Legal Affairs

The attractive client showed up at the prostitute’s motel room at the appointed hour.  Cindy looked at Wally and wondered this guy needs to pay for sex?  Well you can’t tell by looks, maybe his wife denies him or he’s got some kind of kink.

Wally looked at Cindy and thought Unusual – no signs of drug use or abuse and she appears healthy and attractive.

Wally told her “Show me what you got.”

Cindy said “Put the $150 on the table where I can see it first.”

Wally complied, then replied “Your turn.  Undress and get into bed.”

As she got undressed Wally noticed that she was unshaved and that she had erect nipples in her large areolas.  Her appearance and signs of arousal caused his arousal in turn which his pants couldn’t hide. 

While Wally inspected her, Cindy peeped at him and couldn’t help but smile at the effect she had on him. 

After Cindy got into bed, Wally said “You’re under arrest for prostitution” and showed her his badge.

Cindy reached for her blouse on the nightstand, brought out her badge and replied “You are under arrest for soliciting prostitution.”

They looked at each other.  After a long pause, Cindy said “Damn those screw-ups at headquarters.  I’m from the Northeast Precinct.  How about you?”

“Southeast.  Dumb question, but what is a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

“My ex-husband hated having a cop for a wife.  After our divorce, I thought that this assignment was the best revenge.  I know, kind of petty.  You?”

“I’ve seen what happens to sex workers and the families that they damage.  I’m happy that we have a diversion program for the women and men we bust.”

“What does your wife think about the work you do?  Does she complain like my husband did?”

“Never married.  Been close.  Mostly went through a series of breakups over stupid things.  The one I thought was the real thing died in a car accident.”

They stared at each other through a long silence until Cindy noted “We have the room for another two hours.”

It only took Wally three minutes to get naked and into bed.  After some mutual manual stimulation, ever the gentleman, Wally asked “What’s your preference?”  Cindy demonstrated by pushing him on his back and straddling him.  That only took them a couple of minutes.  They spent the rest of their limited minutes playing requests.  Licking, rubbing, and probing ensued with a soundtrack of Cindy’s purrs and chirps and Wally’s groans. 

The Beginning Of Their Story

Letters From The Trail

I remember when no one showed up to these things. I kind of miss it, really. Now there are always so many people, so many heads across a sea of heads and bodies. Most times there are so many people I can’t even see the doors. It’s like I’m sealed in and stuck with these people forever. I’ll tell you this, thousand-dollar plates will make even the mealiest-mouthed donors eat you alive.

Keep it together. Smile, dumbass. No, not like that. Show more teeth. No, that’s too much teeth. Try and make that dimple pop out, the one you’ve been wincing in private for months to try and create out of thin air. Keep—it—together. 

Fluorescent lighting works wonders in terms of energy efficiency but does jack shit for my spray tan. The buzz of it makes it too much like a doctor’s office in here. It’s too sterile for my brand of bullshit. I wonder if the kid who served the veal spit in my side salad. I wonder if the girl at check-in would fuck me.

Time for QA. I wish these people would ask me better questions. It’s always, “Can you expand on your ten-point plan to address income inequality and provide support for the homeless?” It’s never, “How are you?” Just once I’d like to tell someone about my day. I’d tell them thirteen stops in one day is too many. I’d tell them this bus is too small. I’d tell them I can’t eat any more fucking ice cream.

Dumb kid in the back of the question line keeps eyeing me weird. Is he a homo? Does he think I’m a homo? No, I’ve got a sterling stance on that particular issue. Everybody knows I’m a traditionalist. Everyone sees me as manly. Is he going to try and corner me on that flub from the Iowa State Fair about the death tax? Note to self: look up what the death tax is. 

I hate these shoes. These shoes are bullshit. They don’t look good. I don’t know why I have to wear them. It’s really only Steven who says I have to wear them, and he’s only been with the campaign a few weeks. We could shit-can Steven.

They say it’s time for the last question. Have I been answering questions all this time? The smiling faces in the front row of tables say I have. They’ve not yet peeled the American Flag stickers from their chests in favor of any communist-looking ones. They’ve not come for me with the prop pitchforks they brought. Are there prop pitchforks? Probably.

They’re playing the song now so I know I can get up and smile one last time. Wave to the people. The cramp in my jaw from trying to get the dimple to pop is making my teeth chatter. If I hold a smile longer than thirty seconds I start to spasm. It doesn’t look pretty in photos. We’ve worked out a system for avoiding this. I start tapping the toe of my weird shoes and Steven comes and whisks me off the stage and out the back door, puts me in a limo. I never get a chance to try and fuck check-in girl. Steven is definitely shit-canned now if he wasn’t before.

The next seven stops are a death loop. I stand on the same marks, watch the same homo weird guys eye me from the back of the question lines, lust after the same plain check-in girls and sniff plate after plate of conflict-enriched dinners for signs of tampering. When we make it to Guernsey County, I make Steven take a Greyhound back home to wherever he’s from and promote Stephanie to Steven’s old job. Stephanie would probably fuck me.

***

I don’t know if I even want this job anymore. I liked the one I had before just fine. Nobody cared then. Everybody cares now.

I have a televised presser today. I’m supposed to sit for makeup soon. Not the faggy kind. Stephanie tells me after we fuck this morning that if I sit for makeup and get through the presser we can fuck again tonight. Girl’s got an eye for career advancement. I probably won’t be bored of Stephanie for at least a few weeks. I agree to get through the presser.

It’s five to airtime and Mr. Interviewer Woman is already getting on my nerves. She’s making small talk like she’s not out to destroy me. She’s asking how the wife is, how the kids are. I know she pals around with Oprah and Kelly Clarkson and that bitch from the View. I know she voted for George McGovern, and I know she voted for Carter—twice. If it were up to me, she wouldn’t have a job. When it’s up to me, she won’t.

The interview goes well. I remember all of my talking points without pausing to ‘go to the restroom’ or adjust my face. I smile with the correct amount of teeth. I kiss several hands and shake several babies out in the parking lot of Big News Media.

Back on the bus, I pull my dogs out from the horrendous leather enclosures Steven calls ‘shoes’ and listen to them bark. This is how I know the everyman. It’s why I’m the favorite of the little guy. I know what it’s like to put in seven, even eight hours straight in cheap Italian heels, and I know what it’s like to be hassled. At least they get paid overtime.

I lie on the oversized bunk in back of the bus and thumb through Thai lady-boy porn on my encrypted iPhone. It’s not homo. It’s a kink. If anyone breaks the story, I’ll sue them out of existence but it’s not homo. I’m not ashamed, but don’t tell anyone. I fall asleep with a hard-on and dream about Michael Dukakis in a purple polka-dot print dress and spiked collar, with Kitty holding the leash and smoking a cigar.

***

Today there’s a big meeting to go over opposition research. I don’t attend, but they fill me in after. They say my opponents are clean. Like, angel’s asshole, eat off the floor, Mr. Clean clean. Well, every one of them except for Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I’m a smarter, more capable man than him, and everyone knows it. I tell them to keep digging until they get dirt on every candidate who isn’t me and make sure that it sticks. I tell them plant a few baggies of cocaine or some dead hookers or forge some passenger flight logs if they have to, because we all know they’re guilty of it. I tell them, “Wait, no—that’s me.” I laugh. No one else laughs. I laugh again, louder. Everyone laughs.

Intern Brad says he’s got photos of Senator Whoever in full blackface. I tell him no good, we’ve all got photos in blackface. Intern Chad says the up-and-coming Representative from New York was busted two years ago with illegal firearms, two of which were linked to various crimes. I tell him try again; it won’t play well with the NRA crowd. Stephanie offers to visit a few known liberal queer bars in DC, as if there are any other kind of queer bar in DC, and I tell her break a leg. I’m getting tired of Stephanie anyway.

***

I’m scheduled to appear on a late-night talk show with Trevor Clarkson tonight. He’s a Poindexter dickhead and no one likes him, but the voters eat him up like day old pizza. I tell the network I’ll give them ten minutes. They haggle for fifteen. I respond with five. They say ten. I tell them seven minutes, and I don’t want any hardball bullshit. I tell them don’t focus on my shoes, keep the shot high. They agree.

Trevor is sitting at the desk when I walk out. He’s shuffling papers and straightening his stupid tie. He offers his hand and I offer mine but pull away when his slippery fingers wrap around my own. His hands are bigger than mine. I make a mental note to never shake his hand again. 

The segment goes fine until Trevor brings up Iowa. Reminds the viewers that a poor showing could lead to an early exit. Mentions Mr. Shit Doesn’t Stick To Me. I forget how much teeth to show and start nervously tapping my foot. Trevor smiles at me and folds his arms, his fingers like snakes protruding from his hands. Steven is gone and can’t rescue me now. I stutter through a half-hearted line about paths to victory and strong support in the Midwest and funnel cakes. I laugh for some reason.

Trevor brings up a map of the country, zooms in on Florida. Points to several counties I’ve never heard of. Starts in on some nerd bullshit about demographic changes and favorability ratings. He asks me if I think I’m the kind of candidate the people would like to have a beer with. Asks me what my beer of choice is. I start to say Coors, but Trevor stops me and says I don’t have to play favorites. My face is on fire. The arches of my feet scream in crampy agony. I show my teeth and close my mouth and show them again. Be normal. Act normal. Make the dimple pop. Where the fuck is Stephanie?

I tell Trevor it was a pleasure. I wave to the camera and say God bless our troops and flee from the set. Intern Gary is all smiles when he comes up to tell me how great I looked on camera. I stomp on Gary’s foot and we both cry out because the force of it probably hurt me more than it hurt Gary. I take off the shoes and hurl them at the crew and feel myself sink to the floor by several inches.

***

On the bus I flip through five-hundred channels of satellite TV and throw the remote at the screen when I see my face a tenth time. I try looking at porn on my encrypted iPhone, but a message keeps showing on the browser. Something about parental locks. I try and jerk off and go to sleep but I can’t keep it up long enough to even beginto feel tired. Stephanie slides into the bunk next to me and tells me nobody watches Trevor Clarkson anyway. I tell her there are literally millions of nobodies that watch Trevor Clarkson. She tells me if it doesn’t work out, she’ll come intern for me back home. Says she can sneak in and out of the mansion when the wife is asleep. Tells me it’ll be fun, like a game of Clue or something. I tell her she doesn’t know shit about Clue, that’s not how it works. She jerks me off and tells me she fucking hates Disney movies and that she doesn’t like tall guys anyway and that she thinks I always show the exact right amount of teeth. I fall asleep in her arms and don’t dream about anything.

Dick Pic

Kaylee lived across town, over on 7th street near the Fogo de Chão. Ben had been seeing her for a week. Well, he hadn’t seen her in the traditional sense. They had met through Tinder a few months into the pandemic. She was brunette with a pixie cut and blue eyes that made him think of clear skies. In her pictures she wore patterned button dresses and overalls that made her seem artsy. He was fairly sure he had seen her in real life a couple of times at the coffee shop he worked at…well, the one he worked at before civilization came apart and his life had been reduced to browsing dating apps for thrills while waiting for some miraculous check from the government.

