El Camino del Diablo

Fading pink daylight glowed in the rearview mirror and the nearly full moon rose beyond the mountains at the horizon. The car winding its way up the dusty road was the only movement across the vast landscape. GPS was useless so far from any cellular tower, but the email had provided simple enough directions. El Camino del Diablo was the only road off the state highway. Matt just had to follow it for another thirty miles west after Bates Well Ranch. They told me this guy Dan was eccentric when I accepted the job, but living out here in the middle of nowhere? This is crazy.

The congratulatory email he’d received a week earlier included an invitation to join several other new hires at the home of the founder and owner of Tobar Battery. Dan Tobar started the company in the sprawling emptiness of the Sonoran desert. The offices were hours away in Tucson, the manufacturing in Mexico, and his home crouched at the crest of a small mesa overlooking endless square miles of saguaro and dry brush. Matt accepted the strange invite, despite his reluctance. No ties to keep him back home in Tucson–he’d never been to a billionaire’s home before, so why not?

The rough miles jostled past until he saw the right hand turn-off onto an even narrower, bumpier dirt road. The darkness seemed to overwhelm the moonlight, as he could see only a short distance down the rutted trail. No signs or indication that this was the way, but it had to be, according to the directions; ‘Take El Camino for 32 miles past Bates Well, it is the only turnoff for miles – can’t miss.’

Can’t miss, thought Matt. 

***

Danior Tobar looked out the floor-to-ceiling windows of his living room, waiting patiently for telltale headlights flickering in the distance. He’d instructed the guests to arrive at 10:00pm, not too long after sunset.

Who’d be the first to arrive? 

The engineer? Most likely, due to a propensity for precision. The HR rep? Possibly, due to an innate need to please. Or perhaps the salesperson? The dark horse, in his view, as he’d never known a salesperson who could resist a nearly endless conversation with some poor stranger at a restaurant or gas station.

A flicker of light bounced off rock formations, as a vehicle climbed into the hills. 

Good, now we begin. A glance at the clock over the stone mantel confirmed the promptness of his guest, who would arrive a minute or two before the instructed time. Where were the others?

***

Matt stared at the massive front doors which towered imposingly over the entry. They were intricately carved with hundreds of small figures. Many were tangled in tortuous positions. He pressed the doorbell, and three chiming tones echoed from inside the home. Moments later, his examination of the carvings was interrupted as the doors opened by a tall dark-haired man wearing a crimson Victorian wing tip shirt, black blazer and pants, and black ankle boots. His ebon hair was pulled back in a shoulder length ponytail. He was powerfully built, despite appearing to be in his early sixties. Matt took note of the unusual fashion choices, but decided not to comment on it. What is he wearing? Is he going to a fancy event or something?

“Mr. Peterson? Greetings and welcome to my home.” 

His host invited Matt inside with a sweep of his hand, leading to a spacious, dimly lit foyer beyond.

“Hi Mr. Tobar, pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand in greeting. Tobar glanced at it, remaining motionless, and returned his gaze to the younger man’s face.

“Call me Dan, please, and may I call you Matthew? I’m sorry but I don’t shake hands. I find it…unpleasant.” He led his guest inside.

“Matt’s fine, Mr. Tobar. Quite a place you have here. Bit far from anywhere, isn’t it?” He examined the minimalist interior, although that would have been luxurious compared to this large stone-floored home, with its jumble of angular concrete, glass, and imposing double front doors. No furniture, no art on the walls, no television, or books. It was a blank slate. “Did you just move in or something? Looks like your stuff hasn’t been delivered yet.”

“I prefer to live ascetically. I don’t usually tolerate company and a spartan lifestyle suits me.” His smooth voice carried a trace of a rough accent, buried beneath a cultured veneer.

Tobar led the way from the living room to what could have been a kitchen. The room had a long stainless-steel sink, expansive barren black stone counters, and unadorned gray metal cabinets on the wall. It looked more like an operating room than where a meal or even a cup of coffee would be prepared. A severe wooden table and four stark gray metal chairs, the only furniture Matt saw, were in front of modern French-style doors overlooking the moonlit landscape.

“Please, sit down,” he said. 

Matt took a seat, watching as his host surveyed the silver-bathed desert. Clouds drifted across the sky and somewhere coyotes howled. “Do you hear them? Creatures of the night.” Tobar shifted his eyes to meet Matt’s. “What songs they sing.”

Songs? Matt wondered. The predatory howls sent shivers down his spine. This guy is a little weird.

“Why did you ask me to come all the way out here, Dan? To be honest, this is all a little strange for me.”

“I asked you, and two others, to be my guests. I want to meet my new employees. I’ve heard you are a very skilled engineer. As you may have guessed, I do not much enjoy the company of people, so I asked you to come where I am most comfortable. I thank you for honoring my request.” Tobar tilted his head slightly, as something appeared to catch his attention. “Ah—another guest is arriving. Please, wait here.”

***

A solitary gas pump stood beside the parched dirt road that disappeared into the shimmering distance in either direction. Nearby, a sun-bleached wood building slumped in the heat. The sign over the door simply read ‘Store and Gas’ in faded, peeling red paint. 

The weathered wood door opened, revealing a tall silhouette contrasting against the glare of the sweltering desert beyond. A little bell above the entry tinkled as a tall man stepped inside and shut the door behind him. He was surprised that it wasn’t much cooler in the dim interior of the roadside store.

“Evening, son. You lost?” The old man behind the counter looked intently into the traveler’s eyes, waiting for a reply.

“Hi! I don’t think so. This is El Camino La Diablo, right?” The tall man brushed his hands across his expensive Oxford shirt, wiping at any road dust that may have settled on the short walk from the car to the store. The tie, left behind on the passenger seat.

“Del. But yep, that it is. Only damned road out here, so kinda narrows your options. Don’t get too many people out here, figured you was a lost tourist from the city.” 

The tall man looked at the old proprietor. He seemed to be about eighty, with a scraggly gray beard and wore a dusty old sweater, despite the heat inside the cramped store.

“What makes you think I’m from ‘the city’?” he asked, with a big smile.

“Son, there ain’t but two kinds a’ people out in this desert—those of us with sand in our veins, and the rest a’ ya that got blood in yours. You got a nice city vee-hicle,” he nodded at the unblemished late-model luxury car outside the window, “you got nice city clothes that don’t got a single worn thread on ‘em, and you ain’t got any weather in your face or work in your hands.” He leaned back, his wrinkled and veiny hands propping him against the wooden counter.

“Wow. You’re a good judge of people, buddy. I’m Bill, by the way,” he took two steps towards the old man, his hand extended for a shake. The proprietor didn’t move.

“‘Bill By The Way’, I don’t shake hands, never know what you’ll catch. You need gas or food or water?”

Bill kept his bright smile on, assessing the store. A beverage case displayed cold bottles of water and soft drinks. The counter had various sundries and goods. Bill saw that everything had a fine layer of road dust, and nothing looked like it had been stocked in the recent past, if not longer. I’m not going to get a cappuccino in this place, that’s for sure, he chuckled to himself.

