Lube Job

The operator sounded much too cheerful. “P.J. Factory! How may I direct your call?”

Mick Stiff nearly hung up on her. He was looking for regular employment, willing to try a different line of work, but he wasn’t ready to hit an assembly line, especially not in a sweatshop that produced pyjamas. Mick was more the sleep-in-your-undershirt type. But the guy who’d told him to call didn’t sound like he was offering a clock-punch Joe Lunchpail type of job. The guy had stars in his eyes. Mick held the line.

“How soon can you get over here?” It was the guy.

Mick was used to being asked how many inches he had, or if he ever had a problem getting wood. This was refreshing. He got the address and made it over to the P.J. Factory in under an hour.

“Thing is,” the guy said, “most guys don’t even wanna look at their old ladies after they’ve delivered. But that’s where you come in, baby. I saw your loop–the fuck was it called–Milkin’ Mamas. You were brilliant.”

“Thanks.” Mick Stiff shuddered. He’d shot that lactation stroker under severe economic duress.

“You’re a natural, kid. Most men never realize that milkers are the richest source of the most precious substance on Earth.”

“Yeah? You can get crude oil from ‘em?”

“No, you…well, actually, sorta…kid. Sorta. I’m talking about pussy juice.”

“Huh?”

“That’s our motto: We got a use for pussy juice.”

“Uh, OK, but what’s this job you were telling me about?”

“Well, that’s our other motto: We milk it out of ‘em!”

“Milk out of ‘em…what?”

“Why, the pussy juice, you…Look, I’m gonna give you a shot. Ready to work hard?”

“Working hard’s never been a problem, mister, but I still don’t…”

“Maybe it’s better if I show you, kid. Let’s hit the production floor.”

***

The P.J. plant didn’t look like the usual factory. Mick Stiff’s first glimpse of industry was what sent him screaming into the porn biz. But the porn biz had changed. There was too much competition. Stud fees had sunk to laughable levels, but there was no shortage of young guys who wanted a spot on the wet screen. The PJ Factory looked soft. The light was low, the heat was on high, New Age muzak oozed from concealed speakers. There were nude women spread all over the place, leafing through magazines. They looked as though they’d been run through a stretching, softening machine. The P.J. Factory boss saw how Mick stared at them.

“Big tits, that’s our motto!”

“You sure got a lot of mottoes here, Mr…”

“You wanna be a wise-ass, kid? Or do you wanna milk pussy juice?”

“Show me what I’m supposed to do.”

“The job’s a hands-on affair.” The boss grabbed a soft blonde and gave her ass a swat. “Right, toots: assume the position. You’ll be working with Nick, here.”

“Mick. Mick Stiff.”

She didn’t bat an eyelash. She’d never heard of Mick Stiff. She got on her hands and knees on a padded coffee-table, spread wide and looked back over her shoulder at Mick. Her nipples leaked. “Ready when you are, gorgeous,” she said, in a husky voice. “Shouldn’t take me long.”

The signs of recent motherhood were all there. Mick tried to put the traumatic images out of his head: the blood, the smell, the screams. The big blonde swayed her hips. Mick dropped his pants, grabbed her ass and discreetly drooled down her crack. “Courtesy lube” is the professional term.

“Uh-unh, kid. You got the wrong idea. You’re starting off at the wrong end. Remember our motto: We milk it out of ‘em!”

Mick Stiff shuddered again, but his co-star didn’t notice. He moved around to her front end. She lunged, hoovered him in. He breathed on his hands, rubbed them together. “Courtesy palm prep”. Slowly, gently, he milked her.

Jets of cream spurted into a hole in the milking table. There was a barnyard sound as the fluid hit the metal container.

“That’s the way to work her, kid! What’d I say? You’re a natural. Keep goin’ while I get the Extractor.”

Mick kneaded her nipples, squeezed them down and closed them off the way he’d watched his Uncle Olaf do on the farm in Wisconsin. She squirmed, bucked her hips. Mick had been in the porn biz long enough to sense an impending gusher.

There was a squelching sound.

“Yah! Just in the nick of time!”

The blonde groaned and took Mick deep into her throat. He kept on milking.

The liquid spurted. Mick couldn’t believe she wasn’t pissing. He looked at The Extractor: a black rubber accordion hose that ran into an atomic vacuum cleaner. The hose was attached to the blonde with a suction cup. Lights blinked and needles jerked with sounds from a doomsday pinball machine.

“Whoa, stud. You got her going full throttle in no time flat. But here’s where we separate the men from the boys. Now, you do her tits.”

Mick withdrew. No need for further courtesy lube. He mounted her cleavage and got to work.

“Wuh!” she said. “Wuh-uh-uh!”

“Easy, girl.”

“Wuh! Wuh-huh-huh-uh! Nnnnngh—GOD!”

The Extractor blew like an air raid siren. Machine and lactating female went Woop! Woop! Woop!

“Kid! You filled the tank! With one milker!”

The other nude women on the production floor drifted over to see what Mick Stiff was doing to their colleague.

“Don’t crowd him,” the boss said. “Everyone gets a turn. We’re gonna run double shifts, if the new kid’s up to it. How you doin’ there, by the way, Rick?”

“That’s Mick. And I’m doing fine. Ready for another, if you think this one’s had enough. I can handle two, if it’s not against company policy.”

“Mick…Mick! Where you been all my life?”

After brief two-way preliminaries, Mick arranged the milkers belly-to-belly on the Extractor Table and worked them hard.

“You’re a genius, kid! You’re the fucking Mozart of milk! You are the Marcel Proust of pussy juice!”

“Boss, I’m gonna shoot. Can’t hold off much longer.”

“Go ahead, boy. Girls, get in there and help my new partner cum, for chrissakes!”

Mick Stiff vanished in a pink cloud.

***

The P.J. Factory’s executive lounge was a pair of stained recliners near a fridge that contained several six-packs of beer. A black-and-white TV showed an ice hockey game with the sound off. The silence bothered Mick.

“Uh, whuddaya do with all that pussy juice, boss?”

“What do I do with the pussy juice? What…why you…what the fuck do you care what I do with it?”

Zoo Tail

Her ass said, follow me. The way she walked, loosely translated from body language, said, look at my ass. The message was: look at my ass and follow me.

She headed towards the zoo.

This seemed an oddball destination for a woman dressed to hook. Hook up, I mean. Maybe with a friendly guy who doesn’t spend sunny afternoons in an office or shop. She spotted the tail immediately. I’m no private detective. She didn’t make a fuss or call the cops. She looked back to make sure I was still there behind her.

The zoo’s a good place to go because it’s free. Zoo management did some market research, and discovered the admission charge discouraged attendance. The free zoo became a popular attraction. Zookeepers made up for lost ticket sales with a popcorn stand. People stand in line to buy paper boxes of cloud-shaped kernels to feed the monkeys.

The lady with the wonderful behind sashayed through the wrought-iron gate. A zookeeper in a cop-like uniform said a big hello.

She was apparently a regular, well-known to the keepers and the sweepers who follow the elephants around. She’s on a first-name basis with the giraffes, zebras, warthogs and giant anteaters.

A hand-painted sign said, Monkey Island. A green arrow pointed left. She stopped and pretended to study the sign. She looked back.

Modern life means less and less contact with animals. Less genuine contact with other people too, even though we’re smashed closer and closer together, more and more of us every day. But those of us not confined to office space-and-time are free to go outside for fresh air, sunshine and a glimpse of caged nature. I hadn’t been to the zoo for ages.

Monkey Island isn’t a natural geographical phenomenon. Zoo architects dreamed up concrete poured into the shape of a tropical paradise. Just like the ones the general public saw on television while they were growing up, except no palm trees, no beach. Monkey Island is an island only because of its gray, garbage-strewn moat. People throw popcorn at the monkeys. Monkeys love popcorn. They wolf down as much popcorn as they can get their mitts on. But some popcorn inevitably ends up in the listless sludge that surrounds their artifical habitat. Kids in particular are not such amazing popcorn-tossers.

The woman didn’t stop at the popcorn stand. Either she had no dough to blow on frivolous fripperies like feeding monkeys, or else she thought it cruel to make imprisoned creatures turn somersaults for insubstantial snacks. She went to the wrought-iron railing that surrounds the water that surrounds Monkey Island and separates visitors from the resident apes, and leaned over.

Her rear curves were accentuated by how far she leaned.  Man oh man those lucky monkeys got one hell of a cleavage peep.

Perfecto. Time to sidle up, lean casually against the fence and say, ‘scuse me, Miss, but these monkeys sure are fascinating creatures. Sometimes when I watch monkeys I can’t help but think maybe them and us aren’t so different after all. Except the poor monkeys are stuck in a cage and we, for the time being at least, are pretty much free to move around and do as we please.

Then, if fate will have it, a pair of baboons will start humping. She’ll get the idea. Carnal blossoms will expand and unfold. In one of our formerly lonely bedrooms, or in a public toilet stall at the zoo.

She swayed back and forth against the railing, teetered on the brink between the world of people, captive ape territory and dirty water. The watery barrier reflected an upside-down face, a bosom about to spill from a clingy blouse and clouds. On the opposite shore, a pink-ass macaque daintily drank and shot a monkey moon at another monkey with a hard-on.

He was the biggest ape on Monkey Island, some kind of monster gorilla or mandrill, and he was looking at my lady.

He wasn’t exactly handsome, not even for an orangutan. Looked like the zoo barber had taken a defective razor to his pelt. His fur was thin, clumpy, tufted, in patches. He either suffered from simian skin disease, ape-zema, or else stir-craziness had gone psychosomatic on his all-over ape hairdo.

My fantasy girlfriend wasn’t offended by the balding animal’s behavior. Neither was she amused. Most people would go hurh-hurh check it out the freaky chimp’s pullin’ his banana. Then they’d wander off to gawk at the demon-faced hyena. My lady stayed put, bent over, waved her caboose like a cat, and stared.

The colossal howler monkey or lemur or whatever he was stared right back at the lady who was watching him beat his meat. No way to tell if he was just feeling good because the sun was shining warm and pleasant, or if he was excited because she showed up and leaned over. A feeling hit that this was a regular thing for the lady and the monkey. They were engaged in the only kind of date they could legally have, but someone had intruded on their illusion of privacy.

So I didn’t try to start up a conversation with her. Maybe I should’ve. She might’ve snapped out of her trance and come along for some human-to-human intercourse. Or she might’ve told me to get lost and that would’ve been the end.

Another feeling took over. This was something secret, forbidden, hot. The monkey component of my brain said, expose yourself and behave like the confined primate. But you can get locked up for indecent acts in public. There are kids at the zoo, most days. Kids shouldn’t have to see stuff like that.

Field day giggles galore arise from kids who watching a chimp slam the ham.