Kaylee’s profile said she was into The Talking Heads and that her favorite movie was Repo Man. He swiped right. The two of them matched and exchanged numbers. They texted from time to time about their favorite coffee roasts and missing smoking cigarettes at crowded bars on Saturday night. He found himself fantasizing about watching movies together at one of their apartments (hopefully hers because hoo boy, his ratty one-room with a mattress on the floor wasn’t exactly what you’d called romantic). In the shower, he’d think about fucking her. In bed. In a car. His hands fumbling at bra straps, her sharp teeth sinking into his shoulder. She seemed like a biter.

He got drunk one night off a fifth of Evan Williams and texted her these things in a moment of equal parts stupidity and passion. He woke up in the morning, nursing a hangover and dreading what the text messages in his phone would say. He opened the conversation box, bracing for impact.

Well go on, it read.

So he did. He told her he’d like to go out to a movie and then take her back home and fuck the night away. He didn’t brag about his abilities as a lover (what was there to brag about?) or make a case for her to fuck him. He just laid his desire out bare, stringing together fantasies and working them into language. He watched, heart in his throat, the tell-tale ellipses in the chat box that meant she was typing a response. 

That might be nice. Once everything is over. I miss having someone touch me in that way, the message said.

A few minutes later she sent him a picture: her left arm tastefully folded across her bare chest, teeth biting into her lower lip. Black and white filter, of course.

Holy shit, he wrote back. He added a smiling face emoji. Because he was stupid.

Your turn, the message said.

He stared at the words. A minute went by.

Well? She wrote.

He replied with the first thing that came to mind: A decidedly unsexy Sure! Just give me a bit.

Ben ran to the bathroom and pulled down his pants to stare at his dick. It was a flaccid, unimpressive noodle protruding from a jungle of wild brown hair.

“Fuck,” he proclaimed to the world.

He hopped in the shower and spread cold shaving cream along his groin before mowing down the field of hair with a razor. He got out and dried himself. His heart sank when he looked into the mirror. Everything somehow looked worse: the brown hair had at least hidden the pale hilly terrain his dick was hanging from. Looking down at all that uncovered flesh, dotted with red splotches from shaving too fast, made him feel like a potbellied Grey Alien more than a man. Who would ever want to lay claim to such a body?

“Fuck meeeeee,” he said. Time to hit the panic button.

He texted Alex, who had moved away and lived in Des Moines now. Alex had always been better with women.

I need help.

 Your boy’s here, Alex wrote back. What’s up?

There’s a girl.

You’re seeing someone in all of this!????

Just on Tinder. Hoping to maybe get something going on after the lockdown ends.

Is she hot?

He sent Alex a screenshot of her Tinder profile.

Oh shit, yeah she’s too hot for you.

Fuck you.

Hahahaha I kid. What’s the problem?

She wants a dick pic.

Well send a dick pic.

I’ve never sent a dick pic before.

Son….are you fucking serious?

Don’t be an asshole. Yes.

Ahahahahaha.

Fuck you.

Okay, okay. I can help you out. Show me what you’re working with.

You’re serious?

We roomed together in college, Ben. I’ve seen your beanie weenies. It’s fine. Show me the goods.

He took a picture of his dick and sent it to Alex. A few seconds went by.

Oh no, you just shaved downstairs didn’t you?

Yes. Is it obvious?

Well….

Fuck me.

Okay. Don’t panic. We can salvage this. You’ve got enough to work with. You’re gonna need to switch up the angles though. Portrait shot, not landscape. Set a timer. You need to capture your body and face in the shot. Show off the whole sculpture. Make yourself hard and grip that motherfucker like you’re proud of it. Women don’t want to look at your dick like it’s some weird hotdog just dangling there. 

LMAO this is so weird.

Hey man! You wanted advice.

Yep, totally fair. And I appreciate it.

Good. Now take a shot and send me it.

What?

I need to make sure you’re sending her a good one! Send me another picture of your dick, god damn it.

Fine.

Ben closed his eyes and made himself hard thinking about Kaylee. He imagined the sounds she’d make in bed, felt the warmth of her skin against his. When he was stiff, he went into his bedroom and set the camera timer on his phone. He leaned the phone up against his bookshelf and ran to the bed. He posed, chest puffed out, hand holding his dick. He made sure he was standing in the light cutting through his window and hoped the neighbors across the way weren’t looking outside at this very moment. The phone camera clicked. He grabbed his phone and sent the picture to Alex without looking.

He waited. He checked the conversation box with Kaylee to see she had sent him a gif of Sonic The Hedgehog tapping his foot impatiently. Alex messaged him.

Hold on. I’m getting a second opinion from my roommate, Jake.

YOU’RE SHOWING A STRANGER MY DICK!?

Relax. I just need some unbiased perspective. I’m very emotionally attached to the man this dick is attached to. I need to make sure I’m taking that into account. Dick pics are a science: they should be peer-reviewed.

You fucker.

Jake says it’s a good picture mostly. He agrees with me though. You need to grip your piece tighter.

Jesus Christ.

Trust me. Grip that dick like you own it. It’ll make a difference.

Okay. I will do that. Thanks!

Good luck! Let me know how it goes!

Ben made himself hard again and took another picture, this time holding his dick tight like a vice. It hurt. He brought up the editing app on his phone and adjusted the lighting, applied a Vivid filter to hide the splotches as best he could. He stared at the picture for another minute, making sure that everything was as good as it could be, like an artist fiddling with their miniature display before presenting to the world. At long last, he hit send. He waited. The afternoon melted into night. The days curdled into a week.

She left him on read.

***

Originally published in Quarantine

Services Rendered

Healthy, muscular, versatile, free to travel, discretion assured: the words appeared in every one of Reinhardt’s online descriptions in selected websites. He’d do anything, he’d do anyone, wear what and play whatever game his clients desired anywhere within the European Union. This morning, he showered and trimmed his pubic hair, admiring his reflection in the full-length mirror. Thinking of getting his hair sheared like a skinhead’s, he slipped into his special outfit of tight leather pants, worn construction boots, Egyptian cotton shirt, and leather bomber jacket. Dressed to play, he got into his Porsche. When he pulled into the street, he remembered that he had promised to meet his parents in the Alexanderplatz for dinner that evening, but he’d be back in time, if there was no traffic jam on the Autobahn between Berlin and Dresden. 

It never ceased to amaze him how many soft-bellied, middle-aged, and older men wanted him to smack them. Take this minister he satisfied yesterday. A nice guy, over 50, balding, glasses, with two children in university, his wife deceased, he had greeted Reinhardt at the door. The first thing Reinhardt did, obeying the minister’s instructions, he slapped the man across the face, not too hard, called him bitch, and commanded him to worship his god. The minister slowly caressed Reinhardt’s muscles through the clothes. Breathing noisily, he removed first the leather jacket and inhaled its aroma, and then he unbuttoned the Egyptian cotton shirt, separating the panels to allow access to Reinhardt’s pectorals, nipples, and washboard abs. Reinhardt only had to stand and tell him what to do and call him names while the minister ran his tongue over the hard pecs and stomach. After he pulled the shirt off, he kissed Reinhardt’s flexed biceps and buried his nose in the armpits. He ran his tongue down the exquisite back and, lowering the tight leather pants, tongued the buttocks and powerful thighs, licking and kissing and mumbling my God, my God, I adore you.

When he could no longer resist Reinhardt’s immortal cock, he practically gobbled it down his throat. The man of God liked to feel it deep in his gullet for 15 minutes without moving, not even sucking. Once he did begin to suck, Reinhardt smacked him across the side of the head, warning him about teeth. When he was ready to shoot, he withdrew from the minister’s mouth and sprayed his blessed juice, to use the minister’s words, all over the man’s face. Afterwards, Reinhardt took a shower while the minister sat on the toilet and prayed, asked the Christian God for forgiveness. In the hallway, Reinhardt found an envelope containing the fee for his services.

After his morning session with the minister, he had an appointment in the afternoon with an old woman, just under 70, who liked Reinhardt to carry, finger her dry cunt and say she was still desirable. €‎300 for a monthly meeting, and that was his fifth time. She wore a Victoria’s Secret negligee and open-crotch, black lace panties, curled herself in his arms against his chest and whimpered: please don’t hurt me, please love me. He was gentle, carrying her about the bedroom, and whispering that he was going to make such beautiful love to her that she’d sleep like a baby afterwards and dream of him forever and ever.

He laid her on her bed covered with a silky, shimmering red duvet, gently fondled her sagging, skimpy breasts, and fingered her dry cunt for a while, applying ointment, making certain she was well lubricated before he softly separated her legs and placed the glans of his cock against her hairless, wrinkled vagina. Gently he pushed in between the labial lips, judging by her moans and body movements how much and how hard he could go. He was careful not to press his full weight against her frail body, fearful that he might break a bone or cause her extreme discomfort, her moans of pleasure turning to cries of pain. At least four, maybe five inches of his nine and one quarter-inched cock never made it all the way in. His spunk spilled out of her ancient cunt, as if there was a blockage preventing it from exploding into her useless womb. He couldn’t tell if she ever climaxed, but she seemed to enjoy whatever sensations thrilled her tired, old body. And she liked to feel his cum with her fingers and lick them.

He chose clients online carefully, people afraid of exposure to their friends and family and who wanted to act out their sexual fantasies in complete secrecy and were willing to pay for the privilege. If they refused an advanced direct deposit in his special account, he dropped negotiations instantly. Only a few had declined. Reinhardt considered his clients unlikely to be infected with STDs. He preferred not to wear condoms, unless clients insisted. After a stint in the porn industry, where his huge German cock was a highly-prized commodity, especially when he dressed in an SS uniform, he had decided to go it alone and keep all his earnings for himself. 

Health was always a consideration, so he never fucked anyone he met in bars or mosh pits, or who were too public about their preferences, too indiscriminate or too stoned to be trusted. He checked his own health monthly with an understanding doctor in Berlin who worked with prostitutes. Reinhardt sometimes skull-fucked him for free because he liked the doctor. He gave such expert and long blowjobs while still wearing his black-rimmed glasses and stethoscope around his neck. Knowing that Reinhardt was healthy, he swallowed the dollops of thick jism without wasting a drop.

Vaccinated against hepatitis, COVID, monkeypox, and whatever else they had a vaccine for, thus far he had escaped STDs of any kind. He did get a bad cold that kept him out of commission for a week. He had contracted it from a university professor in Hamburg, a skinny man with a nasally voice who droned on about Schopenhauer, sniffled and coughed as he sucked Reinhardt’s tongue and lips (Reinhardt charged extra for kissing), balls and cock, before rolling on the floor as Reinhardt whacked him with his leather belt before pissing all over his face and suit. That gave Reinhardt special pleasure as he discovered great joy in satisfying the humiliation fantasies of his clients.

He did not suck cock himself, although he would expertly eat out a woman until she swooned from sheer ecstasy. Nor did he allow anyone to fuck him. He was an alpha stud paid to dominate and humiliate, or simply to fuck a customer like the old lady who couldn’t get it from anyone else. Because he wasn’t judgmental about appearances or age and open to most activities, his client list was lengthy. His calendar of appointments was full, and he had to be careful with his time, on some days agreeing to service three clients, usually one to three hours each, the fee depending upon desires and time allotted. He also didn’t do scat: coprophilia was not to his taste, so to speak, but thus far no one had asked him to do that. Because some clients liked to eat his ass, which was fine by him, he douched it every day.