“No, sir, I’m good. Just wanted to make sure I’m on the right route. No GPS out here, you know?” Looking around, he wondered if the old guy even knew what GPS was.

“I can’t tell you if yer on the right path, that’s ‘tween you and Him.”

This old guy might be a little touched by the heat, thought Bill. “Ha,” he said instead, “you’re funny. I like that!”

“Bill By The Way’, lemme tell ya something…this desert here, it’s an honest place. It don’t like falseness. In fact, falseness is the most dangerous thing in this desert. It ain’t snakes or coyotes or pumas, it’s what ain’t real. This place knows the difference ‘tween a porch-cat and a puma, and it don’t take kindly to one that don’t know which one it is.”

Bill was taken aback by this…threat? Brushing it off as the musings of a weird and probably not-all-there octogenarian, he turned to leave.

“Hey, son. I think I offended you. Take a bottle a’ water, on me. And whatever you do out here, don’t be false.”

“I’m good, thanks. You take it easy, mister.” Bill went out the door, the little bell ringing softly behind him. The evening heat and light still hit like a blast furnace, as he quickly got back into his car and cranked the A/C. Driving away, he looked back in the rearview mirror at the little shack of a store.

***

Lily Kasirye fiddled with the cell phone that was in the holder on the dashboard. No bars. Great, no music and I still must have a couple hours to go. Why does he have to be out here? Her mood had steadily soured as she traveled further and further from the comforts of civilization. The temp display showed 99℉ outside, as it had for the last hour or so. Lily clicked the A/C fan up one more notch and checked her face again in the mirror. The dusty road rolled past, shadows from the cacti lengthening in the late afternoon and pooling in depressions in the desert. A structure of some kind appeared far down the road, off to the side a short way. Oh thank God, I really need to pee, she thought. All this bouncing from this terrible road is really getting to me. Next time, get the small iced coffee!

She parked her little hybrid next to the ramshackle building with the sign over the door, praying there was a bathroom inside. A bell rang softly as she entered, her eyes trying to adjust to the gloomy interior. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her long black hair, the plastic frames clinking against the beads in her cornrows. Lily noticed the old man behind the counter, staring at her. Here we go. Her neck hairs rose, from anticipation of what she expected this codger to be like, and from too many experiences with men like him.

“Hi, excuse me–is there a restroom?” Lily smiled at him, nicely. Be nice, be nice.

“Rest room? Naw, we don’t have one a’ them. But there’s plenty of desert so knock yerself out, young lady. You another city type lost out here? At least the second one I seen today.”

“Lost? I think I’m on the only road out here. Camino del Diablo.” She looked around at the store, hoping he was just teasing her, but she didn’t see any door for a bathroom or for any other room at all. The place was tiny, and cramped with shelves full of what looked like long-forgotten relics from years gone by.

“That it is, missy. El Camino del Diablo. You know what that means in English?” he didn’t wait for a reply, “means ‘The Devil’s Highway.’” He let that hang in the air.

“Oh, yeah. OK. So really, no bathroom?” She was not looking forward to relieving herself behind some rock or brush.

“Really, no. Look, go out behind the store, there ain’t nothin’ or no one around for miles. I’ll be right here, mindin’ the store.”

Lily nodded, not sure if she had any choice. It was that or try to make it to this Tobar’s place but that was at least another hour down the rugged road. She couldn’t drive much more than thirty miles per hour due to the ruts, rocks, and bumps. Resigned to the pleasures of outdoor bodily functions, she pulled the door open and went back into the sweltering desert.

***

Matt heard the chimes ring out three times, thankful that someone else was now there. This house, with its sprawling emptiness and the vaguely unsettling mannerisms of his host, made him uneasy.

What kind of person doesn’t even have a couch?

Voices echoed across the distant house, and in a moment Dan Tobar entered the kitchen with another guest. A tall, well-dressed man, with a big, almost goofy smile followed him, and strode towards Matt.

“Bill MacNeil, allow me to introduce Matt Peterson, our new engineer. Matt, this is Bill, our newest salesman.” 

Nice-to-meet-you’s and handshakes were exchanged. Bill eyed the room, evaluating the surroundings. This Tobar fella is one odd son of a bitch.

“Dan, you got one hell of a place out here. Looks like you could use an interior decorator, though, am I right?” he laughed and slapped Matt on the shoulder, giving him a wink. Matt returned a polite smile. Tobar watched, silently, no expression on his face. “So, is this it or are we expecting more company, cuz’ right now it doesn’t look like much of a party.” Bill flashed his practiced thousand-watt smile at Dan, hoping that he could find some way to break the ice.

“My interior is as I prefer. And yes, one more guest will be joining us, shortly I expect.” Tobar’s mirthless dark eyes focused on Bill’s. “She is nearing, even as we speak.”

Matt noticed their host’s head tilt as it had earlier, and without a word to his guests, he left them in the bleak kitchen. Matt and Bill exchanged glances, and Bill shrugged his shoulders.

“What do you think?” asked Bill.

“This is certainly different. I have never seen a house so…dead,” Matt whispered the last word.

“You got that right, buddy!” Bill took a closer look at the kitchen, and walked over to what had to be the refrigerator. Large stainless-steel double doors fronted the industrial style unit. He reached for a handle and at that moment, Tobar interrupted him.

“Gentlemen,” announced Tobar, as he shot Bill a look. Bill moved away from the fridge, feeling like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “This is Miss Lily Kasirye, our newest HR representative. Lily, welcome to my dwelling, and allow me to introduce you.” He did, and then stood aside, watching.

Lily looked at the two other guests. Bill, the salesperson, appeared to be in his early forties, friendly looking and composed. The engineer looked a few years older, very ordinary without any sense of style or personality. Nice, but bland. She wasn’t sure why she’d decided to accept the invitation now that she was there. Everyone else was at least ten years her senior, and she was the only woman, and the only one who didn’t look like they ate only unseasoned, bland food.

“Forgive me, I have forgotten my manners,” Tobar said, “ but you all must be hungry and thirsty from your journeys. I have taken the liberty of having a light repast prepared for your arrival. Please, allow me to serve.” He directed them to the uncomfortable chairs around the table, which had three place-settings laid, and pulled out a seat for Lily. She smiled politely as she sat down.

“Won’t you be joining us, Dan?” Bill inquired, as he pulled out his own chair.

“I have already enjoyed my sustenance. I apologize, but I follow a very different schedule than people.” From a warming oven, he pulled out three food-laden plates with his bare hands and carried them over to the table, setting one before each guest. Matt had been silently observing, and cautiously reached out for his plate. “Careful,” Tobar interjected, “the plates are very hot. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

Lily looked at her plate, which had the identical meal as her companions. A large and very rare looking steak of some kind had center-stage on the plate, covered with a thick reddish sauce. Beside it, something resembling polenta was carefully heaped next to stewed cabbage.

