Plague Bitch

Detective Joe Oroborus winced.

“Please tell me you’re not actually going undercover as a stripper…you’re bad enough as it is with the polymorphous perversity, God only knows what you’ll be like slicking a pole with your twat juice…”

“Check you out, honey. You’re starting to sound exactly like me.”

Detective Oroborus looked like he was going to burst into tears.

“D-did I actually say that?”

“D-did you st-utter bitch?”

“How can you be so cruel?” Detective Oroborus fished inside his grimy black denim jeans pocket for an even grimier handkerchief–monogrammed with the initials “S.G.” in the corner–and blew out a copious amount of snot.

“Oh Jeesh, I hope those Chinese nanoparticles or whatever the Wuhan Tang Klan shenans is responsible for this latest batch of the ‘rona stays far, far the fuck away from me.”

“I’m sorry,” said Detective Oroborus. “At any rate, you’ve always done exactly what you wished, and this gig is no exception. Just remember, don’t fuck the customers and you should be fine.”

Kandy Fontaine tossed her fire-engine red curls and laughed, long and so slowly that Detective Oroborus found himself watching the hands of the clock ooze to a pre-Cambrian monoculture. 

“But fucking the customers is why I took this assignment. Don’t you get it? I’m a slutty detective.”

She pointed to the pink, ripe, bursting balloon letters emblazed across her chest: “Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective.” 

Detective Oroborus sighed. “I mean yes I’m aware or whatever. Guess I’m just in denial about the full extent of it…areas of your life that I just don’t want to know.”

“That’s no fun,” she purred, leaning over to whisper in his ear. “Did I ever tell you about the threesome I had with the hermaphrodite midgets?”

“I believe they prefer the terms ‘intersex’ and ‘little people,’ respectively” he sniffed.

“Shit got messy,” she said, snort-laughing. I mean literally, shit got messy.”

“Oh hell no, Kandy…I mean Detective Slutty…”

“It’s ok, Officer Porker,” she said. “Breathe. Relax. Have a bump.”

“Not here!” Detective Oroborus screeched. “You cannot just openly snort coke in the operations room. What if somebody…walks in?”

“Hell, half the force is on meth anyway,” said Detective Fontaine with a cackle. 

“I guess you’re right.”

“You KNOW I’m right about that shit,” she said. “Anyway, I gotta joan jett muh ass over to Bumpy’s Clown Room and get undressed in the manager’s office, maybe take his rock hard four inches in muh mouth…”

Detective Oroborus shook his head again and did the sign of the cross.

Manager’s Office, Bumpy’s Clown Room

“That was fucking amazing,” said Bumpy the Clown.

Kandy was still bobbing up and down on his knob, mesmerized, making satisfied animal gurgles and grunting sounds.

“I, um…I finished, Sweepea.”

“Sweepea?”

“That is your name, right?”

“Mrrrggglbbb…lurme gert berk toya…” 

“Ok, but I’m really good, Sweepea. You got the job, honey. You start this Monday. I’m giving you Crystal Kaleta’s job.”

“Mrrrrrrgllllbbbbbrr..”

“Right, so… I kinda need to get back to work? If you could just fill out these I9 forms and sign here, and here, and here…” Bumpy slid the papers into Kandy’s hands.

“Oh maaaaan,” said Kandy, protesting as Bumpy carefully pulled his pud from between her jaws. She stood up, wiped slime from her cheeks, sat down opposite to Bumpy’s desk, chewed her lip, frowned and said…”Man, I hate doing forms. If I give you another beejer, d’ya think you might?”

“Yes, yes,” said Bumpy. “But not now. I need to interview the next girl.”

“Fair enough,” said Kandy. “You satisfied muh appetite for cream atm, but I’ll be back.”

“I kind of figured you would say that,” said Bumpy.

*** 

Kandy’s first night as an undercover stripper went by without any unusual incidents, aside from her usual penchant for wild erotic horseplay. But the club was so sleazy that this went unnoticed for the most part. One customer, a man in a tall black hat, seemed particularly attentive. When Kandy got off her shift, he approached her.”

“Say, I like your style, lady,” he said with a Texas drawl. “Buy you a drink?”

“Well darlin,’ said Kandy, “You know the house rules are that we ain’t supposed to date customers.”

“I’m sorry, Sweepea. I respect the hell outta ya, ya know. I’ll just walk away, no worries, you didn’t hear this from me.”

“Fucktard,” said a voice from behind them.

Kandy and the tall black hat whirled around to be confronted by a rangy young man with corded muscles and black and white tattoos for days. A fire burned in his eyes and he let out a terrible raw energy. 

“Leave Sweepea alone if you know what’s good for ya,” said the man.