Ham was the first chimp to be blasted off into Outer Space. Black and white newspaper pix of a monkey in a space suit. He gave a toothy grin or snarled for the camera, but man did his eyes ever look sad.

Teacher, teacher, what’s the monkey doing? More snickers as the embarrassed schoolmarm hustles the punks along to gawp at the rhinoceros. The rhino takes a gushing leak on his bed of straw. Shit-eating scavenger birds scatter, and fly away because they’re free.

If the lady had noticed that a stranger stared, she gave no sign of it. The chimp shot an annoyed smirk, or as close as a monkey’s mug can get to one, and yanked harder. Then he stopped. Watery semen spurted and splatted on cement. Another caged creature, perhaps a female baboon, ambled over on all fours, stuck a finger into the milky puddle, sniffed, tasted, shuffled away to snuffle up a kernel of popcorn someone who hadn’t stopped to watch the monkey show had thrown.

The lady stared at the gorilla or orangutan and wiggled faster, bucked her hips. The monkey kept his eye on me. There, is that what you wanted to see? Will that do, for today?

The monkey won the staring contest, hands down. When I looked over, the lady was gone. She’d walked away and I missed her part of the show.

At least there was no admission charge.

The guy in charge of the zoo’s popcorn concession didn’t even look up when I paid for the smallest cardboard box of popcorn on offer. Big deal, another cheapo customer. First thing you learn in the Big City is don’t make eye contact. He played by the rules.

Zoo etiquette is you feed the monkeys one fluffy kernel at a time. Bond with a lower form of life. Feed the monkeys as though you were their lord and master. Make urbane comments on their antics. Instead, I winged the box at the jack-off monkey’s head. Either I missed or he ducked like lightning. Popcorn exploded all over a section of Monkey Island’s cement floor and started a furry feeding frenzy. The spent ape folded his arms over a patch of leathery chest and closed his black eyelids. For him, the rest of the world was gone.

It’s possible the sexy lady went back to the zoo the next day for another date with her monkey. True-life stories abound about desirable women who fix their love and souls on prison lifers, Death Row losers. They waste their lives in trailers parked just outside prison grounds. They live for full-contact visiting hours.

No more zoo trips for me.

But I learned something. The difference between monkeys and apes is that apes don’t have tails. I don’t have a tail. So maybe I’m an ape. An ape who tails weirdoes, unless they’re headed to the zoo.

Loam

The old man, seated in the chair, moves his lips because his hips can’t talk. They’re too old. Too fat. But he doesn’t think she sees him that way. He thinks she sees him as a mystery-father because she’s too young, too stupid, to know otherwise.

Her fingers trace the lip of the glass of the drink he bought her before she sat down next to him and she listens. Her eyes move with his lips and she waits for him to drink before she laughs—a little too hard and a little too loud. He touches her shoulder for emphasis. He wants her tonight, she thinks, naked and splendid.

My husband is a writer, she says.

I’ve never read a book cover to cover.

How did you get so smart?

Television.

She takes a drink and smiles and waits for him to do something daring. Something a man aware of the urgency of death would do. He doesn’t. He thumbs the tumbler in his hands in a way he thinks she may find sexy. She doesn’t. She doesn’t bother to notice because she’s thinking about the audiobook she downloaded last night, and the way it made her feel this morning when her lips felt loamy and hard to chew on. And she’s thinking about her husband and the way his lips felt pressed against her loamy lips when he left for work with a lunch box and tool box in hand—and how they didn’t say anything to each other all morning—not even goodbye, just a peck.

Do you ever feel like you’ve been chewing on dirt since you spoke your first word? she says.

He hasn’t, but, oddly enough his wife had a year or two after they’d first married and has tried to make him understand the feeling ever since.

Are you related to anyone famous?

No, he says, but I’ve been told I look like a young Harrison Ford.

When were you told that? she asks.

When I was much younger and looked like Harrison Ford.

She laughs but doesn’t smile, her eyes focusing on the tumbler in his hands reflecting a silverfish sheen on the crotch of his dress pants as a subtle rainbow.

Are you gay? she asks him.

No, I’m middle aged, and at this point it’s best to dress nice to distract from the fact of my dying.

She thinks he’s witty and she knows he’s read more books than he lets on, but she also knows he’s taken medication to facilitate his sexual performance, and this makes her horny.

Would you fuck me?

Probably.

Would you enjoy it?

Probably.

They’re both quiet for a long time until she laughs softly but with a smile. He places the glass on the bar and readjusts his pants. She traces her finger along the edge of her lip. He motions toward the bartender.

Good.

She leaves without paying. He stays until after they close, and the bartender has to call him a cab.

Dead Guy in the Basement

Mom willed the house to me. Unexpected.

Ours was a strained relationship. I’d runaway twice before I could legally drive.

My biological Dad was absent more days than Santa Claus and seldom discussed. My few male role models were the dudes Mom dated. Those relationships were short term at best.

Whatever family values I learned came from basic cable TV.

The dead guy, Harold, knew Mom. He never goes into detail.

Judging by the dent in his skull, I figure Harold wronged someone. Mom had a temper. One that I inherited.

How he came to be in the basement, Harold hesitates to discuss.

“Things happen,” he shrugs what is left of his decaying shoulders.

He tell me things – scratch-off lottery numbers, never a big pay-off, but enough to pay the utilities, days to stay home to avoid a traffic accident or being fired from work, dudes not to date again.

On that, he’s been spot on. Imagine that, dating advice from a corpse.

Sometimes I read to Harold. He likes those old detective magazines – stories with titles like “He Strangled Woman with their Panties” or “Nude Model was Too Sexy to Live.”

He likes story time. Me, not as much. I like that Harold enjoys my readings but can’t shake the feeling that maybe Harold’s skull could use another dent.

But then I think about the bills to pay.

Corpus Dilecti

Shadows flickered across the walls, as the flames protested to the breeze, created by the violent disruption the towel had caused in the air. Teeth chattering, as the ice cold water spiraled slowly down the drain; a slow drip echoing around the small bathroom, as the damp fabric slightly relieved the chill, as she ran it along her backside. Moving closer to the two candles on either side of an ornamental full length mirror, she could see goosebumps along her flesh. They reminded her of an untold story, written in braille, indecipherable without the proper eyes, or lack thereof.

A rivulet of red wax slowly wound its way around the shafts of the candles, as her body blocked out her view of the one that rested behind her; its motion almost phallic in her mind, as she placed the towel onto the toilet, its pink velour in sharp contrast with the ivory porcelain. The scent of disinfectants drifted through the cracks around the wooden door behind her, interweaving with the scent of lilac and jasmine, that wafted from the tub, and for a moment she felt lightheaded as she stepped forward into the light to grip the edge of the sink. She lifted her head slowly, her auburn curls framing her face, so that in the dim light her features seemed to almost blend seamlessly in with the darkness, her eyes gemstones that reflected the fire.

What are you doing…you don’t even know who he is.

Her reflection stared back, a glimmer of doubt in her eyes, as she slowly scanned her body. Her eyes traced scars that ran along her skin, remembrances of the cause of each and every one flirting with her mind. She felt her nipples grow hard, and her gaze fell upon a snakelike design that crisscrossed from one breast to the other. She felt a thrill of pleasure as she ran her fingers across it’s length, the violated flesh glistening like fat on a steak. She closed her eyes, the voice of the author of that story, whispering in her memory.

Such a good girl…

The air around her felt electric, as she picked up a puff that had been dipped in loose powder and began to apply it to her skin. It felt strange on her, as if it were an armor that helped brace her for this, as she took on the pallor of death. She could hear him in the room behind her, preparing the chamber in which she would portray a corpse for his pleasure, as she lined her lips in a crimson shade. It was as if a different person looked back at her, as she analyzed herself in the mirror; exposed, yet hidden by the facade created by the makeup.

How did fate bring me to this moment…in the arms of such a strange vice, that I wonder if I look deathly enough to arouse the passions of a faceless man, who craves the comfort of the grave, over those of the living?

The room behind her had grown as quiet as a crypt, as she gave herself another glance, hoping that she had done a satisfactory job for him. She turned and looked towards the door anxiously, a tremor of fear running through her, as she waited in the oppressing silence that had fallen; broken only by the slow, steady drip of the faucet in the tub.

How did I ever talk myself into such a thing…what if he doesn’t intend me to leave here as anything but what I’m about to portray…

She could feel her nerves getting out of control, as doubts began to voice themselves. A million questions ran through her mind, as she chewed nervously on a fingernail, when the silence was broken by the sound of a fan turning on. She was taken aback by a burst of icy air from the ceiling, as the candles were extinguished, and she found herself in complete darkness, as a forlorn melody began to play in the room outside the door. Grasping at the air in front of her, she stumbled forward until she felt the cracked wood before her, and ran her fingertips carefully down until she found a brass doorknob, that felt frozen to the touch. With a deep breath, she found herself oddly aroused, and with a turn of her wrist, entered the chamber beyond.

The room she found herself in was as cold as a morgue, as she felt a cool breeze being pumped throughout, from ventilation on the ceiling. It was wholly unfurnished, except for a four poster bed, that took up the center of the room, and lay naked, but for a single white sheet. Two candelabras illuminated the bedchamber, and as she padded closer it dawned on her that the bed was composed of blocks of ice, that had taken the place of a mattress, beneath the thin shroud that adorned it.

Her initial response was to flee this scene; to run back to the bathroom and lock the door, she was in over her head. But how could she of come this far, just to retreat like a wounded animal. Rent was due, and without this she would be two months behind, and her landlord was not going to be as forgiving as he was last month. She closed her eyes, and conjured up the image of her past lovers; the beautiful pain of the lash, the exhilaration when she heard them praise her for her submission…the harsh words as they chastised her, that brought her euphoric joy. With a tentative exhalation, she opened her eyes, and slowly walked to the bed that awaited.

Heart racing, she ran her fingertips over the sheet, the ice underneath biting her skin. Heart racing, she lowered herself onto the pedestal, letting out a gasp as her skin came into contact with it. The sheet was hardly protection, and it took her a moment to adjust, before she could stop her chattering teeth. She leaned back, fear gripping her body, as she felt the ice beneath slowly molding to her form. Regaining control over her breathing, she turned her eyes to the ceiling, and was greeted by grotesque visions.

Safe word…safe word!

Her brain screamed at her to end this, as she traced the images painted above her. A devilish scene played out in the heavens, as demons tortured their hapless victims for unspoken crimes. Their blood forming a spiral that wrapped itself towards the edges of the molding, like a river draining out into hundreds of little tributaries. A wave of nausea rippled through her stomach, and she fought back the acidic flow that threatened to scald her throat, as she narrowed her vision to one image on the ceiling.