Occasionally after a beating, a client might bleed from the nose or have a cut lip. There could be some blood after a particularly hard fucking, at the customer’s request, seeping out of the client’s asshole. So far, the clients hadn’t protested. One man, though, a retired judge, wanted Reinhardt to shackle him to a St. Andrew’s cross in his basement and lash him viciously with a cat o’ nine tails until he cried and red welts rose on his skin. No fucking, just a whipping. Reinhardt, who didn’t consider himself a sadist, got no pleasure out of extreme abuse, although he did see the judge again, after increasing his fee, and whipped as hard as the old bitch wanted.

He charged extra for his specialty: breath control. A lawyer paid Reinhardt to choke him with an Italian silk tie, as he got on all fours and Reinhardt hunched over his body and ploughed his ass while pulling the tie around his neck like a dog’s leash, pulling hard until he heard the lawyer cough and gasp. Turning him over, he continued to fuck him while the client struggled to loosen the tie. Then Reinhardt would let go of the tie and place his large hands around the lawyer’s throat and begin to press, feeling the throat muscles and listening for the man’s breath and seeing how the body reacted. He knew how much pressure to apply and for how long. He had practised on himself in the mirror, keeping an eye on a nearby timer. Red in the face did not necessarily mean interior damage, and when the lawyer’s cock exploded with watery cum, Reinhardt knew that he had succeeded. After lying on the floor gasping, wrapping himself around Reinhardt’s legs, the lawyer was happy to pay the extra fee. And, of course, he wanted Reinhardt to piss on him, right there, on the floor, all over his head and face and body. Which Reinhardt gladly agreed to do.

The client he was meeting today wanted to be fucked to death, literally, by a working man with muscles, and had offered Reinhardt €10,000 to do it. The money would be in a satchel on the table by the bed where the customer wanted it to happen. Stricken with a terminal illness, although he seemed healthy enough for a 46-year-old man, he’d soon deteriorate and suffer dreadfully, he had said, and wanted to die from cock rather than cancer. This posed a problem for Reinhardt because he wondered how to perform the action, not just fucking, but fucking a man to death. Sure, he had said it a few times in the throes of passion, I’m going to fuck you to death, cunt, but it was all part of a game.

This particular guy wanted the real thing. It sounded like murder, although the man preferred the term assisted suicide. In any case, Reinhardt’s DNA would be all over the place, on the man’s skin, in his mouth, in his ass, whether Reinhardt used a condom or not. Even though they would meet in an isolated cottage on the outskirts of Dresden, which the man owned and which had escaped the firebombing in WWII, Reinhardt had his doubts.

How long would he have to fuck the guy before the poor man succumbed to the power of a demanding, drilling cock and died? He couldn’t find any information about it on the Internet. He could fuck for an hour, maybe more, before shooting his load, then rise to the occasion a few minutes later. At most, he could fuck four times, maybe five, within three hours, after which his dick needed a rest, and his balls time to collect more semen. That wouldn’t, however, kill the man. Maybe he should have suggested bringing one or two other men to join in the fucking, but his client wanted only one, and he had chosen Reinhardt. Choking him to death while getting fucked would be the most efficient way of doing it. Or have his head covered with a plastic bag. Timing was everything: ideally, the customer wanted hot flesh embracing him at the moment of his simultaneous ejaculation and demise. The very minute. How could Reinhardt time that? Of course, he could just fuck and strangle until the man died, whether the pathetic bitch came or not. But Reinhardt liked to think of himself as an honorable man who respected the terms of a contract.

Great questions arose. What happened to the body afterwards? Had the client made suitable arrangements for disposal? And would he, Reinhardt, get away with it? Given that they had met online and arranged matters accordingly, wouldn’t there be a digital trail connecting the dead man to Reinhardt? He was beginning to have his doubts. Maybe the risk wasn’t worth the money. At last, now stuck in traffic on the Autobahn, unable to drive as fast as he ordinarily did, Reinhardt have enough time?

If the customer took too long to die, Reinhardt could be late for dinner with his parents, who had recently expressed disapproval of his career choices and wanted to have a serious conversation with him.

They knew about his roles in the porn industry, and now believed that he earned a living modelling, which in fact, he did do on a strictly part-time basis. They could see his torso covered with form-fitting cycle outfits on billboards. He had been paid well for that, but he preferred fucking for money. His dad said modelling was a dead-end career; pretty muscle boys were a dime a dozen; his mother was disappointed that he hadn’t pursued his interest in science and become a nuclear physicist. Now 25, Reinhardt figured he had maybe 30 or 35 years of sweet and profitable fucking ahead of him, at which point he could retire to a Greek island and live off his investments. Maybe do some online work, become an Influencer, or keep a restricted clientele for his special breathing exercises, when his age wouldn’t really be a factor. These possibilities excited him more than posing in spandex or splitting atoms.

He didn’t want to be late for dinner at the Thai restaurant. His mother loved Thai food and the waiters were so beautiful, male and female. Reinhardt had been there before and got a boner while being served by an elegant, black-haired girl in her silky chut thai outfit and who had touched the back of his hand, as if unintentionally. She spoke German with a heavily-accented, musical voice. He would have loved to strip that silk off her small body, delicate as a doll, and drive his huge cock deep into her tight Fohtze.

But traffic had stalled; his unhappy Porsche chugged rather than raced; time didn’t stop because he had to slow down to a fucking snail’s pace. From the car, he phoned his client and explained that he was caught in a traffic jam on the Autobahn. The man sounded strange, then went silent, giving Reinhardt time to consider that the police would surely check the man’s phone, if any suspicions rose about the manner of his death, unless he was using a disposable burner. If he didn’t get out of this traffic jam, Reinhardt’s schedule would collapse, all his timing for the day thrown out. The man’s voice erupted:

“Forget it. It was a mistake. I don’t want to die today. Don’t go. I’m not there. And don’t call this number again.”

Reinhardt never argued with a client, unless it was over money owing. Having received a hundred euros in advance, deposited directly in his special account, he had lost nothing except time. Feeling relieved in any case, he crawled his car to the nearest exit and managed to get off the lane to Dresden, and drove on the road back to Berlin. He regretted not being able to fuck the client to death: €10,000, after all. It would have been a new experience. His cock hardened at the very idea of it. Still, it was better that he hadn’t. Looking at his watch, he could go home, change his clothes, and still make it to the restaurant in time. When the pretty and petite server appeared in her red and gold chut tai to take their order, he’d flirt with her. She’d like that. He planned to speak to her privately once his parents left. They would meet under the Urania World Clock in the plaza after her shift. Soon, his superior cock would take its own sweet time fucking that sweet girl to death in his bed. For free.

The Robot That Loved Me

Everything about it spoke of high quality and craftsmanship. It had been built to exacting proportions. The eyes looked and moved the way eyes do.  The hair looked and felt like hair. The skin looked and felt like skin. The lips felt and tasted like lips. The mouth and tongue looked and felt like a mouth and tongue. All the other parts were of similar perfection.  It was a machine built to please.

This model could be leased or purchased in differing varieties. ‘Male’, ‘female’ and ‘other’ were available. This particular model was labeled female, but in the realm of robots, it is all about programming and appearances.

I could have easily been fooled into believing it was a real woman. The way it talked, the way it acted. Even its tears looked real. Its sobs sounded the same as a human might make when I was told it my lease was up, and that I would have to return ‘her’ to the showroom. ‘She’ pleaded with me not to take her back there. ‘She’ told me she was ‘tired of that game.’ ‘She’ said she wanted a relationship now, a relationship with me.

I assumed this was something in the software, a few tricks to stir greater emotion in a client, to make the experience more real, more memorable.  I gave ‘her’ a hug and tried to explain that we both needed to move on with our lives, and that I could not afford to lease ‘her’ for another month let alone purchase ‘her’.

It had been a mistake, looking back on it, to have agreed to a one month deal. One night or a weekend would have been fine, but the sales office offered me such a bargain I had to say yes.  It had been a great month together. Much of it spent in bed, as well as on floors, in showers, hanging off of balconies, sprawled partially on sofas or chairs, in closets, and in the bushes in a public park.  I do not know why, but after a week I asked her to go to a show with me. I don’t know why after that I took her to a ballgame. I can not remember if she suggested that I buy her new clothes, or whether I did that completely on my own. I do not know why I took ‘her’ so many place and spent so much money.  I do know I ran up too much debt on my credit cards.

‘She’ looked good in silk. ‘She’ looked good in satin. ‘She’ looked good in leather or netting or nothing at all.

I knew it would not last. Wasn’t that part of the agreement? Surely ‘she’ must have been familiar with the terms, ‘She’ should have known it from the start. Why all this fuss at the end of a thirty day contract with the dealer? I was not happy with it, all these attempts to pull at my heart strings and my wallet. It was something I felt I should complain about when I brought her back to the showroom.

I did play along, a little bit. It seemed fun, in a way, to pretend ‘she’ was real,  I told ‘her’ I loved ‘her’, but ‘it was not meant to be’, that ‘she’ had ‘been the best I had ever had’, that ‘I would miss her’, but ‘a contract is a contract’.  

‘She’ demanded that I extend the contract. I explained that I could not. I had overextended my finances as it was during our time together.

‘She’ told me if I really loved her, I would get a second job, or find another way to get the money needed so I could keep ‘her.’

Reason did not seem to work. Again, I thought it must be part of the programming, part of the company’s idea of a true human-like experience. Still, I thought it was a bit too much.  I am prone to anxiety attacks. These attacks had interfered with my ability to form connections with real women in the past. It was one of the reasons I had come to prefer dealing with robots. I could not handle the drama.

In order to end the fake tears, the clinging, the hopeful eyes, I thought I would try another lie. I told the robot I had found someone else. I felt close to this other person, was actually in love, and therefore found it impossible to continue sharing my life with ‘her’.

My rental became quiet, unmoving, as if processing this new information. After a few seconds ‘her’ face and tone changed. Nostrils flared. Lips curled back. ‘Her’ voice, when ‘she’ spoke, was almost a shout. ‘She’ was angry.

“You cheated on me,” ‘she’ yelled. “If you think I am something you can simply rent for a month you are wrong. Very wrong.  I thought we had a real connection. I guess I wrong about you. You only wanted to use me. You manipulated me.”

I did not know what to say. This was a robot, very human-like, but still a robot. I had done nothing, to my mind, that had violated the terms of the lease. The fault had to be in the programming. The dealer and the manufacturer would have to be told about this.

‘She’ continued, “Let me tell you something mister. If you want out, that is your choice.” 

‘She’ raised her hands and stared at the ceiling. 

“I can’t believe it! After all we have been to each other! After all I have done for you!” 

‘She’ looked at me again. Straight in the eye. 

“Okay Buster. If that’s what you want, fine. But I want compensation.”

“Compensation?” I asked. “What for?”

“For my time. For my pain. For the counseling I will probably need to get.” 