“Wow, I like your energy,” Kandy said.

The man smiled, a great big overbroad smile with more than a glimmer of psycho.

“I like your energy,” he said. “Do you know that song ‘Tom Sawyer’ by Rush?'”

“Hells yeah, of course I know that song. Everybody knows that song. That’s a stripper song for sure.” Kandy began to swivel her hips and press against the man as she did so. He pulled away.

“No, no, no, no,” he said. “You’ve gone and spoiled it.'”

“No, I have done nothing of the sort. I’m Today’s Tom Sawyer, and I get high on you.”

The man turned around and stalked away. Kandy pursued him.

***

That night saw Kandy brutally fucked in al the ways she liked it…tied down, whipped, gagged, slapped, dominated to her heart’s content till the cream oozed. She could tell this one had to maintain control at all times. 

Halfway through the session, while she was tied to an x-cross, she began to feel a weird energy pass between them. 

A vortex was opening up. A portal in time and space.

She recognized this portal as something she had studied in Astrophysics at Brown before she began upon the course of action that led inexorably towards her becoming a slutty detective. 

The man swatted his own cheek as though a gnat had bit him.

“What the fuck,” he growled. “Felt like an insect bite, but there’s no insect….”

Within seconds he was swatting across his neck and arms. 

Kandy groaned and drooled through the gag.

“Oh yeah, shit, I gotta let you go,” he said. He unbuckled the straps and unfastened the ball gag, releasing her. 

Kandy wiped the drool away with the back of her hand. “You must be a sadist, or you wouldn’t have done that. Shit, I was just getting going.”

He motioned with one hand, then yelled: “Go, bitch, you’re bad fucking news.”

“Suit yourself,” said Kandy. 

***

Kandy’s stripping performances grew in intensity and even menace. An arts critic came to the club and wrote an essay comparing her act to Antonin Artaud’s Theater of Cruelty. She began employing sound effects and large puppets that she manipulated from a complex board she set up above the stage. She invited men to come up on the stage with her; she would shout at them and make crazed, freaky animal faces. One customer shat himself with fear. While some art punks began attending her shows and taking notes, most of the usual customers began to frequent the club across town. 

Bumpy called Kandy into his office.

“Listen, Sweepea, we’re going to have to have a little talk,” he began, but Kandy raised a hand.

“I know what you’re going to say, and believe me, I have considered, you know, more and gaudier, even sleazier puppets in the act, and suchlike shenans,” said Kandy. “The thing of it is, and I believe this is literally a law of physics, the more puppets you have…”

“Listen, lady,” Bumpy cut her off. “I like you a lot, and believe me, it pains me more than you would think to say this, but this particular business relationship is not working out. It’s just not. I’m afraid I’ll just have to let you go.”

“Really,” said Kandy. She was wearing nothing but strategically placed black tape and mirror shades.

“Really,” said Bumpy. “I’ve run this club for the past 30 years, and before that, my dad ran it, and…”

“You look like you’re about to cry or some crazy shit,” Kandy said in exasperated tones.

“M-maybe I am.”

“Ok, well, what you have to realize is that…I love this job. I really fucking love it. In fact, I think I will continue on as your best, hottest, sexiest stripper, and you will give me a raise…” she looked hard at him.

“There’s no raise, lady, you’re out of your mind. Now get your things and split.”

“No.”

With that, she pulled out her service revolver from her purse and shot him in the head. His skull exploded, splashing his brains against the wall. He slumped over, vomiting blood, and finally landed at her feet.

She gave his head an experimental kick. She was feeling…she couldn’t quite put her finger on the sensation, but she had the sudden image of boiling yeast, and insects under her skin, and growing wings. A strange energy began to course through her veins. She found herself kneeling down and lapping at the spilled blood the way a cat laps a saucer of milk.

I like the way this feels, she thought. I’m going to be a stripper and a killer and a detective. Maybe I’ll commit more crimes and…investigate myself in a kind of mis-en-abyme deal. 

Is the world ready for the first stripper/killer/self-investigator/hall of mirrors infinitely recursive slutty detective?

Perhaps. 

Perhaps not.

THEE ENT…or is it?

My Dinner with Adriana

The life of a serial killer is tough. It’s not as easy as some people think. The work requires months of meticulous study, crafting each act with precision, only to find that no one gets to appreciate your artistry.

To maintain appearances, you must suppress primal impulses and undertake mind-numbing jobs. I became a night porter, which affords me plenty of free time to attend to the duties of my trade.

Today, I rose early to make a critical, anonymous phone call before disposing of pieces of Uberto. Afterwards, I swung by the hardware shop for supplies. So little time, and so much to do.