A pale white figure, bent over on bended knee, its back exposed to the creature that stood over it. The demon held a lash in one hand, and its victims hair in the other, as it looked down upon its handiwork. Four red stripes across the woman’s back, tiger stripes, as she took the punishment meted out, and exposed her frail body to her judge and jury. The demon had long black hair, as it dripped saliva, and more offensive fluids onto her lowered head.

Concentrating on the scene above her, she found her stomach at ease, her breath shallow. She traced the curves on each of the figures, and felt a warmth inside as she immersed her thoughts in the fantasy world inspired by the artist’s hand. The warmth spread throughout her body, and she felt her muscles relax as she sunk into a complacent state of mind, a rush of euphoria consuming her as she closed her eyes. A click echoed throughout the room, and the flames of the candles danced behind her closed lids, as an unseen door opened, and heavy footsteps broke the silence.

Panic overcame her thoughts as the footsteps fell closer, her mind telling her to call an end to this before it was too late. She pictured the fantasy on the ceiling, as she tried to maintain steady shallow breaths, and steeled herself for what was to come. His footsteps seemed massive in the frozen room, commanding. She fought the urge to crack her eyelids just a little bit to take an innocent peek, knowing that if she did it would break his fantasy.

This is just role play…just an act. There is nothing to be afraid of, we negotiated all the terms. The safe word is always there…calm down…it is just the room…just the ambiance of this scene getting to me…breathe…it is all in my head…

She heard his footfalls at the foot of the bed, the scent of hospital disinfectant, and aftershave flooding her senses. A wave of nausea threatened to overtake her, and she focused on her breathing to keep it back; the temptation to peek becoming an urgent need in her thoughts. He had stopped before the bed, his breathing growing heavier, and as she heard his breathing she found it harder to keep her breathing shallow. She felt as if drowning, as she fought the urge to break her role. She could feel her body rebelling, her mind panicking, as she found a pinprick of light on her eyelid and forced all her thoughts towards it.

A heavenly pinprick of light in the darkness, breaking the terror that was trying to force itself into her. For a moment she felt weightless; a free falling body that focused inwards, putting herself into a trance like state, as she felt her yearning to submit begin to take control. The sudden touch of his hand upon her foot, slowly sliding its way up her leg came as a shock to her body, and she twitched, as she heard a noise of disapproval come from the unseen face above her.

Shit, I blew it. Shit…shit…shit…I am such a fuckup…

She held her breath, not daring to move a muscle, as she could feel his eyes analyzing her body. His breathing like a great beast that lurked just beyond vision, prowling the darkness that huddled around her, as it looked for the smallest sign of life. He dropped her ankle against the ice with a hard smack, stars dancing behind her eyelids, as pain rippled throughout her body. She concentrated on the sound of his breathing, as she managed to stay calm. He was moving along the side of the bed, the sickening scent of soap threatening to drown her.

She heard him turn back towards her feet, and quickly took a silent gasp of air. She could feel her heart beating rapidly in her chest, and for a moment she feared that he would hear it. She felt the blood begin to rush to her head; when all of a sudden her body violently spasmed, as he roughly gripped her ankles and threw her legs apart. Her head hit the ice, and for a moment she felt an odd pleasure from the way he had manhandled her, and then she fell into an onyx ocean.

Pulsing..rhythmic waves…strobe light vision…where am I?

The pain felt like hundreds of shards of glass sliding through her face, her body in shock as the cold seeped into her bones; the ice forming a sarcophagus to entomb her in. She fought the urge to blink as she took in her surroundings. She felt a wetness along her skin, traveling from her calf up to the inside of her thigh, as an uneasy pleasure derived from the sensation. The loss of consciousness dawned on her, as she realized that her leg was lifted upon his bulk, and fear overtook her. She parted her lips, intending to yell out the safe word, when his tongue came to its goal. She felt her back slightly arch, as the warmth touched her frozen body; stifling a whimper as she played her part.

It was an accident…I can still move…I’m not really hurt…just a mistake…but…oh…but if it happens again…

The pleasure was overwhelming, as she felt his tongue delving into the depths of her. She involuntarily put her head back, a sleepy smile across her face as he devoured her. She could feel herself wet beneath him, as he forced her other leg onto his shoulder, and lifted her up to the heavens; his nails digging into her soft flesh. She wanted to scream out, but she regained her senses, and resisted the urge.

A corpse wouldn’t do that. Good corpses lay still…corpses don’t feel…corpses don’t feel…corpses don’t feel…

Without warning he dropped her legs, the abrupt impact on the ice causing her ankle to crack.

Corpses don’t feel…

A hand across her throat, the other forcing her leg to the side.

Corpses don’t feel…

A strange mixture of pleasure and agony as she feels him force himself deep inside her.

Corpses don’t…

She felt his fingers tighten around her throat, the world was swimming as she felt his thrusts begin to tear her.

Corpses…

The ice…the damn ice…her vision began to go bright.

Red! Red, red, red!

She gasped the safe word as she struggled to breathe, his hand pressed tightly around her throat. She felt him thrusting harder into her, and she cried out as his hand loosened it’s grip. Gasping, she sucked in as much air as she could, to have it struck right from her as his palm connected with her jaw.

Her vision sparked to life in brilliant hues, and then a rush of reality hit her, as her body contorted. She wished the blow had killed her, as she felt his hand grip her breast, squeezing until she let out a sudden moan of pleasure. Sheer terror, as she began to struggle against him, her icy limbs refusing to cooperate. His hand came down again, the impact causing her head to bounce off the ice, as he grabbed her by the waist, pulled back, and flipped her onto her stomach.

How did I get into this…he is going to kill me…red…red…please don’t kill me…

He knelt between her legs, his hand on her back. The shock of the ice against her breasts caused her to kick her legs wildly. She tried to struggle, but a sudden calmness began to overtake her, as he slid his hand up to her neck; lightly gripping it, as if a collar. She lay still as he forced himself back into her, her head falling limp to the ice, as a silent moan escaped her lips; the only sign a puff of breath. She closed her eyes, the weight of his fingers around her neck causing an unwanted reaction.

Good girls lay still…

The voice thundered out from behind her, as if guidance from the gods. She fought back the urge to moan with every motion of his body, and then opened her eyes. There was something in the shadows…something hidden behind a sinister veil. She tried to ignore the ripples going through her body, as she squinted to see into the gloom.

She began to make out shapes, strange outlines as her eyes adjusted. She could feel his hands grabbing her ass, as her body betrayed her; the spreading warmth melting the ice beneath her. She struggled to keep focus, and then the picture became clear. She let out a scream, her cries bringing him to a frenzy, as she realized what she was seeing. Against the wall, putrid flesh, bits of skeletal material, and decaying eyes that swam in a stew of rot. The girls were lined up, sitting against the wall; their legs spread apart, touching toes. Their necks were bent at unnatural angles, and their mouth, and eyes sewn shut with a thick twine, that was coated in congealed flesh. Their hands had been positioned to cover themselves between the legs, as if in a mock show of the modesty that would of prevented them falling to this fate.

Please..don’t kill me…please I will do anything…corpses don’t feel…corpses don’t feel…

She felt his seed filling her up, as her body spasmed, her mind empty except for the mantra that ran through her head. She heard him let out a cry of ecstasy, but it seemed as if it came from a far away land; as she looked at the ceiling, and the dark fantasies it hid. His weight lifted from her body, as she felt him slide to the edge of the bed, pushing himself to his feet.

Corpses don’t feel…

His hands slid beneath her, lifting her up like a child. She felt her head roll against him.

Corpses don’t feel…

She swam on distant shores, pleasure sweating out of her pores, as the candlelight faded into the darkness.

Corpses don’t feel…

Cold tiles…blood trickling from her nose…her eyes gazing towards another realm.

Corpses don’t feel…

The sound of running water…warmth…comfort.

Corpses don’t feel…

Footsteps fading away. The sharp sound of a bolt sliding into a lock.

Corpses don’t feel…

A smile crept onto her face…she was home…she had found her grave.

Ten

The house is an absolute shambles. Unwashed plates and cups lurking just below cold, oily dishwater in the kitchen. The trash needed to be taken out three days ago and I can’t even look at the dirty clothes in the laundry.

It’s so embarrassing, the place is totally unfit for guests and yet here one sits. Anxiety churns my stomach turning coffee and toast into a sour lump. I’m still in my dressing gown!

“This wasn’t as well planned as I had hoped, I’m sorry. You won’t count this against me will you?”

My house guest shakes their head vigorously and I can finally relax.

“Your arrival was a surprise to say the least. I genuinely wasn’t prepared for visitors today, but it’s always lovely when someone drops round so we’ll make do.”

I’m dithering, flustered. Need to pull myself together and focus. Whether I’m ready or not, today is the day.

“Can I tell you something? Something I’ve never told anyone else?”

A quick nod in the affirmative from my guest.

Leaning forward in a conspiratorial manner, my lips barely touching their ear, it’s warm, intimate, almost like a kiss. I whisper “I’ve never killed anyone before, you’re going to be my first.”

All things being equal, they took that revelation much better than expected.

“You’re going to help me work out my modus operandi. Apparently, all serial killers have one. But as yet nothing’s set in stone so I thought I’d put it out to the floor. What do you think it should be?”

As soon as the gag comes off my guest…no, my victim, starts to scream. It’s pretty tedious to be honest. I ‘gently’ remind them it’s a soundproof room. That seems to take the wind out of their sails a bit. Hammers have that affect on people.

“Look, I need be totally candid with you, bargaining’s probably not going to work today. You don’t have anything I want.”

Now come the tears and the bargaining. Why don’t people listen?

“Don’t cry, it makes me uncomfortable.” I have to put their gag back in, the sobbing and screaming are distracting.

My ‘tools’ take some time to lay out. Mostly gardening supplies bulked out with a selection of craft knives and stuff from the kitchen. The time had arrived, nothing would be gained from further delays. And yet I find myself anxious. What if it wasn’t everything I had hoped for? What if I couldn’t go through with it? Humans are very different to neighbourhood cats and dogs. My hands are clammy, stomach in knots.

I give my hands a quick shake and tighten my grip on a pair of secateurs.

“Right. Fine. Ok. Let’s begin.”

“I tell you what, I’ll start slow okay? We’ll start with fingers and count down to zero. Once we get there I’ll do the deed. Does that suit you?”

Laughing self consciously, I realise what I said “Oh, sorry! You’ve got the gag in. I’ll just assume you agree and get on with it.”

In the light, the secateurs gleam dangerously. They make a metallic slicing sound. They were only sharpened a couple of days ago.

Gently I take my victim’s little finger, laying it in the razor caress of the garden shears. I filter out the high pitched whining. There’s no going back now.

“Right then.” I take a deep breath.

“Ten,” snip.

“Nine,” snip.

“Eight,” snip.

“Seven,” snip.

“Six,” snip.

“Five,” snip.

“Four,” snip.

“Three,” snip.

“Two,” snip.

