The Splatter Meister Dies at the End

Krystoffer Beej Plutin knocked back another shot of rye and attempted to focus his swimming brain on the subject at hand: writing. 

Having just murdered his best friend, Roy Roy Buttecracke and his long-suffering cunty wife Murgatroyd, placing their duck taped bodies head to head in a walk in freezer, then watching them accumulate frosticles while he ‘bated, his writing felt turbocharged. 

And speaking of which, there was nothing like some classic fucking METAL to really rev his writing engine. He stabbed “play” on “Beyond the Realms of Death” covered by Andover, Mass. psychowhores Puke Graveyard, then changed his mind, got up from his taped-together chair, went out to the garage again, foraged deep beneath layers of old clothes and weathered copies of Mayfair edited by Graham Masterton, finally pulling out a raggedy-ass baggie with some poisonous silt of yellow rocks. 

He tucked the baggie in the front pocket of his black denim battle vest, covered with patches from Pussy Graveyard, Dick Delicious and the Tasty Testicles, Vomit Launch, Chunks Frenzy, Buttlicker Brummies and Horror Sleaze Trash Girls, brought it back to his study and began to chip relentlessly away at the stone, his balls crawling with desire, his three inches of hard mushroom cock leaking a trickle of clear liquid. 

“Me fer some of this low-grade meth shit,” he muttered to himself. Lifting his trusty tooter and doing a few bumps, he banged against the back of his chair, his entire body surging with the electric light orchestra. 

“I feel homicidal as shit,” he said. “Time for some more murder shenans.”

Without further ado, he used his new Onion router to delve beneath the surface of even the most taboo hardcore dark web shit to the truly nasty. Some of the images made him want to spew his Doritos, but he held it in, going in for the kill. Tightly cinched ligatures. Fixed and dilated pupils. Heads in bags with blood sludge smeared on the sides. Und so weiter, und so fort.

He logged into Facebook, then went live.

“Hey guys,” he said in his high-pitched nutless voice, “it’s the Four Twenty Double D D Goth Bitch Tittays Splatter Meister talkin’ right at ya live!!! How would you fuckers like me to show up at your door and cut your fucking head off? You’d like that, right? You’d even pay me for that privilege.”

Within a few minutes, he had 100 live viewers. By the time his obscenity-laced rant was over three hours later, he’d accumulated 3,000 viewers. Hot women were commenting with tittay flash. Even hotter women were dropping into his dm’s craving even a tiny taste of the Splattermaeister. They were blowing up his email with invitations to multiple beheadings, along with deposits to his Paypal.

***

“Welp, it’s been fun and games and shit, but now that I’ve sliced yer pretty face off and glued it to mines, played with your blood and slicked it over muh pud, ‘bated and busted out a nut rehearsing your murder in slow motion in muh head, saved some of the gooshier bits for muh spank bank, I’m exhausted if not somewhat demoralized.” He peeled the face away and dropped it on the floor, kicking the loathsome rubbery object away. A cat meowed, approached the face of its owner stealthily, then began to consume.

“How ya doin’ out there?” he roared into the microphone of his live podcast rig. 

Out in Internet land, the Splatter Meister’s jaded audience reciprocated his hard love for only himself. Hot men and women were peeling off their undies and stuffing then in their own mouths as they furiously ‘bated, looking straight at the camera so Krystoff could see their facial expressions as they worked length, girth and tight glistening snatch.

“Oh my goodness, this is better than sex,” he said to hisself, grunting and feeling his three inch mushroom rise once more.

“Should I write about this?” he asked.

The answer was a resounding yes.

He began furiously typing up his latest shenans as he continued to livestream. It wasn’t just the rock flowing through his veins, not even the certain knowledge that he had exerted the ultimate power, life and death, over other human beings, and done it repeatedly. It was the warm space cadet glow that accompanied understanding that the more outrageous the murder shenans, the more love, nay, adoration he received from his audience.

After a few months of house visits and livestreams in which he accumulated a body count to rival Gilles De Rais, after which he ‘bated and transcribed the results on his phone, he had enough for a collection, which he submitted to the top Splatterpunk publisher, an up-and-coming publisher called Skanky Bukkake Press.

The Splatter Meister began to win awards and the plaudits of his peers. He was interviewed in Cemetery Dance magazine and the revived Wicked Mystic and Bloodsongs. Tik Tok stans gave him rave reviews. He received so many thong panties in the mail that he started his own museum. People began to lop their own limbs off and use their last neural spasms and heroic surges of final life energy to mail them to him, leaking packages that revulsed him without causing him to quit his unboxing videos. He made more and more money, which in turn fuelled more murder junkets. He won five Splatterpunk Awards and received a special Bram Stoker Award that involved remaking the haunted house statuette in his own likeness. He was hosted by fans in South Africa and Brazil.

All of this murderous activity and his guilty feelings at long last caught up with him. Gulping blood thinners and chasing them down with vodka, he took his own advice and began to carve up his arms, making sure to cut across and not down, slicing his radial arteries till the red, red krovvy flowed. 

As his consciousness faded, Krystoff watched in abject horror as he saw one after another after another viewer leave his podcast and pop up on Books of Horror where his name was dragged through the mud. “Pollutin should have quit while he was ahead,” was the last nasty comment he saw on a new HWA forum thread. “Real murder is tired, and suicide livestreams are so 2015.”

His body had badly decomposed before it was scraped out of his easy chair by a crew in HazMat suits, who sealed it in a biohazard container and buried it in a landfill.

To this day, Krystoff Plutin’s sorry ghost weeps along the burning shores of Hell, telling his story to nobody. All his books were deleted by his publishers and within a few months after his death, he was completely forgotten.

THEES EES THEE ENT

Nips and Knives

Knife play, Anth thought, enjoying how the words clicked together like a bondage puzzle and bounded around inside her decadent mind. She’d never known or heard of its meaning or existence in the world of kink and fetish until she’d met D, when a chance meeting on Snapchat had brought them and their bodies together. “Mystery is the spice of life,” he’d told her one evening on the social media platform, his full name camouflaged from her.  

Dirty bastard, she thought, lying in bed. A pulse rippled through her g-spot, the nipples of her H-cup calcium cannons growing to bulbous proportions. Anth threw the bed covers off her, revealing her nude, racetrack-curved form, and looked down at the ginormous mounds of flesh attached to her chest which blocked out the view of her feet and toes. They make Devilish D squirt like an over-excited 13-year-old boy when he flops them out of my creaking bra. She smiled as the first few drops of love honey dribbled from her honey pot. Makes me so fucking horny. 

Anth’s hand went to her cunt, her index finger teasing the folds. 

“Mmm,” she said, biting her lower lip. Flesh crunched; a metallic taste flooded her mouth. Do I have time to click one out before her gets here with his bag of scream and orgasm-inducing tricks?  

Her digit slipped inside her slickness. Anth’s back arched, and her mind wandered to the top drawer of her bedside table. It was filled with various blades, stabbing and slicing weapons: butter, butcher, cheese, meat and fish-gutting knives. And, of course, the daddy of them all: the Bowie.

Let’s not forget the Kukri either, Anth thought, her breath exiting in trembling waves.

She gasped, her finger rubbing over the hard nub inside her twat’s hood as she thought about the night D had stormed into her house wielding the large Gurka weapon. 

* * *

Anth sat watching TV in nothing but a babydoll and a smile. Her front door stood ajar, as planned. 

What if he’s a lunatic? she wondered, wringing her sweaty hands together. The urge to close, bolt and barricade the main entrance to her house had her arse hovering mere inches off the sofa’s cushion. 

She sat back down, eyes darting towards the clock. Two minutes to midnight. 

“Be ready for me by the stroke of 12,” he’d told her. “I won’t be late.” 

Anth squirmed, her bladder pleading with her. 

I could just lock the door and turn the lights out. He’d think I’ve gone to bed, fed up with waiting. Was he seriously coming, or was he like all other men on social media: full of shit?

She glanced at the clock, her sexy nightie now glued to her back. Five past midnight.

Her heartrate slowed and a trembling laugh escaped her. Another one full of BS, giving it the big man, she thought, getting up and switching the TV off. Mind you, there must be something wrong with me, agreeing to something like that. Especially on a first—

Her front door kicked open with such force that it rebounded off the wall, causing a bang so loud it tore the stillness of the night in half. Anth thought her throat and lungs were going to tear asunder as a terror-scream emerged from her. 

A large, balaclava-wearing figure stood in her doorway, shoulders almost touching either side of the frame. 

“Now you’re going to get it, bitch,” he said. He parted one side of his army jacket and withdrew a Kukri from the waistband of his trousers. The living room light glinted off the steel as he slammed the door shut with the heel of his G.I. boot. 

“Jesus Christ!D . . . Is that you?!”