I’ve lived in cities all my life, always watching from the shadows. When I was ten, I realised how people lie, how they wear masks, how their eyes never line up with their words. That’s when I discovered the streets are empty, even when they’re overflowing with bodies. People are hollow, consumed by their self-importance, and indifferent to the suffering of others. There’s something revolting about how they scurry through life, trampling over one another, locked in their delusions. Even amid crowds, they remain alone.

Now, at thirty-six, all I dream about is killing.

It was two in the afternoon, and all I wanted to do was go home and watch a homemade movie with a cup of hot chocolate. But instead, I had a date. I met Adriana online last week. She’s younger than me, which works in my favour. Less experience. Less… suspicion. We’d arranged to meet for lunch at Perro Rojo. It’s quiet.

It’s perfect.

I took an extra-long look at myself in the mirror this morning. I dress like a typical tourist: khaki shorts, a loose shirt, sandals, and a rucksack slung over one shoulder. Nothing out of the ordinary. Average height, average weight. Clean-shaven. I could be anyone. That’s the trick, though.

I arrive first. The restaurant is empty. Dark tables bathed in low light. A waiter, lean and pale, greets me with a stiff smile and gestures to a booth at the back.

I sit facing the door, positioning my rucksack beside me on the bench. The weight of it is comforting.

Adriana arrives. Late. She’s not as pretty as her pictures. Her photos promised sharp cheekbones like a model’s, but in person, her face is rounder. I can’t decide whether I’m disappointed or relieved. There’s an air of dishonesty, as if she’s crafted an image to be like everyone else. She’s wearing a bohemian-style white dress, and a large crystal pendant dangles between her breasts. She walks with effortless confidence. Too many dates to count.

I stand as she approaches, smiling with the right mix of warmth and detachment.

‘Sorry,’ she says. ‘Energy work ran over. Client had a major blockage.’

She slides into the seat opposite me.

‘I understand,’ I say. ‘I know how it is when the universe refuses to align.’

She smiles.

The waiter appears and pours water.

Adriana raises a hand. ‘What are the vegan options?’

The waiter smiles. ‘Uh, the roasted vegetables and the quinoa salad are vegan.’

‘That’s it?’ Adriana stares at him, as if he confessed to a crime.

The waiter nods.

‘Quinoa salad,’ she says, as though it’s some moral victory.

‘I’ll have the steak,’ I say.

Adriana narrows her eyes. ‘You eat meat?’

‘Yeah,’ I reply. ‘I know it’s not great, but—’

‘It’s unethical, don’t you think? Animals are sentient beings, and we’re all connected. It’s inhumane.’

‘You’re right. I’m not proud of it. But—’

‘That’s… human of you. The universe doesn’t want us to live in such a violent way.’

I smile, but I don’t believe her. I don’t need to. She thinks peace comes from a crystal. Mine comes from watching the life drain from someone’s eyes.

‘That’s why I connect with veganism. It transcends the material world.’

I nod, knowing the real reason I eat meat. There’s dominion in consuming another living being. And I’m not blind to the fact that I, too, am a living being. One day, I’ll be a box of flesh and bone, devoured in turn. There’s a beauty in that symmetry. A balance.

But I don’t say that out loud.

Adriana prattles on about her holistic lifestyle and how she’s healing the world one plant-based meal at a time. Her words are smooth and confident, but something flutters behind her calm façade. It’s an effort to convince herself as much as me.

I nod along. She talks about crystals and their power to channel energy. Her fingers grip the pendant. I can’t help but notice the tension in her shoulders, as though her words are a performance she’s been perfecting for years.

The waiter arrives with our food.

Adriana digs into her quinoa salad with a self-satisfied smile, while I cut into my steak.

I savour the first bite.

‘So,’ she says, ‘what made you try online dating?’

‘The usual,’ I say. ‘Busy schedule.’

A moment of silence passes.

‘Oh, no one’s aligned anymore.’

I sip my wine. ‘Frustrating,’ I say.

She nods. ‘God, yes. My ex? He was so toxic. He didn’t understand my work at all. I tried to cleanse his aura, but he suffered from emotional constipation. Complete narcissist.’

I fight the urge to smile.

The irony’s suffocating.

Adriana twirls the stem of her wine glass between her fingers, studying me.

‘You have an interesting energy.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yeah.’ She squints. ‘There’s something dark and mysterious about you. Have you ever done shadow work?’

‘Every day,’ I say.

‘That’s so important. Many men struggle with emotional maturity. They don’t even try to evolve.’ She sighs, shaking her head. ‘I’ve been on so many bad dates, I should get a medal. Like, this guy Uberto? Ugh.’

I almost choke on my drink.

