Another came over to her when the last one crawled away. In a burst of energy, she swung the Indian onto his back and straddled him, reverse cowgirl-style. She pounded her hips down on the beast. She reached out for the next two in line and pulled them over by their erect phalluses. Greedily, she forced both of their fish dicks into her mouth and began fellating. As if following some primitive cue, all three started ejaculating simultaneously. Amanda choked and sputtered and orgasmed herself. Her muscular vaginal walls expelled the fluids stored in her womb, splattering all over the Pacona beneath her. It looked, for a moment, like he was the girl.
Amanda slid another Pacona beneath her and directed another to her back door, which was well lubed by the proximity to the semen of the previous males. He slid right in without any problem. She fellated another man while five stood around her, jerking off onto her body. At once, again, they all came. She was covered in torrents of fish jizz. Amanda Handy moaned in pleasure and rolled onto her back, then onto her belly, the leaves of the forest sticking to her body. She ended up flat on her front, with her ass wiggling in the air. The Paconas needed no further urging. They lined up, single-file, and drilled her ass until it was as loose as a three-day worn tube sock.
When the last Pacona had finished, the group collapsed in a heap. Amanda listened for their snoring, but didn’t hear it. She crawled over to the nearest body and began sucking on it, hoping to bring it back for a second round.
Those must have been some strong pheromones! Amanda thought.
No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t get a sexual response out of the man. She moved on to the next body with similar results. She was able to suck some of the semen from his urethra like the last sip of milkshake from a straw, but it was less than fulfilling. She fell on his chest in tired desperation and wept. It was only after she’d calmed that she realized the Pacona had no heartbeat.
Amanda Handy had fucked the Paconas to death!
“Cliff!” Amanda shouted. “Wake up!” She dumped a half coconut shell full of water on his face. Cliff Parker came awake sputtering.
“Amanda!” he exclaimed. “What’s going on? Are you okay?”
Amanda smiled. “Yes, Cliff. I’m fine. I think it’s over.”
“It’s over? What happened?”
“Look around you, Cliff. The Paconas are all dead.”
“The what? Who are these people? It looks like a goddamned John Wayne movie here!”
“The Paconas captured us, Cliff. They were going to eat us. They killed Howard.” Amanda gestured toward Howard’s cleaved-in head.
“So they did,” admitted Cliff. “How’d they die?”
Amanda grabbed Cliff’s hand and pulled him to his feet. “There’s no time for that,” she explained. “We have to get the hell out of here.”
Not used to standing after his concussion, Cliff Parker fell to the ground. “Come on, Cliff!”
Cliff tried to stand again and was more successful this time. He allowed the supple Handy to lead him through the jungle. She smelled strongly of fish, but he didn’t say anything because he was a gentleman. It had been a while since he’d last bathed, too. Gamey vaginas, he knew, could take on a fishy smell. If Cliff Parker only knew!
The pair traveled through the jungle for a while. They crossed streams and scaled small cliffs. Amanda’s intuition was better than any compass. Cliff did everything he could to keep up with her, while still walking behind her. Though she was covered in leaves, she was almost certainly bare assed naked. It was enjoyable for him to watch her walk. He felt a hardness stiffen in his pants. This was an inappropriate time to be thinking of sex, but he couldn’t help himself. Amanda Handy was a beautiful, naked woman. He was only a man. He prayed that when all of this was through that she’d give him a chance. Maybe she’d even make an honest man out of him.
Amanda sighed in relief when they came into sight of the parking lot. She could see her yellow Datsun waiting for her.
“Wow,” Cliff said. “I had no idea we were so close to where we started.”
Amanda wasn’t listening. She strode up to the car, ignoring the stares of the tourists around her. Cliff followed closely. Amanda cupped her hands around her eyes and peered in the window. Just as she’d thought, she’d forgotten her keys in her clothes when she shed them in order to have sex with all of the Paconas.
“What is it, Amanda?” Cliff asked thoughtfully.
“It’s the Datsun, Cliff,” Amanda said. “I don’t have my keys.”
“I’ve got mine. It’s a Prius,” he said, pointing to a brand new car.
“Does it have a tape deck?”
“CD/mp3,” Cliff explained.
“It’s no good. I don’t roll without my Phil Collins tape. I’m going back in.”
“I’m coming with you,” Cliff said.
“I can’t ask you to do that, Cliff,” Amanda said.
“I’ll never leave your side,” he said romantically.
“Cliff...”
“Shh,” Cliff ordered. “Don’t speak.”
He leaned in and pressed his lips against hers. Her pungent fishy flavor invaded his taste buds. She tasted like buffet sushi. But Cliff didn’t care. He ran his fingers through her sticky hair and gently pressed his tongue against hers.
Amanda broke the kiss and smiled at him. “Let’s go get my keys, cowboy.”
