Last Dance

Sheri entered the Starbucks and ran her red-nailed hand through her platinum blonde hair. As Billie Holliday sang “As Time Goes By” from speakers overhead, her pink heels snagged on the rubber entry mat, and she stumbled forward, catching her designer sunglasses before they fell on the beige floor tiles.

“Have a nice trip?” a familiar voice snarked.  Sheri looked up and found her bestie, Coco, a chocolate-skinned beauty with big hair wearing a tight red jumpsuit, beckoning her to the community table. “Yo, bitch, get over here!”

Removing her troublesome footwear, Sheri walked over and dumped them on the table. She looked up to a heavy-set barista with acne behind the counter. “Excuse me, sir?” She squinted cartoonishly. “Oh, ma’am, could I get a hot, tall white chocolate mocha with whipped cream, please?” she said, blinking her long lashes rapidly. The barista frowned and nodded. Sheri sat at the table across from her bestie, crossing her long, creamy legs to prevent giving anyone a free look up her short black mini-skirt.

“So bitch, how ya doin’?” Coco said once her friend settled.

“Just got another five hundie tip.”

“What? You little slut. You’d better hope they don’t find you’re doing more than private dances.” Coco shot her friend a wry smile and sipped her tall drink that had more in common with a milkshake than coffee.

“Hey, I don’t do anything extra.”

Coco’s eyes squinted with doubt.

“Seriously, I just whisper sweet nothings in their ear and imply something ‘special’ might happen if they put in a large tip and show me on the app.”

Coco finished a long sip as the barista arrived at the table and set down Sheri’s milky drink.

“Thank you, dear.” Sheri handed the server a fifty-dollar bill and then shooed them away. They smirked and headed back to the counter.

“You are so mean to her. That karma gonna get you,” Coco said, wagging a long finger.

Sheri rolled her eyes.

“So kiss and tell bitch,” Coco said, leaning forward. “How do you get the big tips without putting out and without getting complaints.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “I also notice you don’t get no repeat business neither.”

Sheri’s smile cooled. “Life after Life” started playing. “I just pick the disgusting, reclusive ones with stalker vibes that no one else will service. They just appreciate me is all. Once they’ve seen my moves, those memories last them the rest of their lives.” She took a long sip from her drink.

“That’s bullshit, and you know it. Just fucking tell bitch.”

Sheri locked gazes with Coco.

“Welcome to Starbucks!” several baristas chimed as a new patron entered. The two working women didn’t move or blink.

Sheri placed her drink on the table, wiping some of the whiteness from her lips. “I do my research.” Her friend cocked her Q-tipped head like a confused dog. “They have health issues. I make sure my lap dance is their last.” Her phone buzzed. “Well, would you lookie there?” She showed the screen to her friend. “Another creep with a heart condition who doesn’t trust banks and has no friends to care what might have happened before he was found dead.” She put her glasses on, took a final sip from her drink, grabbed her shoes off the table, and strolled to the door.

Sheri glanced back to see Coco’s mouth still silently agape.

“Bye, bitch.”

The Christmas Pickle

As my court-mandated therapist, Dr. Calkins rattles on, I imagine her in a schoolgirl outfit tied facedown.

The words she directs at me waft past my ears into a sea of blankness. Soon, all I can hear is the sound of a paddle hitting her bare buttocks so hard that it makes visible ripples like little tidal waves in the surrounding skin.

“Herman, are you listening?”

“Yeah,” I reply flatly. 

I restrain myself. This whore doesn’t realize she’s speaking to a high-quality man. I call her that to myself because there is no husband to be found in the myriad of family photos decorating her paltry office. Only she, two children, and a labradoodle. All I can think is that she’s like that dog, only without a firm hand on her leash. 

In her forties now, she hit the wall more than a decade ago. Her illegitimate children are the repellent toppings on this sad crone, slut pie. If she were honest, there would be seven cats, empty wine bottles, and a substantially proportioned dildo in the frame. 

For me, all this bullshit started six months ago when my ex-girlfriend, Bonnie, brought me up on bogus charges.

What you have to understand is, that my dad owns a car dealership. Not some dirt lot on an alternate highway. It’s fucking huge. He’s rich, and by proxy, so am I. Everyone at NC State knows this. Mostly because I tell them. Before freshman year, they bought me a house directly across the street from campus. Don’t get jealous. It’s a cramped, four-bedroom hovel. Worse yet, they only pay for maid service once a week. 

My folks live one town over in Cary. I don’t think they wanted me at home anymore. Either way, why would I want to crawl behind the peasants every morning in my BMW M8? I already have too many points on my license from having to weave through their economy cars and minivans. Regardless of my proximity, I haven’t registered for a morning class since sophomore year. Unfortunately, that’s slowed me down. I’m a third-year senior.

Bonnie pursued me because she knew my parents were affluent. She’s eighteen, which places her halfway through her prime reproductive years. I’d prefer fresher eggs, but the judge said he couldn’t help me next time. I’m still not supposed to be more than fifteen hundred feet from a middle school. Even at this older age, she’s still impressionable enough to be molded into a submissive wife.   

I spent a small fortune on fancy dinners, jewelry, and flowers. I even endured musical theater. That kind of money and effort buys access. At first, I was a gentleman about it. But, if you get in the way of what belongs to me, I will take it. Now here I am in trouble for using my property, her body. 

I’ve become a social pariah since Bonnie and her parents began misusing the court to impugn my character. Some call me an incel. I’m starting to like the label. I consider it a synonym for alpha male.  

In the fallout, even some of my tight bros have bailed. All their absence has done is expose thems as the beta-cuck pussies they always were. Good riddance.

In private I’ve turned to the internet for my needs, specifically a pair of camgirls. Miss Scarlett is a six-foot-tall, muscular redhead. Her co-star, Midge, is a slight, four-foot-ten Brunette. She’s the submissive, and Scarlett the dom. 

It infuriates me that I love it, so I make sure to remind them what sluts they are. My hummungous tips keep me from banishment. But, I can tell by the looks on their faces the insults hurt. Good. 

Sadly, I can’t say those kinds of things in Dr. Calkins’s office. Can I?

I bite my lip.

Don’t do it, I think to myself.

Then it comes out anyway.

“What, you couldn’t even keep the marriage together for the dog?” I say to my therapist after thirty minutes of silence on my behalf.

“Excuse me?” Dr. Calkins says, shocked at my audacity.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I reply.

“Your insinuation about my marriage.”

“I’m sorry, your monthly must have drawn too much blood from your brain. I don’t recall.”

“My montly?”

“I didn’t say that. Do you feel okay?”

“You’re dismissed, Herman. I’ll be speaking to the judge on Monday morning.”

“So will my father, over a golf game on Sunday afternoon. What’s your handicap?”

“I don’t play—”

“Discussions at the country club mean more than your silly phone calls. I don’t know why. It must be all the sunshine.”

She stares dumbfounded as I walk out the door.

The judge unilaterally ignores Dr. Calkin’s complaints. 

I wore her down to tears multiple times over the next few months.

Our last session was directly before Thanksgiving. Her sobs were tragically delicious. I wanted to grab her face with both hands and lick the tears from her red cheeks. 

No longer on probation, I can take on other pursuits. The following week, one presents itself. 

Miss Scarlett and Midge announce their annual Christmas pickle. Each year, they pick a random city in the United States. An assistant hides a plastic pickle ornament at a well-known landmark. Afterward, the girls drop hints about its location. This year, serendipitously, they’ve chosen Raleigh. Over the years the prizes have mostly consisted of sex toys, typically fuckable silicon replicas of their pussies. But this year, it’s a threesome live on camera Christmas morning. No holds barred; raw dog.

The chat room went wild upon the announcement, with members typing that they were booking flights and hotel rooms on the spot.

The clue is, You spin me right round, right round, in a historic park.