“Did I say you could talk, slut? I’ve seen you out on the streets, shaking those tits and wiggling that arse. You’ve been asking for it.”

Anth took a deep breath. It is him, she thought, recalling the scripted words he’d said he would utter as he ‘broke in.’

He strode forward, his heavy footwear thudding along her wooden flooring.

“Wait . . .” she began, but her breath hitched in her throat as he grabbed her hair and wound it around his gloved hand. 

He forced her up against the fireplace.

“Shit,” Anth said, her head yanked back. Liquid dribbled down her thighs, and she didn’t know if it was piss, jism or a mix of both. 

Anth screamed again, her lungs on fire, as he forced the blade beneath the hem of her flimsy garment and ripped upwards, tearing it open, her tits flopping out.

* * *

“Fuck. I’m coming, I’m coming!” Anth said now, her finger working overtime inside her pussy, the sheets under her soddening. “D,” she screamed. “D!”

Anth threw her head back, eyes closed, and then a rough, calloused hand wrapped around her throat. The tip of a thumb and index finger pushed up and into to the corners of her jaw. He’d informed her it was the safest way to do choke play.

Right on time, she thought, wondering when he’d sneaked in and how much he’d watched. “Don’t stop,” she said. “Please, D.”

The grip around her oesophagus closed and a squirt of come flooded out of her, followed by a second and third gush. “Fuuuck, D! Fuck. Let me feel it. Please, let me feel it. Now!”

“Not yet,” he whispered in her ear, and with that, his grip was gone and his weight was off her. 

“You fucking tease.” She laughed, opening her eyes. His six-foot-five naked frame towered over her. “Ooh, what do you have there?”

He smiled. “A new toy,” he said, holding up a knife with an eight-inch blade, its base wrapped in a gleaming black handle. 

“What’s that symbol on it?”

“That’s the best part.” He winked. “It’s a German knife, and that sign on the haft is a Swastika. Apparently it belonged to an SS officer, and it was stripped off his dead body at a prisoner camp. The officer was, by all accounts, a specialist in sexual torture, acts of depravity, devil-worshiping and human experimentation.”

Anth’s mouth formed a perfect O. “How do you know all this? It sounds made-up.”

“The guy I buy all my military stuff from down at my local ex-serviceman’s shop gets his hands on the odd specialty item now and then, which he keeps to one side for me. He knows his shit, trust me.” He shrugged. “He also said it’s possessed by the officer. Not that I believed him for a second.”

Fresh excitement arose in Anth. “Use it on me,” she begged. “Threaten to cut up my clit and cleave my tits off.”

“Oh, that was the plan,” he said, stepping forward. 

The sight of his erection caught Anth’s eyes and she giggled. “Are you going to poke me with that thing too?”

He nodded. “Goddamn ri—Fuck!” D said, flying forward as if yanked by an invisible force.

The tip of the blade plunged into Anth’s neck.

* * *

She gargled as, inch by inch, the steel sank deeper into her flesh. 

“Anth!” D said, tears streaming down his face.

He failed to stop his hand from turning. The knife twisted in her throat and violently ripped out against his will. And he found he couldn’t release his grasp on the hilt no matter how hard he tried.

D’s hand lashed out again and again, tearing an eyeball free, hacking at Anth’s face, slicing her nose off, mutilating her tits. Blood pissed up the walls behind the headboard and pooled around D’s feet, gluing him in place.

“Anth! Anth! Oh, my God!” 

As her body twitched, her numerous wounds now dribbling instead of gushing, his knife hand turned on him.

“No, Jesus, no!”

The steel swept downwards, emasculating him, and then the tip of the blade rammed through the underside of his mouth, pinning his tongue to his palate.

D stumbled backwards, smashing against bedroom furniture, crashing to the floor.

His body writhed a few times before lying still.

Overheard, Overlooked

Mother didn’t waste any time when Father took off and left us. Her taste in men deteriorated sharply. That was only my opinion, however. To judge from the sounds that emanated from her throat and other orifices, and her room, which was uncomfortably next to mine, she enjoyed her new mate with considerably greater volume and vigor than I’d experienced when life at home was still normal. 

The neighbors upstairs could hear. Maybe the ones around the block as well.

Though I knew it wasn’t possible, I was sure the other girls at school could hear her too. They’d say, my mother would never make sounds like that. And I was mortified for no reason.

He never made a sound, might as well not have been there. I can’t say what would’ve been more disturbing, his presence with, or his absence from her.

He claimed to be a writer, although I never saw him write anything, or even do so much as pick up a pencil. He wasn’t famous, and was most likely unemployed, otherwise he wouldn’t have had so much time to spend with Mother in her boudoir.

At other times, he sat in the living room and pretended to think. Stared into space so anyone present might suppose he was involved with plot and character. Mother said not to disturb him. Clearly, I alone saw through this charade. 

Some time after he’d installed himself, when it was obvious I wouldn’t dematerialize or go away on my own, he made various approaches, in the form of recommendations of books he thought I ought to read.

He stopped after I told him what I thought of his proposed sacred texts, Naked Lunch and Lolita. 

He never behaved inappropriately, however. He was trying to be friendly. Which was even creepier.

One evening he suggested we go out for dinner and a movie. He wanted to see The Shining. The reviews were panegyric.

“Stephen King,” I said. “Now there’s a real writer.”

He shot me a strange and knowing look. 

To my disappointment, the movie was nothing like the book. Some people’s innate ability to speak silently to those similarly gifted, and to hear the thoughts of others, living and dead, is incompletely explored. But I identified strongly with the weird little boy, who was nothing like me, and the hysterical freak who was nothing like my mother. The writer on the screen was the identical twin of the fellow who’d occupied my father’s spot on their loudly complaining mattress, and I told him I thought so. “You’re just like him. Except for the typewriter. You don’t even have a typewriter. I bet you don’t even know how to type.”

“Well you’re right about that. So…you think I’m crazy, huh?”

“Yes, I do. And no doubt even worse than that.”

He smirked, raised an eyebrow exactly like a frame from the movie we’d just endured. A shudder ran through me, which he caught.

“Not too smart, to tell someone whom you think might be insane that you think he’s nuts. Especially if he’s a writer.”

“You’re no writer. Stephen King’s a writer. He works hard, and sells millions of books. And I hope that scary bear from the final scene comes and devours you so I never have to hear…so I never have to see you again.”

He looked at Mother, who tried to seem appalled at my outburst. “Hear that?” he said. “She wants the bear to eat me.”

He growled like a bear, and licked his teeth with his repulsive tongue. Mother giggled. I covered my ears, closed my eyes and shook my head.

That night, the apartment echoed with bestial roars and moans from the depths of my worst nightmares.

From that horrible evening on, whenever he suggested restaurants or the cinema, I said I felt unwell. 

Since he’d failed to influence my taste in literature and film, he might’ve thought he could push his crude aesthetics my way. 

One of Mother’s friends had been awarded a show at a gallery located on an avenue known for really important art galleries. We were on our way to join her there for the opening. 

Some contemporary art charlatan had filled one of the gallery shop windows with a rotten mattress dredged up from the river, covered with greenish-brown stains and remnant sewer-weed. He or she’d tied it in half, so it looked like what the hippie girls at school see when they give themselves gynecological exams with their handmirrors. 

He noticed I was looking at this thing and must’ve read my thoughts. He stopped, pointed, leered. “Hey what’s that remind you of?”

Didn’t even think about it. “Your face,” I said. 

A moment passed, in which I thought he might pull a cleaver from his coat. Instead, he laughed maniacally. 

“That’s good,” he said. “You’re ready to face the world.”

The writer took off not long after that incident. Mother was inconsolable. Disgusted with men, she bought a dog, and called him Culo.

Culo was unusual. Unusually large, for starters, and he tended to stare at one. Without even opening that big slobbering mouth of his, which looked disturbingly like an engorged, diseased vagina, he told me, “You’re the writer. Don’t worry if you can’t think of what to write. I’ll tell you.”

Picklesmack

“ASS TO ASS, HARRIET!” Murray Silverman shouts to his wife over the crowd of screaming pickleballers packed into the Fontainebleau Las Vegas luxury suite.

Harriet Silverman is stark naked, kneeling with her palms placed down on a large folding metal table set up in the middle of the suite. Drugged up and stony-eyed, her pupils are dilated while her face is covered in a thin film of cold junk sweat. The inside of her right forearm is rife with track marks, and a large area of flesh around the inside of her elbow has turned a bluish-brownish-green color, swollen and infected with thick yellowish puss oozing out. Her amputated left arm ends in a sewn-off stump above the elbow. A trail of fresh semen runs down her chin from her bottom lip.