“One,” snip.

“Zero…”

New Year’s Eve in Holmesburg

It was New Year’s Eve in Holmesburg. December 31st. Just like any other year a crowd was gathering around the firehouse at Rhawn Street and Frankford Avenue waiting for midnight and the annual dropping of the pants. The pants were old and battered, mostly black with some gray from wear. Any new holes that had grown since last year had been patched for the occasion.

I don’t have documents or other proof, but enough people have said the same to me that I guess it’s true. The pants once belonged to a state assemblyman for the area. He’d been found without his pants on in compromising circumstances, and skipped out the back door of a local row house without them. A firefighter coming home witnessed the embarrassing situation. Considering himself an offended party that firefighter took the pants back to the firehouse where he proceeded to run them up the flagpole. There they flapped in the wind just below our nation’s flag.

As I heard it the assemblyman tried to negotiate the return of his pants or at least his wallet and  belt. He used back channels to avoid more exposure. He’d had enough of that when he ran bare assed from the house, across the street and into Pennypack Park right next to Lincoln High School. He hid there in the bushes until his personal driver came to his rescue.

The firefighters rallied round their offended brother and helped him broker a good bargain. The assemblyman got his wallet and belt, but the station kept the pants. They kept the pants flying until their colleague received compensation for his pain and suffering. Some say this was cash. Some say real estate. Others say it was a promotion and transfer to another firehouse. As it turned out the deal was finalized, so they say, on the last day of December, and the pants came down from the flagpole at midnight.

This is local lore. I can’t vouch for the truth. All I can say is the ceremonial lowering of the pants on New Year’s Eve is a longstanding tradition that had to have gotten started some way.

Children line the avenue as the clock ticks down. Teenagers and adults flow out of the bars to watch. Fireworks, illegal for the most part, are poorly concealed on porches and in driveways waiting to be lit. A pair of firefighters in full regalia, ready for a six alarmer exit the station and walk towards the flagpole. They take hold of the rope and begin to slowly lower the pants. By the time the pants have completely dropped it’s midnight. A new year. Champagne. Beer. Fireworks. And occasion gunfire. That’s what makes the night come alive. Will worry about the dead and wounded in the morning.

There will be partying until daybreak. But not for the pants. The pants are headed to the laundry to be washed, dried, and pressed. They will be stored away until next December 31st, when another crowd will gather to watch the pants descend, and shout “Happy New Year!”

Bonnie and Clyde of the Hawthorne Hotel

The park grass folded with moister and pressed by four bricks of snow. Clyde looked like the park’s frozen statue on a green bench. He store at warm yellow windows of the Hawthorne Hotel. He salivated to eat them like blocks of warm cheese. And his growling stomach tilted the heads of curious crows. He accepted his numb limbs as one would an unhinged heartbeat. You just let the seconds sting your body’s vulnerabilities. He replayed in his mind, several Christmases back; sitting Indian style on a crimson hearth rug at his father’s Victorian house. Having a stomach filled with turkey, mashed potatoes, and red wine. His father landed; suffocating the sofa cushions with his beer belly; than clicked on a N.Y. Giant’s receiver dancing in a white end zone. His body drafted air thick in raw garlic, Merlot, and Old Spice aftershave.

“Dad can you see me?” Clyde said. He panned the black theater of the universe as it trickled snow upon his eyelids. A gust of New England waved the branches and gave the charcoal sky, umber veins. A young lady—blonde, bundled in a swollen pink, walked close. Her irises bounced around blue as the surface of the north Atlantic. She looked at him three times and crunched the fresh snow. “Do you have any food?” she said.

“I’m starving sweetheart,” he said. Clyde stroked the blood-stained knife case that strangled his tube sock. Her face’s beauty stretched his cock’s muscles.

“May I sit?” she said.

“Sure.”

“I’m Bonnie,” she said.

“Pretty,” he said.

The cold green planks stung her tailbone parts not cushioned by fat. She listened to the orchestra of hunger playing in Clyde. Snow trickled like confetti on their tongues as they both squinted towards the empty park. Their aligned heads panned across the untouched blanket of snow.

“How can we eat?” she said. “I had a job walking dogs until a stray dog attacked them. News traveled and I was out of work. The dogs loved me more than their owners. But not the snobby poodles, you know.”

Both looked to the sun—a tone of midnight moon, imprinted on a pond rock sky. They both anchored their faces to look upon each other. Clyde’s eyes: emerald green and empty— empty of creativity. But handsome with a carved wooden face, he pulled up a smile.

“You are not bad looking,” she said.

“You look like Angelina Jolie,” he said.

“If we are so beautiful, why are we going to starve to death?”

A limo rolled the snow lumps behind them. Three windows long, it stopped. The exhaust pipe rattled streams of twirling grays. A tinted reflection blurred their heads like a rattled puddle. Motorized; the window opened down. An older man with a pipe and thick black government glasses said. “What are you two kids doing out here?”

“Freezing our asses off,” Clyde said.

Bonnie elbowed Clyde’s armpit. The brief pain enraged him. Instead of punching her neck; he strangled the green teak—the closest thing.

“We are hungry mister,” she said. Bonnie refolded a creased photograph of a white cat with chilled glass eyes: one blue; one green.

Silence ruled as the endless snow tickled the delicate edges of twigs. The limo ticked and idled. The old man sucked the wood flavored pipe into his saliva. Bonnie studied Clyde’s eyes; they sat in his sockets like two hardened pebbles.

“Buy us dinner?” Clyde said.

“I’m Victor…meet me inside the Hotel,” he said.

The three met in the dining room around a white-clothed table. Bonnie sat next to Clyde and Victor across. The waiter passed long laminated menus out and splashed ice and water into three large wine glasses. “Bread?” he said.

“Two baskets, lots of butter,” Victor said.

“What do you want?” Clyde said.

Victor washed the wood flavor off his tongue crunching an ice cube. The cold burned his upper teeth. “I have a twenty-year-old nephew upstairs: a virgin; I would appreciate it if you could cure him of that.”

“You want her to fuck your nephew over a steak dinner?” Clyde said. “Then toss us back out in the snow?”

Victor swallowed the puzzle of an ice cube. He contemplated them, burying a scowl, like two upright cockroaches polluting his table. His limo driver sat in the distance; an unfolded newspaper on a bar stool by the fireplace. “I will get you a room, next to mine, for entire week, we stay. You, my dear—will fuck my nephew for breakfast and dinner, and you both will be fed. Then; you are back out to freeze to death.”

Clyde palmed Bonnie’s jeaned knee cap. “I will supervise so there is no funny business.”

“I will too,” Victor said.

A black spider the size of a grizzly bear came through the bar door. Naked; furry legged; with still, reflective eyes; it found Clyde. Victor ordered wine as the spider walked to the table. Clyde imagined the insides of the spider’s fuzzy rear-end that tilted towards the ceiling. Clear poison dripped on the carpet under the arachnid’s eyes. The poisonous gloss played Clyde’s portrait like two television sets.

“Rib eye for both my guests, Reynold,” Victor said.

The spider’s black shape morphed into a red pour of Clyde’s glass. His madness cleared like a dissipating fog.

An Armenian in a tight dress shirt wearing a heavy black watch handed Clyde a room key card. “You are in 237 and we are in 238,” Victor said.

Everyone shared an elevator to the sixth floor. Crystal chandeliers and a long-flowered carpet laid a path to Victor’s oak door. Brian, hunched in a Steelers jersey, hammered the buttons on a game controller. “Hey Uncle,” he said.

“Brian this is…,” Victor said. His expression bulged with eyeballs made of ice cream dripping for two quick answers.

“I am Clyde, and this is Bonnie,” Clyde said.

“Undress please,” Victor said. “I’m a busy man and if I’m to support everyone, I must work, haven’t I?”

Bonnie dropped her jaw on Clyde’s blankness. Thanks for standing up for me. She thought.

“You heard the man, sweetheart,” Clyde said.

The three men watched Bonnie’s slim figure climb out of her bundled pink womb to exhibit: a firm ass, a round bubble-butt, a flat-iron stomach, and a large set of swinging tits that glowed as she nested her clothes on a cushioned chair.

“You are the best uncle.”

A 19-year-old erection in a football jersey waddled behind her. He fumbled with a condom and littered the purple wrapper by his feet.

“Whiskey?” Victor said.

“Hell yes,” Clyde said.

Both men sat on the edge of a king mattress and watched Bryan’s pale ass jiggle in the lamp light. In mid thrust, he ripped off his Steelers jersey. He cupped Bonnie’s tits, which suspended a left and right sway. His tongue dropped like a cash register drawer—eyes rolled back like the sun being devoured by a horizon.

“Oh, oh, oh fuck, oh fuck,” Brian said. “Ugh……. fuck, oh, fuck.”

Brian swallowed her strawberry shampoo through his burning lungs as the condom drooped down like a cream filled water balloon.

Bonnie wore the large black spider like erotic lingerie. She turned and its eight legs covered everything but her vagina and breasts. Clyde jabbed Victor’s Adams Apple and splashed his knuckles into the spider’s mirrored eyes. Seamen, flying puddles of whiskey, and two men plopped to the carpet.

“You do this after I was sexually assaulted?” Bonnie asked.

They filled their pockets with watches, folded cash—clipped in gold clips, rings, two leather wallets, and a silver .38 revolver. They bantered.

“You have a very nice ass,” Clyde said.

“Fuck you…and why are they not getting up?” she said.

“I used to box,” he said.

“You wait until after I am…,” she said.

They took the elevator down to the basement. The vast cement floor—empty of furniture, covered in crimson red throw carpets. A micro-library with two lavender sofas—lantern lit up the corner. The sweet odor of bleach tickled Clyde’s nostrils. “This way,” he said.

The laundry room had blue air, rattling cycles, pungent chemicals that sparked the musty gravity.

“The chemical smell and industrial atmosphere makes me horny,” Clyde said.

“So you like cleanliness,” Bonnie said.

They both found a mop room—dim lit by a red bulb. The shelves, jam stocked with blue soap bars wrapped in plastic paper. Clyde’s blood-stained thumb pushed the dead bolt over. He turned to Bonnie and kissed the corner of her frown.

They found a steal pipe ladder; climbed it into the laundry room’s attic. Into a four-foot-high splintered room with ancient plywood. Pink cotton spilled out the walls. The soft odor of bleach streamed up a vent.

“It should be safe here…let’s sleep,” Clyde said.

“Well at least it’s warm,” she said. “What if those thugs find us?”

“I’ll kill them,” he said.

The heat undressed the two of them. Clyde slid the revolver and goods (mowing down splinters) into the dark shapes. Bonnie laid into him with her back turned. Her voice erupted as he took in the cuteness of the back of her ear. It looked like a flower with three freckles. She spoke from her belly with words that tasted rich of strawberry perfume. He placed his rough palm on her thigh.