“Um, Mr. Tobar…Dan, I’m sorry but I can’t eat this. I’m a vegetarian,” she pushed the plate away from her, pulling her fingertips away quickly from the hot plate.

“Vegetarian?” he scoffed. “There is no such thing. That is a construct of this modern world, of people who deny what they are. When one is hungry enough, one will consume…anything. Eat or don’t eat, it matters not. This is what I offer. Do you choose to offend your host?”

“No, I don’t mean to offend you, but…”

“Hey, Lily, if you’d like, I’ll trade you my…grits, for your steak. OK?” Bill flashed his big smile at her, hoping she’d accept and they could move past this uncomfortable moment. She nodded and the big man stabbed her piece of meat with his fork and piled it on his plate. He pushed his polenta onto her plate, and let out a hearty laugh. “There, everyone’s good now, right Dan?”

Throughout this exchange, Matt had been gently prodding the steak on his own plate, and taking small tastes of each item. He was hungry, and despite the very undercooked state of the meat, it tasted quite delicious. “Thanks, Dan. This is all really tasty. Is there anything to drink?”

Tobar produced three glasses from a cabinet, and then a bottle of wine. He opened the bottle and poured a generous amount for each, setting the glasses before his guests.

“This is a Sereksiya, from the country of my ancestors. Enjoy.” The wine had a pale red color, and smelled like sour cherries. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will leave you to dine in peace. I will return later.” Tobar bowed very slightly from his waist, and slowly backed away from the table a few steps before turning and leaving them alone.

They all looked at each other, trying to sort the wide range of feelings, from awkwardness, to anger, to…fear?

“What the fuck was that all about?” Lily stood up from the table, pointing at the food. “There is no such thing,” she mimicked. Her anger was getting the better of her, and she made a snap decision. “I’m leaving. Fuck this. Nice meeting you both, but I do not need this bullshit, not even for this job.”

Bill stood up.

“Now hold on, hold on. Yeah, that was insensitive and, well, downright rude, but can you really just walk away from this job? Matt, you know what I mean, right buddy?”

Matt shrugged and looked at Lily. “I can’t say I blame you, and I don’t know how much they’re paying you, but I’d think twice about just ‘up and leaving’,” he replied. He took another forkful of food, and washed it down with some of the wine.

“Well neither of you know what it’s like to be a Black woman. I know when I’m being fucked with. If you were smart, you’d both get out of here too.” She grabbed her clutch off of the table, and walked away. Bill and Matt looked at each, both wondering the same thing; What the hell was going on?

***

Danior Tobar was fuming, mostly at himself. These unpredictable fools! He’d planned everything, and somehow overlooked the possibility of one of his guests being a vegetarian. The very idea of that offended him to his core. When Lily stormed out, he of course had heard the entire conversation and was awaiting her in the large gravel driveway fronting the four-car garage. Lily bristled when she saw Tobar standing before her on the walkway to the driveway, and it took her a moment to see the cars behind him. All three of their vehicles were upside down, tires up like overturned turtles. She looked at the cars, and backed away from Tobar slowly before turning and running back into the dark, cold structure of his home. Matt and Bill heard her yelling for them and they rushed towards the sound of her voice, the three of them nearly colliding in the entryway. Past them, beyond the wide open front door, Tobar stood silently glaring at them, his dark eyes like black holes in his face.

“What’s the matter, Lily?” Bill looked from her tear streaked face out towards the unsettling man outside.

“The cars…he did something to them, they’re all on their roofs!”

“That’s impossible,” Matt said, mainly to himself. “How could that be?” He approached Tobar. “What’s she talking about? Did something happen to our cars?”

Tobar fixed his black eyes on Matt, turned his head towards the driveway and simply extended one hand in that direction, gesturing for Matt to proceed. Matt rounded the slight bend that curved to the garage and driveway, the cars coming into view. Just as Lily described. Each on its roof somehow, improbable but real. 

Tobar laughed bitterly.

“You fools! I invite you to my home, to offer you a rare and exquisite opportunity, and you behave like frightened sheep.”

Matt, Bill, and Lily were speaking all at once, confusion and fear on their faces.

Tobar’s voice deepened suddenly, “SILENCE!” he commanded, his voice seemingly inside their heads.

Matt’s body went rigid, arms at his side, as he obeyed the overwhelming force of Tobar’s order. Bill and Lily stilled, eyes wide with a mix of confusion and fear, unable to move or speak. Tobar approached, his countenance radiating focused rage. He traced one long fingernail across Lily’s face, flicking it against her cheek. A thin crimson line opened, a trickle of blood joining the wet traces of tears.

“You, yes, I think you. I wasn’t sure at first, but your insolence has persuaded me, and there is something intriguing, I must admit, about tasting you. I have never had the pleasure of someone’s sustenance who abstains from flesh.” He circled Lily, looking at her from head to toe, appraisingly, a spark of hunger flaring in his deep black eyes. 

Tobar turned to look directly in Matt’s eyes, a slow predatory grin spreading and revealing sharp yellowed teeth. Despite his panic, Matt was surprised that he hadn’t noticed those long dagger-sharp teeth before.

“My engineer,” Tobar said softly, grasping Matt’s head in both of his powerful, long nailed hands. “I had hoped we could come to a logical arrangement, with your scientific mind and understanding of the nature of things. I am a creature of God, yes? Just like all of you. Some of us are made as wolves, some as sheep. Now you know what you are. There is a truth in this that you can’t deny.” Tobar pulled Matt’s head forward with startling speed, and sank his wicked fangs deeply in Matt’s neck. Bones crunched, blood sprayed from the wound, covering Bill and Lily. Tobar drank for a moment, then casually tossed the body across the room. It thudded wetly against the concrete, limbs splayed brokenly.

He turned to Bill. A strong odor became apparent. Bill had shit himself. Tobar chuckled.

“My salesman, it seems you have ruined your tacky but expensive trousers. I don’t mind, though. Your fear accentuates my desire, my hunger. For such a big man, you may be the weakest of my guests.” Tobar padded behind Bill, and in an instant dug his claw-like fingers into Bill’s neck, twisting and pulling Bill’s head from it. The body fell to the floor, the severed neck fountaining red. Tobar held the decapitated head over himself, drizzling the spilling blood into his mouth. Rivulets of blood painted Tobar’s face like warpaint. He held the head by the hair, and forcefully threw it against a wall. It crunched with a fleshy smacking sound, falling to the floor.

“They were nothing but useless fools. That is what happens to people like them. But you, Lily, I have higher expectations for you. Do you want to join your new found friends, here on my floors and walls, or do you want to work for me? Speak!” 

Lily felt the hold on her release. She wanted to scream, to run, to explode like a nuclear bomb from the terror and gore around her. She couldn’t do anything but shiver in fear, looking from corpse to corpse and back at the thing who killed them. Thoughts flashed across her brain. What is he? How is this happening? He’s going to kill me!