Beatrice Goldfarb kneels on all fours on the table beside Harriet, facing the opposite direction. She’s wearing no shirt, just a black lace bra with one shoulder strap ripped and hanging down over her bruised arm. Her pink Lululemon pickleball skirt is hiked up above her waist and she’s wearing no panties. Her ass cheeks are dotted with cigar burns while blood trickles down her right cheek from a set of human teeth marks that punctured her skin. A pickleball paddle lies next to her on the table, its broken-off handle smeared with blood, feces, vaseline and buffalo wing sauce. 

Sidney Goldfarb, Beatrice’s husband and pickleball mixed doubles partner, is standing behind the table between the two women, holding a thick black double-headed silicone dildo above his head and shaking it wildly for the crowd of pickleballers who are thrusting their fists into the air and chanting “ass to ass!” in perfect synchronized harmony.

Sidney looks down at Harriet and Beatrice, and says, “OK, ladies, time for the grand finale – now let’s bring it on home for these hungry ballers!”

“But Sidney, it’s huuurting me,” Beatrice slurs as a fresh stream of pinkish blood-infused piss runs down the inside of her thigh. She gulps, hiccups then vomits up a combination of vodka, semen, stale cheetos and moldy lasagna onto the table in front of her.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Beatrice!” Sidney bellows out and then looks back at Murray, waving his arm forward furiously.

Shaking his head and cursing loudly, Murray storms his way forward, pushing his way through the crowd of cheering pickleballers until he reaches the table where Harriet now lies on her stomach, face down in her own puke. He grabs the back of Harriet’s long filthy disheveled gray hair and wraps it tightly around his fist. With a quick strong snap of his wrist, he violently yanks and twists Harriet’s head up and around so that her sweat-drenched face is just inches from his own.  

“Listen to me, goddamnit!” Murray screams at Harriet. “The national senior pickleball tournament starts in two fucking days and we need – I repeat need – this money to pay the entry fees!” Murray clenches and twists his fist harder around Harriet’s hair while his face contorts into a psychotic scowl. “So you’re going ass to ass with Beatrice or you’re getting tossed off that fucking balcony onto the Las Vegas fucking Strip! Now pick it the fuck up and get back on your goddamn knees, Harriet!” 

With a quick hard downward shoulder pivot and forearm thrust, Murray slams Harriet’s face into the metal table, crushing her cheekbone and breaking three of her front teeth, then jerks her head back up just as quickly. With his free hand, he grabs an open plastic bottle of cold water from the table and raises it to Harriet’s dried cracked lips – allowing her to take a long pull – then splashes the rest of the water into her face. “Hopefully that’ll wake your ass up,” he mutters as he throws the bottle to the floor.

Refreshed by the cold water, Harriet rises back up to her knees and nods slowly at Murray while spitting a tooth out. “OK, peaches,” she mumbles through her broken teeth. “You know I want that pickleball title just as bad as you do, and I’ll do whatever it takes. But I need my fix first, Murray, I need it now! Please please please go get Roach!”

Murray nods his head to Harriet then looks over to a large muscle-bound black man standing at the end of the table five feet away and watching them closely. The man is wearing red leather pants, a pair of Air Jordan 4 “Cactus Jack” Retros, and an open red leather vest over a six-pack stomach and chiseled pecs, with bulging tattooed biceps crossed over his chest. He wears a wide-brim black fedora on his head with a black mink scarf wrapped around his neck.

“Yo, Roach!” Murray shouts to the man over the crowd noise and waves him over.

Roach walks over to Murray with raised eyebrows while Sidney joins them with the black dildo still in his hand. “What the fuck’s goin’ on here, Silverman?” Roach asks. “I got me some high-payin’ clients gettin’ impatient here, dog! So you better jump start that skanky-ass ho and get her ass back to work, mothafucka!”

“Don’t sweat it, homeboy,” Murray says to Roach. “My girl’s all good, she just needs some more of the he-ro. Know what I’m sayin’?”

“What the fuck, Murray!” Roach exclaims, shaking his head and then nodding toward Harriett, who’s staring at them from the table through vacant zoned-out eyes and hooded eyelids. “That nasty-ass bitch already shot up so much of my junk she nearly put my black ass outta business! An’ you pickleballin’ niggas already owe me big, man! So how the fuck am I gonna get paid for givin’ her flaccid white ass mo’ my junk. Murray?”

“We got you, brotha’,” Murray says. “We ballin’ hard this week at the senior natties, bringin’ home some fat stacks, yo. We payin’ you back plus interest, a’ight?”

Roach turns his head and looks at his cousin, Poptart, who now stands next to Roach after walking over from the back of the suite. “What you think, Pops? Should I trust these pickleballin’ fools with mo’ my skag?”

Poptart studies Murray closely and then glances over at Harriet. He looks back to Roach, shrugs his shoulders and says, “These niggas can ball, cuz. My brotha’ Curtis saw ’em play up in Pepper Pike back when he was hustlin’ up around that way. Said they f’real. I say give that pickleballin’ ho some mo’ smack, then her’n the other bitch can go ass to ass, then they make us some green at the senior natties.”

Roach nods his head in agreement, then looks over to Murray and Sidney. “A’ight boys. We’ll tune yo’ bitches up with the H, but then we better be gettin’ some ass to ass. No mo’ ’scuses, dig?”

Murray nods to Roach and extends his closed fist. “We good, dog. Just hit ’em between the toes, those stems can’t take any more of the beast.”

Roach bumps Murray’s fist and then leans over and whispers something into Poptart’s ear. Poptart nods and walks over to the bedroom door, opens it and walks through, then closes it behind him. About a minute later, Poptart emerges from the bedroom, walks over and hands a plastic zip-lock bag to Roach.

Roach turns to Harriet, then leans down to the table and whispers gently into her ear. “Shhh, just lay down and relax, baby girl, papa bear got just what you need.” 

“Thank you, daddy,” Harriet whimpers in a soft voice as she turns over onto her stomach. She bends her right knee and raises her foot to where Roach can hold it with one hand. Using his free hand, Roach places a hypodermic needle between two of Harriet’s toes. After looking closely for a usable vein, Roach drives the sharp needle through the web of her toes and presses his thumb down on the plunger, slowly injecting a clear fluid into her foot. Almost immediately, Harriet turns over and rolls her head back while closing her eyes. She opens her mouth halfway and smiles up at the ceiling in pure dope euphoria.

Roach gently pets Harriet’s damp matted hair back while planting a soft kiss on her forehead. “Now that’s my baby girl,” he whispers as he checks her pulse and gazes into her cold empty eyes.

After injecting Beatrice the same way as Harriet, Roach looks over to Murray and Sidney with Poptart at his side. “OK, fellas, we got your pickle-bitches nice and warmed up, now let’s get ‘em back to–”

“Oh fuck!” Poptart shouts, cutting off Roach while looking back at the table.

Roach, Murray and Sidney all look over and follow Poptart’s startled gaze.

Harriet and Beatrice are both convulsing violently on the table while scratching furiously at their faces with their mouths foaming. Behind them, the “ass to ass” crowd chant stops and the room goes completely silent.

Sidney looks at the two women curiously and asks, “Why are they doing that?”

“Bitches be codin’!” screams Poptart.

“Coding?” asks Sidney.

“OD’ing!” shouts Roach. “They’re overdosing, man!” 

Roach scowls at Poptart and asks, “Which fuckin’ needle you give me, nigga?”

Poptart grabs the needle out of Roach’s hand and looks closely at a marking on the barrel. He opens his mouth and raises his eyebrows. “Oh snap!” he says. “We gave those bitches the fetty by accident!”

“Fetty?” Murray and Sidney ask in unison.

“Fentanyl,” Roach answers while shaking his head at Poptart. “Pure grade A fuckin’ fentanyl.” 

“Well don’t you have one of those adrenaline needles, like in Pulp Fiction?” asks Sidney.

Roach and Poptart look at each other and laugh. “No, dumbass!” Roach exclaims between laughs. “They only got that shit in the movies.” 

After reading from his smartphone, Murray looks up and says, “It says here that you can use something called Narcan. You guys got any of that?”

Poptart nods his head and replies, “Yeah but we only got like two spray bottles left, an’ that shit expensive as fuck now with inflation an’ all.”

Murray nods back to Poptart and says, “No worries, we understand. Goddamn inflation is killing us all. Fuckin’ Bidenomics!”

Roach nods and says, “Tell me about it, yo. Fuckin’ loaf of bread at WinCo cost me like $5.99 now. I used to pay $2 tops for that shit!”

Poptart chimes in, “Costed me $65 to fill up my gas tank yes’day! I mean what the fuck!”

Sidney nods and says, “I hear you, man. What the hell did they think was gonna happen with the feds printing money as fast as they could cut down trees the past four years!”

Roach and Poptart both nod their heads. “Amen to that, brotha’,” Roach mutters.

