines of transgression had been cross-hatched into the mother of all sigils, and the patient work of long hours in the basement lab was finally yielding fruit.

Shreck closed the door and entered the den. Much was left to be done before the ceremony proper could commence.

Specifically, he now had to face what was left of the head of German Expressionist filmmaker F.W. Murnau. After its removal from the family plot in Stahnsdorf, the head’s bumpy ride to a mansion in the Hollywood Hills had been the stuff of splatter-driven screwball comedy. Sometime actress and full-time clown whore Missy Crampton had smuggled the head between her thighs, passing off the odd crotch-bulge to TSA agents as a cancerous growth. “I don’t really like to talk about it,” she said later in a press conference.

While obviously Crampton’s flatter-than-flat belly had suffered no metastatic drama, the withering glare she gave the TSA agents focused media attention on the treatment they’d accorded the waif-like starlet, famed for her roles in such films as Ivanna Fock andHeadbanger Grrrrlz. The agents were handcuffed and taken to the same cramped room in the LAX terminal where they themselves had interrogated countless passengers. They were then brutally worked over by drag queen whores and turned over to a succession of stressed-out dock workers from Long Beach.

The actress played a central role in the ceremony, the most important role of her career. Because of her close proximity to the head while in transit, Crampton’s legendary thighs had “soaked up death jizz,” according to Shreck’s narcissistic cabal, led by a floating doppelganger of occult filmmaker Kenneth Anger.

It was this very same “death jizz” that Shreck hoped would reanimate Murnau’s head once it had been grafted onto the Philip K. Dick robot.

There was a long story there as well, but Shreck had no time for such folderol. He raised his left hand—nightmare shrapnel—and a winch squealed on the roof, plunging Murnau’s head through the lurid colors of the skylight in a hybridized homage to Frankenstein and Suspiria. A black leather bondage harness held the moldering head in place as it descended, raining its desiccated skin flakes to the floor, gleaming white bathroom tile that sloped upwards to create a ramp down which slid esoteric skater-bois who had wandered in at the last possible second.

“Attention, ahem.” Shreck cleared his throat and spat a fat wad of phlegm oton his hermaphroditic henchthing, Wendy. “On my instructions, the pool girls will be rendered and the Murnau-Dickbot graft shall commence.”

“But what if there are complications?” mewled Wendy, in a voice that closely resembled Peter Lorre’s. “Remember the last time we…”

“Silence, bitch!”

“I love your dominance,” simpered Wendy, crawling off to its corner to watch and masturbate itself into a puddle of ambiguous fluids.

Shreck blew Wendy a kiss.

The body of the Philip K. Dick robot was lashed to an antique electric chair.

“And a one and a two…”

Murnau’s head continued its journey from the skylight until it sat squarely on the shoulders of Robo-Dick.

Outside, Missy Crampton was the first to hit the water, a boiling broth that instantly sent thousands of watts through her nubile ass. Her flesh bubbled and blackened.

“I’ll get you, Mister Shreck,” she screamed, “And your troglodyte bearcub, too!”

A surge of electricity spiked, and the mansion was plunged in darkness, intermittently rippled with strobes of oversaturated red and blue light that played over the final fusion of German Expressionism with proto-Cyberpunk.

But something had gone horribly, terribly wrong.

No sooner had the knit taken, cubic inches of synthetic nerve bundling joined with dead organic matter than the head began to swivel, accelerating speed until it tore from Robo-Dick’s body and flew through the air. Skeletal jaws hurled the curse Crampton had secreted within Murnau’s head—her terrible revenge against Shreck’s duplicity.

A bolt of blue flame blasted forth from Murnau’s mouth, cocooning Shreck’s body in fire. He thrashed about and clawed at his melting features, calling out for help that never came. Reduced to a junk heap of bone and metal, Shreck crumpled to the ground and lay there, wafts of white ash slowly rising from his mangled form.

Shreck’s cabal, composed mainly of bored necrophiles, dabblers in the occult arts, and dropouts from UCLA film school, regarded the scene with detachment and began their exodus from the mansion.

“Shit is weak,” said one of the dropouts. “I liked it better when it was Andy Warhol’s head and Burroughs’ body.”

“That was pretty cool,” said a skater-boi.

Desultory bro-bumps were exchanged.

“Hey, what was that noise?”

“What happened?”

They looked back, startled, as a procession of waterlogged actresses, charred beyond recognition, came pouring out of the pool. Their eyes blank discs, their intention homicidal.

“Time for some hipsters to die the death!” roared Crampton. “Let’s get ‘em, girls!”