“I…I…what do you want from me?” she stammered. Her panicked eyes continued to dart from gruesome vision to vision, the entire world seemed bathed in blood, and the smell of death and excrement made her vomit.

“What I want is for you to be my emissary. I need a new one, and the three of you were invited here to audition for it. From time to time, it becomes necessary for me to…retire…my emissaries. They have a, shall we say, limited period of use.”

“I don’t understand,” she sobbed.

Tobar sighed, as though disappointed with having to explain a simple thing to a child yet again.

“Emissary! An agent. I need one to handle certain business matters that, due to my nature, I am unable to attend to personally. In return, my emissary is afforded certain privileges. A life of luxury, for one. A very long life. And yes—as I can see you are asking the question to yourself—I will feed on you, making you mine in a very special manner.” Tobar circled Lily, running his long fingers through her long cornrows. She couldn’t stop shaking and sobbing. “I need your decision. Please don’t disappoint me.”

Her life was over. If she agreed, she’d become in thrall to him, and would never have the life she’d worked so hard for. Never have the family she’d always pictured, with the ‘American-dream’ home and lifestyle she’d been sold. Never see her mother, her friends, or anyone or anything that she’d choose for herself. A life of servitude to evil. She thought of her heritage, and the generations of ancestors who’d lived as slaves to other monsters. She felt her fear subsiding as her anger and pride rose up in defiance. She knew what her answer was, and she laughed at him.

Duck Fever 

“Fuck a duck,” people say. Well, if you are going to fuck a duck, then you must fuck Donald in the butt. Ducks have but one hole. A cloaca – one orifice fits all. Shit, piss, fuck, pass an egg.

Once – at Green Lake – saw a dance line of sixteen mallards (yes, I counted) gang-raping a female in the cattails up by the north shore. There was a lot of quacking. All from the males. The hen looked too exhausted to make a sound. A drake would mount her, where she hunkered in the muck. Finished, he would waddle off, desultorily quacking, to rejoin the line at the back. 

Could not believe my eyes. They were going to fuck this poor duck to death. Shouldn’t I call someone? Did Attenborough have a hotline? Or would Jane Goodall be a better choice, over that stuffed scientific shirt? But would Goodall give a fuck about one lousy little gang-raped duck way off in Seattle Washing Ton?

Could I get a jogger or a baby stroller to lend a hand in breaking this up? Would not look good if proceeded alone. People think I was stomping ducks; run over and stomp me. Bottom line: Nobody gave a damn about Daisy’s bottom. Or dignity. Or her raped and ruined psyche. Say nothing of the bent over backwards Samaritan deep down in my own trashy soul. 

I sighed. Shook my head at my shoes. Then shrugged. Well, if you can’t beat ‘em, fuck ‘em. 

I stepped to the back of the line. Prayed to my inner Jesus that, when my turn came, I would indeed stoop, cradle her in my arms. Dash off with Daisy to the safety of a back booth in a nearby Aurora Avenue cocktail lounge. Order peanuts and gin martinis. Nurse us both back to health. 

For, you see, on the long ten minute walk, pressing her warmth against my chest, I would soon, perforce, with her into an alley duck. There to jam my own end in. I was a sick man, having caught the fever from those sixteen drakes so full of self-congratulatory quacks. Only a gulp or two of poison could start me on the road to recovery. 

I would beg her, in the dark of the booth, now we were lovers, to join me in my basement efficiency, just a bus ride down 45^th to University. We could suckle each other back to sanity, over the crazy wild taste of homemade – with Thai hot peppers – Mandarin Duck. 

I would show her my new bought-online baster, before the wringing, the plucking, the gutting, the roasting, the sixteen further tweaks needed to bring both Daisy and my hungry self to perfection. 

Surely she would understand her paramount importance to the ceremony? 

When my turn at last comes, I behold for one lusty moment the quivering being at my feet. Then the eyes close. Somebody (probably me) tears off my clothes, and I sprint nude the three mile circumference of the lake, screaming at the getting-off-work swelling crowd of joggers, mothers, fathers, cyclists, rollerbladers, snotty kids and speed-walkers: 

“Does anybody mind the universe, and all its multiples, are raping our minds?” 

I leave you, as I roll over to sleep on the cot in my cell, the above cautionary tale; wiggling, perhaps, your own mind like the tail of a deceived duck, leaving the pearls he or she, at a distance, mistook for popcorn.

Fart of Darkness

I got there and the cartel guy’s been put in a room with this dwarf who gets off wearing tutus and ballet slippers to strike poses in the bathroom when he thinks nobody’s looking but there’s cameras so we know dude is a freak. Cartel has juice so ballet freak gets transferred to isolation where he can babble to himself in peace, if not the total darkness of cold storage. The unit is run by this obese dude called Big Panda who’s always pissed off at the ward baseball team. It’s nobody’s actual fault they’re all disabled, half of them wearing adult diapers outside their pants the other half missing knees and elbows due either to grave defect or occult injury. Quit drooling on the ping-pong table Big Panda yells but they’re all wasted on the invert-crystal Cartel gets smuggled in through the kitchen stashed in cases of frozen fish sticks. Everybody knows. Nobody cares. It’s a literal fucking free-for-all. They’re fucking in the corners, the crapper, the bushes, in the broom closets real fast go go go! like robotic rabbits. Trailing sex grime like a gastric oil slick in their wobbly wake. Even squirrels from way up in the trees scamper in on the action. Big Panda ambles home to his den of miscreant offspring at the zoo habitat and quaffs 2-liter green plastic bottles of Mountain Dew just to keep sane. He’s a loner and secretly deals in black market dark web skeletal remains of assassinated politicos. Working on a deal in the deep night of the DRC for blood piglet gallstones. Coupled with a primordial urge to spew rhetoric he keeps it bottled up inside where it festers and rots. Which in turn he takes out on the ball team who parenthetically are his most loyal foot soldiers. He stations them about the premises strategically where their disgusting, perverse behavior won’t necessarily be construed as spying. Chaplain Baby Abe, intent on usurping Big Panda and his crew of degenerate delinquents, is on call 24/7 and a huge pain in Big Panda’s ass. Baby Abe, suspicious by nature, quaking with calcified righteousness, parks in the control room, wide baby blues fixed on the array of video screen monitors, poised to pounce on the slightest misdeed. ‘Tis a cloying atmosphere fraught with hypertension. Nobody trusts anybody.  Hate is shared democratically. Pharmaceuticals rage in the collective bloodstream. I take notes surreptitiously, shivering and fetal in the staff head. Somebody’s been fucking in here. The stench of skunk bud and fermented apricots along with trace elements of potassium nitrate… Bells clanging over intercom fuzz… I sense a distinct covert outsourcing of white shit… bones ground to a fine powder… nasal expectorate refined into vape juice… Telepathic cell flirtation. Baby Abe is so sure of his rapacious hunch he’s prepared to offer up his nubile fiancé as a tribute to his convictions: Have at ‘er my brethren he growls, ivory white neck pulsating against the 4-time consecutive Super Bowl losing Buffalo Bills lanyard he wears supertight like a hangman’s noose. Looks like a case of relapse boys, barks Big Panda, strap that treacherous weasel to yon gurney and wheel ‘im away, will ya? Cartel chilling in lotus practicing levitation in the Suzuki Garden amidst Artesian bottled-water fountains and river rocks painted with slogans such as: Use Me Like a Hammer and I Saved a Window Today. The ping-pong tables turn after each resident inmate feeding, vapor rises in genderless clouds while threats to the minority population are waylaid with legislation of additional officious regulations. Commensurate with revisionist theories of inclusive order. 