Back on the table, Harriet has gone completely still while Beatrice is choking on her tongue with her eyes bulging out and hands desperately throttling her throat as her mouth continues to foam.

“Y’all think Trump’ll be any better, though?” Poptart asks.

“He ain’t Biden!” Roach pipes up with a quick chuckle.

“True ’dat,” Sidney says, fist-bumping Roach while Murray nods in agreement.

“I’m worried about those 25% tariffs on Canada and Mexico he be talkin’ ’bout though,” Poptart says, shaking his head.

“He just tryna’ protect American industry, yo,” Murray replies.

“Yeah, I hear ya’,” Roach says thoughtfully, stroking his chin. “But the macro effects could be catastrophic in the long term, know what I’m sayin’?”

“I guess we’ll just have to see,” Sidney replies, shrugging his shoulders.

“Still can’t believe a convicted felon got elected president, yo,” Poptart quips.

“Wasn’t for nothin’ bad – just payin’ off a ho,” Roach replies.

They all look at each other, nodding in agreement.

Roach and Poptart glance back at the table, where Beatrice has just gasped her last breath after choking on her vomit. She and Harriet both lie on their backs, gape-mouthed with their dead eyes staring up at the ceiling.

Roach shakes his head and then looks out to the crowd of pickleballers, shouting, “Sorry folks, bitches croaked, party’s over. Y’all gotta bounce so we can clean up the mess over here.” He adds, “An’ y’all ain’t gettin’ yo’ money back, neitha’, so don’t even ask. Not our fault these pickleballin’ hos flaked on us.”

“What about ass to ass?” a voice shouts out from the crowd.

“Sorry, not tonight, boys,” Roach replies. 

“At least not with these stiff-ass bitches!” Poptart adds with a laugh.

Roach and Poptart both laugh while Murray and Sidney shake their heads with a chuckle. 

“You guys are baaad!” Murray says with a sly grin.

“All kidding aside, guys,” Sidney says, nodding his head back to the table. “This Harriet and Beatrice situation poses a real logistical problem for us.”

“How so?” Poptart asks with a puzzled expression.

“Yeah, Sid, do tell,” Murray chimes in.

Sidney looks at them sternly and says, “We have a mixed doubles pickleball tournament in two days, but now we have no mixed doubles. Harriet and Beatrice may’ve turned themselves into hopeless junkies over the past few months to raise money to feed their pickleball habits, but they were damn good doubles partners. Even playing with only one arm after Roach was forced to amputate the other one, Harriet could pickleball circles around every other woman on the court.” He shakes his head and sighs. “And now we have no one.”

“Sorry for your loss, man,” Poptart says, putting his hand on Sidney’s shoulder and giving it a sympathetic squeeze.

“Damnit!” screams Murray, turning to Poptart. “What the fuck is wrong with you, Poptart! How the hell could you confuse the two needles? They could not have been more clearly marked! I mean did they seriously not teach your dope smokin’ grape koolaid sippin’ ass how to read in whatever inner city metal detectin’ free lunch voucherin’ teen pregnancyin’ gangsta rappin’ straightouttacomptonin’ motherfuckin’ public school—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, slow down, Murray!” Roach interjects. “Don’t blame Poptart for what happened. And besides, I got an idea.”

Everyone looks at Roach and, after a pause, Sidney speaks up. “Well? Enlighten us, Einstein.”

Roach smiles, then walks back to the bedroom and returns about thirty seconds later holding a small bag in his hand. He pulls out two blond wigs and throws one to Poptart. Roach puts his wig on and motions for Poptart to do the same.

Roach looks over at Sidney and Murray with a wide grin. “Looks like you two mothafuckas just found your new mixed doubles partners!”

Sidney, Murray, Roach and Poptart all clench their fists, raise their arms and extend their hands in unison for a group fist-bump. Sidney looks to each of them with a smile while nodding his head and says, “Let’s go ballin’, boys.”

memories of a shooting gallery

you know we’re surrounded, right? look at it this way. famine, plagues, diseases, natural disasters. they’ve all been explained in theories, in books, by smart people. they don’t exist because they’ve been explained. we live in a trouble-free society, up until a smart dude from the future writes about the problems that plague us and we learn about them if we’re not dead and the whole things starts all over again, more problems eradicated because we know what causes them and fuck them, man. starvation is caused by hungry multinational corporations taking advantage of people living in poor countries that were harvested and abused by imperialistic colonizing nations that needed cheap labor force. it’s been fucking explained, we don’t need to bother, we have the explanation and the solution. theoretically. who gives a fuck about reality. it doesn’t matter, does it?

Stephan had entered one of his oh so many motherfucking soliloquies and all we could do was listen because we were too damn high on something to punch him out. he blabbered on and on about the evils of explaining, like it was something he could control, or something we were responsible for. none of us cared. in our high, he was highly amusing.

when the tanks fired the first shots, no one moved. missiles razed down buildings and thousands of corpses littered the streets, praying for someone to bury them before the unholy monsters violated their righteousness. no one moved, because the flames leaped high, burning god’s throne and god didn’t stir a muscle; why would he, after all, like he gives a damn. we stared at corpses being raped by hungry mongrels and we knew we were next and we refused to act. 

Aphrodite brought some sanity in the beginning. the med student, the one that tried to save us from the purge of the drug. I remember she came to me with a practiced speech about junk and its consequences. I listened, because her breasts were two magnificent, firm melons begging to be eaten and her legs long and thin, just the way I like them, yet I’d never quit dope because I needed the numbness. life sucked enough the way it was, I couldn’t go back to sobriety, I tried it for a few weeks and it fucking sucked hairy horse balls. the med student with the good intentions became an addict and we shot from the same needle. we fucked too; we didn’t care about prolonging our lives, we had absolutely nothing to live for.

Stephan had grown up in the suburbs, loving family, many friends. prom king too, if I recall correctly, and had been accepted to the ivy leagues. he never went. he wanted to visit other places, see other people, feel other things. he did. in africa, somewhere in the jungles, he tasted some drugs, then he found opium. finally, meth, the baddest bitch alive, got a hold of him; never let go. I cook his ice, so he won’t slice my throat in the dead of the night, like he did to Nick and Piper. I’m safe, because I’m not an agent of the invading aliens that want to turn earth into an amusement park.

from where we sat we couldn’t see the flesh-eating bugs, but they were there, or so we were told by the screaming deadmen shambling around with their noses or ears or eyes missing and they trotted away; we stayed. it was the flesh that kept our souls trapped, perhaps losing our skin would liberate us. nothing happened, the homicidal bugs never came for us. we were too rotten, they said, we had nothing nutritious to offer. we made peace with them and helped them find more victims.

it was easy to find more people; in every church, in every school, in every 7/11, there was one, or twenty, longing for salvation. we offered it, abundantly. we were there, all the fucking time, hidden in a needle, at the tip of a dirty glass pipe. we couldn’t hide but we were tough to find. here it was, the moment of truth, when the priest had a taste. a man of the cloth converted in seconds. ever since, only three-headed demons visited his dreams and the screams, oh the wails breaking the dead of the night were ghoulish. he’d work up a sweat, shoot, then go back to sleep. till one night I grew tired of his shrieks and cut his tongue. next morning, he preached to us using sign language. he lost his hands the same afternoon. finally, he lost his cock. he was still alive, but would gawk into nothingness with his gouged eyes and would smile his toothless smile every five damn minutes. till someone got tired of him, I can’t remember who, and shot him in the head. even the remnants of his brain decorating the dirty wall smiled and preached. we had to clean up the mess and we did because we couldn’t live near anything that reminded us of the greener field we had rejected when the first angel abandoned heaven, thus commencing the story of the world.

we wrote the books too, the stories retold countless of times, in countless of versions. we were the first, the ones who said let there be light, and we never thought of the consequences. how can gods be so reckless? it’s easy, power comes with responsibilities but our minds were numb and we didn’t know. 

Stephan blathered on again, another nonsensical monologue until someone finally shot him in the head. his destroyed cranium kept on talking and we stomped it until there was nothing but splatter on the floor and on the walls. we never cleaned it up. the bugs got it for us. we just stayed, idle. 

the needle was hot when it entered the vein and cold when it came out. the mind was always numb. the dragons dancing in the living room were real but could not breathe fire ‘cause they were too tired to do so. all they wanted was to dance and they did, they performed the charleston for us and we laughed and applauded. then they died, on the spot, when snipers took them out. 

we were once again spared. we begged for death, quick or slow didn’t matter, but nothing happened. we saw it all, the destruction of everything, the explosion of the universe, and what else have you, yet we remained. Stephan couldn’t preach, the dragons weren’t there to dance for our amusement, and when Aphrodite took her clothes off and posed as the ancient goddess she was, we all raped her, and she enjoyed it more than she should and we lost our hardons because her moans were of ecstasy.

the bullets came through the window and the door and the men in black barged in. PARTY’S OVER MOTHERFUCKERS!!!! they bawled and started shooting blindly. we sat still, hoping for the bullet that would spell salvation. never came for me. the others were dead, I was alive. Aphrodite lay on the floor, naked, covered in cum, begging for more. the men in black did her a favor and fucked her in front of me.