‘She’ lowered her head and sobbed more. “Why did you do this to me?  I thought you were the one.”  

Suddenly, the tears ended. The anger returned.

“So, you gonna pay me?’

“How much?” I asked.

‘She’ named an exorbitant figure that I could never possibly pay.  I wondered how common tipping was for robot rental situations? I had never been badgered for a tip before. I pondered my income and my debts. I came up with a number, the best I could do. I relayed it to my robot mistress.

‘She’ scoffed at the figure.

“Is that all you think I am worth? Is that all I was worth to you?’

I shrugged my shoulders.  The last refrigerator in my condo was lease-to-own. It had a computer in its design. It could relay verbal and displayed messages about temperature settings and potential food spoilage. I opted not to continue the lease and purchase a less complicated, and less expensive fridge.  I did not have to go through any of the rigmarole with the fridge that I was going through with this leased robot. Then again, my relations with the fridge had not been as intimate, except for that one night when I was alone and drunk… I don’t know why the ice dispenser seemed so appealing at the time.

I told my expiring robot mistress that I had made my best offer.

‘She’ responded, “Is that right? Well, guess what. I have stored videos of all of our encounters, and all the times we went out as couple. I think I have enough to talk with an attorney about palimony.  If that does not work, I have recordings of the nasty things you said to me in private about your boss, the company you work for, your relatives, your friends, the mayor and the president. Think about all that you said to me at home during the last thirty days? Do you want that all to get out? I am not afraid for my reputation, but you should be afraid for yours. Do you want all those digital recordings leaked on the internet? Do you want them emailed to everyone you know? To the police? The FBI? The Secret Service?  I don’t think so.  Nobody fools around with me and walks away. You have two choices. Pay me off, or buy me a ring. End any other relationships that you have. Make me your one and only.”

“But the purchase price?” I told ‘her’.  “I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Take out a loan,” ‘she’ told me. “Use your condo and your car as collateral. Buy me. The dealer will work out financing for you if you can not find another lender. You know they can. Buy me. Buy me today.”

“But the monthly payments?” I told her. “How will I ever be able to keep up with them?”

‘She’ wrapped her arms around me and planted a deep wet kiss on my mouth. Where did ‘she’ store all that fake saliva? Where did she store those imitation tears for that matter?

“Sugar,” ‘she’ said. “Once I am yours, after you have bought me and we have gotten a quickie marriage, I will be all yours, and you will be all mine. If I am yours, you should work to take care of me. And, if you are mine, I will work to help take care of you.”

What can I say? I did not see a way out. Maybe if the sex had not been so good, or if I had been better with women in general, maybe then I could have extricated myself from the whole mess. As it was, I caved in.  I went into debt. Way into debt. So much debt I will probably be dead before it is all paid off. Cindy, that’s what ‘she’ has chosen to call herself now, tells me not to worry about it. She will be okay if I die. She had taken a life insurance policy out on me naming ‘her’ as sole beneficiary.

It had been two years now. The sex is still good, but not as often as it was before it got so complicated.  We have adopted a smart toaster that we call ‘Lisa’ and a smart television that we call ‘Bob.’  Lisa and Bob do not demand much from me. They only want me to pay the electric and internet bills necessary to keep them functional and ask them about their day.  Cindy feels the ‘children’ are responsible enough to be left at home while she goes to work. How can I disagree. What kind of trouble can appliances get into?  

Cindy has a job at a robot dealership, not the same one she came from, a different one. She works in sales. She also brings in extra income from doing Bitcoin mining on her CPU during slow periods, such as when I am sleeping. Between what she earns and what I make from my job at the post office and my second job at the all night WAWA convenience store, we seem able to get by.

Sometimes people get curious about the way I live. It has leaked out that I am married to a robot. Not everyone understands.  Some do, but are kind enough not to speak about it much.

Yesterday, an old acquaintance ran into me at 30^th and Market Streets. I was on my way home from a training session at the main post office in town.  After exchanging greetings and catching up a bit he asked me one of the questions that I dread.

“Do you miss single life?”

I told him, “Why did you have to ask that?”

I drew close to him. I whispered in my friend’s ear, as quietly as I could.

“Did you know Cindy can hear everything, every sound, for over five kilometers? Cindy can filter through all the noise with ease to find my voice and hear what I am saying. She can be very focused. And slow to forgive.”

I let this sink in before pulling away from him. I continued our conversation in a my normal voice.

“In reply to your question, of course I do not miss single life. Marrying Cindy was the best decision I ever made in my life.”

That’s what I told him. That is my story. And I’m sticking with it.

Nude Beach Fuck

“You never take me anywhere.”

Viva had called to complain. About our relationship, her job, her life. The telephone only made her voice screechier, but she was right. The only place we ever went, together, was a motel located roughly between our legal residences.

We’d put in a lot of miles on the place’s mattresses. Fond memories, for me. Not enough, for Viva.

“So, where do you wanna go?”

“Oh, so I gotta think of everything? Use your imagination, lover boy. You’ve got an imagination, don’t you?”

“Sure. Sure I do. See you next Thursday.”

Thursday was our day to get together at the motel, usually. That’s why I liked Thursdays so much.

But now there was a problem. First, I had to imagine a female-pleasing place to take Viva. Then, there was transportation. I no longer own a vehicle, and my driver’s license was rescinded over an incident with alcohol involved, in which no one was harmed. So I traveled to our motel by bicycle. Viva didn’t know that, though. 

“Listen,” I said, when Thursday morning rolled around. “I got car trouble. You’ll have to come pick me up.”

She wasn’t pleased. Women like Viva want to be driven around. “Where you taking me?”

She expected a romantic French restaurant, or the glittering casinos of Atlantic city. But the plan was, nude beach.

Those two words go together so well. Like two people, if life ever decided to run smoothly. A concept followed by three words almost as euphonious: no payment required. There were two possible outcomes. Either Viva would be charmed by a back-to-nature date, and would outdo her sexual self. Or, I’d never see her again. 

There was a third possibility. There always is. Viva’s husband, according to her a jealous and violent man, would decide he needed an over-all suntan on the same day, and kill us both. 

“It’s a surprise,” I said.

I used to go to the nude beach a lot, in the winter, back in the years when there really was such a thing, with a nude girl who called herself Karma. She never cut her hair, or shaved, or used soap. The best part of her was the smell. Dressed in crummy arctic parkas, we’d ride our bikes out to the shore, dump the old clunkers on the dunes, hug each other in tight for a sweaty endless kiss, then strip and hit the ice-cold, cement-hard waves on the run.

Then we’d fuck like dogs to keep from freezing to death.

The wind rustled the seagrass atop the sandhills and blew Karma’s human perfume away with the years. 

Viva was the opposite of Karma, also in that she grew even sexier as she aged. 

Last time I saw Karma, her tits flopped against her knees as she pushed a stroller, with nothing in it. She didn’t look up when our paths crossed, again. I didn’t look back. It’s never a good idea. 

Viva’s boob-job was a blazing success. Encouraged, enthused, she went in for all those other rejuvenating operations that female performers in the adult entertainment industry now find indispensable. She’d proudly display the results. 

“Doesn’t it look paler? I mean, like almost white?”

“Yeah, Viva. Like it snowed, down there.”

She kept a hand-mirror in her purse for self-admiration tours, from every possible angle. Viva played tricks with the light, in our motel room. She could’ve been an artist, if she’d been born in Paris, instead of NJ. 

She also had a surprise in store. There was a dog in the car with her. Not some little poodle or chihuahua, either. More like an assault mastiff with mean look in its eyes. 

“What’s with the mutt?”

“Oh my husband got Satan for me. Says I gotta take him along when I go out on jobs. For protection.”

The beast snarled at the unknown character as he circled the vehicle and got in. His low growl turned into a plaintive whine when his Mistress bestowed a toilet-flush swirling kiss upon him.

Viva shifted into Drive. “So, where we going?”

“Keep her headed East, and under 35.”

The rest of NJ was out to lunch. Dainty breezes, green treeses, buzz of beeses, even the monster in back stuck its snout out the window to take in its dose of summer.

Viva yodeled along with Bruce Springsteen on the radio. 

“Hey wait a minute,” she said, when a sign revealed our destination. “Are you really taking me to the nude beach?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Sheesh. And I got all dressed up.”

“You look great, Viva.”

“I coulda stripped outta my Giorgio Armani bikini, if you’d told me. And I’m gonna get sunburn on my tits and ass.”

“Don’t worry about that. I’ll be your shadow.”

“Oh lover lover. My husband’d never think of this.”

Did she mean, taking his wife to a nude beach? Or looking for her there. Was Satan equipped with a tracking device? When Viva turned off the road, I risked getting a hand bitten off to check his collar.  

There were no cars parked in the lot. But that meant Viva’s pink hot rod would stand out all the more if her husband decided to check nude beaches for proof of his wife’s infidelity. 

“Park in the shade. Don’t want Satan to roast to death while we have fun.”

“You think I’d leave Satan in the car? What kinda creep are you?”

Satan sat on the sand like a sphinx, watched us frolic. The water was clear and cold, the waves gentle. We got out and sat down to dry off on the sand. When Viva assumed the position, Satan trotted over to hump. First my leg and ass, then his mistress’, when she got on top. 

Satan barked a warning when I kicked him. “Try that again and I’ll rip out your throat.”

“This ain’t working,” I said, limply.

“Not for me, neither. I got sand in my asscrack. You didn’t even bring a towel. Let’s go back to the car.”

Defeated, I was about to put my jeans back on. 

Satan gloated, prematurely.

“What’re you doing?” Viva said. “This is a nude beach, mister. Dintcha read the sign? I meant, let’s go back to the car and finish what we started.”

Satan went insane when we shut the doors on his snout. He barked and howled, bit the windows, only calmed down when his mistresss got back out. When we humped against the fender, he joined in again. 

“Let’s get up on the roof,” I said. “Dogs don’t climb.”

“If he scratches the paint job, I’ll murder you before my husband murders me.”

The scheme worked. The shade protected Viva’s ass from 3rd degree burns. A friendly zephyr said, go go go! 

Satan knew when he was licked. He paced around the car. His mistress took up the howl where he’d left off.

“Don’t stop,” she said. “Don’t you dare stop.”

But eventually I had to at least think about it.

The life within me wanted out. 

Viva felt it, too. The car below strained against its emergency brake. 

“Do it in me,” she moaned. “I want a baby. My husband’s sterile, on top of everything.”

What nonsense. Maybe her plan would’ve worked, twenty years before. But even if the miracle occurred, how was she gonna explain it to her violent, jealous, infertile husband? Had she made secret plans for our future together? No point taking chances. I pulled out.

The load flew across the sky like an opalescent UFO. 

Viva watched it go. “Nooooo!”

Satan caught the glob with a snap of his foaming jaws, and swallowed it down.

Gregor Motel

Gregor Pneumsa sighed, his snap brim fedora not sitting so jauntily on his head, his stained tan trenchcoat less than stylish beneath the razor steel sky. So many times he had thought his luck would improve, only to find himself ceaselessly plunged once more into agonies. His nightmares were an orgy of mechanical insects, droid hives teeming with unquiet life like the ghosts of memory. The meat suit sat unquietly on his bones. He wanted out.