All in all, an epic shit show. Cartel, shaved head shining with extract of bull elephant musth, smiles at his trophies… lolling atop sharpened pikes… severed heads of pubescent sex-workers… Smoke tendrils eking out of weepy eyeholes…

Little Miss Bendy Hips

Fresh out of the shower after her six-mile morning run, Serenity wiped the mirror free of steam and eyed her naked form in the bathroom mirror. “Not bad,” she muttered, turning this way and that, studying her raised glutes and sculpted thighs. “Nowhere near as tight or as uplifted as I used to be, but looking great for forty-eight,” she continued, her hands roaming over her small, perky tits and hardened nipples.  

She pawed at her developing six-pack, her pussy giving off a slight tingle as her fingers probed her tensed stomach muscles and the rock-hard area around her pubic bone. She giggled, catching a glimpse of glistening beads of water on her pussy lips, and had to stop from inserting digits inside herself. 

Getting in shape has made me a hornier minx, she thought. Look good, feel good. That was her motto. Her mantra. 

Serenity lifted her arms up, elbows in line with her shoulders. She flexed her biceps and then triceps. “Shoulders and arms are coming along, Serenity girl, and I’m going to look in tiptop shape for my Christmas holiday to Tinseltown Island.”

With a smile, she turned from the mirror and grabbed a towel off the heated radiator, wrapping her body in its soft cosiness. She knocked the bathroom light off and crossed the landing to her bedroom, where she dried herself and tossed the damp towel onto her bed. 

“I’ll leave my hair dry naturally,” she said, looking out the window as dawn broke. “It’s going to be another glorious day—morning yoga in the garden, methinks. See if I can finally get my face between my legs.” She giggled. “Don’t want a man. Won’t need a man.”

Serenity rolled out her yoga mat and lay on it, smashing in 100 press-ups and 200 sit-ups, feeling her shoulders and core burn. 

“Fuck yes,” she said, not a sweat or breath broken. She hopped to her feet, going to her chest of drawers. “Commando?” She smiled at the thought of how her yoga trousers rubbing against her pussy made her feel. 

Serenity bit her lower lip, dug her stretching gear out of a drawer, and slipped into the flimsy trousers and sports bra. She turned to the window, the curtains wide open, hoping someone out there had had a good, perverted looked at her nude form. With any luck, Melissa saw me, the dirty cow.

With a laugh, Serenity spun around, catching an eyeful of her tightly wrapped, curvelicious bod in the tall mirror behind her bedroom door. “You fucking rockstar,” she said, leaving her room. 

Down in the kitchen, she made herself a protein shake and downed it, then grabbed a bottle of ice-cold water from the fridge. She headed towards the back door, ready to get her stretch on, and halted. Damn, I forgot my yoga mat. 

She returned to her bedroom to fetch the workout mat, grabbing a hand towel while she was there, and made her way outside into the garden. Serenity then dropped everything onto the ground. She unrolled her mat, placing the towel and chilled bottle of water close to hand. 

Serenity performed a few basic standing stretches to warm the body back up, beginning with side and front bends. She then moved on to rotating the neck in one direction and then the other, finishing off by revolving the shoulders and swivelling the hips. 

That should do it, she thought, knowing the rest of her had gotten a good limbering up after the exertion of her run and body-weighted exercises. 

Now, do I follow a yoga workout by the YouTube, Kama Sutra sex queen Kim Low, or do my own thing? she wondered. Monday, I worked the lower body, Tuesday the top, and Wednesday I did a mix. I’ve also practiced the self-eating pussy pose twice, as recommended by Low. Fuck it—once more won’t harm, and I’m so close to being able to probe my own lettuce with my tongue!   

A fresh tingle assaulted her privates, the rub of her yoga pants already having their effect on Serenity as she took a few deep breaths to still and clear her mind. 

“Empty the head of all thoughts,” she said aloud, stopping the slight tremble that rattled its way through her body. “Breathe, Serenity.”

Once she’d practiced her inhales and exhales, calming herself, she began: Warrior pose. Down dog position. Back bends. Body twists. Hip openers. Lower back practices.

When she felt comfortable and loose, Serenity sat with her legs crossed, knees stacked, and began the ‘oral sex’ pose. 

Maybe I should have left the yoga trousers off, she thought, bending forward, inching her face closer to her groin. A smile played across her lips as her nose brushed against cloth. The thin scent of her lady garden mixed with sweat wafted up her nostrils. Damn, I’m so much nearer than I was Monday, she continued to muse, her head now bent at an extreme angle, her neck and shoulders beginning to burn. I should hold it here, no deeper. I shouldn’t be feeling pain . . . But I’m so close. Just a bit more pushing and—

“Ow!” she cried as something popped in her lower back.

Serenity’s muscles contracted, sending her into a series of painful spasms.

Her body locked into place.

“Shit. Shit! I can’t mo – Ow!” 

Breathe, she reminded herself, repeating Low’s soothing instructions. Relax, and the body will soften. 

Tears rolled down her face, realisation setting in, as she sat there for minutes on end without change. 

Feels like the pain is getting worse!

She began to rock back and forth, trying to loosen up. If I could just get my head—fuck!

Searing pain whizzed down her spine, into her buttocks. 

Oh God. “Help. Help!”

She lost her balance, toppling backwards, stuck on her back like a turtle on its shell. 

She cried out as a hamstring pinged and a hip exploded. Fresh tears flooded down her face, her throat drying out to the consistency of sand. The sun, now high in the sky, sizzled her skin, turning her paradise into a death trap.   

Breathe, babe, please! she told herself. If I can just push the pain out of my head and roll onto my front, I’ll be able to use my hands to claw myself up to the house. Once inside, I’ll be able to use the phone. 

“Okay,” she said. “One.” Serenity took in a lungful of air, letting it out slowly. “Two.” This is going to sting. “Thr—”

“Well, well, well, what do we have here?”

Serenity froze. The voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere near her back gate.

“If it isn’t Little Miss Bendy Hips, with her teeny tiny tits and arse that resembles two boiled eggs in a hankey,” the person went on. “Stuck? It’s a good thing I was watching then, isn’t it?”