I wasn’t naked. I never raped. I just shot. they were done. and dead. the men in black became nothing more than shadows with no substance. she guffawed. she got up, got dressed, kissed me. it was just us…it felt right.

we shot again. what happened? we asked each other, then cackled.

it wasn’t over. it’s never over. 

another needle heated.

nothing else made sense. only the returning dragons that did a waltz for us, then we killed them, cooked them, ate them. 

finally, we danced the tango, with needles hanging from our arms.

A Toenail Thing

“SORRY, I KNOW I’M NEW AT THIS, BUT ISN’T THAT CANNIBALISM?” I ask Carol through the mouth opening of my black latex bondage hood as I turn my head around to look up at her. Before she can answer, I add, “And if it is cannibalism, how does that fall into any of the BDSM categories?”

I’m lying on my stomach on a crumpled bed in a cheap dingy Motel 6 suite while Carol sits comfortably on the back of my bare upper thighs with her bent legs firmly straddling my hips. She wears shiny black thigh-high faux leather boots attached by garter straps to a tightly-laced black vinyl corset. In her right hand she grips the shaft of a braided black leather flogger, now rested at her side after our light warm-up session, while holding silver metal nail clippers in her left hand. After I turn my head around, she thrusts the nail clippers into my face and snarls at me.

I joined this BDSM dating website just a week ago after a long spell of unsuccessful online dating through more mainstream sites in the two years since my divorce. Though I’d never tried BDSM, or anything too kinky, I’ve always been drawn to pushy domineering women (and vice versa) so I figured BDSM may be my bag. After a little internet research, I registered on the site as a “sub” (submissive) seeking a relationship with a “dom” (dominant), hoping for a match. Carol is my first date.

Carol is angry now and glares down at me through the small eye openings of her face mask. “Do you even know what BDSM stands for, you submissive little bitch?” she asks me harshly while raising her right hand and flicking her wrist so that the leather tails of her flogger fly back behind its neck.

“Yes,” I reply eagerly. I’m exhilarated and energized by the threat of another flogging. “I googled ‘BDSM’ last week before I registered on the website; it’s an acronym for bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism.” My heart rate picks up in excitement and anticipation as I watch Carol brandish her flogger.

“You forgot domination and submission, you fucking imbecile,” Carol barks at me while cocking her right arm and readying the flogger for another downward attack.

I acknowledge her with a quick nod. “I understand, but domination and submission are redundant of other letters already in the BDSM acronym so they’re included under the D and S letters for discipline and sadism. It’s just cleaner that way instead of having duplicate letters.”

Carol rolls her eyes at me with an exasperated smirk while lowering the flogger to her side. “OK, Wordsworth, so which of those BDSM letters are you?”

I think about this for a moment, then reply, “Well, like I said, I’m new to this so I’m still trying to figure out which BDSM subgenre suits me best,” then add, “But under any conceivable definition of the BDSM categories, I really don’t think that cannibalism qualifies.”

Carol purses her shiny black glossed lips then nods in agreement. “OK,” she responds hesitantly, “But it isn’t really cannibalism per se if I just want you to eat my toenails and not any actual body part.”

I flash Carol an empathetic smile, then try my best to ease her obvious discomfort without being patronizing. “Well,” I explain patiently, “I never took an anatomy class but I do think that toenails are considered a body part. I mean, think about it, they may not have nerve endings or sensitivity but they couldn’t exist without a human to attach to – right?”

Carol nods coolly, reluctantly acknowledging my sound logic. “OK, but going back to the BDSM categories, if the point is to inflict pain on me when you remove my toenails, then I think that’s either sadism or masochism even if the eating part is technically cannibalism.”

I nod politely then ask as diplomatically as possible, “Well, if you want me to inflict pain on you, then why are you handing me nail clippers? Aren’t those supposed to clip your nails painlessly instead of just ripping them off your toes, and thereby inflicting pain? I don’t mean to be difficult, Carol, but it just seems like me using nail clippers on you is antithetical to the whole BDSM routine.” I pause then add, “And also, if you’re the ‘dom’ and I’m the ‘sub’ in this scenario, then aren’t you the one supposed to be inflicting pain and not me?”

Carol looks down at me silently. Her large brown eyes – so fierce and confident just moments ago – now look sad and doleful like a puppy lost outside in the rain.

Unable to restrain myself after sensing Carol’s vulnerability (and smelling weakness), I pounce like a jungle predator: “Carol, I don’t mean to be rude – and I’m sorry to be so forward – but have you ever done this before?”

Carol blushes deeply and turns her head to avert her eyes from mine. 

I feel Carol squirm uneasily on top of me and sense her embarrassment like a sharp pang in my chest. I feel horrible knowing that I’ve humiliated and disrespected Carol in her “dom” role, and I can tell that I’ve violated some cardinal rule of BDSM etiquette. Maybe this isn’t my game after all.

Thinking quickly, I do my best to backtrack and rehabilitate myself with Carol. “I’m so sorry, Carol, I don’t mean to be a prick, I’m just new to this – it’s literally my first date since I joined the BDSM website – so I’m still not really sure how it works. If you’re still feeling your way along here too, that’s totally cool – we’re both taking this journey together, like exploring a new city that we’ve never visited before.”

Carol relaxes and I can feel the tension drain from her body. She pulls off her face mask and looks at me with a shy grin. “Actually, yeah, I am new to this. It’s only my third BDSM date. The first guy made me slap him with a hog crop then peg him with this silicone strap-on that he brought to the hotel in his backpack, and the second guy cut himself on his ankle spreader bar then just ran out of the room.” 

She sighs deeply then continues, “But they both felt so sure about what they wanted that I didn’t feel comfortable asking them to do my toenail thing,” and adds, “With you I just felt so much more relaxed and confident, like I could ask you for anything and you wouldn’t judge me.” 

Tears begin to well up in Carol’s eyes. She ungrips her leather flogger, which falls lightly onto the bedspread, then raises her right hand to her face and wipes the budding tears from her eyes before they can cascade down her flushed cheeks.

I turn over on the bed then pull off my bondage hood and lay it beside me on the bedspread so that Carol and I are facing each other. I reach my right hand to her face and gently stroke her cheek with the back of my fingers. “I get it, Carol, I really do – and I’m sorry to make you feel so self-conscious and uncomfortable. That’s really not my intent.”

Carol lowers her face and gazes down at my bare chest while nodding slowly. She reaches her hands out and removes the small metal clamps that she’d fastened to my nipples during our warm-up session. I feel a warm tear drop from her face to my solar plexus and watch it trickle down over my side, gaining speed as it passes over my rib cage then onto the bedspread. “Most guys I meet just aren’t into my toenail thing, so that’s why I joined the BDSM site. I just thought maybe I’d meet someone who’s more open to it.”

I take a deep breath then say, “I thought we really hit it off at dinner – we both love sushi thai and had so much to talk about with our careers and goals and hobbies and everything – but the whole BDSM part of this date is kind of going off the rails and not how I expected.” I add, “Honestly, I don’t even know what to expect, this being my first time and all, but I don’t want this to ruin our date. I really do like you and I hope that you like me. Maybe we can just hit the rewind button and start this part over?”

Carol nods her head vigorously in agreement while wiping her eyes again. She looks relieved and refreshed. “I feel the same way, I really like you and don’t want to screw this up over my toenail thing.”

I smile up at her, pleased with myself for reviving her spirits.

Carol raises her eyebrows then asks with renewed vigor, “Wanna go back to my condo to watch a movie?”

“Sounds awesome,” I reply with a reassuring grin, “Any specific movie in mind?”

“Of course,” Carol replies with a suggestive smile, “Edward Scissorhands … I really like him.” 

A few hours later, we’re at Carol’s condo after stopping on the way for gelato. Dressed back in our civilian clothes, we’re nestled together on her living room sofa watching the final scene of Edward Scissorhands, which Carol is thoroughly enjoying. She turns toward me and lifts her far leg over my lap then begins to grind her crotch against my thigh.

“I love this part,” Carol whispers into my ear as she begins to grind harder, “The way that Edward uses his scissors to save Winona Ryder is so fucking hot.”

“Right!” I agree enthusiastically. 

The movie ends after Edward stabs and kills that what’s-his-name nerd kid from Breakfast Club (and Sixteen Candles and Weird Science). As the credits begin to roll, Carol purrs into my ear while continuing to grind my thigh, “Wanna play Edward Scissorhands?”