“I do not think we are bad people,” she said. “We are artists and artists are meant to suffer.” Her feminine voice shook her long body and vibrated the creases in her swan-like neck.

“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Clyde said.

“You are too, big boy,” she said.

“I’m am sacred and I want you to be inside of me,” she said.

Clyde peaked down the milky valley of her lower back and ass. His penis–ached–hard as it jabbed her firmness. She felt his masculine stiffness and backed into it. Her insides soaked, he entered. She moaned and started talking.

“I think you are a good man…,” she said.

Clyde’s entire soul politely invaded her. Like a beast and protector looking to find peace with pleasure. They both became one. Clyde sucked on her ear lobe as her voice erupted. Each vowel exhaled: feminine, sweet, vulnerable, with the scent of fresh pruned garden.

“I feel we are one…,” she said.

The vibration of her body and her sweet voice touched Clyde to a point of absurd numbness and electricity. “Oh God,” he said.

Everything that strangled his childish thoughts for most his life, spilled into her. The delicate flooding lasted several seconds. It spilled and splayed warmness that both felt. She leaned into him and both their lips stuck together like stickers.

Clyde rolled over and dusted the splinters off his naked ass. He wobbled to a gunshot hole that trickled in New England’s frost. The winter freshness kissed his eye as he looked yonder. Two lanterns lit a sign of the small-town bank next door.

“What do you see out their love?” she said.

“Get some rest,” he said.

Dead Dog Day, Chapter 5

The strip was jammed-fuck full of ass-fuck tourist scum scurrying around bitching about the heat and searching for cheeseburgers. In response to this sudden demand, the owner of the cantina got her chefs to get sinisterly creative and scrounge for an unmentionable mixture of ground-up critters and refuse. The new recipe was a tremendous hit, but the gut-wrenching indigestion that followed was a surrealistic torture, cruel even through my own irredeemably corrupted eyes, its victims hunched over and screaming and crying from the fuckery that was Voodooing the plagued miles of intestine held inside these poor fucks. There was a line up to the cantina’s door and and another line leading out into the street and towards the public restrooms, which were quite medieval in design, having no toilets and no toilet paper, just a hole in the ground without any support bars to brace yourself for the inevitable evacuation. There were two main ways an ass was going to handle this fuckery: One, a volcanic burst, followed by a macabre holocaust of shit splatter covering the entire buttocks and walls around you, in which case a decision had to made about sacrificing a sock or two to either wipe up the devastating mess or walking around for the rest of the day smelling like a shit-stained skunk. The other way this could all go down, if one was lucky, was by birthing a super-condensed shit ball, tight and hard and twice the size of any enjoyable sodomy, but after a few excruciating squeezes of the sphincter would result in mostly just blood that had to be cleaned up.

The strip was truly an ass-fuck circus of straw hats, golf-shirts and khaki shorts, socks and sandals and fucking fanny packs; the ass-fucks were buying up all the shit jewelry and other indiscernible trinkets made by monkeys, and their women wore mostly shit-made uncomplimentary gruesome sundresses and hard leather sandals fastened with soles made from used car tires, tripping all over themselves, feet like raw hamburger meat, convinced they’d eventually work them in.

Meanwhile, the monkeys came out in fucking hordes, pretending at first to entertain the tourists with stupid-ass fucking monkey tricks. They played their roles well, acting as docile playthings and amazing the tourists with their seemingly curious close proximity. There’d be no shit throwing today, though; those little bastards were there for one purpose: money. They were going to rob the fuck out of these fuckheads, it was an easy scam if you were a monkey, all they had to do was play stupid-fuck monkey, crawl all over the joyful tourist, play with his hat a bit while the wife took pictures, and bingo, the monkey would leave the scene with everything but the dumbfuck’s boxer shorts; fuck, those cunts were bright.

Dem had been staring at me for a fucking while now, looking like a three-legged puppy that had lost his bone to a bigger three-legged puppy. I knew what he was thinking, and with this extravaganza of excellent targets going by like waving flags, I couldn’t force him to restrain his true nature, to continue to hold back his obviously sorrowful constrictions. “Okay buddy, but no fucking amputations!” I finally relented. Joyful as a kid about to tear the wrapping off a present he knew he was getting, Dem reached into his magical bag of fuckery and pulled out a handful of mini dynamite sticks, ready to cause minimal but still destructive chaos on the strip.

Captain Edgar was surprisingly in great form; currently sporting one of his Jolly Roger t-shirts and carrying an actual working lightsaber we all thought had fucking died from sand, salt, and battery acid ages ago. Fucked if I knew how it was even functioning anymore, but there it was, all lit up like the real thing. Along with this abrupt rejuvenation, Edgar had also, to our wretched disgust, picked up his old pirate inflection, which Dem quickly put to a sinister halt by shoving a lit stick of dynamite down the ass end of his pants. Thank fuck it was just a little one, we didn’t need Edgar walking around with a giant gapping bloody asshole in need of urgent hospitalization, but he certainly did get the point.

Presently, what we needed was a view from the roof; it was the best vista for perusing the docks from afar, and we needed to steal a boat that would serve our very specific fucking needs this evening. The cantina’s owner had a special hidden patio up there, the use of which she was more than happy to lend to our sorry asses. The one obstacle in getting up there was that the would-be stairs were actually just a rope that hung down over the ass end of the building. We’d traversed this route many a time and easy it was not, but with a few scrapes, falls, concussions and general buffoonery along the way, we finally made it up up there. The owner had also had a botched-up dumbwaiter installed by her last monkey construction crew, however it did seem to work on the odd occasion, so we wouldn’t be left completely dry up there. Actually, Edgar once got his ass stuck in there, I’ve no idea how he even got into the wretched thing in the first place, but he was stuck in it for about a day and a half, we had to lube him up with carnivorous plant goop and dislocate both his fucking shoulders to get that ass-fuck freed.

We settled in quite nicely. With a fine view of the harbor as well as all the insipid mayhem taking place in the streets below, we were perched like the kings of our own little castle of fuckery, Christ! It would’ve been wicked just to hang our johnsons over the railing and piss all over the ass-fucks down there, but damnit, we had a job to do. Dem pulled out a pair of super-binoculars so I could scope out the boats in the harbor. Dem was in his all his glory up on the roof, seemingly being almost perfectly designed for dropping dynamite on passersby. One of the sticks actually fucking exploded in the air in front of this one asshole, with the blast blowing his hat and toupee right off his goddamn head. Dem was psychotic, but in a really kind of botched-up rollercoaster kind of way. I knew he’d probably kill anyone including me at the drop of a hat, but he was a hilarity of fuckery and fun that you just didn’t find much anymore.

Meanwhile, Edgar had gone off to the other side of the patio area, where he was now practicing some kind of slow, fucked-up martial arts thing with his lightsaber. It might have been some sort of fucked meditation or Star Wars thing for all we knew,. Dem and I had had several conversations about the state of Edgar’s mind, and we’d decided that to whatever fucking degree, he was certainly goddamn retarded.

Come to think of it, Dem and I never came to know exactly how or why the fuck Edgar had ever ended up on the island. He was so incredibly simple-minded, it was hard to believe that he could get himself into any illegal fuckery unless by accident. On the island it was considered rude and not the goddamn business of any fuck-hole to pry into information about the stories that led people here; those questions were left for the individual themselves to reveal, and ignoring this could get your ass tortured off in the jungle somewhere, no chance of a quick and easy death or even a courtesy ride back.

Dem and I had held more than a few late-night ponderings concerning Edgar’s true origins. The one we liked the best was that he was the estranged retarded embarrassment of some super-rich family that was attempting to cover up Edgar’s pedophiliac misadventures and other fuckery that was really fucking impossible to keep out of the papers. Edgar’s escapades becoming more and more public, the family finally gave him a trust fund, one large enough to keep him the fuck away with no reason to ever return. What can I say? I’m an asshole, and this asshole just found the instrument of our soon-to-arrive disastrous fuckery, all served up on a platter by the devil himself.

Fuck! There is was: A fucked-up macabre, sinisterly nostalgic combination of fiberglass and dual motherfucking propulsion with decal-striped nuances of gradient red, orange and yellow shimmering in the setting afternoon sun. She was a beautiful beast with copious features, a cigarette boat straight out of Miami Vice with the dimensions (bow to stern) seemingly going on forever. This was our diamond in the shithouse; with the unbelievable length and uselessness of the long front end, we could pack the fucker full of explosives, giving rise to an unintended plan B, where if plan A got ass-fucked sideways we could still ram our goddamn kamikaze boat straight into the cruise ship’s rock-fucked hull. However, some fuck would have to drive the overloaded explosive projectile, which by all accounts would probably be my sorry ass.

We could see the magic light coming over the mountains, covering everything in a blanket of orange. It was a beautiful time of day, even the trash on the strip looked like a master’s impressionist painting, but beauty was one thing and blowing up a cruise liner full of smack was another, and the magic light would soon turn to darkness. We finished up a few more drinks, bumped a lot of PCP, and dropped a few hits of this new acid the cantina’s owner had given us to try out. Next, we had to we had to zip up to Dem’s, because we hadn’t anticipated needing the extra explosives for our recently selected Miami Vice boat. I fucking hated going up to Dem’s, especially with the long jungle shadows fucking with your sight along the way. Plus, the whole place was fucking wired to blow. Given even the slightest misdirection, you could end up indiscernibly shot to pieces all over the fucking jungle. So, Edgar and I waited back on the trail a bit and let Dem go get whatever we needed on his own. He came out of his jungle hut carrying duffle bags full of fucking crazy-looking munitions, shit I’ve never even seen before. I guess Dem was busting out a special collaboration of fuckery that goes boom on the monstrous atrocity side of complete destruction, which by all accounts was exactly what we needed, and only a few hours to do it in.

Darkness fell across the island as the noise settled exclusively along the strip. Predictably, the tourists were taking full advantage of the utter lack of drinking and drug laws, and most of them would inevitably be laid prostrate, unconscious, dead and scavenged for valuables, all over the ground and barroom floors before the morning light. The only other sounds of any concern were of three buffoons for hire, hammered on booze and PCP with some unknown, untested form of acid that was now crawling up the spine of the three buffoons in question. We were right properly fuck-assed pissed, fighting over who’s carrying what, stepping all over each other. At one point Dem fucking clocked Edgar for no fucking reason at all, Edgar fell off the docks twice, and fishing his stupid ass out was slowing us the fuck down. Once we found our boat, I went straight to the clusterfuck of wire guts that were connected to the ignition; this would usually be Dem’s job, but he was fucking all busy with constructing the right formula for a gargantuan wrath of god type explosion in a very cramped space. As I worked to hot wire the damned thing, all was silent down below, that is until I heard Dem say, “If you don’t turn that goddamn thing off I’m gonna shove it up your fucking ass, pull it out your mouth, and shove it right fucking back up your cocksucking ass!” Dem always hated that fucking lightsaber.