An ear-piercing laugh haunted Serenity’s eardrums. The cackle of the perverted, she thought, trying to get a look at who was talking to her. But she didn’t need to see him to know it wasLechy Lee, the twisted neighbourhood fuck who’d been caught stealing numerous amounts of knickers off clotheslines in the area. Her gut dropped. And I’m at his fucking mercy . . .

She gagged as the image of his lank, greasy hair and grubby, half-chewed fingernails popped into her mind. “He always smells like dried come,” she’d overhead Melissa say a while back. “Stinks worse than wet dog to boot.”

“Lee, please call for an ambulance. I’m in total agony. One of my hips have blown out, and my hamstring, and—”

“Oh, I’m going to help, all right. Think you’re pretty clever though, don’t you? Flaunting your naked body in your windows for the whole world to see, asking for it.”

“What? No, it’s not like that! And you shouldn’t be fucking spying, you creepy perv.”

“Bitches like you love it. The attention. The desire you make everyone feel.”

“Lee, please – I’m begging you!”

“If I help, what’ll I get in return?” He paused, and she imagined him rubbing his hardening cock. “A blowie? Hand job? Will you let me come deep inside you?”

“Oh, you gross fucker.”

“Well, if that’s how you feel, maybe I’ll leave you to it?”

Shit. She needed assistance, and fast. I’m going to have to cut a deal with him.She gagged again, thinking about the dried come comment Melissa had made, wondering if his underwear were encrusted with it. Breathe, she thought, conjuring the face and exuberant voice of her YouTube idol. “Okay, okay. I’ll . . . I’ll suck it for you. How’s that? I’ll even drink your load!” 

“Hmm, I don’t know. Are you only saying that so I help you?” 

“It’s a good offer, Lee. The best you’ll ever get.”

“Maybe.” 

“Come on, man—I can’t move, and the agony I’m in is overbearing.”

“I’m thinking, Serenity. Don’t get yourself twisted in a bunch,” he said, snickering.

Jesus Christ, what a fucking lose— 

Her thought derailed as a new pain racked her, her scalp on fire.

Lee had a handful of her hair wrapped around his fist. “Do you know what? No deal, bitch. I’m going to have my way with you. Do as I please, and then return you in your stuck state. I’ll deny everything. Hell, you may even die out in your garden.”

“What? No! Lee, please! You can’t—Argh!”

Serenity bawled as she was dragged along by her locks, her leggings and tufts of mane yanking free.

He manoeuvred her through her garden gate and into the alleyway, towards his own back garden. 

“Oh, Serenity. We’re going to have so much fun!”

Lee opened the gate to the rear of his home, ripped her into his space, and kicked the wooden door closed behind him.   

Mourning Wood

A transition. That’s what Ralphie needed. A change. Sweet relief from trash women and bad times. But a Christian girl was not exactly what he had in mind as he tore across the winding back-country road that evening. 

The steering wheel of the Porsche 911 Turbo jerked hard right as if in protest to the uneven gravel road that met the front gate of the abandoned summer camp. Ralphie slammed the brakes, skidding to a stop just short of the weathered faux-Indian totem. He’d almost missed it and bit it at the same time. 

The sign read CAMP MORNING WOOD in sloppily painted brush print. This was the place. 

But would this be the girl? Ralphie committed to taking a break from the dating apps. That was until he found Georgiana’s profile. 

Most of the women Ralphie met on the apps were transactional, temporary. They liked to play Simon says in the evening and twenty questions in the morning. “What are you doing today? Are you hungry? Do you want to get breakfast? What are your plans for the weekend? Well, when will I see you again, huh?” 

Ralphie would drop them as soon as he’d got what he wanted: some attention, a partner for the evening, and an ego boost. 

But Georgiana was different: religious, conservative, sweet. She went to church every Sunday. Visited the sick. Participated in the bake sales. And she was pretty as Hell. 

Maybe Ralphie could be different too. At least he thought so. 

Georgiana had even come close to marriage, poor thing, but the groom-to-be somehow got himself murdered. 

The big M: murder. And the other big M: marriage. Ralphie scarcely could tell which was scarier. 

He wanted to inquire further but figured it would be better to wait for the date. 

So here he was at the abandoned summer camp where Georgiana had suggested they meet. Maybe she was into nature sex? But that didn’t jive with the image of a girl who loved Jesus so. 

Ralphie continued down the worn dirt road in the foggy moonlight until he arrived at the camp proper. Dried brush, fallen tree limbs, and the collected detritus of years covered every patch of ground. Aged buildings, bent, wood-paneled, with broken glass and crumbled chimneys, slumped down as if being called back to the earth. 

There was another car parked just ahead, at the edge of the lake. That must have been Georgiana’s. 

Ralphie thought he was hallucinating as he cast his gaze forward and caught first glimpse of the figure walking through the fog. He was expecting a mild-mannered woman in a floral print dress with a Bible in her hand. 

The red leather miniskirt and tiny black tube top did not match the picture Ralphie had formed in his head. Nor the commando boots and fishnet stockings. 

Was this the right person? 

As they met, and embraced, she planted a chaste kiss on Ralphie’s cheek. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Georgiana.” 

Ralphie had dated many women who wore skimpy outfits, but this was almost theatrically overdone, right up to the thick glittery makeup, dizzying perfume, and elaborate coiffure. 

As they walked, each step brought Ralphie further from surprise and into confusion. While Georgiana may have been dressed like a lady of the evening, she spoke with a lilted, almost dainty tone that contrasted the style of dress. 

“I gotta admit,” Ralphie said, “you’re not exactly what I was expecting. I imagined you’d be a little more…churchy.” 

“We’re not in church, hon. You should relax a little.” 

He tried to relax as they walked, their conversation meandering. They passed the dilapidated mess hall, where hungry campers once scarfed down countless servings of franks, beans, and sloppy joes. Along the way, an old telephone box lay crushed, as though a fist had smashed through it. Nearby, a rusted wheelchair sat vacant in a cluster of overgrown vines. Whatever had happened here, it felt more like a war zone than a summer camp. 

“So you were engaged,” Ralphie said. “But your fiance, he was murdered. How did it happen? If you don’t mind me asking. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.” 

“It’s OK,” she said. “Dan was a county deputy. Out on a call. It happened here at the summer camp just six months ago.” 

Ralphie felt his heart rate instantly jump. Maybe Georgiana had a predilection for the macabre. Or, maybe she was simply batty? Mourning can do strange things to people. 

She continued. “Some teenagers were getting into foolishness. Screaming, hollering, carrying on. But Dan, he thought it was a prank or something. Big idiot. I miss him so much.” 

“What happened?” 

“They found him hanging from a tree. Throat slashed. And the others were dead too. Strangled, hung, beaten, chopped up, hacked up, raw meat.” 

Ralphie reflexively reached for his perfectly unslashed throat. 

“They never found who did it,” she said. “But I think I know. I think I know.” 

“Who?” Ralphie’s eyes grew wider and redder. 