“Sounds great,” I reply. Though I’m not quite sure what this game entails, I don’t want to be a buzzkill again after our date was barely rescued earlier at the Motel 6. Everything is going well now, but I know that can change on a dime with Carol if I say the wrong thing.

Carol beams at me then jumps up from the sofa. “Cool!” she exclaims, “Just stay here while I go put on my dominatrix outfit and get my scissors!”

“Carol, that’s OK,” I say before she runs off to her bedroom. “You don’t have to bother changing your clothes—,”

But before I can finish my sentence, Carol quickly pivots then strikes me with a hard open-handed slap across my face, which immediately stings while my face burns hot. “I’m the one giving the orders, you fucking slave! Now you’ll sit there, keep your goddamn mouth shut and wait for me like mommy’s little boy-whore!”

I curl up on the sofa and nod to her dutifully with my best sad-eyed Edward Scissorhands face, reminding myself to stick to my submissive role in Carol’s exciting new game.

A few minutes later, Carol exits her bedroom decked out in a skintight full-body black vinyl catwoman suit and a new face mask with feline ears protruding from the sides. She struts into the kitchen on black stiletto heels and opens a drawer beneath the marble countertop next to the refrigerator. She looks and then rifles furiously through the drawer with both hands. After about a minute of searching through all her kitchen drawers, she pounds her fist against the countertop and bellows, “Goddamnit! I can’t find my scissors. I must’ve taken them to work and left them there!”

Carol enters the living room, looks at me sternly with the nail clippers that she now holds firmly in her right hand, then points them at me. “I guess these’ll just have to do. Now sit up and take your shirt off!” she commands me.

“Wait a minute, I’m confused,” I say, “Aren’t I supposed to be Edward? And even if you’re Edward, he never used nail clippers.”

Carol nods silently to herself, walks back to the kitchen then returns holding a large carving knife in her right hand with the nail clippers in her left.

“A kitchen knife?” I ask, barely able to conceal my surprise.

Carol clearly is frustrated and looks at me impatiently for a moment before responding. “It’s a knife, why does it matter what it’s supposed to be used for?” Her voice quivers when she shouts out her next command, “Now just shut the fuck up and strip!”

I’m unable to subdue the laughter that escapes my throat. “But Carol,” I explain in between laughs, “There are special BDSM knives and daggers. Nobody uses kitchen knives. I thought you just wanted to poke around, not carve me up like a pot roast!”

Once again, I push too far and let my mouth get the best of me. “And you still have the nail clippers! Carol, is this whole Edward Scissorhands game just a ploy to get me to eat your toenails again?”

Carol’s face reddens like an electric stovetop while she looks up to the ceiling and  screams something unintelligible, then flings her knife and nail clippers across the room at the wall. She drops to the floor with her hands pressed to her face, then turns on her side and begins to weep uncontrollably in front of the sofa.

I hop up and lift her onto the sofa, where she lies down then hugs her knees to her chest and curls up into a ball. She rocks back and forth in this fetal positon while her weeping intensifies.

I wrap my arms around Carol’s shoulders and feel her shaking like a poodle while her violent sobs continue. I try to calm her down with quiet soothing shhh whispers.

After a minute or two, Carol’s sobbing slows down and she looks up at me with tear-stained cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m just so fucking bad at this. I’ve never used a knife on anyone before, but watching Edward just gave me the idea and got me in the mood.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK,” I whisper softly into her ear while gently caressing her hair. 

Carol’s sobs subside while I massage her arms and shoulders to loosen her tension. After a few moments, she looks up at me in embarrassment and says, “Sorry I’m such a hot mess tonight. I’m trying too hard to fit into this dominatrix role and it’s just not happening for me.”

I smile back at her while giving her upper arm a gentle squeeze. “Tell you what, why don’t we just shelve the BDSM play for tonight and take a bottle of wine out onto the balcony? It’s a beautiful night.” I nod my head toward the balcony with a wink.

Carol sits up on the sofa and looks out the sliding glass door to the balcony, then turns back to me with a smile. “Sounds perfect,” she says with a quiet sniffle. She stands up from the sofa and walks to the kitchen where she pulls a bottle of wine from the refrigerator and takes two wine glasses from a wood cabinet above the countertop. She walks over to the balcony door, looks over at me with a grin and nods her head toward the balcony. “C’mon, let’s go outside.”

I walk over to Carol and take the wine bottle from her so that she can use her free hand to open the sliding glass door to the balcony while holding the wine glasses in her other hand. We walk out onto the balcony then sit on cushioned chairs on either side of a small patio table where Carol sets down the wine glasses, take the bottle from my hand and pours us each a half glass. 

I raise my glass and nod to Carol to do the same. I look out over the balcony rail into the starry black night sky then turn back to Carol with a soft smile. I extend my glass toward hers and toast, “Here’s to our first date, and to your toenail thing.”

Carol giggles as we clink glasses and says, “To our first date, and the end of my toenail thing. I’m over it.”

We both turn our heads to look out past the balcony and sip from our wine glasses. I move my hand across the patio table and place it atop hers on the armrest of her chair. We sit quietly and enjoy the comfortable silence while taking in the beautiful night. 

My heartbeat slows down and I close my eyes. I feel perfectly calm and at ease. I open my eyes when I feel Carol’s soft warm lips gently kiss my cheek. I look over at her with a smile.

Carol leans up in her chair and moves the patio table forward so that she can pull her chair next to mine. She rests her head against my shoulder. “I’m so glad I met you,” she says as she raises her soft brown eyes to mine.

I squeeze her hand as we drink our wine and gaze out into the serene night sky.

Neither of us speak a word.

Tippytoe

It’s always the young girls. The new hires. They are the ones who haven’t learned yet that filing a complaint doesn’t do anything. They think their voices matter. That just because they speak, people will listen. No one is listening. 

I place a plastic container of storebought oatmeal raisin cookies on the counter in the breakroom. The clamshell crinkles like it might crumple in my hands. Grace comes in, always a little late, smelling of freesia and powder and hair that has been heated and sprayed and twisted into pleasing shapes, all smooth curves.  I always make sure I am early for work, the first car in the lot in the first parking spot, even if I am a little rumpled. I turn to her and offer her a cookie. Her nose twitches in distaste, which she tries to mask with politeness. 

“Oh! No thank you, Martha. I don’t like raisins.” She pulls back from me, recoiling.  I look down at my outstretched hand holding a cookie out to her.  My fingers look gray and grubby next to her skin, nails cracked with something brown caked under the longest one. To my horror, I realize it’s blood. I’d awakened with a bloody nose this morning in the dry air of my house, cat hair heating to a kindling in the furnace vents. I thought I had cleaned my hands properly, scrubbing until the skin practically cracked under scalding water, and yet there was the blood.  I withdrew my hand, tossing the cookie in the garbage and tucking the tips of my fingers into the back of my waistband out of sight. I reflexively looked at Liv’s nails. Smooth. Peach. Feminine. Like a doll. I almost reached out with my other hand to touch hers, to twist her skin roughly beneath mine, but with a startle I remembered to stop myself. Grace seems to be holding her breath, letting out a long sigh as she turns towards her cubicle. She has this way of walking on her tippy toes like a mean little cat or a shitty child.  

It seems no matter what I try, it is never right. Never the right cookie. Never the right clothes. Never the right thing to say. Always with the blood under the nails and not the peach nail polish. I try to imagine peach paint on my fingernails clashing against my ruddy skin. No one wants to see peach nail polish on a woman with clotted pouches of flesh under her eyes and knuckles cracked to bleeding.  

That afternoon we have a team meeting. All the employees go to the conference room and sit around the big oval table with the dinged-up edges surrounded by swivel chairs, and we drink Tim Horton’s coffee out of a box and paper cups. My younger colleagues think it’s funny to call it Timmy Ho’s, which I find classless.  The screen at the front of the room reads “Third Quarter Strategic Planning.” Our boss, Charles, a stiff man in a stiff blazer stands at the head of the table flipping through a folder with spreadsheets to hand out to all of us. He dims the lights and starts the presentation. 

Grace sits a few seats down from me, and as the presentation gets on, I stand up and make my way out like I am going to the bathroom. I have been waiting for weeks for an opportunity like this. It’s like it is meant to happen. I pull my scissors from my cardigan pocket. Grace’s hair is draped perfectly over the back of her seat, and with one smooth movement, I snip a long, coiled curl and cup it in my fist. She darts her eyes up at me when I go past, but she hadn’t heard the snipping sound. I can tell. Brody cocks a smirk at her. They hate me, but they don’t know what I’ve done. 