Before too long, the fucking boat engines blasted to life like a goddamn rocket ship. We’dd originally planned to paddle the fucking thing away from the shore, but no use in subtlety anymore; we’d probably woken half the monkeys on the island already, so we untied ourselves from the dock and cruised out as quietly as this monstrosity could. We’d have to watch the fuel as well; we’d brought extra but these speed machines were made to go fast and not very fucking long.

It was then I began to sense a new oddity within my already debaucherously contaminated high-octane type of fucked; I was right on and fucked all crazy like, but there was a wretchedly wonderful surreal attack on my wave link, or buzz gauge, like an introduction to a new fashion of fuckery that was parading up and down the runways in my head. The boat’s helm felt like jelly, and I was seeing shit everywhere that most fucking definitely wasn’t there; I called up Dem and Edgar who were finishing up world war three all packed up nice and tight in the bow of this stylishly hot ride that’s fate was to become a high speed fuck of destruction. “Do you guys feel WEIRD?” I asked. FUCK! What a goddamn question given the clusterfuckery at hand, but they did; both reports matched my own experience and we had to surmise that it was the ass-fucked new acid we were all fucked and tripping balls on. Ah, fuck it! We’d all been overdrugged before, and on a lot more intense fuckery than just demon-dipped hallucinogens. We’d taken drugs right out of the devil’s own hands for fuck’s sake, we’d prepared the shit out of this caper, things were in place, maneuvers were maneuvering, and we had some fucking donkeys to blow up.

I eased the boat up alongside the barge and there they were, bigger and more bloated than ever and still munching away at the hand-delivered pile of dump food we’d left them with. It was then that we discovered that the fucking space acid had a really fucked and useless side effect: short-term memory loss, so much so as for me to witness Dem light his cigarette fourteen times in a row, at which point I actually had to fucking stop him. All we had to fucking do was tie the barge to the goddamn boat, which was Edgar’s job; I was busy holding the boat and Dem was working on his configuration of explosives for when we scuttled that fucking cruise ship. But instead of doing his job, Edgar was talking to the fucking donkeys, and Dem was about to fucking gut his sorry retarded ass with a fucking meat cleaver before I intervened just in time and clocked him with the butt of a snubnosed revolver I’d picked up off the floor of the Lamborghini. Knocked somewhat to his senses, Dem stepped back and Edgar finally got on with the business of tying the barge to our boat.

We were all set to pull out, and with a collection of our calculations, we surmised that we had anywhere between thirty minutes and five hours to pulls this little caper off, so averaged out, we shouldn’t have any problems as far as time went. However, as we cruised off into the bay, I could tell that the barge and the boat weren’t getting along at all, those fucking donkeys were freaking the fuck out, and the barge was a living goddamn time-bomb and if it went off, so would we! So, we convinced Edgar to swim over and calm those goddamn beasts the fuck down. Dem gave him a stash of army surplus prefilled morphine spikes to jab the worst of them with. I hoped we didn’t fucking lose any to the bay, which was jam-fuck filled with huge motherfucking man-eaters, and one bite from them would be enough to trigger an explosion knocking the barge over capsized, donkeys sinking into the mouths of leviathan predators. Not only that, but one little bump from one of those big bastards down below could sink us all straight to hell. Watching Edgar swim to the barge, I realized he may not be completely entrusted with this knowledge of the bay’s deeper denizens, in regards to sheer number of man-eating squids, sharks, etc populating its waters. Fuck me! Something tells me we’ve gotta move. Edgar was safely aboard the barge and stabbing the freaked-out donkeys with morphine, Dem’s bomb all set up was ready to blow, and despite all the blue and pink-fanged teddy bears presently fucking each other on the boat’s dash, all was truly good in the hood.

By some miracle, we finally arrived at the site of the wreck, without a single helicopter in sight. The donkeys were overjoyed to be on solid ground once again, but something told me they’d reconsider their jubilations if they knew just what they had in store. Quickly herding them into the yawning hole in the ship’s busted hull, it wasn’t long before we’d made our way back to the cargo hold full of smack. Almost as if he were seeing it for the first time, it blew Edgar’s mind when he saw the sheer amount of smack packed in that huge compartment. Edgar and I were going to bring the donkeys down some steps to the smack level and Dem was going to rig the explosives around the designated donkey zone, thus creating a singularly timed blast that would leave no trace of anything but another gapping fucking hole in the hull.

Now, this was the really fucking fucked part of our plan: we’d rigged the Miami Vice boat to blow in case this mission got shit-fucked, and so far there’d been no shit-fucking, so in all reality, we could just remove the explosives from our boat, bring them in, adding a little more zest to the up and coming fuckery, and load our boat with EVEN MORE fucking smack than we’d even planned to carry, but our decision-making skills were sorely lacking by this point and we were hallucinating like madmen. I myself just couldn’t shake the fucking fanged teddy bears from my vision, and no one even thought to bring a fucking watch.

We obviously couldn’t handle this situation in the state we were in; that was the only clear piece of information we could fucking agree upon between us. I was so fucking confused by this point I’d agree to just about anything that would end this impending doom of clusterfucking madness. By and by, we decided to leave the explosives right where they were; time was a pressing factor and the set up on the Miami Vice boat was going to take at least fifteen minutes to two hours to dismantle and bring aboard, and besides, fucking around with Dem’s custom Christmas tree of wires and bombs and shit would most likely lead to even more clusterfuckery, being that we were all still tripping big balls of hallucinatory brain seizures and fuck. So, we left the ship with what we could carry, finally waving goodbye to our donkey-bombs for good, thank fuck, those fucking things had been fucking plaguing me with their uncertain but inevitable explosiveness all bloody goddamn day. We loaded up our boat with a substantial amount of booty and took the fuck off at hyper-speeds directed directly in the direction of the dump to offload.

Still, we had a donkey-ridden, smack-filled, atrophied cruise ship to sink with a precise explosion at a predetermined spot just above the waterline, which Dem had thoughtfully marked ahead of time with a big ass sharpie. Hitting the spot dead on would set off the whole fucking works Armageddon style. Safely back to our beach, all that was left to do was set the fucking auto-pilot, well that and first setting up some stolen lounge chairs from the hotel, pouring drinks, banging junk, and bumping PCP. Then, the button was finally pressed. We all just kicked back andwatched as our self-controlled mega-bomb blasted off into the distance. All of us had trepidation literally oozing from our slack mouths as we watched it go, hoping to hell we didn’t somehow manage to fuck the whole thing up after all. Also we took a somber moment to lament for the poor donkeys and their contribution to this insane fuckery they never saw coming when they ate all those dildos and other essentially  inedible items before.

Our timing proved perfect: just as the morning’s magic light began to blanket the island once more, the fucking cruise ship blew sky high, like the devil himself shot a giant fire-fart straight out of hell manifesting into a monstrous mushroom cloud disseminating everything outwards into indiscernible donkey particles, smack smoke and boat bits. It was so fucking beautiful we were all driven to tears.

We could even feel tiny fragments of ash floating down upon us as the tide moved in; it looked like the first snowfall of winter with clean white flakes of the purest fuckery piling up on the beach and in the dump. Despite the relief and overwhelming satisfaction that all this fuckery hadn’t gone completely fucking sideways as ultimately expected, I was forced to acknowledge that the fuckery bar had now been raised infinitely fucking higher.

That wrath of god explosion had been large enough to decimate a small moon; it was sheer gloriousness in its most finest of moments, a new artistic genre of fuckery, C4 and gaseous farm animals, which none but us possessed the pure corrupted drug-ridden thought processes and total disregard for human life, or other, to even conceive of such a spectacular abomination. In celebration, we opened another bottle of rum and dipped into a few more tabs of that new acid, hoping for a more serene trip without all that fucking around; but there was still one question rolling around in my head, given the clusterfuckingly fuck-ass shit show that had just unfolded and was now rapidly vanishing into the past:

What kind of outrageous FUCKERY would we pull next?

***

Dead Dog Day, Part 1
Dead Dog Day, Part 2
Dead Dog Day, Part 3
Dead Dog Day, Part 4
Dead Dog Day, Part 5

Dead Dog Day, Part 4

Abruptly I sat up from my bed of log and rock, and judging by the sun’s position in the sky, it was fucking hot out already. For the actual time, I’d have to dig my arm out of some shit it was buried in to check my watch first. The donkeys seemed to have finished all the monstrous dildos and had moved on to the dump itself. I couldn’t believe they weren’t dead by now, I mean, how do you even shit that stuff out? Maybe I was watching a truly abominable buildup of rubber and silicone, not to mention whatever else they’d already ingested from the dump. There were goddamn cars in there, fucking toxic waste, things that were dead and dying, and shit, actual shit that was on the threshold of becoming explosive. These motherfucking donkeys were going to blow up Loony Tunes style, but a lot more on the macabre side of fuckery; there’d be guts and entrails, blood, brains and bones, shards of fucking bones shooting every which way, like a giant gaseous grenade of bursting stomach and flying organs. These motherfuckers were going to fucking kill somebody and it sure as shit wouldn’t be me; we’ve got to kill these fucking beasts before it’s fucking too late!

I was totally freaking out when I went to find Dem who was sleeping on a pile of garbage; nothing really discernible, just everyday fucking junk. Well, I freaked the fuck out of him waking him up, and standing over him spouting out my freaky story really freaked him the fuck out even more, so he nearly took my head off, having a real freaky habit of sleeping with a goddamn snub-nose revolver, which freaked the fuck out of me on top of all the fucking freakiness I was already freaking out about at the moment.

With the two of us now in a totally freaked-out state of existence, all hell was busting loose inside our mistreated and self-butchered brains; I grabbed my emergency recreational dope-loaded first aid kit, and after a couple of bumps and bangs, we both settled the fuck down. Dem was sympathetic to my worries concerning the donkeys; he didn’t know fuck about the gastral intestinal physics of donkeys, but if there was a chance that these fucking things were going to explode from the inside out, something had to be done. The last thing we needed was a total exposé of exploding farm animals attracting everyone to the very spot of our newly acquired goddamn buried booty.

Dem pulled out his glamorously designed and motherfucking devastatingly apocalyptic Desert Eagle handgun, which could by all accounts take down a fucking tank, and we headed up the dump trail and over to what seemed to be the most bloated donkey of the group. Dem surmised that if we could blow a hole in its side, we could release the ever-mounting buildup of gas and thus avoid all danger of the fucking beast becoming a piñata loaded with dildo grenades later on. I knew Dem was dying to kill something, and a donkey wasn’t the first on his list, but at least he’d get a bit of a warm fuzzy feeling and more of a cooled-off intensity that would lessen his homicidal demeanor for a few hours at least. Me, I had no sentimentality regarding these fucked-up donkeys, I just didn’t want bones and brains strewn about the beach and any possible projectiles penetrating my goddamn forehead. At this point, protecting our motherlode of buried smack was the only concern on my mind.