“Dan was lazy. He didn’t pay attention. Men are lazy like that sometimes. You know what I mean? Mentally lazy, not thinking ahead. Not seeing what’s around the corner. Or they have a devilish streak that gets them into trouble. And that can make things come out. Bad things can come out of the darkness.” 

Ralphie studied Georgiana’s face: a pale white, ghostly face that shimmered in the silvery moonlight. His hand found hers. He could feel her fingernails, firm but not too sharp, as she squeezed his hand in return. 

“Do you like my outfit?” she asked. “You haven’t said much about it.” 

Ralphie nodded. “Um. Yes. It’s very nice.” 

Georgiana tugged at Ralphie’s hand and led him down the hill to the edge of a pond. The lunar map above reflected off the still water. If that map led anywhere it could only be to trouble. 

But that was the kind of trouble Ralphie liked. He pulled Georgiana toward him by the waist. She rested her head against his chest. 

It was easy, much easier than Ralphie ever had with a woman. Too easy. 

“It’s dark,” she said. “Isn’t it dark? It gets dark so fast this time of year.” 

Ralphie could detect the quaver in Georgiana’s voice. Her petite frame shook with apparent anxiety. 

“Yes,” Ralphie said. “But why are you talking like that? Why are you shaking?” 

“It’s cold. I’d like you to hold me, tighter, and warm me.” 

Ralphie assented. Of course it was cold. She barely had any clothes on. 

“Hey,” he said. “Why did you want to meet me here? Why are you dressed like a stripper?” 

“Does it turn you on? Do you like bad girls?” 

“I like you.” 

And that was it. As if his words flipped a hidden switch. Georgiana planted her lips against Ralphie’s. 

“I love you so,” she said. 

The declaration caught Ralphie by surprise. Her voice was monotone, without emotional inflection. 

From behind, in a stand of dense shrubs, a twig snapped. The sound was thick and choked, like a bone breaking in a clump of cotton. 

Ralphie spun around. “What was that? Did you hear that?” 

“It was nothing,” Georgiana said. She forced Ralphie’s hands against her breasts. 

“Just a second,” Ralphie said. I heard something.“ 

The air tingled with a static charge. 

“It was probably just a rabbit,” Georgiana said. “Lie down beside me.” 

Ralphie brought his attention back to the present moment. Georgiana’s strange insistence, her gentle petting, it all excited him, despite his reservations. 

But it was so much as it always was. Ralphie had yearned for a change, something different. This was turning out to be more of the same. 

Nevertheless, his excitement grew, beyond his control now. The atmosphere seemed to tingle in tandem with the agitated swelling of passion—like a pressure drop before a rainstorm. 

Ralphie took Georgiana to the ground, and she assented to be taken—all too willingly. 

They fondled in the dark for what felt like ten minutes or so. Until Ralphie had to stop and rest his tired lips. 

A rustling sound, a thumping of booted feet, and the crushing of dry leaves, once again fractured Ralphie’s attention. 

“Now what the hell was that?” Ralphie said. “You had to have heard that.” 

Ralphie hopped to his feet and pulled his pants up. 

“We’re not alone,” Ralphie said. 

He could hear the groaning from the bushes nearby. “Gruh,” it said. “Gruuugh.” And the heavy breathing. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Georgiana said. She rushed to Ralphie’s side and threw her arms around his shirtless waist. “We need to do this to draw him out!” 

“Draw who out? What are you talking about?!” 

Right at that moment the hulking figure the size of a bull emerged. It grabbed Ralphie by the throat, lifting him several feet above the ground with the power of one bare, gnarly hand. It was difficult to make out the ragged features in the dark, but the intruder was clearly a man with inhuman strength. He wore a battered coverall, a utility belt full of edged weapons, and a dirty white mask—devoid of all human expression—that seemed burnt into the flesh of his face. 

Ralphie struggled in vain to free himself from the grasp of the monster. Thrashed from side to side like a rag doll, he could feel consciousness seeping away from him. A sensation like floating down a dark hallway. 

Was this what it felt like to die? 

Not quite. Ralphie felt a shock through his head, saw a blinding flash of light. He reached out and found the reassuring solidity of the ground. 

He looked up and saw the creature reel forward. From behind, Georgia had managed to plant an ax in the shoulder. 

She released the ax from the split clavicle, heaved it up, and cracked it down through the skull. A spray of ooze and sticky blood splattered against Ralphie’s face. 

By instinct—for no conscious thought was possible—Ralphie grabbed a hunting knife from the utility belt and stabbed it several times into the creature’s eyes and throat. 

At some length, the subdued beast collapsed in a heap. Ralphie and Georgiana fell together in exhaustion. 

“What was that?” Ralphie said. “Is that the thing that killed your fiance?” 

Georgiana nodded. 

Ralphie helped her to her feet. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.” 

They made their way back up the hill, Georgiana trailing the bloody ax behind. 

“You were right,” Ralphie said. “You were right about bad things coming out of the dark. I didn’t realize how right you were. Did you know that was going to happen?” 

“That’s why I brought you here.” 

A scraping sound from behind signaled to Ralphie that the nightmare wasn’t over yet. The lurking creature erupted again, standing at full height, like a bear observing its prey before tearing its flesh apart. 

Georgiana deftly spun on her back heel, and executed a 360 turn, bearing the ax in a perfect blue-flash arc that severed the monstrous head from the terrible bulk. The head flipped up, sending spurts of purple, smoky blood in all directions, before smacking to the ground. 

It was all over in a matter of minutes. 

As they walked back to the cars, Ralphie felt his hands shaking from the adrenaline dump. From Georgiana, there was a surprising serenity. 

“What the hell happened back there?” Ralphie asked. 

“I’m sorry to have deceived you,” Georgiana said. “The demon requires action to bring it about. Deviousness. Deviancy. Things like that. It feeds on lust.” 

“Is it dead?” 

“I hope so.” 

The other question floated at the periphery. Ralphie didn’t dare to ask until Georgiana was inside her car, starting up the engine. 

“Will I see you again?” he finally asked. 

Georgiana smiled. “I’ll be in church tomorrow.” 

Porcelain

Anna looked like a Victoria’s Secret angel and one of the porcelain dolls of his mother’s china cabinet, and a very fuckable renaissance angel, Mike thought, as he saw the young, petite woman walk into the bar. 

She had long blonde hair, with a slight curl, and a curvaceous body that was clearly designed for him, Mike Peters specifically, to pick up and fuck against a wall with his vigorous, robust, 6’3 body and 8 inch cock. 

A fucktoy, he thought, stiffening in his business casual khakis, to be used by anyone, but also specifically for him. (Anna and Mike had been introduced at an alternative lifestyle mixer by a mutual friend.) 

Anna was 5’2, and slender, which meant that Mike could pick her up and do whatever he wanted with her, which was very attractive. Mike already loved that Anna was so much smaller than him. Like a sickly deer, grazing at the edge of the meadow, ready to be destroyed by him, a ravenous alpha wolf. 

