The Tell Tale Heartthrob

By now the story is all over the press.  How I killed an innocent man in cold blood, dispatched him in the night with an axe, chopped his body up and buried it beneath the floorboards.

You may think me mad. You may also believe that like some unhinged narrator out of Poe, I did this heinous act because his pale blue eye incited me.

On both counts you would be completely correct. But there is more to the story than has been reported.

My life with Bertram Hustle was a stormy one. Being the live-in partner and occasional Brony slave of one of the biggest dicks in gay porn is not a job for the timid or pain-averse. Often he would go in without lube just to hurt me, ramming my tender asshole until it bled. On several occasions I had to be admitted to the ER while Bertram drove around in circles in the parking lot, shouting with a megaphone: “Chris Parker loves it when I hurt his asshole.”

On that count, Bertram was also quite correct. 

So you may be asking why in the world I did it, if it wasn’t the pain, the humiliation, the bleeding or the spunk in every orifice, including some he created by gashing me in the bellyguts and cheeks. Why did I take an axe and give him 40 wacks after he whacked off in my face?

The truth? But take care, gentle reader, when you seek the truth. Sometimes a lie is far gentler. As Emily Dickinson so wisely put it, tell the truth but tell it slant. And not as in bent dick inserted with extreme prejudice into my raw rectum.

So back to the pale blue eye bit. The truth is that the eye did bother me. A whole fucking lot. He used to stare at me across a crowded room after we’d had a lover’s tiff, and the sight revulsed me on some primordial level. I grew to associate him with that eye, which was clouded over, until all I thought of when I thought of Bertram was that horrid ocular organ. That nasty thing.

I would go home and even when he was away on business I would find the eye haunting me. It would manifest floating near the ceiling and wake me up in the middle of the night. It even managed to bond with my webcam and when I turned on my laptop, the pale blue eye would stare at me steadily.

I never got used to that.

I confronted Bertram on the matter once, and he freely admitted to sending his pale blue eye out from his astral body to drive me insane. He thought it was hilarious that one day I would murder him just to stop the pale blue eye.

But it wasn’t just that. The man was gorgeous. A hunk. Ripped. Washboard abs, six-pack. And I loved his cock, a massive 10 inches with a thick circumference I couldn’t quite measure even with tape because I’m mentally challenged when it comes to numbers.

I felt quite at home and secure in the universe when he clamped his hands around my neck and pressed my head closer to him so my lips could fully engulf his turgid shlong. When he came it was a geyser, a hurricane…”here come the warm jets,” I thought, and thanked Brian Eno for his album Music For Airports.

When he rammed me in the ass it was all I could do not to whimper or scream out, but the pain always transformed into long waves of pleasure that pulsed out from my prostate gland and curled my toes and caused my balls to convulse with the sweet, sweet juice. Often times I would cum so hard I drenched the sheets. He liked to tie me up and watch him fuck other guys. I enjoyed that as well. Anything for a taste of that delicious dick, or his amazing asshole that I loved to felch for hours.

In the end, I may have just loved him too much to allow him to live. The pale blue eye did play a crucial role, naturally, but it wasn’t the whole picture. 

But there’s another possibility. Maybe I’m just a psychopath who doesn’t give a shit.

Am I? A psychopath? Well, the prison shrink thinks so. So does my cell block warden, who puts me in solitary on the regular.

In the hole, without any human contact, in the dark, where I spend most of what’s left of my “wretched” existence (although to tell the complete truth, I’ve never been happier!) I relive the precipitating events of that wonderfully terrible day.

Bertram had just completed primary shooting on a big-budget porno called “Cream Pie Bronies.” One thing you’ll need to know about the late gay porno star is that he had many rounds in the chamber, a fact he was legendary for. After a full day of shooting wads into unlubed asshole, he was raring to go when he got home, and I was loving it. Also hating it, because I’m a bit bipolar.

Truth be told, I’ll never fully understand myself because I also have dissociative identity disorder and schizophrenia.