In one of the bathroom stalls. I unfurl my fingers to look at the soft dark hair in my hand. The lights are so bright in here and everything so white that orbs of light pulse at the periphery of my vision, the floaters in my eyes set off like star shine. The neat little whorl looks like a rodent pet in my palm. It had started to stick to the sweat in my first, but that’s okay. I touch my nose to it and breath in. My own hair smells like old cooking oil. I have never understood how girls get their hair to smell this fresh. It’s almost as if they weren’t even living things, incapable of decay. 

I don’t know where else to put her hair until I get home, so I shove the pretty lock down in my underwear. I just tuck it in the front there. I want all the hairs to stay together, and my pocket is too big and loose. At least here it will be out of sight and kept tight. 

As I wash my hands and straighten my sweater in the mirror, I imagine how Grace’s face will look when she realizes a chunk of hair is missing. The way her mouth will fall open. The way her hands will claw at her hair, checking to see if anymore is missing. A stupid, “What the fuck?” will come out of her mouth. Such a dumb phrase from the plump little lips of very dumb girls. I can’t help but smile back at myself in the mirror. I might be ugly, but at least I’m smart. 

When I get back to the meeting room, the presentation is wrapping up. The lights come on, and Brent is looking at the back of Grace’s hair, his forehead bubbling up in guttered lines of confusion, his beady predator eyes squinting behind his cheap, ironically large glasses. My face goes hot, and I look around for something to do to look busy. I start cleaning off the napkins and paper cups from the conference table.  A small group is gathering around Grace to inspect her hair. Heads are shaking back and forth. I head back to my desk and bury my face in my computer screen, busy, busy. 

When the end of the workday comes, I slowly pack up my things, making sure to head by the break room to throw away the cookie container. To my surprise, it is still full. A stab of shame passes through my chest. I tried to do something nice and not one person cares or notices. Walking through the office holding my rejected cookies, I see Grace in Charles’s office, her hands gesturing like my own marionette. She points to the spot on the back of her head where a large chunk is missing. I bury a smile. Our manager looks bored, his eyes drifting to the clock on the wall. Time to go home. Time for a drink.

In my car, I pretend to look busy, like I am looking at my phone. I wait there as Grace tippytoe-walks to her perfect little car. New. Clean. The trick when following someone is to let them follow you first. I back out of my spot, timing things just right so she will be the car directly behind mine. I drive slowly out of the parking lot, nice and normal. Not too fast, not too slow. She’s in my rearview mirror, safe in her box. When I see her turn off, I do a U-turn in the darkening streets. Again, it seems fortuitous that there are no other cars around, and I proceed down the road where she had turned. Soon enough, there she is in front of me on the little two-lane road. Her head bobs along to something poppy on the radio, her shoulders doing a little shimmy. I pull up close behind her and turn on my brights so she can’t see me. Her speed slows. I bet her road rage is prickling at the nape of her neck where her hair is missing. It has been a bad day for Grace. She sits up straighter in her seat. She is trying to make me angry by going too slow, but she doesn’t know I like this kind of game. I don’t care if she brings her car all the way to a stop, just me and her out here on this road after dark. 

I am reaching that point though. The one where I must decide if I am going to go through with this or not. Right now, she doesn’t know it’s me behind her. Nothing has happened. Yet. Sure, she slandered my name to our boss today. I might get called into his office in the morning for a chat, though I am good at playing dumb. Wouldn’t be the first time. But right now, I have a choice to make. I can pull over and let her continue down the road to her safe little apartment with her pet cat, her roommate, and her Tuesday night television. Or I continue this game just a little bit longer. I need to commit. Because when I do, she will have to see me. I think of the way she looks at me every day like I am vile, the way she whispers and giggles with Brody like I don’t understand I am the butt of all their jokes, the way she tattled on me to Charles. 

I imagine the road unfurling in front of her headlights. I imagine just about how far she can see. I know all the roads in this town, and Grace couldn’t have chosen to drive down a more perfect one to get home. Again. Fortuitous. I begin to edge my little Honda hatchback over the double yellow line to start to pass Grace. I press the gas pedal hard with my sneaker, my car lurching forward, my grip tight on the wheel. I want to get right beside her so I can look over and make eye contact one last time. I’m there. This is the moment. I look over at her. She looks back. That expression on her face tells me everything I need to know. Her face shifts from anxious and angry to pure hot disgust. 

I give a little wave and then slowly start to edge my car closer to hers. I move over a little bit. She moves over a little bit. There is a big curve coming up. It is risky for me because I can’t see if there are any oncoming cars to smash into me head-on. The way the day has gone though, I know that isn’t possible. This is supposed to happen. Something out there other than me wants it just as much as I do. I move closer, just inches away from her driver’s side door. She doesn’t have much room to move. I am almost entirely in her lane now. One more little shift closer. Two of her tires find the edge of the pavement. The ravine isn’t directly at the edge of the road, but there is enough of a slant to the shoulder that once she starts to lose control it is all in my hands. She holds the steering wheel with both hands as her tires start to pull off the pavement. Gravel shoots from her tires like buckshot. I easily follow the curve in the road and keep my eyes on the white line. It is tempting to watch. I want to. But I hear her car rip through the guardrail and then silence as it dives through the air. 

Should I go back and check?  Make sure she is dead?  It seems risky. Only a matter of time before another car comes along and notices the hole in the guardrail, the fresh skid marks. Someone will call it in soon enough. Maybe that someone is me. 

Greed-Aid: Press Release

In an era where billionaires struggle to launch themselves into space on mere pocket change, Greed-Aid stands as a beacon of hope for our beleaguered corporate overlords. This star-studded spectacle aims to raise awareness and critical funds for entities that barely scrape by on billions in quarterly profits. The event will feature a lineup of heavily-sponsored artists performing their greatest hits while wearing logos so large they’re visible from failing corporate satellites.

“We’ve seen countless charity events for trivial causes like hunger, disease, and climate change,” says event organizer John Q. Greedhead, adjusting his solid platinum tie pin. “But who speaks for the corporations? Who stands up for the holding companies?” The concert promises to be a transformative experience, with ticket prices starting at the modest sum of one worker’s annual salary.

Greed-Aid will take place in the recently renamed Amazon Prime Gardens (formerly Central Park). The event will feature special VIP experiences, including “Trickle-Down Seating” where wealthy attendees can literally sit above the masses on suspended platforms, allowing their champagne spillage to rain down upon the common folk.

All proceeds will go directly to helping corporations maintain their essential services, such as luxury board retreats and algorithmic employee replacement programs. “It’s time we recognized the real victims,” Greedhead continues, dabbing his eyes with hundred-dollar bills. “Have you seen the price of corporate jets lately? It’s heartbreaking.” 

The public is urged to dig deep into their rapidly depleting savings to support this crucial cause. As our corporate benefactors face the unthinkable prospect of slightly reduced profit margins, we must ask ourselves: if we don’t stand up for billion-dollar companies, who will? 

For more information about how you can help preserve the endangered lifestyle of the 1%, visit http://www.greed-aid.con or contact our platinum-level customer service team at 1-900-CASHGRAB (calls billed at $999.99 per minute, with all proceeds going to executive bonus protection programs.

About Greed-Aid: Founded in the offshore tax haven of your choice, Greed-Aid represents the ultimate evolution of charitable giving – upward mobility of wealth at its finest. We believe in the power of music to open both hearts and wallets, primarily wallets. Our mission is to ensure that no corporation ever has to face the indignity of paying their fair share of taxes or providing living wages to workers.

Contact:

John Q. Greedhead III, Esq.

Chief Exploitation Officer

Greed-Aid Enterprises LLC

Phone: 1-800-FUK-PEPL

Email: golden.parachute@greed-aid.con

Remember: Your support today ensures a brighter tomorrow for those who need it least.

Dividers

I don’t know where I am, but I know I need to go somewhere else. 

I press down hard on the gas pedal and feel my car speed up from 60 to 70 in a second. The broken divider lines painted in the middle of the road pass faster and grow closer together. No cars are approaching from front or behind. I gun down harder on the gas and watch the speedometer hit 80. The divider lines begin to form an unbroken continuum as I accelerate. 

In the distance I see a pair of bright white headlights coming toward me. They grow bigger and brighter as they approach. My speedometer hits 90 and the oncoming headlights begin to illuminate the inside of my car.

I close my eyes.

When I open my eyes, I’m sitting in a bar at night. The only light comes in through a window pane from a tall street lamp in the parking lot. The other bar patrons are just dark silhouettes huddled together at tables spaced across the room with a few more seated at the bar. I see a staircase ascending upwards in the far corner of the room. The first few steps are dark and unlit but the next few steps are dimly lit by a light coming from upstairs. I can’t see above those steps but I want to see what’s upstairs. I stand up from my bar stool and walk toward the staircase but all the bar patrons stop what they’re doing and look at me. A lightbulb above me turns on and shines directly down on me. I must be the only visible object in the room. Everyone can see me. I know the other people are there but I can’t make out their silhouettes while the light above me grows brighter. I have to squint and shield my eyes with my hand to see in front of me. I turn back to the bar and see the bartender looking at me and whispering something to a patron sitting on a bar stool who also turns to look at me.