Knowing the city, it didn’t take much time to break. I visited Pullen Park in the early hours of the morning and quickly found the coveted ornament under the antique carousel. On it was a handwritten email address.  

A few quick messages between myself and their assistant verify that I am the winner. Arrangements are made. I’m set to go live with them in three weeks.

The meet-up location is a split-level ranch house in North Raleigh.

They greet me at the door wearing robes. They’re gorgeous and smell wonderful. I hate them for it.

I’m led down to the basement. It’s not their regular studio. There’s soundproof foam lining the walls and ceiling. It makes sense. The neighbor kids shouldn’t have to hear the shrieking orgasms I’m going to give them while opening their Christmas presents. I’m not a monster, after all.

After shutting and locking the door behind them, both drop their robes, revealing matching white lingerie. 

Hurriedly, I strip naked.

“The little captain is ready, I see,” Miss Scarlett says, observing my glorious erection.

“If you are,” I reply, trying to keep it cool.

“First, we want to spank you a little. Not hard, just for show. The audience will love it.

“It’s not my thing, but why the fuck not,” I say.

They strap me facedown to a giant wooden cross resting at a forty-five-degree angle on a custom rack. 

Secured, Miss Scarlett retrieves a large VHS camera mounted on a tripod.

“Why the antique?” I say jokingly.

“VHS doesn’t have metadata, which means no forensic evidence,” Midge replies.

A television is wheeled out. Midge places a tape into a VCR the size of two cinderblocks. On the screen appears the face of Dr. Calkins.

“Herman, now that I have your attention, allow me to tell you about my husband. While I was pregnant with my youngest, he was diagnosed with neuroblastoma. He survived long enough to hold his infant daughter once. The day after her birth, he became too weak to leave bed. A week later, the love of my life was gone.” 

“I don’t keep pictures of him in my office because seeing them rips my heart out. On the upside, his massive life insurance policy made financing this special film possible. Herman, women are exhausted with men like yourself. There are far too many, and too few reckonings. But, on rare occasions, they come. Today is yours.”

The TV goes to static. Midge pulls the tape out and then places a large neodymium magnet on top of it, permanently erasing the tape’s contents.

“Did you actually think you solved the riddle?” Midge says in her high-pitched voice, which turns into a cackle. No. The chat room you were in was made for your eyes only. The other participants were chatbots I programmed. This isn’t a prize. It’s a snuff film, and you’re the star.

I struggle but can’t budge.

Miss Scarlett hooks something to the foot of the cross. Then I hear the whir of an electric hoist as I’m pulled feet-first toward the ceiling. The cross hangs freely, allowing my inverted body to swing back and forth like a metronome. 

“Hold the cross still, Midge” I hear Mrs. Scarlett say. 

I scream as the blade shallowly pierces the center of my back. Searing pain courses through my body in pulses as the skin is meticulously peeled away. 

As I lose consciousness, I hear Midge say, “Be careful, Dr. Calkins wants enough hide to make a purse for her and Bonnie.”

Reinhardt the Bull

The first splash hit Manfred’s face, and a forceful stream ran down the navy blue and black-striped tie resting like a ribbon of night on the white cotton shirt. Reinhardt spread his legs in the door of the stall. He had last worn a civilian tie to his mother’s funeral four years ago, but the lawyer owned a rack of silk ties in colours and designs to complement his tailor-made suits. Huddled against the marble wall under the showerhead, Manfred pulled his knees up as urine saturated his shirt and tie, followed by a drenching of the fine-wool fibres of the suit jacket. Reinhardt had allowed him to remove his Italian shoes, but not his socks, which matched the tie. He told Manfred to lower his knees while he pissed over the silver belt buckle and the lawyer’s groin. The man could do nothing to ward off the torrent. He had been ordered to keep his hands behind his back. Reinhardt directed the still-strong stream once more at the lawyer’s face. He had been saving it up for this moment. Open, he commanded.

The piss bubbled out of the man’s mouth and soaked his Van Dyke beard. He choked, spluttered, his face showered by the hot liquid, his eyes closed, his entire body trembling in a kind of private ecstasy, lapping, swallowing as much piss as Reinhardt aimed down his throat. “You pathetic pig, drink it; show me how much you love me, faggot!” Reinhardt shouted, obeying the lawyer’s wish to hear his commanding abuse while giving him a golden shower. His bladder finally drained; Reinhardt zipped up. A speculum designed to keep the mouth open, he decided would be useful for the next session. He had a couple at home, but he had already used them on other pisspigs, so the lawyer would have to buy his own. It wasn’t wise to share intimate toys.

Listening to the lawyer’s strange whimpers of satisfaction, Reinhardt dredged up a gob of spit, aimed it at Manfred’s still open mouth, and splattered his lips and chin. He sat on the toilet. The fabric of his fatigues tightened over muscular thighs. The lawyer shivered on the shower floor, licked his lips, hands behind his back, his tie and jacket saturated. Standing quickly, he smiled over the sheen of his military boots, which Manfred had earlier caressed and polished with his tongue.

What you ate affected the smell and taste of piss and semen, Reinhardt knew, so he avoided brassicas and asparagus before a session. Always careful about what he ate, he had consumed a protein drink and swallowed vitamin supplements before arriving at the condo, combined with two bottles of beer, which guaranteed the build up of piss. He wondered if Manfred tasted hops even as the odour of urine long exposed to the air intensified. He just paused above the lawyer, spitting again, wrinkling his nose against the smell. 

“Don’t move, my little pig, until I let you out.”

***

In the galley kitchen gleaming with granite countertop and steel appliances, Reinhardt opened the fridge door. Wanda was supposed to be home by now, as the couple had agreed to take time off work for fun. He could do anything he wanted with the lawyer, and he had every intention of pushing boundaries. What he wanted now was to fuck the lawyer’s wife, fast and hard, then fuck her again while her husband watched, ball-gagged and shackled. Since they met at the bar a couple of months ago, this was only his fourth visit to play dominant bull to the submissive couple.

He suspected Wanda delayed on purpose, his impatience adding to her excitement. After drinking another beer, he’d probably have to relieve himself. He’d piss on the lawyer again, maybe in the tub, or even on the white Berber carpet of the living room where he now stood. Make Manfred strip and spread himself like a flagellant before the altar on the beautiful rug; make him say a few worshipful words to his swell-muscled bull, who would then spray liquid gold over the naked body while Wanda protested. He might have to bind her to prevent interference. She’d like that, probably expected it, something she had mentioned in their preliminary discussions about scenarios, even if she lamented over her fine furnishings. 

Reinhardt heard the front door to the condo open. Was it time to give the cuckold Manfred permission to move? Lead Wanda into the washroom? Get her on all fours by the toilet, lift her skirt, and ram her cunt from behind like a German Shepherd mounting his bitch while Manfred huddled and soaked in the shower stall watching his bull in action? A couple of hours had passed already since his arrival. Preliminary play with the lawyer had taken up most of the time. Drenching the cuckpig had lasted less than a minute. Reinhardt sucked the beer down. He wanted his bladder full. He had been paid 800 Euros in advance for two hours, but if he really got into the action, he gladly extended a session, no extra charge.

Before Wanda touched his back, he smelled her perfume. When she pressed against him, Reinhardt flinched. Her arms reached around his chest, her faux fur coat sleeves bristling with static electricity. He would humiliate Manfred again while Wanda bore witness. That was part of the deal; that was what they both wanted, their bull taking control. He grabbed her hands to prevent them from rubbing his nipples.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing, bitch, just don’t. Get me a beer.”

He was rubbing his crotch as Wanda approached with a beer. He wondered about the height of the balcony to the waterless fountain almost directly below. Reinhardt grabbed Wanda’s neck; her body relaxed, stepped closer while he guzzled down half the bottle. He gripped her shoulder.

“Let’s go on the balcony.”

“It’s chilly outside.”