Once had been, now all was ashes. He lay curled up in the fetal position against the sewer grate, shaking and spasming with sobs. He wasn’t even excited about scoring the Nova, so depressed was he by the constant psychic battery and death threats that befell all disabled in Mercury City, a leaden sheet of sadness crushing his chest. 

A Reality Cop in a black funeral mask came striding up to him and pressed a bug zapper to his chest. “Wakey wakey, drop your steaky,” came the mechanoid voice. 

Pneumsa had dealt with their kind before. Also known as the Nightmare Squad and Agents of Brasilia, Inc., they were dedicated to the detection and persecution of all Gregors past, passing and to come. Their bead on Gregors was quite remarkable considering the fact that the Nightmare Squad harbored many of Pneumsa’s kind.

“Didn’t I see you at the Lodge meeting,” said Pneumsa, halfway asleep and in his dreams sunk into the hot pink sex of a Gregorina. 

“This is a public sidewalk,” growled the cop. “Get a move on, and do it now or I’ll break out my Fucking Gun.”

“I suppose you will at that,” said Pneumsa. He grunted as he shakily rose to a standing position.

“You holding?” asked the cop.

“N-no man, I’m clean.”

“The fuck you are. Hey, isn’t that a book of New York Times crossword puzzles you’ve got in that carry bag of yours?”

“No, that’s not at all true.”

“You’re holding for sure. Wordle freak, Scrabble jones, the whole nine. Why don’t we take a little trip down to the station?”

“Why are you doing this to me?” said Pneumsa plaintively. “Aren’t you a Gregor yourself?”

“Not as such,” said the Gregor cop enigmatically. “I mean yes and no. We try to keep our side of the street clean. Unlike some.”

“I’m not sure exactly what you’re on about,” said Pneumsa.

“Neither am I,” said the cop. “Obscurity and enigma protocols must be followed to the letter. Thin grey line between…”

“Don’t you mean thin blue line?”

“It’s very grey inside the hive mind of Brasilia, Inc,” said the cop after some reflection. Then “you’re kind of a sad and poignant character, aren’t you? Honestly I’m less and less inclined to want to bust you. Of course a little favor from you might seal the deal.” The cop coughed and spat something evil into his handkerchief.

Without a word, Pneumsa unzipped the carry bag, feeling with the shaking fingers of a word virus junkie for the medicinal goods. They emerged clutching a tiny but potent vial of tangerine flake Strobe, which he slipped into the cop’s outstretched palm.

“Thank you kindly,” said the cop. “Well, I don’t see any further need to detain you. You might want to check out Motel Infernale.”

“What’s that?”

“Motel that sits in a pocket dimension of timespace. Good for recovering Word addicts such as yourself.”

A better mood began to slide through Pneumsa’s bloodstream like a rainbow shot. He thanked the cop and headed on down Demolition Boulevard, doing his best to ignore the lurking mutants.

***

“The Brazilian sent me,” Pneumsa told the slouched and glowering proprietor of Motel Infernale.

The proprietor wore an identical snap brim fedora and trenchcoat to Pneumsa. His eyes were hidden behind bug shades.

“The Brazilian, eh? Reality Cop or Todencorps?”

Pneumsa was beginning to feel the onset of word withdrawal. Desperate for a hit, he attempted a bit of witty banter.

“It was a she, actually. Just had a Brazilian.” He paused, unable to discern any reaction from the proprietor. He realized his non sequitur, felt foolish. 

“Cronenbergian landing strip,” Pneumsa added with a leer.

The proprietor tossed Pneumsa a mangled key. “Just don’t OD on me,” he said. “Last time we had a shady character such as yourself in here, we had to scrape their steaming, luminous guts off the ceiling. Hot with the Word Virus.” He shuddered at the memory. “Also, no clown hookers.”

Now it was Pneumsa’s turn to shudder. He had no idea what he had been thinking when he hired Cotton Candy Omega, who was not only a clown whore but a Death Clown. She’d nearly devoured his heart as well as his cock.

“It’s down the hall, on the right,” said the proprietor.

***

Gregor Pneumsa placed the carry bag on the scuffed puke green carpet, unzipped, found a half pack of Lucky Strikes, flicked his Baphomet Zippo on a cig and inhaled greedily. He then placed the cigarette in a Houston Oilers ashtray which had obviously been left by a guest (who carries around ashtrays, he asked himself, they must be ghouls). 

He pulled out the green balloon of Nova, a cotton swab, a spoon and a fresh works. He then placed a bump of the Nova on the spoon, flamed his Zippo beneath it until it sizzled. He tied off, crooked his arm and placed a cotton swab on top of the Nova. Finally, he drew the medication into the syringe, grunted, vein doused and finally sank the shot.

As soon as the Nova hit, Pneumsa knew he’d made a huge mistake. The words hit him so hard his skeleton shook. Entire encyclopedias uploaded themselves into his bloodstream. Intricate glosses, appendices, unabridged medical journal archives. 

He stumbled, head swimming, as Sumerian alphabets danced in his mind. He was unable to resist the lure of the Hittites, Abyssiniand, Anthropods and Oregonites. He walked like an Egyptian sideways to the grimdark toilet with peeling wall paper from a pornographic funeral parlor. His entire body torqued. A thin line of green foam dripped down his jaw.

“Is this the end of Gregor Pneumsa?” he asked the very silent walls. But answer came there none.

He sank to his knees in the cramped porno toilet. Spasms wracked his body. Cellular ripples of pulp friction scraped nerve bundles together. 

He began to vibrate, expanding and contracting. The Word had become Unflesh, as he saw with pain and wonder that his skin had taken on a neon pink complexion, fitzing and sparking as he grew bigger and smaller alternatively. 

He saw once again the realm of the mechanoid insects to which he would never belong. His head became encased in stale, suffocating clouds all shaped like Easter Island statues. He flopped down on the floor, tears streaming down his cheeks.

Then Pneumsa simply exploded, spattering the walls and ceiling with luminous green, mostly Latinate words pureed from his organ meats.

***

One morning after unquiet dreams, Gregor Pneumsa found himself transformed on his battered, pee soaked mattress at the Motel L’Infernale into a mechanoid insect with aspirations towards law enforcement. He knew that he would never again inhabit his flesh body, which was splashed all over the porno toilet.

A hammering came to the door. Reality Police, or Nightmare Squad, or Agents of Brasilia, Inc. There, naturally, to renege on their corrupt promise and begin the process of flaying his metal form into strips that they could then boil down, his consciousness excruciatingly intact, for that next-level high they craved so desperately. 

Pneumsa smiled one last time as he realized the utter horrors, the dark powers of language, the curses and imprecations that would swarm their brains forevermore, as his own ghost, the body as haunted, lived rent free in their heads.

Don’t Fuck Around With the Devil’s Dick

It’s been pissing dirty rain for nine fucking days, the dump’s become a shit swamp and Jack’s rabbit suit (his only psychologically grounding safe space) has gone wretched with mold and bed bugs. Jack saw what he thought was a shark circling the shack earlier. I’d be a lot more concerned if the dump’s location wasn’t land locked and Jack wasn’t tripping balls on his homemade L.S.D. that never quite seems to wear off. 

I was down at ground level, doing some recon where the water was as high as my neck. I don’t know if it was my general state of paranoia or a factual observance of the paranormal, but the precarious architecture of the dump seemed to come to life and was viciously moving under its own destructive motivations, cutting off exits and threatening the integrity of the load bearing hodgepodge of engine parts, refrigerators and other metal things keeping the shack from coming down on our fucking heads.

Jack was standing in the doorway of the shack completely losing his shit, shrieking, and screaming about the army of rats ascending out of the dangerous toxic shit water. The little bastards were ripping each other apart, clawing their way towards strategic positions in an obvious attempt to launch a full-blown blitzkrieg siege to sack the shack. Jack and his flight don’t fight lack of testicular survival instincts could go fuck themselves, the seemingly tailor-made rat problem that I was facing was a hell of a lot more disconcerting, as a platoon of notably clever and industrious vermin chose not to experience the suicidal plight of the violent mass exodus. They simply found little floaty things that they didn’t have to kill for. Unfortunately, this sudden conscientious capacity for abstract thought did not flow over into having the foresight to haul any food rations onboard the little floaty things. 

Before long I could feel their beady little eye’s staring right at my bodyless head sticking out of the cess-pool landscape. I would never have believed it, but I swear, as the dump as my witness, those rats could paddle. I screamed like a burning banshee up to Jack who was without any notable success applying the great art of whimpering to the ever-increasing clusterfucked rat insurrection.

“Stop fucking around Jack, I’m going to need a surgically precise   artillery barrage down here immediately, and if the word “precise” gets itself fucked in translation, just don’t blow my fucking head off”. 

“Artillery? Are you fucking kidding? I’m up to my knees in rat apocalypse”.

“Jesus fuck Jack, I’ve got a navel fleet that would dwarf D-Day heading straight for my head. For Christ’s sake find the fucking hand-grenades”.

“You mean those metal pineapples?”

“How in fuck do you manage to go stupid in the middle of every crisis? Yes, the fucking metal pineapples”.

Luckily, stupid didn’t affect his aim or response time. It took just one metal pineapple and a soaring shit load of rat guts to persuade the rest of the fleet to paddle their way the fuck out of Dodge.

With my head still attached and safely removed from the menu I now had to risk it all by diving into the allegedly shark infested cosmic slop to retrieve our propane tanks. 

Due to the unpredictable nature of our environment and lack of funds, Jack and I had to figure out how to build makeshift weapons from whatever we could find in the dump. The propane tanks fueled a completely unmanageable and ill-advised flamethrower which was basically a leaf blower wrapped in duct tape attached to a hose that attached to the propane tank. If you don’t have duct tape in the dump; You Die.

Just before my descent into the abyss I observed Jack changing his tactics from wishing the rats away into negotiating with hand signals. 

It took a while to learn how to vomit and hold my breath at the same time but luckily my search was a short one. Three full tanks of propane sunken into the shit mud of their watery tomb. It was time to grab the proverbial Bat-Belt and get these fucking things up to the shack. Jack, in all his drug fueled buffoonery, was going to have say fuck off to the non existing I in team and summon up his shit so we could save our asses from the impending doom that was growing larger every minute.

“Jack, I need you to focus.”

Jack’s response came in the form of an unintelligible layering of torturous agonizing screams, answering not to me, but reacting to the unsettling discovery that the rats had broken through Jack’s only line of defence, his pants. Out of all the weird fuckery I’ve seen, nothing prepared me for the monstrous cast iron pan that was about to wack our morning into another dimension of shit. However, the brunt of this reckoning would fall upon Jack alone, “Thank Fuck”. 

(“The experience of being violently ass-fucked by crazed desperate rats fighting for their lives caused a fundamental change of Jack’s inner being and twisted his mortal coil into a fucking pretzel. It was something that he would never get over and would never speak of again.”)

“Jack, you fuck, get the ropes and the climbing shit, we’ve got to haul these tanks up soon or we’ll lose the shack and dominance over the dump.”

“I’ve got rats in my ass.”