He tried to force my head down onto his rigid tool, but something snapped inside me this time. Because his knob had a pale blue eye on it too!!! How could I deep-throat that object of horror, that wretched symbol of all that was uncanny? I couldn’t, and neither could you. 

First I bit the thing off. It’s much harder than you would think to bite off a man’s weiner, and it was only because I had a secret spring-loaded razor blade implant that I accomplished that act. Bertram immediately began to scream that I had mutilated him and ended his porn career, so I simply socked him in the throat, then when he was burping up blood, punched him in the head so hard he was thrown to the floor and lay there, making pathetic mewling noises and mumbling something about taking him to Urgent Care.

I’d had enough. Of course I was as hard as a rock, and all my pent-up rage, aggression and horniness came out in a cum-wad as thick as mayonnaise. I spurted on his bloody head as I kicked it, then went to the utility closet where we kept an axe for the kindling, came back and began to deliver the blows.

The sweetness was real, a humming eternity of relief and release. I found myself cumming over and over again as I hit him, severed his head from his shoulders, then crouched and began to drink from his spouting stump.

Only I could still see that pale fucking blue eye floating above the stump.

Jesus wept, I thought. Would I never be rid of this gorgeous hunk o’ man candy, his tree trunk thighs, his golden asshole that tasted like musty wine?

It was then that the thought came to me: chop him up a little bit more and bury him beneath the floorboards. And so I did.

In my mad fit I raised the suspicions of the neighbors, and they summoned the po-po. They broke down my door and burst in on the sight of me furiously wanking it over the area of the floor that covered his Burroughsian cut-up o’ flesh.

“I didn’t do it, it wasn’t me,” I told the incredulous pigbots. “Jeebers is muh witness.”

So convincing was I that they were about to leave when all of a sudden I heard this loud throbbing sound, as of the main vein of my superfuckinuberhottie deceased bff, Bertram Hustle. I put my hands over my ears, but the sound was in my head. 

Finally I just burst out with it. “Okay, it was me, I did it! But I was provoked. And yes, it was that pale blue fucking eye I wound up seeing everytwhere, and I mean everyfuckingwhere, but it wasn’t only that.

It was the hotness, and the throbbing of his still turgid, still erect, still cum-dribblin’ TOOL that I’d spat out and separately buried beneath the floorboards.

And, of course, that fucking EYEBALL of his. Yeah, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to scrub my brain of that image.

I’m set to be executed at dawn.

I pray for oblivion.

–Prisoner Number 16785, Federal Penitentiary, California

Glendale Cantina, Marijuana Merchant Roast Beef Enthusiast

Glendale Cantina was visited at his emporium by a traveling salesman sporting a Jelly Roll hairdo and a rather flamboyant pair of winklepickers. He had come hawking papier-mâché sculptures of horses with mermaid’s tails.

“See here,” said Cantina after the man, who identified himself only by the name of “Sneed,” had made his pitch. “I appreciate the opportunity, but I’m afraid that, in something of the manner of a dog chasing a car under the mistaken impression that it’s a potentially savory piece of prey, you’re barking up the wrong metaphorical tree. This isn’t an art gallery – it’s a cannabis dispensary!”

“But that’s exactly my point,” said Sneed. “Only someone buzzed up on the devil’s lettuce could take a shine to a monstrosity such as this. Yet, once they do, they’re liable to find it utterly mesmerizing, and the next thing you know, you’ll have a lucrative sale on your hands. Believe me, I travel the country four seasons out of the year selling these abominations, and to a person, my most loyal clients all work in the cannabis sector.” 

“I see your point,” conceded Cantina. “The only problem is that for the price you’ve named, I only have enough money to afford a single sculpture.”

“That’s no problem at all! At the 500% suggested retail markup, once you sell that single sculpture, you’ll have enough to buy five more, and that’s when the cash will really start rolling in. Soon, you’ll be as rich as a truffle-stuffed bonbon.”

“That does sound pretty sweet,” conceded Cantina. “I suppose I’ll have to give it a try.” 