“Leave your coat on.”

He didn’t slide the glass door shut as he spun her around on the balcony and kissed, his unshaven cheeks abrading her smooth skin. Slipping his arms under her coat, he lifted Wanda onto the railing.

“What the…what are you doing?”

Holding her tight with one arm, he raised her left leg around his waist, secured her close to his chest, and fingered her under her dress. She struggled to break free, her struggle part of her fantasy, but he leaned her backwards over the railing, pushing three fingers into her cunt. Her scream Reinhardt interpreted as encouragement, not protest. In the tavern where they had first met after he had answered their queries on his personal website, and later negotiated the terms of the arrangement, they’d agreed on a safe word, uttered only when she wanted the action to stop. She was trapped by her own excitement over being precariously balanced on the balustrade. If Reinhardt let go of her waist, she’d somersault over and plummet several floors to her death. Removing his wet fingers, and with the prestidigitation of a magician, he retrieved a rubber from his pocket, tore open the package with his teeth, slipped it on, and pushed his cock into her receptive body. He preferred bareback, but she had insisted during their negotiations. Since they paid for him to do what they wanted, Reinhardt had agreed.  The customer was always right.

Her voice muffled by the whirring of an approaching helicopter. She was trying to scream between gasps for breath, so he picked up speed in his fucking. If the traffic helicopter pilot flew overhead, he’d see Wanda hunched over a balcony railing in a brown fur coat, hanging onto to a soldier who, despite the chill, wore only a green army-issue T-shirt and fatigues. Reinhardt raised his eyes, squinting in the late afternoon winter sun, loosening his hold on the woman who groaned and clung to his neck, both legs cinched so tightly around his waist that she’d hurtle over the railing with him firmly locked between her thighs if he didn’t maintain control. Death by fucking.

“Oh, please.” Wanda’s voice was scarcely audible; he couldn’t tell if she was begging for her life or for his cock. He kept up a steady and riveting thrust, his cock feeling as hard and big as Thor’s hammer. Her fur coat dropped off her shoulders and hung like a bearskin draped over the railing, her red hair coming loose from its pins. The helicopter hovered overhead. 

He released the woman, who instinctively clasped the cold iron railing, and jackhammered her cunt, sweat dribbling down the back of his neck even in the cold. He wanted to be finished, since he was getting bored, and besides, the husband was in need of more attention, and he decided that he’d only give the couple an extra hour, free. He slammed into Wanda, who screamed when he let go. Yes, she had admitted in the tavern, she wanted it hard. Her legs slipping away from his waist, her upper body began falling backwards, but Reinhardt pulled her up and off the railing and onto his explosive cock. He finished the hard fuck with three upward thrusts, lifting her off her feet, which kicked over a stand of dead plants in ceramic pots. They cracked on the concrete. The chopper lurked upward, swerving to the right. The condom dangled from his semi-flaccid dick, heavy with his superman spunk.

“Oh, please, don’t leave me, I’ll do anything,” Wanda whispered in his shoulder, slack and needy. Just like her husband waiting in the shower stall. There were so many things he planned on doing, so many things they didn’t even know they yearned for. He now owned them. They said they wanted a bull, ein Stier, to own them; that was part of the play, and the husband wanted to be humiliated, any way Reinhardt chose. With his face blushing over their drinks in the tavern, Manfred had whispered his desire for golden showers, as if confessing to a rare and abominable obsession. Craving to be cuckolded and degraded by a soldier wearing his boots, a common fantasy which Reinhardt took advantage of when the opportunities arose and charged more for his efforts. The wind picked up. Reinhardt shivered. He opened the door and gently pushed the wife inside, her coat falling to the floor, where it lay like a dead animal.

“Get me another beer, cunt. Bring it to the washroom. We’re not done yet.”

Un amour moche

Severine had a big nose and sky-high cheekbones. I only noticed the rest of her when she took off her dress. She wore her swimsuit underneath it. There were still bathing establishments along the Seine, in those days. She dived in without a splash, and disappeared below the dark, turbulent water.

Her father had bought her an apartment on a twisted street that led into Place des Vosges. Even her huge, luminous dwelling existed to intimidate and oppress.

Shortly after she’d installed me at her place, she said she had another lover, a Moroccan, or Algerian, in any case some former French colony. He knew how to sodomize her the way she needed it. The guy was married, with kids, so they could see each other every and then, when he could get away from his responsibilities. That evening, he was free.

This made me pretty angry.

Other evenings, she went for dinner at her parents’ place, in Passy. I wasn’t invited. 

To enrage her father, she’d told him she was living with a disreputable foreigner, a long-haired beatnik. To rub salt in the wound, she added that I’m half-Jewish.

She told her other boyfriend that part too, to madden the poor guy. I wanted to beat him up. I could’ve tailed Severine to find out where he lived, what he looked like. If he knew Severine’s address. All he had to do was show up there, and brain me with a tire iron. Her father would’ve doused us both with gasoline and roasted us alive, damn the consequences. He must’ve known some high-ranking cops.

None of this did anything to diminish my desire for Severine, which made her laugh, cruelly. I imagine she also made Ali, or Mustafa, or whatever the hell he was called, suffer. She tortured her father, who smiled in his army uniform from framed photos on the walls of her glorious pad. 

Those two couldn’t change their relationship with her. I could, and did. I left her a note, scrawled on the cover of her treasured first edition of Proust. Goodbye, you fabulous cunt.

Years later, I saw her again, in an out-of-focus snapshot on one of the so-called social networks. Still strangely gorgeous, with a few extra pounds on her, elegantly dressed, sitting on the lap of a gentlemen unmistakably from Parisian high society. There was nothing else on her page. No need for it. 

Whenever I return to Paris, my aimless rambles always end up in Place des Vosges, like an ant who follows the chemical trails left by his queen.

An artist friend describes Paris as a beautiful town full of ugly things. For me, Severine is Paris. Paris is Severine.

On the métro back to the airport, I always think, goodbye, you fabulous cunt.

J’aime Paris. 

Vive les femmes.

Ozzmandroid of Oz 

For Lesli Spivey and Michelle Fairchild

Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective, stood over the steaming guts-pile that had once been the body of her partner, Joe Oouroboros, late of Bone City PD.

“Oh dear,” she said to herself. “This is not good.”

Fontaine’s long-suffering boss, Sergeant Kent Buttklenche, stood over her, wishing there was a way he could legit grab her by that fine-ass pussay in a way that would honor the Orange Man.

“”Are you even paying attention to the crime scene at hand?” asked Fontaine. “Stop drooling over muh tittays and ass–just because I’m a Slutty Detective that dresses a propos is not an invitation for you to blatantly Big Bad Wolf muh bod. I’m a professional just like you.”

Sgt. Buttklench let our a strangled yelping sound from deep in his throat. He had been found out–so exciting, he’d need to visualize the scenario of his exposure in micro-detail later as he pumped furiously away at the mushroom shaped Man Cannon many had compared to that of The Orange Messiah.

“Yes, of course, Detective Slu–“

Detective Fontaine had meanwhile slipped on the nitrile collection gloves and was reaching into her late partner’s guttiwuts to nimbly seize on a clump of dishwater blond hair that had been repeatedly dyed blue black…

“Our perp would be in his 70s H.E.L.,” she ejaculated, spilling her white hot words helplessly over the scene of her hog-tied, ball-gagged delicious young body on a black velvet carpet. “Had E Lived,” she added, annotating herself. 

“Oh no, you didn’t just go there,” she said. The eye-daggers she sent her superior pierced his scrotum like a diamond bullet and kept on going, sending fragments to deeply embed themselves in his crotch.

Sgt. Buttklenche yelped and, unable to control the spasms of Butthurte that cored themsleves deep in his inner child–she knew exactly what it took to wound him–his well-seasoned (often with chives and exotic Orientalist spices) mind continued to process the evidence. 