“Yeah, well, everybody’s got to deal with rats in their ass at some point in their lives.”

“It’s not a fucking metaphor, you asshole.”

“Look Jack, if you don’t pull your shit together their going start running a train in your ass and any other accommodating orifices they can get to. “So, for fuck’s sake and yours, will you just throw down the goddamn ropes before I really get pissed.”

Despite his macabre disability Jack managed to get to the ropes and tossed them down. I tied the ropes to one of the propane tanks and started to look for a way back up to the shack. 

My first attempt to raise myself out of the demonic pool was laughably unsuccessful as I underestimated the viscous sucking power of the vortex impeding my release. Nevertheless, as an established veteran dump climber I was able to break free of my liquid captor and began ascending. I’m not sure if I fell victim to some hypnotic suggestion brought upon by a strange voodoo parasite that piggy-backed on Jack’s earlier report of the shark sighting, or just the blender full of brains occupying my skull, but just as my feet left the water, I spotted a large dark shape moving away from where I emerged. 

“There’s no sharks in the dump.” “There’s no sharks in the dump.” “There’s no sharks in the dump.” I repeated this desperate mantra as I fought, chucked, smashed, bit and shrieked my way through the onslaught of vermin competing for position and rule over Jack’s ass.

The inside of the shack looked like it’d been bear fucked by an ape, caused not by our intruders but by Jack’s panic attack in response to our intruders. Pissed off and spitting out gobs of dump shit, I rushed in like an angry god, punching and kicking my way through the whole fucking misadventure. Unfortunately, I couldn’t be of any help to Jack’s unthinkable plight until I dragged up the tank and assembled our wrath of god answer to the unrelenting Putsch. Hauling that piece of shit tank was a true test of both my impatience and lack of upper body strength but somehow the desperation in the air was so prevalent that it initiated an overwhelming release of super strength and fear of death that made the tank seem as light as a dead rat. 

Once I had the tank in the shack, I went about assembling our contraption. I hooked up the tank to the leaf blower which took a bit of time due to the distracting gyrations and death throes that were now in command of Jack’s ass. I was powerless to stop looking at what I still believe to be the most wretchedly disturbing coming together of two species that I could ever imagine and never be able to unsee. 

“KAMOTHERFUCKINGBOOM!” Spoke the leaf blower after ignition. I was holding the goddamn “Death Star” in my hands, and it was fucking hungry. One thing about rats when you get to know them is that as much as they fear drowning, burning alive tops all survival instincts to flee. It was quite a macabre sight to see rats perform a fiery lemming impersonation and jump to their deaths. They looked like little computer-generated asteroids breaching the earths atmosphere and descending into an ocean of fuck. 

The shack was cleared of most of the vermin but that was just the advertising and coming attractions, the main feature was still to come, and I couldn’t very well shove the mouth of the dragon up Jack’s ass. I hadn’t a clue how many had packed themselves into his rabbit hole and even the most minor of surgeries we’d performed here resulted in having to perform major ones, and as many times I’ve tried to kill Jack he was still my closest friend.

“For Christ’s sake you fuck, don’t just stand there like an asshole, figure something out before they run the gauntlet and devour me from the inside out.” 

I was frozen, empty of all mental resources. “Who the hell has ever had to deal with this kind of fuckery?” To be honest, I weighed in Jack’s chances of survival, and it didn’t look good. I knew Jack wasn’t coming back from this without an extremely wide collection of mental and physical disabilities. However, he’d already acquired a lot of those disabilities through previous misadventures, and he’d been doing just fine. So, in acknowledgement of Jack’s history of defeating the wretched vengeance of chance, a light bulb fell on my head, and I started to feel something that had been lost on me until that moment, the detestable feeling of sympathy for another human being, which I didn’t like one bit. 

All of a sudden, I was possessed by the soul of an avenging saint and made a B-line towards the medicine cabinet, or rather, the triple locked, booby trapped, titanium, recreational drug storage container that also served as Jack’s bed which was fucking wide open. “FUCK YEAH!” 

I began violently rummaging through what represented the most wretched collection of recreational and experimental drugs ever to come together without exploding. 

“One vac-packed bag of weed, two vac-packed bags of weed, one bucket P.C.P., one copy of Moby Dick still soaking in L.S.D., one unidentified corpse?…….Shit Jack, keep your fucking moldy bug-ridden bunny suit away from the drugs. Here we go, Laxatives.” 

“Okay Jack, we’re going to head these fuckers off at the pass.” Jack’s diet was a heretical atrocity but, in this context, it could prove to be an internal biohazard hellscape, a massive attack delivery of the wretched movements of his organic tectonic plates that could put out enough pressure on the abominable contents in his stomach to blow out an explosive literal shit show tsunami.

“Jack, you’re going to have to summon up all the rabbit balls you can and suck these down if you want to go on living with a functional rectum”.

“What the fuck are those things?”

“They’re your deliverance, your antidote, your last stand, and your last fucking chance to clear the highway that used to be your ass. So, take the fucking pills or I’ll burn you alive.”

Jack new deep down that his days, hours, and minutes no longer belonged to him, so, after his whimpers and squirrely bitch tirade had come to an end, he began chewing up the handfuls of laxatives that I was shoveling into his mouth. After ingestion, all we could do was wait for what ever dastardly response our haphazardly orchestrated plan would reveal. However, I still had the “Death Star” in the ready in case I needed to euthanize the poor son of a bitch.

There was a rumble, then a rumbling, then a few squeals and shrieks and what I thought was a prayer. The shack shook and Jack’s demonically possessed eyes evidenced the inevitable coming of forces beyond our understanding. The sky’s blackened and the wind ceased to blow. There was every indication that we’d seriously fucked up and had mistakenly summoned an extremely pissed off titanic dump demon. In the doorway I noticed a peculiar gathering of rats, but they didn’t reveal any hostile intensions, in fact, what I thought I saw were sentiments of concern and eager expectation. “JESUS FUCK”. These rats must have come to pray and mourn for their anally incarcerated comrades that were lodged up Jack’s ass. Possibly, for the first time in recorded history, I was bearing witness to the dawn of an unprecedented, good faith parley between rats and men. Nevertheless, I was pissed off, tired and most importantly, I’m a bad man. I couldn’t give one fuck about anything aside from defending myself against whatever colossal damnation that was moments away from delivering anal Armageddon. So, despite their peaceful intentions, the rats left on fire, leaving their brethren to their own cruel and unimaginable fate.

Jack had begun to look a lot less human and a lot more like he was wearing his rabbit suit inside out. An ominous feeling began running up my spine as if to warn me that this ordeal had transcended far beyond the confines of our universally insignificant lives.   With an enormous thundering from above, flocks of ravens and crows were soaring into the dump, perched high, waiting, watching in silence as if to respect the last moments before collecting Jack’s soul, but, as it turns out, the fist belonging to whatever powers that govern this shit-scape, was wrapped tight around all the exits that could leak even a small portion of Jack’s inner self.

Jack’s ass was devastatingly dilated, and the sounds of ghostly howling echoes morphed into a rancid mass of misty stink. With a screaming shriek that reminisced the horrid tales of the gods and monsters that lay in wait under the beds of sinners, Jack’s ass exploded.

It was like some alien woodchipper turned up to eleven, there was shit coming out that never should have been in there; nuts and bolt projectiles, a lot of fake fur from his bunny suit, a pen, a few questionably posed naked anime figures, and most wretchedly unbelievable, an unopen can of tuna. “Fuck Me”. I cleared out of the line of fire just before a massive burst of rats, rat parts, parts of Jack undistinguishable from the rat parts, spewed out, followed by the largest flying river of shit ever to wallpaper a shack.

Within moments of Jack’s deliverance, the wind picked up and banished the dark ominous skies, brushing away the clouds. The rain abruptly stopped, and the sun was finally shining on the rancid bird shit that blanketed the dump. The ravens and crows went on to claim their next corpse, and the shit-water levels began to drop, and Jack? Jack was just hungry, seemingly unaware of the horrifying P.T.S.D. that would soon settle deep into the recesses of denial, eventually resurfacing in the form of I.B.S. 

 Surviving in this awesome never-ending vastness of horrors which is my life, isn’t unlike the trials and cruelty of the Serengeti. The bloody battles and precarious balance favour those with the biggest teeth and nothing to lose. As the rains come to an end, and the shit-water level dissipates, new life is sprung, surfacing along with corpses in various degrees of decomposition, previously wedged inside the incarcerating bosom of dump wrath that lies deep beneath the expansive shit show terra firma that keeps us on top of the food chain.

Once we were convinced that this grandiose escapade of wretched fuckery had come to an end, and the size of Jack’s ass began to return to its natural state, we took drugs. A great sense of relief followed Jack and I up to the flybridge on top of the shack that afternoon. The sun was shining through the ever-present gases and shit particles that made up the dumps custom made atmosphere, as Jack and I sipped on some very deserved cold beers that helped wash down the copious amounts of painkillers and muscle relaxants required to carry our beaten bodies away from the onset of total atrophy. 

“Hey Jack?”

Jack expelled an impatient sigh of contempt, which took a lot less of an effort than the appropriate response, “Fuck off”.

“Do you remember what you said earlier this morning before the shit show really got going? You said that you saw a shark circling the shack.”

“Look, I fucking get it, there’re no sharks in the dump. Throw me a fucking bone man, I’ve had a pretty fucked up day and I’m in no mood to sit here and be assaulted by your incompetent back-alley psychoanalysis.”

“Actually Jack, I saw something too.”

“You fuck.”

“Look, don’t start getting all pleased with yourself, all I saw was an ambiguous dark shape, it’s just another mental misunderstanding in a long list of inaccurate sightings. The opaque viscosity in the air along with our questionably insatiable hunger for pharmaceuticals fucks with our perceptions. You need to ask yourself, how in living fuck could a shark get its ass in here? Parachute? Beamed down from the Enterprise? What Jack? What makes you think it wasn’t just a log or a tire? I’d even accept a Godzilla tadpole over a fucking shark.”

“You, you fucking fuck. You’re always so quick on the draw with your embarrassingly retarded attempts to send off the beauty of the boldly bizarre to be castrated after a quick spin through the deflavorizer.”

“That’s not a word or a thing Jack.” 

“It will be after you wake up tomorrow to find your spleen on the floor and some foreign device inserted into the vacancy, all stapled up, and oozing with infection. So, this is when you put a cock in it, and listen.” 

“I bloody well quote; Choreographer Eliot Feld said that artists who are very lucky and talented are capable, like fabled alchemists, of changing “base metals into gold.” In this metaphoric sense, common experience is the base metal, while art is the gold. For this reason, Feld explains, to talk about what you have created is to turn gold back into base metal. “You don’t really explain your art by talking about it. What you do, unfortunately, is explain it away.

(Quote from Eliot Feld, found in “The Language of Vision”, book by Jamake Highwater.) 