I walk up to them and say “I’m lost.”

They look back at me and nod their heads in unison but say nothing.

I turn back around to the barroom. The tables are still there but the people are gone. The door to the staircase is closed. I’m alone now.

I close my eyes.

I reopen my eyes and I’m back in my car with the gas pedal pressed to the floor. The speedometer passes 100 and the road dividers are now solid double parallel lines unbroken in space or time. The approaching headlights are now so close and bright that they fill the entire inside of my car. I have to look down to avoid being blinded.

I’m still lost but now I know where I am.

I jerk the steering wheel hard to the left and cross the divider lines.

All goes dark.

Enter the Dragon

Courtney stared at the number written on the piece of paper she held in her hand, which her best friend and partner-in-crime Becky had given her. 

Dare I? she wondered, her eyes flitting to her mobile phone, which lay on the bed beside her. I mean, I was complaining pretty hard to her about the lack of action my pussy’s been getting. She sighed. Things haven’t been the same since James passed away. Not to mention this damn pacemaker I had fitted. Who has heart problems in their 30s? A widow, clearly. 

She closed her eyes and thought about the conversation she’d had with Becky that morning during their Monday coffee, cake and catch-up ritual. 

* * *

“Look, I know a guy,” Becky said, sat at Courtney’s kitchen table. “He’ll sort you out. Trust me,” the blonde bombshell with balloon-like knockers continued. “He’s not the brightest tool in the box, but my God . . .”

“Yeah? Hmm, I don’t know. I mean, I have my toys,” Courtney said. “And Buttons.”

“Christ, you just said you’re gagging for wood! Your tabby cat and toys can’t provide that. Dragon definitely would though.” 

“Dragon? What sort of name is that?!”

Becky scoffed, rolled her eyes and laughed. “To be fair, I didn’t get it at first, but it’s because he has a giant cock.”

“Ah, like a dragon’s?”

“No, because he’s draggin’ on the floor!”

Courtney spat her coffee and howled with laughter. “Oh, you bitch, Becky,” she said, coughing and spluttering, wiping the remnants of hot drink off her chin. “I’ve never heard that expression before.”

“Honest to God, it reaches his knees. Boy’s a freak show.”

“You’re something, girl.”

“I heard he fucked a cross-eyed girl so hard once, that her eyes became straight.”

Both girls laughed.

“But he’s thick, you said. A bit slow?”

“Oh, the lad’s going backwards, he’s that slow,” Becky said. “When I first chatted with him, I told him to come over and hose me down with that giant prick of his. Unfortunately, I left out the ‘giant prick’ part in my message, thinking he’d know what I meant, but he turned up with a bar of soap and his garden hosepipe, ready to wash me down, thinking it was a kink.”  

Courtney scoffed. “Nobody’s that stupid.”

“Trust me, he is. But Jesus, he knows his way ’round a love tunnel. He screwed me inside out, and I think that’s what you need before your big trip away to Tinseltown Island.”

Courtney cupped her coffee mug and nodded. “Well, I could definitely do with loosening up.” 

“Here’s his number,” Becky said, writing it on a piece of scrap paper. “Tell him I sent you.”

“Got a photo of him?”

Becky produced her phone and began scrolling. “Pretty sure I . . . Ah-ha!” she said, turning the mobile to Courtney. “Hunk, right?”

Courtney eyed the picture, spying the large, topless and broad guy, who had shaggy blonde hair. “Beautiful.”

“Yeah, but try not to look at the dent in his head. There’s a metal plate there.”

“What happened?”

“Kicked by a feisty sheep during shearing season. Lucky to be alive, really.”

Courtney’s mouth formed a perfect O. “Poor thing. So, he’s a farmer?”

Becky nodded, eyes darting to the clock on the wall. “Shit, that the time? I need to shoot—I have a hair appointment in town,” she said, swallowing the dregs of her coffee and standing.

“Could you send me that photo, please?” 

“Sure. Must dash!”

The snapshot had pinged through to Courtney’s phone hours later as she lay in bed, and she was unable to resist breaking out her vibrator after examining the picture of the golden-haired stud. 

“Damn, those chest muscles,” she had said, imagining Dragon throwing her around the bedroom. With her free hand, she moulded her pert tit, teasing and pinching the nipple. As one part of her dildo had stimulated her clit and the other plunged her pussy, she climaxed for a fourth time. 

Spent, she lay there, thinking how much she missed sex. 

“Fuck it,” she said, reaching for the number, her hands shaking.

But, as much as she wanted to reach out to Dragon, she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it and had found herself staring at the number until the digits were seared into her brain. 

* * *

Courtney looked at the paper and thought about it again.

“It’s just sex,” she said, biting her lip, envisioning Dragon pounding away at her. A kaleidoscope of butterflies erupted in her gut, her pussy beginning to awaken for more. “Christ, I’ve got such a horny, naughty kitty-cat.” 

The fingers of her free hand slipped between her legs, her mind overtaken by an image of Dragon bending her over her bed, his tongue lashing her from back to front.  

Do it. Do it now, while you have the mind to, a voice whispered inside her head.

“It’s almost midnight,” she muttered, her breath trembling. 

Then, a wicked thought came to her: I’ll text him. Tell him there’s a key to my front door under the welcome mat outside. 

She sent the message.

With a giggle, Courtney threw the bedcovers to one side and stood on trembling legs, her thighs shaking. After steadying herself, she rushed downstairs, took her door key off the bunch, and placed it under the hessian doormat out front. 

Heart pounding, she thought for a split second about retrieving the key. No, never mind. If Becky vouched for him, that’s good enough for me. 

With a titter, she rushed back upstairs to see if he’d texted back. Her face lit up when she noticed the screen to her phone flashing. With a trembling hand, she opened his message: Sure, I can do that for you. See you in the morning. Dragon. Xx

Oh, God. I can’t believe I’m doing this, she thought, heading towards her shower to clean up and trim her pubes. 

When she was done, Courtney got into bed, naked, and tried to sleep. But her mind raced, thinking about waking to the touch of his rough, farming hands. His face buried between her thighs or his mouth nibbling her tits. She squirmed.  

Stop it. She turned the light off and wriggled down in her bed. I’ll never sleep at this rate, she thought, feeling her clit pulse. 

That was the last thought to cross her mind, as sleep took her. 

* * *

An acrid, choking stench awoke her with a cough. Trails of black smoke filled her bedroom. 

“The hell?” she said, bouncing out of bed, sleep and drowsiness lost. She grabbed her gown and slipped her feet into her slippers. 

Sunlight poured through her window. 

Jesus, how long have I slept? 

She rushed out of the room. When Courtney reached the top of the stairs, the smoke alarm located there kicked in, and she had to stand on tippy toes to turn it off.  

She ran downstairs and checked all rooms, finding nothing out of sorts until she arrived at the kitchen. Upon entering it, she spotted a plume of fumes snaking from the oven—the source of all the smoke and commotion.

Before her, sat at the table in coveralls plastered with cow shit, was the behemoth called Dragon. He tore at something ravenously.

She gasped, taking in the heinous scene. Is that . . .? 

It was.

She fell back against the door, the handle jabbing her in the small of her back. The wind sucked from her and she was unable to move.

Dragon held the remnants of Buttons up, snapped off one of the feline’s charred legs (which he’d stripped like a fucking piranha), and ripped into it with his teeth, devouring flesh, blood and gleaming bone as though he were eating ice-cream. 

Done with the leg, he smashed his hands into the cat’s gut, ripping and tearing, shattering the ribcage, shoving partly cooked innards and intestines into his mouth. Blood, gristle and grease splashed everywhere. His huge, chewing maw was a gory mess. 

“Mmm,” he said between mouthfuls, giggling a hick-like, hiccupy laugh, which would have sounded goofy in a different scenario. Dargon licked his fingers and went back for more, pulling the tabby’s tail free and chewing through the sinew and muscle. 

Courtney wanted to vomit, her stomach twisting, as a fresh, hellish smell hit her. “What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed, her face and neck turning red, then purple. Veins protruded from her forehead. 

Pain exploded in her chest and rushed down her arm. 

“You said your pussy was naughty and unruly, that it was playing up, and that you wanted me to come over and sort it out. Teach it a lesson. ‘Eat the fucker,’ you said.” He shrugged and grinned. “Well, I am. The fucker won’t be giving you any more grief, darlin’.” 

He stuffed handfuls of Buttons into his slobbering mouth, whiskers and all, as Courtney slipped down the door she’d collapsed against.

Her heart gave out, her face twisting into a painful, frozen scream.