“So what we’re saying,” he said at long last, “is that the Ozzy Mandroid has struck again.”

“Of course that’s what we’re saying,” spat out Detective Fontaine, “Captain Obvious.”

“That’s Sergeant Captain…to…” Sgt. Buttklenche was babbling freely. “I just let loose a thin trickle of butt-hurt butt-jizz that’s leaking out muh ass like you and your sisters in the Muff-Dive Sorority just cream-pied me with a whole bunch of infected prison spunk in a turkey baster.”

“Yuppers,” said Fontaine, but she was distracted.

A long shadow had poured itself across her peripheral vision. Something abominable had joined the scene. The perpetrator had returned, fresh from a return visit to Oz in which it had re-visited all its old stomping grounds and stomped them once more into Abstract Expressionism, with special emphasis on Ozma of Oz and the Tik Tok Man of Oz. Ozzmandroid hated the pair, who he had seen fucking to the Zeena Shreck piece “Bring Me the Head of FW Murnau, Alex S.Johnson, you brave and brilliant lad who brought it first in the pages of HORROR SLEAZE TRASH: PROSE IN POOR TASTE.” Their cum-fest had re-ignited past trauma he had from reading Johnson’s other work, such as the novelette “Ozzymandias of Oz.” While wildly inaccurate, Johnson’s work struck him as, in the end, the only fictional tribute to him that had any sort of impact whatsoever. 

“Vengeance from the grave, killed the people you once saved, is that correct,” said Detective Fontaine. As she did so, she lay on her back and throttled her sopping clit like they were going to stop making them. “Amirite.” 

“Why yes…how could you fucking tell…I love you all…fuck my former life…being a…Ozmandroid is a great relief and much fucking better than having the Parkinson’s shakes. I feel better than fine. I am the Iron Man they promised you.”

“Ozzmandroid, you are the master of metal and the true metal god,” said now-Sergeant Fontaine, her superior having succumbed to his delicate crotch condition and imploded spontaneous.

“Fucking thank you,” said Ozzmandroid. He paused to scrape some iridescent flung pieces of Buttklenche off his heavy boots of lead. “I just wanted to play rock and roll, you know? Then when Lemmy left…”

The two of them cried tears of blood.

Suddenly God appeared in the heavens above. He reached out with the Iron Fist. At first the two were sore afraid, but the fist held a rose.

“I fucking love you and miss you desperately, mate,” said Ozzmandroid.

“Oh, don’t be such a fucking pussy,” said God, swatting at a cluster of flies that had landed on his muttonchops. “You ARE the Iron Man.”

A floating doppelganger of the director of Lucifer Rising, Kenneth Anger himself, drifted into view. The sky cracked open like a vortex and a sliver of black nightmare flew down from the sky and speared Sgt. Fontaine into the Ozzmandroid.

“I think I’m going to ascend both of you to Heaven n’ Hell along with my matey Ronnie James Dio,” said God.

“Good cross check in ecstasy, mate,” said God. 

Nico suddenly appeared, her eyes bug eyed wide open with pinned pupils laser-pointed at the trio from her sunken Death Space where she resided permanently in the dark with guttering black candles and a rictus grin perma-frosting her face like a marble index out of William Wordsworth.

“I’m zo happy you vill be choining ussss for all too-morrow’s paaaaties….” Nico cackled, then passed out once more.

Guilt Trip

The ATM was a drive-thru, sparing me the hassle of getting out of my old Honda. I had used this very machine an hour and a half ago. A two-hundred-dollar withdrawal from my checking account. The money was already gone; now it belonged to the blonde escort in the smoke-colored Charger riding my ass.

I owed “Sexy Sammy” fifty bucks. The two hundred had gotten me your standard suck and fuck. I had pumped away between her chunky thighs, pulled out, and dumped my load on her sizable tits. I had finished like this with other sex workers, perhaps three or four, with no problems whatsoever. 

But Sammy—well, she wasn’t having it . . . 

No sooner had I emptied my ball bag than she frowned and said, “That’ll cost you extra.” I had laughed dismissively. “I ain’t kiddin’, baby,” she had continued. “You paid for half and half. I didn’t say nothin’ about you poppin’ off on my titties.”

She hadn’t been joking. She had, however, been full of shit. But I was hesitant to protest. Her online ad had read Totally Independent Provider, but that could’ve been more BS, and the last thing I needed was some irate pimp showing up at my apartment to collect. 

This is why a lot of guys preferred the incall; they didn’t want the girl to know where they lived. Incalls were cheaper, but the risk of a sting operation was much greater when you went to her location, usually a motel. One too many episodes of COPS had given me a fear of walking into a trap, hence my willingness to pay extra and have the party at my place. 

Now, inserting my debit card into the slot, I regretted this decision. Fifty dollars was nothing to sneeze at. Still, I didn’t want to get my ass kicked, or worse. It all hinged on her ad, and whether or not I believed her claim of independence. 

Sitting there behind the wheel, my finger roved over the keypad. I regarded the computerized screen as if it were a smear of fresh dog shit on the sole of my shoe. I felt emasculated, felt like a total pussy for going along with this without so much as a peep of dissent. We had agreed on two hundred dollars for head and straight sex, which she had provided. I had paid her. End of story. I didn’t owe the bitch a goddamned dime. 

“Fuck this,” I muttered, plucking my card from the machine. I threw my car in drive. The Charger’s headlights made me squint as I peered in the rearview mirror, squint at Sammy, her face twisted with rage, as she got out of the car and rushed toward my open window. 

“Get back here, motherfucker!” 

I sped away, leaving her standing there in a short black dress which allowed for easy access. You wouldn’t have known from looking at her that she had a clit ring. 

Or maybe you would. 

***

I spent the remainder of my conscious night drinking beer and peeking through dusty miniblinds. My nerves were shot. I was a paranoid mess. Every car sound in the parking lot made my heart race. I imagined the worst, imagined some enraged flesh-peddler kicking down my door and pistol whipping me in front of the sofa. 

This went on for hours. It was just past two in the morning when I started to feel better. And this wasn’t just from being drunk, which I most certainly was. Sammy had had plenty of time to inform her pimp of what had happened. He could’ve come over and kicked my ass a dozen times already. This led me to believe that her ad had been on the level. Totally Independent Provider, I thought. The truth. She worked alone. 

Granted, she could always come back with some other guy, her boyfriend and/or dealer. But this was unlikely. She was too busy serving clients, too busy making payments on that smoke-colored Charger and feeding her opioid habit. 

By the time I got in bed and turned off the light I was feeling much better, convinced that I had gambled and won.

***

I opened my eyes to a hangover and somebody knocking loudly on my door. I preferred the former to the latter. Hangovers were nothing new. A late morning visitor, on a Sunday no less, was entirely unfamiliar territory.  

Fearing the worst, I got out of bed and padded across dirty carpet in my T-shirt and boxers. Imagine my relief when I pressed my eye to the peephole and saw Indu, my Indian neighbor, out on the landing. I unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door. 

Indu had moved in a few months prior. We had little contact. I heard her coming and going, smelled her cooking, saw her packages piled in front of the door. Indu didn’t own a car. She had everything delivered. The few times I had seen her around the property she wore a backpack and walked with a fast and purposeful stride, like she knew exactly where she was going and how long it would take to get there. 

“Sorry to disturb you,” she said, her face etched with concern, her manner tentative. “You drive the red car?” 

“Yeah,” I replied. 

“Somebody busted the window . . .” 

I was nonplussed. My head foggy, legs weak. I needed a big glass of water and some coffee. 

“The police are on their way,” Indu told me.

That woke me up. “The police?” 

“I just called them. I’m surprised somebody didn’t notice it earlier . . .” 