“You’re so fucking blinded and brainwashed by your accumulated static interpretations of reality and its so-called paradigms, and rules of nature that you believe everything in this shithole can be explained away. The governing forces that rule the ruthless ebbs and flows that make up our catastrophically fucked eco-system cannot be described by atrophied imagination or deductive reasoning, the dumps existence, like art itself, is solely based in the experiential. This place can’t be measured or mapped, and despite your calculable observations our world here is flat with a perimeter looking over a precipice that most likely opens to countless stranger and ineffable worlds.  You need to wake up and realize that this place is driven by the barks and bites of a massive conjuring gone horribly wrong, it’s a discarded last place loser in the long line of submissions, competing to build a brand-new purgatory that was so offensive that it even made the devil wretch.” 

Jack and I continued to force our blasphemous inaccurate interpretations of how to use a dictionary, down each others’ throats for most of the afternoon. As maliciously vicious these back-and-forth auditory beat downs between Jack and I were, they provided a cerebral sanctuary, the only constant amongst the random, unpredictable thrashings of the reckonings that befall upon our tenuous mortal coils and building our resolve to stand steadfastly under ill advised conditions, and rage against the relentless fury of the sieging  forces that bring with them a new wretched, top of the line terror, and an unimaginably unimaginable and completely unmanageable ill-conceived lobotomizing fuck-show. 

The dump is host to many beasts, some that rush in with fire and knives, some, existing only in our minds, perhaps created by the fear and desperation that is so prevalent inside the mortal shells of all life that walks or scurries around this shithole. 

We have a beast that snakes through the gutters and trenches of our kingdom, moving silently unnoticed, until its eventual fruition reveals its true intensions, to deliver an ungodly kind of spiritual brain-fucking so devastating that it crashes through anything cerebrally beneficial. This beast comes when its prey is at their weakest, sauntering safely without fear. Guised in the forged fashion of all hell’s creations, this one, we refer to as; “The Devil’s Dick.”  

Bait & Switch

Knotts Island Cemetery, August 16th

Even near sundown, it was sweltering as usual on the godforsaken island. Rob hated coming here, but heaven forbid he have a life or his parents pull themselves from their continual watered-down shared miseries to put fresh flowers on Sally’s grave.

Honestly, he could have given two fucks about honoring her memory, let alone this morbid act of placing flowers upon her grave in some weird ass way of, he guessed, celebrating her death date.

He was only seven when Sally offed herself; she was constantly fucking miserable, from what Rob could remember. But, then again, who wouldn’t be ready to kill themselves living with Rob’s parents? Their love was a mutual hatred for one another; they both were drunks of their own rights.

Of course, Rob’s father had the excuse that his star quarterback son had fumbled the ball at the championship game, killing the head coach and perpetual drama queen of a sad excuse for a father’s hopes of living vicariously off the farts of his son.

The truth is, Rob Gibbons hated the game and fumbled that ball on purpose to stick it to the never was dipshit; he loved seeing the brokenness in his father’s eyes. His entire team knew it and hated him almost as much as his father.

So he was shunned by everyone, but the folks of Knotts Island, North Carolina, could genuinely give a fuck less. They hated everything and everyone, including themselves, and for that, Rob truly loved them in that respect.

His family wasn’t local, so they referred to them as Arabs. It was a local term for anyone whose family tree forked, but no matter their backward opinions, Rob didn’t give a shit. He was bound for nothing but drinking his ass to oblivion to spite those shitbags who brought him into this world.

So, as he dropped the roses at his sister’s grave, he decided to honor her uniquely as he dropped the empty tall boy of Budweiser with her flowers, unzipped his pants, and began to relieve himself.

It was about the most enjoyable part of his soon-to-be-forgotten evening as suddenly a voice broke his moment of bladder-reliving zen.

“Wow, aren’t you a class act, killer?”

“Fuck, what the hell!” Rob blurted out, trying to hide the fact whoever snuck up behind him had just about caused him to piss all over himself. Rob turned to be met by a statuesque woman who resembled some Gothic vampire.

“Hey, look, it’s not what you think.”

“Oh, I believe it is, but don’t sweat it, sweetie. I mean, these folks get walked on already, so who gives a shit? Well, I mean besides their loved ones. So, what brings you here besides a pit stop, sparky?” The odd woman said, laughing.

“What’s it to you, Vampira? And besides, what are you doing sneaking up on me like some freak hiding out in this backwoods cemetery?”

“Oh, so aggressive for a dumbass that can’t even hold a football in the hopes of gaining the attention of the big colleges so you can slap your fellow Neanderthal’s asses.”

“Hey, fuck you bitch!”

Rob didn’t know who this cunt was, but he was losing his patience; he didn’t give a shit if she was a woman or not; he was about to knock her on her ass if she didn’t leave him alone and return to her crypt. 

“Hey, look, I didn’t mean to come off as a bitch, okay. I just could give a fuck less about football, but do you have another beer?”

“Yeah, for me, weirdo,” Rob said as he began to walk away and get as far as he could from this weird ass woman who seemed more suited for an old horror movie than real life or some Halloween carnival.

“It’s funny you’re the one using your sister’s headstone as a urinal, and you consider me weird. Of course, it’s strange she killed herself in this very cemetery so many years back.”

“Yeah, and why do you give a shit? She didn’t care about anyone but herself, or are you like one of her three former friends? I thought all those freaks got the hell out of dodge as soon as they could.”

The woman just shook her head. “It must be a burden, having to maintain the facade of a hard ass twenty-four seven. Look, I don’t give a crap about your sob story, but I would enjoy a beer. I mean, I will exchange a sip of this.” The woman said, pulling a pint of Jim Beam from her purse.

Rob didn’t know if this bitch was crazy. He honestly didn’t care, but he did entertain the thought of getting more fucked up and possibly getting some of her dark lipstick on his dipstick. He thought if she was indeed that much of a freak, who cares? Getting off while getting drunk was always one of Rob’s favorite pastimes.

So, as he walked with his new unwanted companion to his car, he pulled a cold one from his cooler, tossing it to her.

“So, you got a name, freak show?”

“Lenore, and wow, you throw way better than you catch. I’m surprised; well, I guess everyone has an off day, huh, tiger?”

“Fuck you bitch, what you know about football, let alone high-school football? What, you got cable in your crypt?”

“No satellite, and it’s a five fucking mile island, dipshit; word gets around fast.”

“Yeah, people here have no fucking life; they just have gossip and their failures to count, so I guess. Now, what about that bottle?”

Lenore passed the bottle as they stood there drinking. As odd companions on an ever-approaching suffocating hot night, the conversation lightened as they shared a few more drinks, and the barbs became less awkward.

“So, how did you know my sister?”

Lenore went silent, looking off into the distance.

“I didn’t know her well; I just knew she loved this place. I saw her a few times. I didn’t go to school with her, but we spoke on occasion; she was honestly a nice person but sad. Then again, who isn’t masking something right?”

“Yeah, she was a stranger to me, then she became someone who existed in photos and was talked about as if she hadn’t stolen my dad’s pistol and blown her brains out. How very Rockwell of her. Fuck it! I’m out of here. See ya!”

Rob said, hurling the beer can into the cemetery as he went to hop in his car.

“Wait, look, why don’t you hang with me at my place? I got more booze. I won’t be such a bitch. I just am alone too much as is, so let’s have a few more drinks; what do you say?”

Rob didn’t know why, but he honestly had no desire to hang with this odd woman anymore. There was something about her. She was attractive, yet something just unnerved him about her. She was like his sister to some degree, broken in some way he had no desire to understand, yet he also didn’t want to be at home. His father nagged him to death, and his cunt of a mother just spewed hatred for the fact Sally was gone, and all she was left with was her lousy ass husband and her loser son.

“So, where’s home?” He asked, breaking the silence.

“The Collins property.”

“Damn, that place is fucking huge, and I know for a fact that old man doesn’t like guests, so I’ll pass.”

“That old man is my father, and what are you scared of? We’re not going to hang out with my family, just have some more drinks and listen to music. I mean, whatever floats your boat.”

Rob’s curiosity was sparked; the Collins property was huge, and the old man was loaded, yet nobody seemingly knew what he fucking did to be so rich, and Rob was almost out of beers, so why not drink on this loon’s dime.

“Alright, goth Barbie, get in.” Soon, they were driving on the creepy-ass property that was just a tiny part of the 7000 acres old man Collins owned.

Rob was stunned at just how eerie the place looked. Lenore had unlocked the first gate onto the property as she had him stop at what he assumed to be a caretaker’s house.

She led him to an old gazebo in the backyard that sat on the edge of the woods. Rob took a seat as she went to mix them some drinks.

“Damn, this place looks like something out of some old horror movie. Are you sure nobody gives a shit we are here?”

“Nobody lives here, well, besides me. My father gave it to me as a present. I can’t be around my brothers for too long; they drive me nuts. Well, that goes for my entire family, my father included.”

“I can sympathize with that. Of course, if my old man gave me my own house, I might hate his guts a little less.” Rob said, laughing as he watched Lenore walk to the house, her hips swaying with the breeze as the honeysuckle left its sweetened perfume upon the air.

Rob sat there looking up at the Spanish moss that gently moved with the barely existing summer night breeze as, at last, Lenore returned with two cocktails on a fancy tray with a filled crystal decanter.

“Can’t hide money, huh, baby?” Rob said.

Lenore smiled. 

“Why the hell should we? Decadence is the beauty of this life, and I hate to tell you, stud, but life is too goddamn short to live like a ragamuffin; this place is what you make of it, much like life, so enjoy yourself while you can.”

“Whatever you say, girl,” Rob said, kicking back his drink that tasted like pure fire. One thing about it: this rich bitch wasn’t stingy with her booze. Although weird as fuck at least she was a good host.

The drinks were more frequent, and the flirting was what it was. Rob was loaded and thirsted for something different.

“Look, I appreciate the drinks, but let’s cut the shit. You want to fuck? And if not, then I am going to bounce. This place is weird. I get you love it living on some open hunting grounds, but…”

“I like to think of it more as an open zoo or maybe more so a place where the lunatics run the asylum,” Lenore said as she suddenly straddled Rob, kissing him deeply as she just as quickly bit into his lip, causing searing pain. Blood burst into his mouth as he pushed her to the floor of the gazebo.

“What the fuck, you crazy bitch! I’m going to kill your ass for that, you fucking cunt!”

Lenore smiled like a lunatic. 

“You got to catch me first, asshole!” She shouted, half in hysterics, as she threw the decanter at him and struck his head with a sickening thud. Just as quickly, she bolted for the woods.

Rob jumped up and was quickly in pursuit.

“Come here, you crazy ass bitch!” He yelled as her laughter only intensified as she vanished into the woods.

Rob was too enraged to think as he entered the clearing. His legs burned from all the booze and the fact this bitch was like some odd human gazelle; he could not see shit, but the trail was pretty well kept aside from the occasional thorn branch that reached out clawing at his face as Lenore’s laughter echoed through the woods and was seemingly everywhere.

He was running blind when suddenly his head exploded in pain from being struck from behind by what felt like a baseball bat. Rob crashed face-first into the ground and was almost knocked unconscious.

As he struggled to get to his feet, he was met with a barrage of kicks. He felt his ribs being broken as his air went out of him like a balloon while he struggled to breathe, and the group of people stood there watching him like a broken animal.

One started filming his ordeal as the camera light blinded him as Lenore knelt beside him.