We approached the donkey in question, and sure as shit it was fucking huge, its monstrous belly only a few inches from the ground. It was munching on oiled-up car parts and candy wrappers and was definitely the fucking beast of the bunch. We stood back a few meters and Dem chambered a bullet into the barrel of that monstrosity he was holding in his hands. He took the shot and the result was even worse than I’d imagined. I’d never seen the kind of macabre clusterfuckery I witnessed in that evil moment. I was right about the donkeys but had no idea that we could pre-explode the fuckers. It was a goddamn nightmare, a bad acid trip without the acid. Dem and I were blown back about ten meters  from the blast, completely covered in everything that had been inside that motherfucking wretched beast. The stink itself could’ve killed a man on its own. In addition, we’d both gone deaf from the concentrated combustion in that single walloping burst; it all looked like a slasher film gone fucking sideways. Dem caught a rib in the leg and, through some unlucky bastardized fuckery of physics, the donkey’s head landed right on top of mine. Stunned to fuck, we both started swatting the larger chunks donkey anatomy off of us. I’d never seen such catastrophic carnage before; the whole beach was covered in a blanket of blood and little fucking donkey chunks, and there was a hole the size of a goddamn Buick where the donkey once stood, who more than likely didn’t expect its day would fall short so abruptly.

Jesus motherfucking fuck! This was a goddamn grandiose ten-star clusterfuck straight out of hell! How the fuck were we gonna figure a way out of all this fuckery? I’d never heard of any domesticated animal, or any other type, blowing the fuck up like that. Are they all gonna go the same way? Are we going to have to drag them off into the fucking jungle and put a cap in all their guts? Someone must have heard that explosion, man. Christ, I was covered in blood and donkey insides; an explanation didn’t really seem conceivable at that point, and where the fuck was that goddamn Edgar? We had a real problem on our hands, those fucking explosive donkeys were going to hang around until they finished with the dump and another one could go off at any moment. We couldn’t move the stash with a big “We’re blowing up fucking donkeys!” sign that we were most definitely going to be fucking hanging up once the next one went off. Shit! Things just escalated from fucking fucked up to full-on goddamn clusterfuckery.

Meanwhile, coming up the beach were three “Suits” and a man who looked like Mac; what the fuck was all this about? Dem went directly into hiding, leaving me alone, blood soaked from head to toe, and covered in goddamn donkey guts, not to mention, rightly stoned and a little too pissed off to bother engaging in a conversation with douchebags, whoever the fuck they were. Everyone pretended to ignore the obvious carnal circus behind me, and aside from Mac, who had a horrified look on his mug, no one said a thing about the state of my attire, although one of the Suits wretched all over his patent leather shoes. Mac pulled me aside and explained the situation.

After hearing what I heard, a warm fuzzy shot straight through me; I felt like hippies must feel skipping through endless fields of marijuana. I was actually experiencing some kind of fucked-up divine synchronistic goddamn intervention. The Suits were from Ocean Falls, and they really didn’t want to deal with this shit-fuck they had; they were right fucked on this one man and they needed it to disappear quick, at any expense. At this point Dem conveniently reappeared, quite enthusiastic about the conversation he’d already been already listening to. Witnessing Dem’s own macabre collection of donkey parts and blood, another Suit wretched all over his shoes. Anyway, they wanted the ship blown apart wrath of god style. If this shit got out, a huge clusterfuck of even worse shit would follow. They had twenty-one ships at sea, all packed to the roof with smack, and if any one of them gets stopped a cascade of motherfucking epic proportions would manifest into a specially made maximum-security prison built just for fucking Ocean Falls employees. We decided on a fee and funnily enough at that moment, reassured them that we were fully capable of providing the adequate amount of munitions to take on a project this size. Aside from that, we could load up on more fucking smack at the same goddamn time, but how the fuck were we going to ship twelve, sorry, eleven fucking donkeys over to that ship? Too bad I crashed the hell out of that fucking boat we had last night, but even still, these boats were just fucking pleasure cruisers and sailboats, nothing that could handle a small herd of fucking animals onboard that were the goddamn size of our combustible donkeys. It was then that Dem reminded me about the old barge, rusted all to shit, half in the water and half tangled up in the jungle. It was big enough for sure, and we’d still have to steal a fucking boat to tow the fucking thing, but if it floated, which was pretty fucking improbable, we could be in real fucking business.

Realistically though, nothing could happen until after dark, so Dem zipped off back into the jungle for the time being. Convinced I could no longer hold back nature and the fuckery of possibilities it had handed us today, I tried to flag down some monkeys to wheelbarrow my bloody ass up to the cantina, but I suppose my ensemble of various donkey parts scared the fuckers off. So, I staggered my own ass into town, and along the way I couldn’t help but notice that the population had been upped by the presence of a lot of douchebag tourists roaming about. What fucking hole did they claw their asses out of all of a sudden? I reached the cantina pissed off to all fuck, looking like a goddamn macabre sideshow. I had to get this donkey shit off of me ASAP.

I went in to grab the keys to my room. The owner was bartending with a few servers running drinks to handle the overflow. The place was stock full of herded-up ass-fuck tourists. I quickly grabbed my keys, but not without hearing the most obvious question about what in the fucking hell happened to you? Which I answered with a gesture to indicate a story for another time. More pressingly, I wanted to know what was with the army of douchebags crowding up the streets. The owner explained that the word was they were going to move that ship in the morning, and out of liable constrictions and the safety of its passengers, it had to be evacuated. Fuck me! We’d had no clue in hell that ship had been so full of fuckers last night; there wasn’t so much as a peep or a creek during our whole entire heist. The owner also mentioned Edgar, who was sitting somewhere in the back, trembling with a look that evidenced seeing the devil himself. Judging by the familiar goop he was covered in, the owner surmised that he got his fucking retarded ass stuck in a carnivorous plant again for far too long. Edgar was prone to sleep-walking, especially when he was fucked on hallucinogens, which fortunately or unfortunately was his favorite form of bent-up fucked reality, and it was virtuously impossible not to run into a fucking man-eating plant when traversing the jungle, even dead sober. This was why a hand grenade was an integral part of all the islander’s travel kits; if you ever got yourself swallowed, as everyone did at some point, you’d jam that fucking thing down its guts as far as fucking possible and pull the fucking pin. If the blast didn’t kill you, which was an obviously possible consequence, you’d find yourself up in a tree and covered in goop instead, eventually dropping to the jungle floor. I couldn’t count the number of times Dem and I had to pry that fuck out of one of those fucking things, and it was a hell of a lot more difficult from the outside. One time, Dem loaded up the base of a plant with enough C4 to take out a fucking tank. I don’t think Edgar was ever really the same after that, nor was the half kilometer radius of jungle decimated from the blast.

Meanwhile, I decided to avoid Edgar like the plague; I was too pissed off and tired of sporting this blood-soaked carnage, and if I had to listen to his trepidatious ramblings, I’d be forced to squeeze a goddamn knot in his fucking ass. So, I climbed those stairs and fell onto my bed. There’d be no sleep for this poor fucker, though; I was still full up with a witch’s pharmacy, and if someone had done a blood test, I’m sure the diagnosis would be that I was already fucking dead. Looking over to my side, I could see that my rats had managed to get loose and open the bottle of PCP. They were all snout-deep in the stuff. I hadn’t a clue how much they’d done and how long they’ve been at it, thinking better off leaving them be for now; they could be useful later if they didn’t fucking overdose and keel over belly up.

It took about two goddamn hours to scrub all those donkeys guts, hides, various membranes and indiscernible chunks of organs or some shit off of me, but after I lit the offal-encrusted clothes I’d been wearing on fire and tossed them out the window, all evidence of the fucking donkey explosion was now in the past, aside of course for the blood-soaked beach we’d left behind. Prompted by a surprise outburst of horrified screams coming from below my window, I went over to investigate and saw that my burning fatigues had set a fucking tourist on fire. Jesus fuck man, I fucking hated tourists! The stupid cunt was rolling around in the dirt with who I guessed was his wife, both of them screaming like banshees for help. Ah fuck it, his problem now, I just hoped I hadn’t left any grenades my pants.

The Corpses Cantina was bursting with cunts and douchebag tourists; they were an impatient mob of super-cocksucking vampires all pissed off at their clusterfucked-up ship cruise getting fucked completely sideways. I noticed Dem by our usual stools, and I have to say, he was looking quite dapper this afternoon, probably burnt his own clothes as well. I’d guessed the rest of his jungle fucking mercenary shit must’ve been in the wash, because today he looked like he was on safari, sporting some kind of goddamn Australian fucking outback hat. He just sat there tossing little homemade sticks of dynamite out into the street, as was his usual pastime during any tourist season. He told me he took off a cunt’s toe earlier that day.

Fucking fuck me! The kind of wretched evil clusterfuckery we three were supposed to handle tonight was desperately in danger of all falling to shit; I didn’t even want to see Edgar, who was turning into a completely useless fucking cunt. Not only that, but I could tell Dem had been banging our new smack all fucking day long; not that I hadn’t been also, but I also wasn’t throwing dynamite into the fucking street, my rats weren’t going to be very useful after getting into all that goddamn PCP, and sooner or later they’d find a way out of that room and get medieval all over some unsuspecting tourist, fuck! What a potential fucking massacre. The donkeys were in danger of exploding any time now, and we’d be bloody well cunt-fucked as far as our job was concerned. We had to get that cocksucking barge floating, and we’d have to do it now, yes, NOW, in the goddamn daylight, and we hadn’t the slightest fucking clue as to the nature of that whole fucking exercise. It wasn’t a simple “we’ll deal with it later” fucking goddamn operation; the fucking barge was big and heavy and stuck there for as long as we assholes have been on the fucking island, maybe there was a good fucking reason that it was a goddamn fucked-up half-sunk nautical monument. Dem and I decided to check it out anyway, running into Edgar on our way out the back. He was in absolutely no shape to even wrap a simple discernible conversation around his hollow head, fucking twitching and retching all over himself, it was like he was goddamn possessed by the devil of total vacancy. We left him where he sat, still all covered in plant goop, and making not one bit of fucking sense. Best thing for him really, as the cantina takes good care of its regulars.