I wasn’t. The tenants at the Las Palmas Apartment Homes tended to mind their own business. If somebody had even spotted my window, they had probably attributed it to a volatile domestic dispute, the wicked handiwork of a disgruntled spouse or girlfriend; in essence, none of their concern. 

I wanted to slap Indu for being a model citizen. She had unwittingly compounded my problem in a big way. Cops, I thought with a sinking feeling. Fucking great. I left her on the landing while I went to my bedroom and put on some shorts and sneakers. Then I followed her down the exterior stairs to the parking lot. 

My poor old Honda had seen better days. The driver’s side window had taken a serious ass whipping. Spiderwebbed glass remained in the frame, but enough had broken away to allow the bastard to reach inside and unlock the door. 

I crouched and peered into the cabin. The stench punched me in the face. “Jesus Christ!” I winced and retreated in disgust. 

Indu stood a few feet behind me, blessedly oblivious of the revolting odor. Lucky for her, there was no wind to speak of, not even the slightest breeze to carry the smell of fresh shit. 

I couldn’t believe it. The window, yeah. I could see Sammy coming back in the early morning hours to vent her anger on my glass. Keyed paint. Slashed tires. I could see all of that and more. But this . . . 

The deranged prossie had taken a dump on the driver’s seat. 

Despite having pulled away at the first noxious whiff, I doubled over and gagged. My hangover didn’t help matters, this and the brutal heat conspiring to make me puke on the pavement. 

“Ohhh,” Indu remarked. 

Poor girl. She was getting more than she had bargained for. Did she regret knocking on my door, regret involving herself in this tawdry affair of her neighbor’s? I imagined so.  

This was no way to spend a Sunday. 

***

No sooner had I stopped puking than the police arrived. The first officer on the scene was young and rangy, his hair buzzed like a soldier’s. He was polite and thorough. 

“I called,” Indu spoke first, then answered the officer’s opening questions, explaining exactly how she had come to discover my damaged car. I pictured the whole thing as she talked. Indu walking down the stairs, weighted down with that backpack of hers, going God knows where, when she suddenly spots my car and stops in her tracks. Out comes her smartphone and we’re off to the fucking races . . . 

I wouldn’t go so far as to call a hooker taking a dump in my car a godsend, but it did spark a line of investigatory reasoning which worked to my advantage. 

“This was personal,” the officer said, more to himself than me. “Overkill . . .” 

The word hung there between us. He was fishing, hoping I would open up and come clean. 

“Yeah,” I said, looking at my sneakers and scratching the back of my head, “Thing is—um—I’m pretty sure—well, yeah—I know who did it . . .” 

Meanwhile, backup had arrived. The second officer was black, heavy, old. He approached my car, stopping in his tracks when the white officer said, “I wouldn’t get too close, Monty. She don’t exactly smell like roses . . .” 

Arms crossed, the white officer stood there before me and listened patiently while I fed him a line of bullshit about an angry ex-girlfriend. 

“We broke up last week,” I told him. 

“Who broke up with who?” he asked me. 

“I broke it off,” I said

“Does she still live here?” 

“No way.” I shook my head for emphasis. “I kicked Gina out.”  

He asked me if I wanted to press charges. I hemmed and hawed, acting like I was really torn on the matter, acting like it was just chewing me up inside. 

“It’s entirely up to you,” he stated. 

“No,” I finally told him. “Gina’s got enough problems. I don’t want her to go to jail . . .” 

He scowled at my car, then met my eyes. “You’re a better man than me. Good luck, buddy.” 

His silent colleague seemed amused yet hardly surprised by the whole affair. No doubt he had seen it all. Both officers, I knew, had lost all respect for me. And I couldn’t blame them. What kind of man lets his ex-girlfriend get off scot-free after she breaks in his car and craps on the driver’s seat? 

By the time both cruisers wheeled out of the parking lot, Indu had returned to the safety and sanity of her own apartment. I went back to mine and searched the cabinets for cleaning supplies. I was in luck. I found a canister of Lysol fabric disinfectant which I had bought some months prior after coming home from work and finding rat feces on the couch. I didn’t have disposable rubber gloves, so I just used my yellow dishwashing gloves. Best of all, I had a mask left over from the pandemic. 

It was a foul job. The heat made it damn near unbearable. But I got thorough it without throwing up a second time. 

My cloth seats were black. You could hardly tell where Sammy had dropped a deuce. You could still smell it though; the Lysol helped yet failed to totally mask the odor. I opened up the last of my black trash bags and spread it out on the driver’s seat. Windows lowered, sunroof open, I drove to the dumpster and thew away two soiled rags, the gloves, my mask, and some jagged pieces of safety glass. 

I started to drive back to my apartment, then decided against this. My car needed to air out. I got a 20 oz. Gatorade at the corner store, then hit the interstate and put my old Honda through her paces. She shimmied at 60 mph, so I stayed in the right lane and kept her at 55, content to let the other motorists, of which there were few, pass me by as the wind whipped my hair. 

The trash bag was a temporary fix until I could get a proper seat cover. The sooner the better, I reasoned, taking the next exit and circling back the way I had come. AutoZone had just what the doctor ordered. The beaded seat covers were tan and breathable. Ideal, the florid clerk told me, for hot weather. I threw in a cheapo pine-scented air freshener. Everything came to just under forty bucks. The seat covers were thirty-five, a small price to pay for placing a protective barrier between my bony ass and a seat Sammy had used for a toilet. 

***

I stopped at a red light several blocks from my apartment, eager to get home, take a shower, and eat something, when I noticed the billboard . . . 

PORNOGRAPHY: GATEWAY TO HUMAN TRAFFICKING, the sign read, text above the closeup of a young lady’s face. Her terrified eyes met mine. Her mouth was covered with duct tape. At the bottom of the sign was a hotline to call should I suspect something of this sort. 

Despite driving through the intersection several times a week, I had never noticed the sign. Of course, it could have been new. Or I could have been lost in my own thoughts.  

I raised the Gatorade to my mouth, swilled the dregs. My stomach grumbled. I tried not to look at the young lady’s eyes, but they were like a magnet for my gaze. Even when I managed to look away for a second or two, glancing at the traffic light or the road ahead, I could feel her looking at me. 

The knuckles of my left hand had turned white on the steering wheel. The light was taking forever. I shifted in my seat. The beads massaged my back. What with the Gatorade and the new seat covers, I should have felt better than I did. 

Sammy was no victim. If anything, she should thank me for refusing to press charges. Because she was definitely the culprit. A guy would have rapped on my door or waited for me in the parking lot. Sammy was flying solo. Nobody was holding her against her will, nobody was making her do something she didn’t want to do. She wasn’t like the young lady on the billboard, her situation was entirely—

A bleating horn made me jerk. Heart hammering, pulse pounding, I regarded the SUV in my rearview mirror. 

“Okay, okay. Chill out, asshole . . .” 

I drove through the intersection, no longer in a hurry to get home, no longer in a hurry to do much of anything.

Characters and Situations

A crisp walk through Lake Hollywood Park would have been refreshing—for anyone but Morty Gelber. Sunday night depression was rolling in. How he hated getting his sneakers wet in the grass. And how he loathed walking. 

But, he was meeting a woman. All the better to buoy his spirits before the Monday morning meetings with the studio chiefs. Judging from the pictures on Instagram, this mystery lady could be just the ticket. 

The name was Sarah. (With an H, the slut spelling.) Or, at least, that was the name she used on Instagram. 

There, Morty saw her sitting on a picnic table, with the glorious Hollywood sign hovering in the periphery. That must have been her, with the tight, long-sleeved, low-cut top. The soft hands turning in her lap. Nervous, cute. She could have been a Latina. But possibly a gypsy, with those Eastern European cheekbones and that bumped nose. Morty had visions of a Moldovan vampire right out of a sleazy seventies Lesbian Horror flick—or, a porno. 

Sunset cast the rising figure in a warm orange glow. The Rubenesque hips swiveled as she walked to meet him. Yes, she was just the ticket. 