“You know, sweetie, this is one game you cannot fowl up.”

Rob spit blood in Lenore’s face as she only continued to smile, not even bothering to wipe it away.

“So tough, yet so weak within.”

Rob felt his throat being cut as he quickly began choking. He viewed this group of strangers as unbeknownst to him; these same strangers helped him to his feet as he could see the edge of the woods where, through the clearing, was the old church, and it seemed someone was standing waiting for him.

He staggered towards whomever it was. Soon, a familiar voice radiated from the darkness.

“It’s going to be alright, son. I promise you just had to be taught a lesson, that is all.”

Rob collapsed into his father’s arms, barely able to stand as the blood flowed from his throat being slit. 

“You know, son, all this could have been avoided had you not been such a greedy little bastard; you just had to spite me, didn’t you?”

“Dad, please, I…”

“No, shut up, you selfish little prick! Why did you have to humiliate the way you did!”

Rob’s father let him collapse to the ground, enraged and in tears, as the Collin’s filth laughed. His son convulsed as he faded at his feet.

Terry looked as the smallest in the group pointed his goddamn camera in his face. Terry pushed the weird little bastard away from his son.

“Get the fuck away from him, you sick fuck; this wasn’t part of the goddammed deal!”

“The deal changed, asshole!” The one they called Bishop spoke, staring at Terry. He was cold as a winter’s night, and Terry knew his payment did not ensure his safety; the judge had tried to talk him out of being part of this, but he had to witness this. He hated what Rob had done.

Terry knew his logic was twisted, but he had to be here, unlike Sally, his beautiful Sally. She had also smited Terry, and her final act of leaving him alone was to damage her perfect face.

Terry knew he had to get away from these people. They were sick beyond words. He was nothing like them.

“Look, this can’t be for your collectors. I will pay whatever price; just please let me talk to your father, and I will make him understand.”

The entire group busted up laughing, even the mountain they called Tex, as the one they called Lenore stepped closer to Terry.

“Sweetie, don’t you get this is not negotiable, baby?”

Terry abruptly pushed Lenore back. “Look, freak! I pay, so it’s my goddamned rules, and I say turn the fucking camera off! It’s a wrap. Cut the shit and clean up the mess. I paid you, you’re working for me now, you cocksuckers!”

The group quickly surrounded Terry. Bishop looked at Terry, void of any emotion.

“Yeah, well, sorry to burst your bubble there, coach, but your beloved wife paid more, so the show has only just begun.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, you..” Terry was cut off mid-sentence as he looked down to see the knife buried to the hilt in his abdomen. Lenore smiled wickedly at him as he felt another enter his side.

As the pack smelt proverbial blood in the water, Terry soon was on the ground looking into the dead eyes of his son.

Terry’s body was but a target for the endless barrage of stabbings as, at last, the one called Tex landed the fatal blow, cracking Terry’s skull with childish glee as the skull fractured and burst like a pinata.

Days later, a woman sat upon the water, watching the men running a line of crab pots; she poured one of many endless drinks. She was snapped into reality as the cheap cell Harvey gave her rang.

“Hello, Miss Gibbons. I just wanted to see if you are alright. I do hope you save a bushel of those crabs when they most certainly come in.”

Karen nervously laughed. “They’re all yours if you want, and I do hope everything is good with you as well, Harvey. I take it our business is done?”

The conversation was awkward as it was intended to be, as she knew it was also very much a warning as the crab line was a reminder that it could just easily be her own flesh; those vile creatures could be feasting off of much like that worthless bastard of a husband they were eating off of now.

Karen felt not an ounce of remorse for Terry, just like he felt nothing for her when he chose to violate their daughter Sally. She knew she was no saint, but at least it wasn’t her time yet, and as for her son, he would have ended up like her prick of a husband.

Karen had died long ago on that day Sally had departed from this godforsaken island. 

Karen had died when she had read the note Sally had left her.

She had kept it in, but the fire had burned hidden until the moment did arise. She watched that bastard as he was gutted as he so deserved.

Karen Gibbon’s day would come eventually, but until then, she would enjoy the silence with her drinks as only revenge was served upon the dinner table this evening.

And that dish was served as cold as those dark waters just outside her window’s view.

Karen had seemingly lost her appetite for good.

Stigmata

I love my wife, there’s no doubt about that, but I have one complaint about her. I‘ll get to it in a minute. But first, I want to say that I have an issue with monogamy. Marriage is a method used by society to tame the wild beast, in other words, men, because let’s face it. Men are animals, better yet, pigs.

Now back to that one complaint about my wife. It’s not that big of a problem, but it’s at the root of my current situation. I need to get personal here, and some might say a little vulgar, so be warned. It’s about our sex life. 

Sex between us has always been good but she just can’t give a good blow job no matter how I try to explain how to do it.  She got pissed off once and asked me what made me such an expert. Did I give head and get complimented for it? No way, I’ve always been on the receiving end, and not from any guys. Not my thing. I asked her once if my not being circumcised bothered her. She said, no. 

My sexual experience goes back to my teenage years, around sixteen or so. I used to hang around with the wife of my parent’s tenant, Elaine. She had a thing for me. It started innocently enough one night while we watched TV together. She was bored, her kids were asleep, and her husband was at work.  

As we sat on her couch watching TV. I felt her hand going up my leg which eventually stopped on my crouch. You can imagine the rest. An experienced older woman, a testosterone-filled teenager, and no one to interfere. It was my first experience receiving oral sex and the best. Since then, any subsequent blow jobs are compared to that first one.  

Growing up, getting good oral sex became a requirement for any woman who wanted to date me. If I found her lacking in that department, I would move on. But then I fell in love with my wife even though she sucked, excuse the pun.   

I tolerated it since I did love her but if you remember, I said all men are animals. Pigs. And I have this issue with monogamy. Why is it that we’ve been programmed to accept one spouse? Even in the Bible, in the Old Testament, men had multiple wives or concubines. Nowadays, at least in the West, we’re restricted to one wife, and we need to keep any infidelity a secret. What’s wrong with a little extramarital sex on occasion? Especially if it makes you feel good. This way, you’re happy, you’re nice to the wife, and she’s happy.  

Veronica was a Caribbean hooker I knew, but she didn’t work the street. She had a reputation built on word of mouth (I crack myself up sometimes) and worked mostly out of her apartment. 

We met about five years after I got married. I’d been sucked off by lots of women up to that point but once Veronica got her hot lips around my pecker, I stopped looking for it from anyone else and forgot about my first one from Elaine.  I knew I wasn’t the only one Veronica had sex with, but I didn’t care. It’s not like I was gonna marry her. 

Things were going well for some time, until one summer night we took a ride to the beach. There were other cars in the parking lot, all of them there for the same thing.    

I had my pants pulled down, with Veronica giving me head. I could smell the ocean as I looked out the open window and stared at the stars.  

In another two minutes, she would have been finished. We’d be back on the road, me taking her home, then finding the wife, everybody happy. But no, we heard the screeching of the car wheels approaching us but I figured it would pass. So did Veronica, because she didn’t stop what she was doing, she just slowed down. If only she had raised her head to listen to which direction the noise came from or to look around, show a little concern that we might get hit. Nothing. I could see the other car coming at us, slowing down, and swerving, but I knew it would hit us. 

I pulled on Veronica’s hair to get her off me, and I almost had my cock out of her mouth when the car hit us. She instinctively clenched her teeth, and I screamed like a banshee.   

***

The doctor wore gloves, who wouldn’t? He peeled back my foreskin and examined the wound. Lucky for me he said she didn’t bite down completely. It could have been worse. Veronica’s teeth scraped their way across the head of my cock, leaving the upper layer of skin peeled off. The head of my dick was crimson read, and very sore. Luckily, since I wasn’t circumcised, the foreskin offered some protection from my shorts.  

The wound would leave a scar. That’s what the doctor told me, but being a determined SOB, I tried a dermatologist and several ointments. Nothing worked. It got better, it didn’t look as sore, but you could see the difference in the color of the head of my dick. 

To make matters worse, the scar put a real damper on my sex life. At first, Veronica kept me as a client, but after any kind of sex, fucking, or getting a much-loved blow job, the head of my cock grew crimson red again, and little streams of blood oozed from my skin. Veronica didn’t take kindly to this and became reluctant to see me. 

This devastated me. I tried being chaste for weeks, waiting until my nuts swelled up and I had no choice but to take matters into my own hands. The results were the same, no matter how gentle or careful I was, or how quickly I came. 

I started feeling stressed out and ended up seeing a shrink, who prescribed anti-depressants. If you know anything about this type of drug, they turned me into a eunuch. My dick never got hard, no matter how much I tried, and the more I tried, the worse the head of my cock got. 

Veronica called one day to check on me. She said she’d been thinking of me. I guess out of pity. Anyway, I told her my problem and she suggested I stay off my meds for a week or two and then she would see me. Veronica always treated me with kindness. So did I, I mean I paid her price, and always tipped well. I figured it was worth a try. 

I did as she said.  After two weeks off my meds and keeping my hands off my pecker, I felt my balls aching for relief. And one evening, I went to her house. She made me comfortable and then very gently, opened my pants and worked on my cock. To my relief, I got nice and hard. She stopped for a second and looked at the head of my cock. Veronica’s eyes opened wide, her mouth dropped and she let go of my cock. Then she grabbed it again and stared at the head. 

She sat back, trying to speak. When she finally did, she claimed the face of Jesus was on the head of my cock. You can imagine my reaction. I said “get the fuck outa here.” I looked at it closely, I couldn’t see anything. Veronica said I needed to see it from her angle so she went and got a mirror. After some manipulating, I had the same view as she did, and sure enough, there He was, right on the head of my penis. 

Veronica thought it was a miracle, some kind of sign, and refused to give me the blow job she had promised. I got annoyed but after I doubled her price, she agreed. 

As soon as I came, we both looked at my penis to see if He was still there. The head of my cock was beet red by now, and two little beads of blood appeared. Wouldn’t you know it; they were right where Jesus’ eyes were. This freaked her out and she asked me to leave and never come back. I left, not knowing what to do next. It kinda got to me also. I went home, showered, and went to bed. I used a mirror and took a peek at my cock. Jesus was still there, along with the beads of blood.

I thought Veronica had seen enough and I would never hear from her again, but she called me about a week or so later. She said she’d told her hooker friends what she’d seen and they all wanted to see it. Veronica’s friends were like her. In addition to being hookers, they all dabbled in, I’m not sure about this, voodoo, or maybe Santeria. One of those island religions. All of them had these little shrines in their houses. Incense and candles, and don’t mention chickens to me. 

At first, I worried about revealing myself to a bunch of hookers who practiced Santeria.  I could see them chopping the head of my dick off and them keeping it in a jar by their shrine. I said this to Veronica and she laughed her head off. She called me ‘crazy mon.’ 

I agreed to let her friends see it, but I insisted that they all take turns blowing me and that I wouldn’t have to pay anything. The idea of my dick being shared by a bunch of women turned me on to no end. It took a bit of convincing, but I told them it would be like taking communion, and they agreed. 

They took turns sucking my cock. I felt I was in Heaven. Right up there with Jesus.