“Hello.” Anna sat down next to him at the bar. Pencil skirt. White block heels. She smelled like a woman. Musk, iris, violet. He tutted to himself. This girl was playing at being an adult. “How was your day? We just finished up a project at my job.”  

“Oh, fine. The usual. Nothing I want to talk about on dates” (Mike had yelled at the department’s administrative assistant for not giving the PDF attachments specific names, and had gotten a light talking to from HR regarding the incident with the graphic designer.) “Did you say you were in school?”

“No, I’ve been working for a while.” She looked at him with her big innocent blue eyes.

“So young.” 

She smiled. “I’m friends with Crystal, you know. You can’t be that much older, can you?” 

Mike was 42. “What will you be drinking tonight?” 

“Oh, whatever, a whisky sour, a rose.” 

The bartender came, and carded Anna, to Mike’s pleasure. Mike then ordered Anna a Dirty Shirley Temple, winking at her. Anna nodded at him, with a nervous smile.

Anna had fragile ankles, Mike saw, porcelain doll ankles, bony, and clearly paper white (like her face, white as a sheet) under Anna’s stockings. He thought about how easy it would be to grip her narrow bones in his big hairy hands, his bludgeoning fingers snaking around her, making it impossible for her to escape, like a helpless maiden in a Victorian movie, casting him as the virile, powerful man. 

They talked about work, and the outer technicalities of kink, for a while, Mike talking at length about the leatherwork convention he was going to. Mike’s phone buzzed. An email from work – the administrative assistant had put in her two weeks. He snorted, and ordered another drink. 

Anna didn’t drink as much as Mike would have liked, but she made an affirmative noise when Mike suggested they go for a walk, and to his pleasure she appeared uncomfortable walking in her heels after a few blocks. 

“Won’t you come in for some tea?” Mike asked. 

Anna looked Mike up and down, as if appraising him. (Anna was, in her head, doing internal calculus as if the man would be worth the trouble – supposedly, he was very good in bed, but Anna was increasingly imagining Mike had only strictly technical abilities. Crystal would be annoyed if Anna did not have a glowing review of Mike, but Crystal had not gotten laid in the normie world for several years.) 

“Do you have oolong?” 

Mike grinned his alpha wolf predator grin, and imagined her porcelain skin shattering into pieces, breaking under his fists and feet. (He did not have oolong tea.)

***

The first thing Mike noticed, when Anna’s hands were on his massive eight inch cock, were how cold her hands were. They were bony and fragile, the way Mike liked his women’s hands, easily snappable in theory, but Anna’s hands were almost purple, and like ice, like she’d stuck her hands in a snowbank before jerking him off. He shuddered.

Anna looked up, stopping mid stroke, her Princess Elsa grip on the downside of the shaft.

“What’s up?” 

Mike shuddered. “Your hands are very cold.” 

“Oh, right, sorry, should we stop?” 

“Use your mouth.” 

He wanted to throw her off, force her down, mouth fuck her, but Crystal had taken him to a few workshops, and that was disapproved of without asking. “I want to fuck your slutty little mouth.” 

Anna looked up at him, blinking a few times, he imagined with a slutty, innocent, college-girl sultry act, but was actually with disbelief. 

“Um.”

She was actually wondering how far he would go, how much he would say to an acquaintance he’d been match-made with. “Give me a second.” She gave him a few instructions, and rolled her neck around a few times on her shoulders. There was an audible crack. 

Anna’s mouth was warm and wet, thank god, although Mike half expected it to be just as frozen as her hands. For the briefest second, Mike sat back and enjoyed it, enjoyed this tiny woman sucking him off, his hands over her hand, as if he were pushing her down on it (he had been strictly informed not to.) As if he were overtaking her, destroying her, undoing her, with spit and cum dripping down her pretty top and tights… 

Anna stopped and rolled her neck again. “Oral is really rough on my neck.” She said. “I just can’t do it like I used to, honestly.” 

“Used to?” 

“I’m not a teenager anymore.” She laughed, more to herself than him. “Unless you want to venmo me the chiropractor copay for tomorrow. I get so tight and it’s like my back turns into this spider of pain and I can barely work…” 

Mike exhaled. Fragile little fuckdolls were not supposed to have cold hands. Fragile little fuckdolls were not supposed to go to chiropractors. Fuckdolls were supposed to be tiny, perfect, and able to take any physical assault 42 year old men deemed appropriate for sexual acts and not ask for copays to be venmo’d afterwards. Christ, a fuckdoll was supposed to be the parent’s insurance problem, not his. Fuckdolls weren’t even supposed to know what insurance was. 

“Let’s just fuck.” 

“Can you get me off first?” 

Mike performed his high technical performance of clit rubbing with a mixture of lube and a high powered vibrator, with a rote routine he’d gotten down. He had some dirty talk, but Anna had actually asked him to stop talking. 

The fucking was fine, once they’d gotten to it, although Anna had complained about the positions several times, and eventually insisted on a sensible, efficient method that felt best for her, and certainly did not flower herself open to his maximum cock-coverage preferences. To Mike’s great disappointment, while Anna was slender, she had some weight and muscles somewhere, and was not actually a person-sized fleshlight that he could pick up on his cock and spin around to his every whim. Anna’s cunt was as warm as her mouth, but to Mike, her cunt might as well have been covered in frost, for all that it catered to him. 

He was close. He thrust harder, like he was going to impale her, and she made a very unsexy sound. 

“Ow, dude, that hurts.” 

“I’m close.”

He remembered the workshop at the kink convention. People got angry about unwanted pain during sex. This would result in hysterical tattooed women writing angry blog posts about him. then he wouldn’t be as popular at alternative lifestyle parties, he pulled out. “I’ll finish myself off.” 

“Okay.” 

She sat up, to Mike’s eyes with frigid, priggish thirst, but to another’s eyes would be watching with a glazed spectator glance, the way someone watches an old man argue with a bus driver at nine in the morning. 

As Mike came, he had the strangest thought, about the time he broke his mother’s china cabinet when he was a teenager. It had been an accident, and yet, after the act had been done, he’d taken such a pleasure in crushing the doll’s faces under his boots, shattering the delicately crafted faces, shards crunching and cracking and breaking. His mother had been heartbroken. She’d never collected dolls after that. It gave him a certain pleasure, the same way he’d been elated when she’d dropped out of grad school, to keep an eye on him and his little sister, after the fire happened. 

***

Mike got a light talking-to, the next day about work, about the administrative assistant quitting. 

“You can’t just treat the support staff like they’re disposable,” The HR girl told him. “We’re trying to reduce turnover, I’m sure this one won’t leave a glassdoor review, because it was her first job, but the next one might.” 

Mike snorted. $15 an hour was disposable. “Of course.” 

He found himself in a thrift store on his break, drawn to the ceramics aisle. He found a small porcelain doll, with blonde hair and a vaguely sultry air. He bought it, and took it to the parking lot, and stomped on it until it was nothing but powder.