Forthwith, the wholesale transaction was completed, and the satisfied salesman departed in his maroon DeSoto Firesweep with the ragtop down. Cantina, meanwhile, hung the papier-mâché horse-mermaid from a hook in the ceiling intended for potted plants and then, while he waited for his first customers of the day to arrive, sampled some of the new products that had just come in on the overnight express from his top Central Asian supplier, the Old Kandahar Toker Brokers. Before long, he was as high as a kite at the beach on the Fourth of July, and that was when the sculpture really caught his eye. 

“Woah,” he said to himself, regarding it. “It’s a horse, but at the same time it’s a mermaid. It’s almost as if I had a mermaid’s tail, but at the same time, I was a horse instead of a man, which would be amazing because I could gallop down the beach with my mane flowing in the breeze and then, when I’d worked up a nice horse sweat (assuming I didn’t suffer from anhidrosis), plunge into the sea and paddle all the way down to the bottom. Just think of the creatures I might meet there. A giant siphonophore, for example, or maybe even one of those adorable flapjack octopi.”

Momentarily, the bell hanging from the top of the door jangled and in ambled Veranda Smithereens, the retired Kiwanis Club boxer.

“Top of the morning to you,” Cantina greeted him.

Smithereens tipped his cap. “I’m here so early because my puncher’s elbow is all flared up, and as you know, nothing eases the pain like a few huffs and puffs from the old hot stick.”

“I’ve got great news, in that case,” came Cantina’s reply. “A hot-off-the-presses strain of Himalayan Super Boof just arrived as part of my latest shipment from the Toker Brokers, and I have a feeling it’s going to do wonders for that tender hinge of yours.”

“I thought Super Boof was mainly used for inducing sexual arousal.” 

“Normally that would be true, but this Himalayan strain hits different. Moreover, the first dose is on me. After all, once you see what sweet relief it supplies, I have no doubt you’ll be hooked.” 

“That’s why I like to do business with you, Glendale,” said Smithereens. “You’re not just some sleazy drug dealer who tries to create dependencies in your customers and then exploit them. To the contrary, you’re an honest merchant, and a mensch.” 

At that, they blazed up a big fat spliff packed tight with the aforementioned Super Boof and passed it back and forth a few times.

“Hey,” said Smithereens, coughing out a cloud of blue-green smoke. “What’s that crazy thing hanging over there by the window?”

“Oh, that,” said Cantina. “Some sculpture I bought this morning from a traveling salesman with a Jelly Roll hairdo and a pair of winklepickers pointy enough to poke a hole in a car tire.”

“Interesting,” said Smithereens. “I can’t help but notice that it’s a horse, but at the same time, it’s also a mermaid.”

“You’ve got that right, bub.”

“Nevertheless,” continued Smithereens, “the more I gaze at it, the more I feel like it’s not just a horse that’s also a mermaid. It’s also an approach to living. In other words, why does a horse just have to be a horse when there’s so much out there in the universe, such as the ocean. What I’m trying to say is, we’re all like that horse deep inside. We go about our days and nights trotting over dry land and munching on hay, yet if only we turned around to look at our own behinds, we’d realize we were mermaids, too, to whom all the wonders of the sea are as ripe for the picking as a purple plum.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” said Cantina. “I acquired the thing on a whim, but once I got to really looking at it, I could see that there was more to it than the mere combination of a horse’s head with a mermaid’s rear end. One way to put is that there’s life, and then there’s life, and that sculpture – that’s life.” 

“How much do you want for it?” said Smithereens.

“Come again?”

“I want to buy it,” said Smithereens. “What’s the price?”

“Oh – I certainly appreciate the interest, old boy, but for all the reasons you yourself have just alluded to, I’m afraid I’ve gotten a bit attached to having it here with me in the shop.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of green, brother, but you can’t put a price on the things we’ve just been talking about. Life being the big one. Also, flapjack octopi, although I’m not sure we talked specifically about those.”

“Twenty thousand,” said Smithereens. 

Cantina shook his head. “I’ll sell you a cartload of kush any day of the week, champ, but the mermaid-horse is off limits.” 