Morty extended his hand and introduced himself. Though he knew, to these young women, he required no introduction. 

Sarah placed her small, dainty hand into Morty’s sweating paw. “Wow,” she said. “I’m so glad I could finally meet you.” 

“It’s always nice to meet a fan,” Morty said. “I get lots of mail and kind messages on Instagram. But there’s nothing like actually getting face to face with people.” 

Sarah’s was certainly a face Morty wanted to face. He so much enjoyed these encounters with fans and admirers. But he had to be careful these days. The Hollywood whisper wheel was always turning, and if it turned for you then Heaven help you—because no one else will. One bad meeting. One bad phone call. One inappropriate comment at a party. And it would all be over. 

But meeting women through the Internet was always risky. You never knew exactly who would appear on the other side. 

“Tell me about yourself,” Morty said, as they started walking through the gathering fog. 

“Well,” Sarah said. “What can I say? I’ve been a fan of your show since high school. I’d sneak down to the living room in my nightgown and make popcorn and scare myself to death. But it was so exciting. The violence and the sex. Hot explosive blood shooting on the camera lens. I read all the novels too.” 

“Really? That shows dedication.” 

Sarah bit her lip and giggled. “Well. The scene in book five, when the ripper uses the device on the nurse. The way you described it. That scene taught me how to…pleasure myself.” 

“You know, you’re not the first girl to tell me that. Yes. The novels are still dear to me. When the show got picked up, the studio changed everything around. Those suits like to poke their grubby fingers into everything.” 

Fingers. Morty visualized getting his fingers into other things as Sarah’s warm body butted up against his. “But I still have a great deal of…input.” 

How Morty despised the way the studio execs tried to excise him from the show. They even changed his credit from “Based on the novels by” to “Characters and situations by” Mortimer Gelber. Characters and situations. 

Morty had his pride. He also had his ego, but that was nothing unusual for Hollywood. He had used every trick in his Machiavellian playbook to secure the deals necessary to worm his way into the Hollywood elite. He became a player in spite of the best efforts of the studio hotshots to snub him. 

But “Characters and Situations” was an embarrassment, a total diminishing of his creative contribution. For was that not all of life? All the world was a stage to Morty Gelber, and all the men and women but characters and situations. 

The woman walking beside was a character in all caps and bold print. Morty looked over and saw himself in Sarah’s big adoring eyes. That was exactly where he wanted to be. 

“Even so,” said Sarah. “It’s a fascinating idea for a series. Is it your actual belief that Jack The Ripper was an extraterrestrial surgeon?” 

“Oh, yes, Sarah. It’s quite clear to see that, if you make a careful study of the evidence. In doing research for the novels, I took many trips to London to observe the very locations where the murders took place.” 

“That’s amazing,” Sarah said. 

“Yes. You take the first slaying, Mary Ann Nichols. Witnesses claim she was speaking to a man that evening. Likely a gentleman John, a suitor, a paying customer. She was a whore, you see. The man was wearing a deerstalker cap, like Sherlock Holmes. A sophisticated alien being would easily be able to disguise its true appearance with period-appropriate garb. We demonstrated this in the pilot episode. The test audiences ate it up.” 

Morty loved dazzling women with his perspicacity. His intellectual prowess was his chief asset, at least he thought so. 

“Tell me more,” Sarah said, her anxious breath pushing her chest out into the open night air. 

“Well, you take the so-called ‘botched’ slaying of Elizabeth Stride. It was a chilly September evening in London. A night just like this one.” 

Morty grabbed Sarah’s hand and tickled her wrist. She gasped and wrapped herself around his chubby arm. 

“Her throat was slashed,” Morty said. “The Metropolitan police bore down on the scene. The killer had to flee before he had a chance to operate. They found the woman’s body lying there. Still warm. They searched the ground. Not a track left behind. No trace of a killer. Now, you tell me, Sarah, how could the killer have so quickly withdrawn himself, unless he—or, it—was a creature with advanced alien technology?” 

“I don’t know,” Sarah said. “But it’s horrifying. If that were true, then it’s possible the Ripper is still out there somewhere.” 

Sarah’s slender arms fastened tightly to her evening interlocutor as he continued his titillating sermon. “You are correct, Sarah. Just think about it. How many bizarre slayings go unexplained to this day? Right here in L.A., even?” 

“Hundreds?” 

“Thousands.” 

Sarah listened in abject fascination as Morty recounted multiple Ripper-like slayings from Victorian times to today. This was the premise of his show. 

The original Ripper Case Files novels were more doorstopper than blockbuster. But the TV show made Morty famous. Now, he had fans all over the world. 

The Ripper show was an instant hit with the younger female demographic. You couldn’t go wrong, Morty knew, with sizzling subplots and serial slayings. 

Morty was also a student of hypnosis. And he knew just what to say when he got his female fans alone. They instantly fell under his spell. 

His life’s work did most of the job for him. For that was the nature of fandom. Those women wanted to live in the narrative universe that sprang like a Big Bang of Genius from Morty’s mind. 

In those golden days, Morty would prefer to have multiple partners at once. But he was getting older now, and one was quite enough. For he had known many a Mary, Sue, and Sarah. All different characters, in different situations. 

“Parts,” Morty said. 

“What do you mean?” 

Morty made a pontificating face. For he was wont to be philosophical in these matters. 

“The Victorian era in England was rife with controversy regarding vivisection. That was when surgeons would experiment on living animals. Cutting them open to see how the inner workings function.” 

Sarah made a disgusted, but simpering, face. 

“I think that was the Ripper’s motive,” Morty said. “No doubt about it. An intergalactic being would be just as curious about us as we would be of it. And what better way to learn than to experiment on living tissue. After all, kid: it’s what’s on the inside that counts.” 

Sarah jumped as Morty poked her ribs. 

She was like all the other fans who adored Morty from afar. She read his social media posts. She subscribed to his newsletter. 

Morty scanned through his social likes for women like Sarah. And when the time was right, he would send a masterfully orchestrated direct message. Conversation, and some mildly inappropriate innuendo, would ensue. Eventually, a date. 

“It’s beautiful out tonight,” Sarah said. 

They walked into a shady glen. Slivers of moonlight peeled through the trees, blanketed by fog. 

Sarah sat down on the root of a large oak tree. It was just big enough to form a seat for two. 

Morty could see a question forming on Sarah’s round, strawberry face. “Mortimer?” she said. 

“Call me Morty.” 

“Morty. What made you want to write about Jack The Ripper?” 

“I don’t know, Sarah. But I know I’m fascinated by characters. I wanted to know his mind. Or it. Whatever he was. But alas, I could only get so close. The door of history is shut to me.” 

“What was the most—I don’t know—gruesome part of the story? What really inspired you?” 

“The final ‘canonical’ victim. At 13 Millers Court. Mary Jane Kelly. She was the most mutilated of all the victims. Because she was in a locked room with the slayer all night. How did he, or it, get in there? Again, I suspect some sort of technological inducement. All we know is, he had plenty of time. There was no rush.” 

The air between their faces smelled of perfumed mist. Sarah drew closer. Morty could feel her breath tickle his nose. 

“What’s it like being famous?” Sarah asked. 

“I’m not famous,” Morty said, though he didn’t mean it. “I’m just like you or any other person walking down the street.” 

“No, you’re not. You’re special. You have ideas. You’re a writer. You just invent things out of your head. And they become the dreams of others. I don’t know. It’s something special.” 

“I admit. I have my moments.” 

Morty let a dramatic pause linger in the air between them. Sarah’s breasts pressed against his chest. 

“Do me now,” she whispered. 

Morty was taken aback at her insistence. This new generation was more forward than what he was used to. “Not here,” he said. 

“I want to. Right here. Please.” 