Dem and I speed away in the partially totalled but still fucking unbelievably ferocious Lamborghini. The “road” went all the way around the bay and would hopefully take us close to that motherfucking huge hunk of fucking vintage metal that we were so desperately in need of. Soon we stopped at a spot we both agreed upon near the fucking jungle; we’d have to traverse some wretchedly entangled vines and tree branches, not to mention poisonous every-fucking-things, an ass-load of carnivorous plants, and all we knew nothing about that could probably fucking kill us, before we came out at the edge of the water where hopefully we’d find our fucking barge. We made it pretty much unscathed aside from Dem getting his leg half swallowed by a particularly beautifully colored carnivorous plant with nuances of purple and pink and shades of blue, or at least it was before Dem retaliated with his AK47. Then it was mush, and Dem’s leg was just fucking fine.

Then we hit pay-dirt. There was the barge, all rusted out and tangled up in the jungle, but it really didn’t seem as bad from this view point; the hull was fucking totally intact and it wasn’t as submerged as we’d previously thought. It seemed that releasing it from its jungle snare was the only fucking hardship we’d have to endure. This wasn’t going to be your regular boy scout primitive machete-wielding work-horse type of job either; Dem was always, and I mean fucking always prepared to blow shit right the fuck up. As I watched him carefully place and wire the explosives, I couldn’t help but take account of his finesse and determined concentration; he was a champion in his field, a fucking poet of destruction and mayhem and completely in his element; too bad he was so homicidally insane. It took Dem a little while to rig everything up, but soon enough we were all set to blow. He’d set things so the sound from the explosion would travel inward into the fucking jungle, as opposed to out across the bay, in which case we’d be heard by the whole motherfucking island. We picked a nice big motherfucker of a tree to cower behind, and as Dem pulled the fucking switch, two incredibly beneficial divine inter-fucking-ventions occurred: the first being that the barge was totally fucking freed, and fucking well floated, the second being that the blast as Dem said blew straight through the jungle and cleared the whole way back to the fucking car.

After camouflaging the barge, Dem and I went back to the car, which in all our recollections had been a hard top when we first fucking arrived. Still, we weren’t too concerned about an abrupt little remodeling; the car had already been smashed to shit in the first place, and whizzing down that road convertible style didn’t sound so bad either. On out way back to the dump, Dem and I began to do as much and as many varieties of fucking drugs as we could. Man, we were right fucked out of our minds and at fucking velocities extremely ill-advised, but I had this theory that if we went foot to the floor, we’d just sort of float over all the gaping holes in the road; this however didn’t the matter of all the fallen trees lying in the middle of the fucking road, but I could only handle one epiphany at a time.

We came screaming around from behind the dump, all four wheels still attached and the new sunroof really opened things up; Mac was gonna shoot us both for this fuckery. So, who knew how to deal with the goddamn donkeys? Nobody? Great! Both of us were completely dumbfounded. Dem thought I knew some shit about them, being in such close proximity to the fucking things for a while, but I knew fucking shit, all I did was fucking yell at the cocksuckers. We figured if we just tied a rope around their fucking necks and led them down the road caravan style, they’d just follow along, easy as shit right? Nope, big time clusterfuck; they were running all over the dump and they looked frighteningly larger than they had before. We had to use some real fucking finesse wrangling those donkey-bombs or sure as shit one of ’em was gonna blow, and we’d already been through that kind of goddamn catastrophe earlier, one neither of us wanted to repeat. We were using one long climbing rope that Dem had; I could never believe the amount of shit he could fucking carry, it was like a magical bottomless duffle bag that held anything explosive or anything that contributed to everything explosive with wiring, knives, handguns, flash-bombs and probably a fucking magic rabbit as well, although I’d never seen it but I bet that it could blow up, too.

Apparently, finesse wasn’t in the cards for us during Operation Donkey Fuck; it was more of a screaming and cussing and scurrying around the dump kind of affair. We ran ourselves ragged chasing those motherfuckers, managing to tie ourselves up in the goddamn rope a few times ourselves. After about a half hour of this horseshit, the fucking donkeys finally seemed to tire put and settle back down a bit. Fuck, it was fucking amazing that they could even move in the first place, carrying so much indigestible shit in their fucking guts, but that was it, we’d outlasted the cunts. Dem and I bumped a massive bump and ran those fucking donkeys to the ground. All nice and docil,e the herd just kind of lined itself up, it was total submission. We tied them up two by two with number eleven bringing up the rear; our scrapes and bruises and debris-covered countenances in no way took away from the satisfaction of finally harnessing these goddamn ultimately doomed creatures. We tied the fucking lot of ’em to the ass end of the Lamborghini; it all kind of looked like Santa’s fucking sleigh but ass-backwards and no fucking toy deliveries, this lot was ready to blow! We cruised slowly back down the road, careful not to yank those cunts too hard, as we were still in danger of having an unfortunately premature explosion and with the herd so closely harnessed, we could be looking at a chain reaction clusterfuck unseen by man since biblical times. We’d loaded up an old decrepit trailer full of dump shit to bring along to keep the donkeys eating, busy and distracted until our devious ill-advised caper was afoot. Judging from our observations, that included many mangled car parts and other rusted to shit machinery, moldy magazines and newspapers of all varieties, any dead or dying vermin, vomit, shit, and rotten fruit, along with armfuls of other miscellaneous shit we’d just randomly grabbed for them to eat.

We must have looked like a real fucking sideshow moving down that road at about 4 MPH in a smashed to shit Lamborghini with eleven hippy-painted donkeys in tow. After Dem  finally passed out, machinegun still in hand, the long slow ride seemed to bring on the air of contemplative introspection, fueled of course by the copious varieties of recreational drugs that fucked up most of my fucking cognitive abilities. Along the way back to the barge, I astral-fucking-planed my ass back about six years to when I first set foot on this fucking wretched piece of sinister shit island; I was writing for some shit vacation magazine, the bottom fucking rung for any aging writer. I was supposed to be on my way to Cuba, but I couldn’t give a horses ass where I fucking ended up. I was stinking on rum day and night, which by all accounts was my main nutritional supplement at the time. So, after getting off at the wrong island, I’d staggered onto what looked to be the main drag and into the local establishment that would serve as the planning grounds for much of the homicidal debauchery and wretched fuckery I’d get up to in the years to come. The Corpses Cantina, that’s when I first met Dem. He almost took my goddamn arm off with one of those little sticks of dynamite that day, but we became friends immediately thereafter.

Back in present time, I clocked Dem on the side of his head with the butt of one of the many revolvers strewn around the car. “Wake up motherfucker, we’re on donkey duty again!” He woke up as instructed but with a very unpleasant grimace; you could tell that his drug combo had been selected a bit too haphazardly, so I took out my kit and fixed the both of us right up. We expected this endeavor to be rigorously fucked with lots of goddamn heavy lifting and a continuous cascade of fuckery popping up at every step, but as it turns out, after untying the herd from the car, we were able to simply guide those cunts down through the explosively groomed section of jungle, all the way down to the barge, which to our amazement was still fucking afloat.

Meanwhile, we were coming down off the cocaine; that shit was as useless as fuck, more suited for college cunts and tourists with their little bumps at parties and stress-filled exam weeks. Us, we’ve ascended far above the level of constant bumping every twenty minutes; we just didn’t have the time anymore. At the top of our list was PCP, which was long lasting and it would get you right fucking fucked and was a true wretched friend on more than a few of our sinister clusterfuckeries and ruthlessly illegal misadventures, along with a careful nuance of hallucinogens and a consistent pace of slugged down of rum, we could really truly ascend to the ferociously vicious fuckery required to pull off some really fucked-up shit, which was the fucking case here.

We unharnessed the parade of fucking donkeys, who’d remained submissive the whole time, thank fuck! Then we loaded our collection of dump shit / a.k.a. donkey chow onto the barge the barge’s deck in an attempt to lure them aboard, like a carrot dangling before them, seeing as how they’d probably never been off of dry land before. When that didn’t work, we tried just pushing and shoving and kicking those damned donkey fucks onto the goddamn barge. I definitely felt their trepidation and horror, and apparently so did Dem, as he began setting off flash-grenades behind the bunch, scaring the living fuck out of the donkeys and me as well. This however did the trick, and the donkeys fucked off right onto that barge immediately, shitting themselves along the way. I guess sometimes you’ve just gotta pull your resources.

We still had some daylight to burn, so we left our donkey floating and cruised back down to the cantina; we couldn’t do anything until after fucking dark anyway, and I used this time to try and explain the importance of Dem keeping his motherfucking dynamite in his goddamn bag once we arrived. Today of all days, we bloody well had to keep a low fucking profile, and all we fucking needed was an amputated tourist spouting blood all over the goddamn place to attract unwanted attention. Also, we were damned dirty; not wrath of fucking god exploded donkey dirty, thank fuck, but dirty all the same. Dump dirty, handling car parts dirty, donkey hippy paint job dirty shit, so I let Dem upstairs to clean up and borrow some clothes. We also had a fuck load of lacerations and shards of metal sticking out of us, so we had to spend a few minutes plucking that dump shit out of ourselves and pouring paint thinner on the wounds, this being the only disinfectant I had aside from the rum, which was way too valuable and ill-advised for such a waste. The pharmacy had to remain topped off at all times, meaning if we ran out of anything, I mean any-goddamn-thing during our little caper, the shit knot would squeeze and all would certainly fall to shit. FUCK! I needed a fucking drink…

When I came back downstairs, Dem was already at his regular stool, facing the street from the end of the bar. There was some douchebag tourist at my regular stool, but after Dem’s discrete flash of his extremely decorative Desert Eagle, the fuckhead was soon completely out of sight. I checked my bag of angry rats and they seemed to be doing alright, but I could tell they were tripping balls big time; they’d cleaned up the last of their PCP and were now munching on actual food brought out with compliments of the establishment. Compliments my ass. It’s not that it wasn’t appreciated, it’s just that the rats were infamous for their abominable bloody atrocities, and nobody wanted a piece of that homicidal fuckery. Anyway, the rats could rest well after their feast; we weren’t going to need them on this little extravaganza, but we probably could’ve used Edgar, depending of course on his own level of usefulness at the time. And there he was, sipping cocktails right where we left him, although it was obvious he’d been home and back again, judging by the thoroughly hosed-off fucking plant goop and a clean shave to boot.

“Are you up for some dastardly ill-advised buffoonery later on tonight?” I asked. “We can’t fucking have you all fucking fucked-up on this fucking one for fuck’s sake!”

His reassurances fell on deaf ears, as we both knew he’d find some way to screw the pooch, all sodomy and fireworks style, but we needed another pair of hands and there was no way getting around that shit. We filled him in on the clusterfuck donkey demolition fuckery plan and went back to our stools to watch the tourists frolic on the strip. I could tell that Dem was just dying to toss some dynamite at them, but he kept his composure and waited it out. We still had about six hours until sundown, and six hours gave us plenty of time to kill with cocktails and a king’s ransom’s worth of PCP.

***

Dead Dog Day, Part 1
Dead Dog Day, Part 2
Dead Dog Day, Part 3
Dead Dog Day, Part 4
Dead Dog Day, Part 5