“How about this?” said Smithereens. “I’ve got a very large truck full of roast beef parked right outside, and if you give me that sculpture, I’ll let you have every last slice.”
“Every last slice?”

“Right down to the crumbs from their crusty little edges.”

 Cantina thought it over for a moment.

“All right,” he said, then. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

As you can probably tell, Glendale Cantina absolutely adored roast beef. Unfortunately, he was also a bit like a fish when it came to the meaty delicacy, and afforded access to what was for all intents and purposes an unlimited quantity of it, promptly ate himself to death.

Zero the Hero, Featuring Special Agent Kandy Fontaine

Special Agent Kandy Fontaine, last seen spooging ghost jizz all over Bareback Mansion, slowed her Jaguati to a stop outside the club. The neon sign flickered, promising delights both perverse and profound. A dive bar promising less than zero. She’d met weirder conditions. 

Inside, the air hung thick with cigarette smoke and unspoken desires, a miasma Detective Joe Oroborus, late of Bone City PD and looking like a raccoon who just lost a fight, navigated with practiced ease. 

Oroborus signaled her over, his face illuminated by the sickly purple glow of the sign. He nursed a drink that looked suspiciously like cough syrup. 

“Kandy, doll, you won’t believe the parade of freaks I’ve seen tonight,” he rasped, his voice gravelly from cheap whiskey and existential dread. “This place is a goddamn circus.” He wasn’t far off; Reynaldo, the World’s Smolest Circus Bear, knew all about that. Tonight, though, the circus lacked the glamour Reynaldo injected through the LucasFilm people and Gaga’s psychic mindlink skills. It was just…sad. Turns out this job was far from the Bizarro bicycle accident that spelled poor Nico’s end.

“Spill it, Joe,” Kandy said, adjusting the sequins on her dress.

Oroborus sighed, taking a long swig of his drink. Said nothing.

Kandy raised an eyebrow, her shocking locks which looked like serpents of blue neon gas somehow reflecting the flop sweat ooze of this bar. “And this concerns a missing persons case…how?”

“Because our ‘hero’ is connected,” Oroborus explained, gesturing vaguely towards the back of the club. “Name’s Victor Sterling. Silver spoon stuck so far up his ass he shits caviar. Daddy’s a senator, Mommy’s a socialite, and he’s…well, he’s nothing. A zero.”

“But someone’s pulling his strings,” Kandy mused, already piecing together the puzzle. “Using him as a patsy.”

“Exactly,” Oroborus confirmed. “And the strings lead straight to our missing girl, a reporter named Lila Monroe. She was digging into Sterling’s finances, and wouldn’t you know it, she’s disappeared off the face of the Earth. Gone to ground, as Amelia Mangan might say.” 

They worked their way through the crowded club, a gaudy tapestry of desperation and cheap thrills. The air thrummed with darkness, that occult mythology Sedgwick explored so well/ Oroborus pointed out Sterling, holding court in a dimly lit corner booth, surrounded by sycophants and the glittering promise of wealth. As they approached, the noise began to drown out the thought, but Kandy was a professional.

“Sterling,” Oroborus said, his voice cutting through the din. “We need to ask you a few questions about Lila Monroe.”

Sterling barely glanced up, his eyes glazed over with self-importance. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, waving a dismissive hand.

Kandy stepped forward, her cybernetic eye implants gleaming in the low light. “Don’t bullshit us, Sterling. We know she was investigating you. And we know you’re hiding something.” Maybe something so close, they’d recognize what it was all along.

Sterling’s facade finally cracked, revealing a flicker of fear in his eyes. “I…I didn’t do anything,” he stammered, his voice barely a whisper. “She was just…asking questions. I told her to stop, and that was it.”

“That’s not what our sources say,” Kandy countered, her voice cold and unwavering. “We know you paid someone to ‘persuade’ her to drop the story.” 

Oroborus leaned in, his raccoon eyes glinting menacingly. “Tell us where she is, Sterling. Or things are going to get very unpleasant for you.”