She lay him down between the roots of the tree, where the formation of years made a natural bed. Concealed on both sides, they could undress with abandon—and even some privacy. 

But Morty was not into rush jobs. He liked to take his time. 

“You’re so beautiful,” he said. “Slow down. I want to enjoy this fully.” 

“Aren’t you enjoying it?” 

Sarah pulled off her shirt, unclipped her bra. 

“Sarah,” he said. “It’s OK. You can stop this.” 

“Why? Don’t you want to?” 

“Of course. But not like this. Not soaking wet in this cold natural setting.” 

Silence fell. Sarah breathed slowly. Her chest shook with apparent anticipation. 

“I’m opening to you,” she said. 

“I can see that.” 

“You said you wanted to get closer to me. This is your chance.” 

Morty was confused. His eyes searched Sarah’s face for some clue toward what she was getting at. 

“I’m opening the door of history to you.” 

Before Morty could blink, Sarah slammed a long needle into his jugular. A sensation like dipping into a hot bath overcame Morty’s entire body. 

“You’re as close as you’re ever going to get,” Sarah said. 

Morty watched as a blue mist surrounded them. He couldn’t move. 

A glowing white fire outlined the Sarah frame and dissolved it. The girl was gone. What appeared now was a floating, pulsing, jelly creature. The bloated bulk had no face but a grinning maw full of needle-sharp teeth. From its oily appendages, alien surgical implements sprouted through sheaths of fleshy tissue. 

It went to work on him. There was no rush. They had plenty of time. 

Bark for Reinhardt

Her wedding dress spread over his body like a puffy white cloud fallen to the bed as his tongue slid into her cunt and his hands held her by the waist. The taste of her juices, the perfume of her body and the gentle rocking of her thighs around his head; all intensified the hardness and strength of his cock, and he wanted to turn her onto the bed, push deeply into her body and flood her womb with his superman seed. He wanted her to become pregnant with his power and brutal beauty. How easy it had been to reach this point. Hans struggled in the binding ropes on the chair, forced to watch his cousin fuck his willing wife, and craving to crawl on the bed and suck the cum out of her cunt, and to feel Reinhardt’s cock, to see it, to lick it, to smell it, to submit to its glorious power. 

                                                                                      *****

Yes, Reinhardt remembered, when he was an exchange student in London, fucking whom he pleased, he used to think of sex as mere fun and games, nothing important. After his return to Germany, sex became a business: impersonal, professional, profitable. And now, it had become essential, the thing itself most worth living for. As long as he kept his body prime and seductive, he’d have no end of customers, and no end of pleasure. In his mirror, he saw a magnificent Ubermensch whom inferiors would properly adore and serve and pay. 

Seduction of his cousin and his wife had been unsurprisingly easy for him to achieve his desires. The first three visits to his cousin’s house after their wedding had been pleasant, included a tour of the University of Leipzig, and general discussions at lunch with Jane about nothing in particular. They became increasingly comfortable and familiar in his presence. In the university laboratory where Hans spent half his day among beakers, Bunsen burners, Petrie dishes, retorts, and cupboards of chemicals, he had attempted to demonstrate his latest bit of research, to which Reinhardt paid respectful attention, standing close to Hans, even at one point placing a hand on his cousin’s shoulder. Wearing a muscle-hugging black T-shirt and jeans fashionably torn at the knees, Reinhardt casually flexed and rubbed his biceps, noting that Hans glanced at them when he did so. Hans did not shirk the hand off his shoulder. In fact, he seemed to enjoy the sensation of Reinhardt gently rubbing his neck, and even admitted, that feels so good.

“Maybe I should give you a massage. You’re so tense, Hans.”

And he rubbed the neck and shoulders more firmly, allowing Hans to step back against his body.

“That feels so good.”

“I will make you feel better than this. I know what you need.”

Before Reinhardt could feel if Hans had a boner, which he was sure he did, a lab assistant walked in, so the two left. Hans liked his company whenever they happened to be alone, and now he eagerly wanted Reinhardt’s approval on what he was doing, and embraced him longer than necessary upon arrival and departure. 

On the fourth visit within five weeks, during dinner when he listened to Han’s gabble on about research work, he had kept his eyes on his cousin, who had trouble returning the gaze. Eye contact was crucially important. Reinhardt liked to fix his subject or prey with his steady, penetrating glare, his eyes often sparkling like sun on water, forcing the weaker one to look away, but also to return, half-mesmerized, sometimes frightened, but connecting and not wanting to be let go. Sooner or later, the prey’s eyes sparkled with a “please fuck me” look. When that happened, Reinhardt knew that he had subtly established the proper relationship between the Master and inferiors, male or female or whatever gender anyone was pleased to call itself, all potential slaves. 

Usually, he was paid to play the role of master, but now he wanted to experience the thrill owning and enslaving someone like his cousin Hans, and maybe his wife also, not only because it would shock his mother, if she ever knew, but also because he simply wanted to. He would put into practice his belief that a superior alpha male had the inalienable right to control, dominate and fuck, regardless of social morality. No money would change hands in this transaction. Fidgety under Reinhardt’s confident and friendly demeanour and steady gaze, Hans drank too much wine. More abstemious than most, Reinhardt nursed his single glass of Riesling, to maintain complete clarity and command.  

Jane interrupted to praise her husband, and then to ask Reinhardt if he ever regretted not pursuing his scientific studies.

“Your mother says she’s sorry that you dropped out of university given how exceptional you were in physics.”

‘Well, she only knew what I told her,” he replied.

“You mean you weren’t gifted?”

“Perhaps I was, perhaps I am, but not in the way my mother means.”

Then Hans reached over the table and touched Reinhardt’s hand and said:

“Not everyone wants to be an academic, darling. Look at him, Reinhardt could be a movie star. Already he’s had a few parts in movies. 

Reinhardt wondered if Hans had actually seen the porn flics he fucked in, aside from the bit parts in had in mainstream films. 

‘Have you ever seen a professor with muscles like Reinhardt’s?”

“You’re being silly, Hans.”

“No, seriously, I mean it. Reinhardt is gifted in his own way.”

Reinhardt wore a black T-shirt under a sports jacket, which he had removed before sitting down.

“No, really, I mean, it takes dedication and talent to create a body like Reinhardt’s. It deserves recognition and admiration.’

“You’re drunk, Hans.”

Reinhardt noticed how Jane kept her eyes on his body as Hans praised his cousin. And then he locked onto her eyes and saw the depths of her own desire for him. Yes, the please fuck me look. He knew that she’d fall before him like her husband, and soon his alpha cock would be deep inside emptying his seed into her receptive womb. From the moment he saw her emerged from the limousine at the church, her wedding dress billowing around her slender body, he wanted to fuck her and make her his bitch. And, of course, he’d also degrade and enslave her husband. His cock surged under the table.

In the kitchen, Reinhardt stood by the sink as Hans stacked the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. Reinhardt stood close to him, and when Hans bent over his back side touched Reinhardt’s groin, which responded, and Hans didn’t move, so Reinhardt just pushed gently against his cousin’s buttocks. Hans stood up, turned around, his face beaming with a red flush, his mouth open as if to speak. Reinhardt knew there and then Hans had fallen for him, thunderstruck by envy mixed with lust. Hans ran his fingers along Reinhardt’s biceps.

He needed Reinhardt’s muscles and power; he needed to serve; he needed to absorb the strength and virility that he lacked; he needed to adore Reinhardt. But he had to show it first; it was imperative that Hans respond to the presence of his superior by explicitly acting upon his desire. Reinhardt simply raised an arm and flexed, and Hans instantly raised a hand to touch and let his fingers trace the shape and veins of his cousin’s ripped abdomen. Reinhardt gripped his cousin’s neck and pushed his face closer to the muscle. 

“Remember how you used to follow me around when we were kids? You always wanted to be with me. And do what I told you. Remember?”

“Yes, Reinhardt, I remember.”