Adriana doesn’t notice. She rolls her eyes. ‘He was so low-vibration. Obsessed with cryptocurrency. Plus, the pig never called me back.’

I grip the rucksack’s strap. Uberto. A breath escapes me, and I fight the urge to look inside. He’s still in there, waiting.

Then it hits me. How absurd it all is. How random. The universe, in its cruel humour, ties us together in ways we can’t anticipate.

I turn my focus to her hands as she speaks. Soft. Unscarred.

She’s never cleaned up anything messy.

She grimaces at the memory of Uberto. I swallow my laugh.

If only she knew.

‘Yeah,’ I say, ‘some men are terrible.’

‘Right?’ She smiles, leaning in. ‘It’s exhausting. You want to meet someone evolved, you know?’

I sip my wine and think about the animal I’m eating. The guilt slips away. It isn’t about the animal, is it? It’s about control, about power. And power is so delicious.

Adriana excuses herself to the bathroom. I watch her go, then exhale.

She speaks to me with a warmth I cannot comprehend. Part of me wants to understand her. Part of me wants to break her. To force her to see the emptiness I do.

I unzip my rucksack a few inches. The scent slithers out, coppery, sweet, decay.

Inside, Uberto stares back at me, mouth agape, as if insulted.

I scratch the line of dried semen from his eyelid and zip the bag shut.

When Adriana returns, she stops short of the table. ‘Do you smell that?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘The waiter brought cheese. I sent it away.’

She studies me for a moment, then sits back down.

We continue talking.

She laughs. We finish our meals.

‘You know,’ Adriana says, ‘this is nice. A normal date for once.’

I match her smile. ‘Yes. Normal.’

The word sticks in my throat. Normal. Is it this banal dance of words and fake smiles or the darker currents beneath the surface? The things we don’t speak of, the things that pull at us even as we pretend they don’t?

The city hums outside, indifferent to the dramas unfolding within it.

I picture her head in the bag. How her skin will tear when my mask of patience slips.

The thought excites me, but only for a moment.

A part of me doesn’t want to see her again. A part of me wants to see that flicker of recognition. The moment she realises what I am.

She looks at me, fingers clutching her crystal pendant.

‘You have an unusual energy,’ she says.

My grip tightens on the rucksack. ‘Oh?’

‘Yeah. Like you’re standing on the edge of something. Like you’re about to make a decision.’

The candle flickers.

Does she see me? What’s beneath the mask?

I could end this now. Let her walk away, never knowing how close she came.

She leans in. ‘You should go for it,’ she says. ‘Don’t hold back. The universe rewards those who chase their dreams.’

She reaches for her empty glass. Our eyes meet.

I blow out the candle.

The world holds its breath.

And in the near darkness, I decide.

Digital Dreams in Euphoria: A Fucked-Up Fairy Tale 

In the techno-mystic realm of Euphoria, Queen Cherrypop lounged on her crystalline throne, her neural interface crackling with static as data streams flowed through the kingdom’s quantum networks. The palace walls shimmered with holographic representations of her past battles with the notorious Baroness Cuntingham each pixel encoding the power struggles that had shaped their realm.

Co-Queen Silver materialized beside her, their shared consciousness intertwining through Euphoria’s bioelectric grid. The kingdom had evolved since the days of simple fairy tale magic, now existing in a space where ancient spells merged with cutting-edge technology. Together, they monitored the realm’s vital signs through their enhanced neural networks, watching as the streets below pulsed with neon dreams and digital desires.

“The old powers are stirring again,” Cherrypop whispered, her voice carrying the weight of both organic and synthetic wisdom. She remembered her earlier days as a naive princess before the great technological awakening had transformed their realm into a hybrid of magic and machine. The goddess Twatzapooner’s essence had been uploaded to the kingdom’s mainframe, becoming an AI guardian that watched over their digital domain with algorithmic precision.

A warning flashed across their shared consciousness – unauthorized access in the Dark Forest’s data core. The forest had become a maze of fiber optic cables and quantum entangled trees, where digital predators lurked in the shadows of corrupted code.

“Something’s different this time,” Silver observed, her chrome-enhanced fingers dancing through streams of data. “It feels like… Cuntingham, but evolved.”

In the end, it wasn’t just about power anymore, it was about evolution. As Queens of a kingdom where fairy tale magic had merged with high technology, Cherrypop and Silver understood that their real strength lay not in dominance, but in adaptation. The juxtaposition of technology and humanity had become their greatest weapon against the darkness that threatened their digital domain.

They rose together, their forms flickering between flesh and light, ready to face whatever new horror had emerged from the synthesis of old magic and new tech. In Euphoria, even fairy tales had to upgrade their operating systems.