Sterling hesitated, his gaze darting nervously around the booth. He was trapped, a puppet with nowhere to run. “She’s…she’s at the old mill outside of town,” he finally confessed, his voice choked with desperation. “They’re…they’re planning to make her disappear.”

Kandy and Oroborus exchanged a grim look, knowing they were running out of time. Justice would be served if they could help it; no matter what “brand of love!” Wayne Dobbins was pushing. As they sped away from the club, sirens wailing in the distance, Kandy couldn’t shake the feeling that they were only scratching the surface of something far more sinister. 

Victor Sterling, the zero, was just a pawn in a much larger game. As Black Sabbath wrote, “Impossibility, it’s a fallacy mother.”

The old mill loomed in the darkness, a skeletal silhouette against the night sky. Inside, they found Lila Monroe tied to a chair, her face bruised and bloody. Two thugs stood guard, their eyes cold and empty. 

Kandy and Oroborus moved with deadly efficiency, dispatching the thugs with swift precision.

As they untied Lila, she looked up at them, her eyes filled with gratitude and fear. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “You saved me.”

“Not yet,” Kandy said, her gaze hardening. “We still have to expose the people who did this to you.”

And as they drove away from the mill, leaving the darkness behind, Kandy knew that their fight was far from over. They had only uncovered the first layer of a conspiracy that reached into the highest echelons of power. But with Oroborus by her side, and the ghosts of Bone City PD whispering in her ear, she was ready to face whatever darkness lay ahead. After all, in the twisted world of Horror Sleaze Trash, even a zero could become a hero, albeit an accidental one.

Hello Flesh

Welcome to Hello Flesh! Whatever your appetite, we feed the hungry. Delivery right to your doorstep or threshold. Through our new partnership with the penal system, we are now pleased to offer Ethical Eatz™ delivered live to your location, free range or bound. Ask a representative for details. 

New customers, press 1. 

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For Crimson Cuisine, our line of hematological products, press 1

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Please hold while we connect you with a customer service representative. Rest assured your call will not be recorded to protect the privacy of our clients. Thank you for putting your trust in Hello Flesh! 

(muzak)

Hello Flesh! This is Amy, how can I help you?

Hi Amy. There’s been a mistake in my order.

I’m sorry to hear that ma’am. One moment, please, while I look up your account. (clicking sounds) I see you selected the Thai option this week. 

That’s correct, but clearly I’ve been sent Korean. 

I don’t understand, ma’am. I’m sorry you’re not satisfied. Our records show that you were sent the Thai option? 

I’m telling you that even though the label says “Thai” that this is Korean. There’s quite a difference in flavor you know. 

(garbled background sounds) Can you hold please? (muzak plays)

(long slow breaths becoming faster, groaning evident in the background) (calling back to someone else in the room) Calm down. I’m on hold with them now. No! We can’t just go out for Thai. That’s why we had to move to this neighborhood. 

(click) Hello Flesh! This is Kevin. I understand there’s a problem with your order?

Yes, Kevin. I ordered Thai and was sent Korean. I want a refund and a corrected delivery.

(clicking sounds) Our records show that you were sent the Thai option. 

Drop the script, Kevin. Amy already read it to me. (growling in the background intensifies)

I’m sorry that you’re dissatisfied. 

I don’t need your sympathy. Just a refund and the Thai brain I ordered. My husband is sensitive to the preservatives used in pickling. He can’t eat Korean.

What?

Listen, Kevin. (deep sigh) We were vegans before we were bitten. 

It’s bad enough that we are forced to consume flesh to survive now. We care about the quality of food going into our bodies. 

Do you send tainted blood to your vampire customers? 

If you can’t provide fresh brains from healthy donors, we’ll have to take this up with the Better Business Bureau. 

There’s no need for that, ma’am. I can send out a new order this afternoon at no additional charge. 

(muffled sounds, receiver microphone partially blocked) Actual Thai this time?

That’s not my department, ma’am. All I can do is place the order. Fulfillment will take it from there.

And my refund?

Thank you for choosing Hello Flesh! (click)