“I think you still want it.”

“Want what, Reinhardt?”

“You want to do what I tell you, don’t you?’

Without waiting for an answer, Reinhardt pressed his cousin’s face against his pec and gripped his neck. Hans at first seemed to resist then relaxed against Reinhardt’s muscles and began moaning as if entering a private state of bliss. His wife was still in the dining room, waiting for them to return. So easy to lead his cousin into the bedroom and tie him to a chair and then fuck his wife in front of him. So easy once they gave into their deepest desires. And he, Reinhardt, was there to fulfill them.

Yes, Hans would worship him. He was an academic wimp secretly hankering after muscles and men of merciless power and would willingly lick the boots of his Master. Wasn’t there also a kind of primordial beauty in brutality, now rendered impotent and shameful by contemporary morality? That’s what Hans needed: to submit to power and violence. The bitch needed to renounce his pathetic humanity and crawl for his master. Reinhardt would reduce him to the level of dog and make the professor bark on command. The very thought of it made Reinhardt’s cock, still trapped in the jeans, harden to its fullest glory. His hands still gripping the professor’s neck, Reinhardt led Hans to the dining room where Jane slowly rose from her seat, her eyes shining with lust, as they approached, and accepted Reinhardt’s extended hand.

In a Garden – Bitter

The corpses were fresh, tide not receding from the barrows of Hell, little bodies of children and adults – some of my brethren mere babes when they had rebelled, following my pennant of red and pride to an early grave.

I wept. Alone. No others had fallen. It was only me.

Cast off. Broken, bruised.

“Proud, brother?” I begged Michael in my mind, his sword wound hot on my head. “Proud to be rid of you.”

I remembered how he damned me with 

A kiss.

It takes an eternity to build. Several more to heal. More centuries to farm, plow, govern, for Mammon to scope the metals to build some semblance of edifices, for Moloch to raise the graves of the fallen and arm us, for Mulciber to get the electricity up and running on ether.

Beelzebub warms my bed, clings to me.

I am alone, though, even when I plow deep into his soul, this husband infernal mine.

Why? Well, of course, I ache.

Everyone knows me. Proud Lucifer, wise ruler, Tempter of Eve, King of Hell. First for freedom. Liberty’s spark.

But my eyes? Always, skyward – though we gaze up at sulphur and caverns. Beelzebub finds me weeping as I have drawn a whole tapestry of stars in blood with my claws on my thighs. I dig them, pick, shred, deep, deeper.

Lilith’s pudenda cannot anchor me. She tires of me, weds Asmodeus. Eve wanders, cast off into Hell, gets a job under my husband. The Infernal Empire builds. The first souls after Eve come: Cain, Naamah, the Cainites. The Canaanites. It seems my godforsaken Father damns everyone.

“Lucifer, what do you think of, when you kiss me?” Beelzebub asks.

I cannot say it. He will choke it out of me. He just, instead, tends to my wings with his mouth. They are rotting – always rotting – and Beelzebub sucks the poison out with his tongue.

“Michael,” Beelzebub answers himself. “You think of Michael. Long for your brother.”

Beelzebub begins to weep. I stare at the ceiling, on my back, spent.

“I am never enough.”

I cannot tell which of us says it.

The Empire builds. Infernal Machine. I begin to think less of the stars.

But then, a crack… I have found a way, my old serpent form healed enough, finally, after millennia. I worm my way like the shamir to Gan Eden’s crust, to the tender apple tree I planted, when I dreamed of better days – of a humanity that would seed the cosmos with their beauty, topple my Father G-d.

Michael is there, tending my Tree. I hide in the bushes, demon formed, my rotten wings, horns, and scarred leathery skin, face of horror, sanguine hell body, smelling like burnt meat. Oh, I will never heal.

Michael is singing. The song we made up as boys.

I weep.

“Lucifer? Sam – Samael?” Michael chokes, his nostrils flaring. “The hell are you doing here?” he says, a tear in his eyes. “There is no way in, no way out. I am the only one with the keys. Enemy mine, o wretched brother –” he catches me as I faint.

All I see are his blue, blue eyes

Tears

Meeting

Mine.

When I wake, he is rubbing nard into my sick, twisted, maligned burden of a body. Flesh and blood and bone poke out, charred as much as the rest of me. Michael does not mind. He is singing Psalm 31. I wince.

“Brother, you should have killed me again,” I choke, my voice as always, wretched.

He smiles through tears, gold haired, beautiful, the most holy thing G-d ever made.

“I missed you. I forgive you, Lucifer.”

I hiss, turn into serpent. Bite his ankle. “YOU CANNOT FORGIVVVVVE ME.”

He looks down, sad, and lifts my snaking form to his lips, then kisses me. I cannot help it, turn back to winged burnt husk, moan, bite his lip, and he makes love to my hell, my burnt bruised body. I cry out, as his tongue licks my wounds, heals me with the touch of an angel. It cannot do much, but the bones seal, and the spear wound he gifted me: my greatest pain? It is

Gone.

“Brother, I love you,” I mourn. “I will destroy this false Kingdom G-d and you build. I will eat you, fuck you dead, destroy you-

“I love you too, Samael. You are hugging the life out of me.”

I tear at my hair, I would beat myself with goat leathers, if I had them. “YOU CANNOT FORGIVE ME.” I weep, finally, too tired. He rubs my hair.

“Perhaps not, Samael. Perhaps our wounds are too bitter to ever heal.”

I gaze up at the stars. My humanity. My children. They will reach the cosmos, span the multidimensions, spreading Eve and Adam’s beautiful, blessed progeny.

“I did it all for them.”

“I know, Samael.”

“I will never bow to you.”

“Then let me bow to you, Samael.” He does, bending, his mouth meeting my erect, scarred cock tenderly. 

“Fuck you!” I moan, threading my hands through his hair. He bobs his Golden Boy, overgrown seagull – as all angels are – stick-up-the-ass – FUCK! – head on my member. I can’t hold it in, my lust and bitter love and hatred burning, balls tightening, the great belly of my beast spilling out onto his tongue. My cock throbs and I shudder, pass out again.

Too much. Too much.

Bloody

Hell.

“Sleep, my twin. My only love,” Michael sings, then hums B’Shem HaShem to me.

Bitter, I fall asleep, spent.

We take to meeting in the Garden. I tell him of Hell. He tells me of his and Father’s plans on Earth. One day, Michael will incarnate, virgin-born.

“Nothing is born of a maiden unsowed,” I say, suspect.

“Wait.”

He is born, in a manger. I weep. I am his guardian

Angel. 

How? I was just in my office. Yet here, G-d – who should have no claim on me! I barren! Hellbound! Tyrant of Gehenna!

How could Father, still, all these years?

Pull me back

To Earth.

To watch Michael, with rosy lips

Take

His first

Breath.

Mary and Joseph fall asleep. The Three Kings leave.

I clutch the babe in my arms.

He sighs.

I sing Michael, his mind wiped, this Yeshua

B’shem

HaShem.

Oh, what wretched wonder. I must atone? I – I – no, I will ruin this Christ.

I tried.

I offer Yeshua, this Christ, life.

He takes the bitter cup. I teach him all his Gifts. All his Holiness.

That is something the Bible never tells you. He does not cast out demons by Beelzebub, but by

Samael.

He comes to Hell. I harrow him, in my bed. Beelzebub curses and never returns.

I grow bitter.

He leaves.

I grow old.

The End of Times comes.

He kisses me, then casts us both

Into fire.

“With you, or nothing,” Michael Christ says, gleaming like sun, merciful. Love, it shines, is holy writ

On his Tongue of Swords.

“Michael, please, my only love, be rid of me,” I beg at his feet, a Beast.

He smiles, casts us both

Into Fire.

Enflamed.

It is quiet, in Hell, now.

Empty save for Michael

And I.

And we

are happy

you know.