Chapter 11
Everything up until that point had been weird, but the weirdness had at least been consistent. Walking back into the jungle was when everything changed--when the real weird shit hit the fan, and splattered against every surface of Cliff Parker’s mind.
“This isn’t right,” Cliff said, looking around at the tall pines and elms around them. He looked over at Amanda Handy, who also looked strange. Her hair was a mess, her eyes red, swollen and bugged out slightly. She was naked with scratches and mud caked all over her.
As they made their way through the forest, Amanda’s grip on Cliff’s wrist tightened. “C’mon,” she said. “This is where the village is, right ahead. Where all of the fish people died after I fucked them to death.”
“Yes,” Cliff said, a strange, surreal feeling filling him like beans in a burrito. “Right ahead.”
They came to the clearing where dozens of cheerleaders were lying on the ground, gruesomely slaughtered. One, still barely alive, was leaning against a tree and clutching at the gaping hole in her stomach where blood was still pumping out onto the autumn leaves. The color of the leaves was changing once again, this time to blood red.
“This one somehow lived,” Amanda said, her jaw clenching. She walked over and grabbed the girl by the hair, jerking her head to the side, then picked up a fallen stick from the ground and shoved it in the girl’s ear. It popped out the other ear and Cliff barfed.
“What the hell is happening?” Cliff said. “Why did you kill that girl?”
Amanda stormed over, her eyes blazing. “I told you, these aren’t people! These are Pacona fish Indians! They . . . they eat humans! They’re cannibals! Evil, vain cannibals who treat the other girls like crap! So I banged them until they died, and finished that last cheerleader--uh, Pacona--off with a stick!”
Cliff grasped at his cheeks with his hands. His anxiety was notable. “Who the fuck are you? And where the fuck am I? And how did all of these cheerleaders end up in this forest?”
Amanda calmed down a little bit and smiled at him with empathy. “This has been a crazy few days, huh? I think something in this jungle might be making you see things. Maybe you should sit down on that rock and take a few deep breaths.”
Cliff thought she was probably right, so he sat down. Amanda crouched behind him, rubbing his shoulders. “It’s all going to be okay,” she said. “I’m a secret agent.”
The needle pushed through the skin of Cliff’s neck so quickly he did not realize it was a syringe until everything started changing. Until everything was going back to normal.
Chapter 12
“Here they are!” A
manda said, pushing aside the head of a fish person to pull her jeans out from under him. Sliding her hand into the pants pocket, she pulled out the keys and spun them around her finger. Then, she dropped her pants back to the ground. She was still in the buff, many of the leaves having fallen to the ground, showing off more of her lithe and buxom form. Even amid the stench of fish and death that filled this village, she looked more than a little fuckable.
“Aren’t you going to put on your pants?” Cliff said, scratching his head inquisitively.
“Nah,” Amanda said. “Out here in the jungle, it doesn’t matter much whether I wear clothes or not, and I’m pretty comfortable with my body.” Stepping closer, the pungent odor of fish wafting up to Cliff’s nostrils and storming them like little stinky bats flying into a cave, Amanda pressed her firm, slimy body against his. “Are you comfortable with my body, Cliff?” she said.
Cliff had a huge boner, and he felt it pressing against Amanda’s stomach, near her belly button. If it had been a vagina, he probably would’ve started thrusting against her right there, even with his pants on, but he was too well endowed to be satisfied with such a small hole. Instead, he reached down and began tugging at his belt, so aroused that he momentarily forgot how to unclasp the tricky leather strap. Finally, giving up, he just unzipped himself and pulled his cock out through the flap of his underwear. Grasping the busty babe by the breasts, he lifted her and pressed her against a tree as he poked away with exuberance.
“Stop it right there!” a female police officer said, pointing a big revolver right at Cliff. “Step away from the tree and put your hands up!”
Cliff looked at the cop lady, confusion in his eyes. “Darling,” he said, looking back at Amanda, “Are those more fish people?”
Amanda’s face was splashed with a thick layer of guilt, and she said, “What are you doing, Cliff? Put me down and stop porking me! Damn, you psychopath, why did you kill all these cheerleaders?”
Chapter 13
With tears lingering on the edges of his eyes, Cliff tugged at his hair. “It was not me! I had no reason to kill anybody! I loved my family! I didn’t care about those cheerleaders one way or the other! I don’t even know who that Howard guy was! And those South American Mexicans were . . . well, okay, I didn’t like them. But I didn’t kill anybody! You gotta believe me, police woman! I’m being framed by that witch!”
The cop lady raised one eyebrow. “So she’s a witch now, is she? That’s very convenient for you. She says you kidnapped her and took her to that forest. That you’ve always had a crush on her, and that you have been a homicidal lunatic your whole life.”
Cliff pounded at the table with defiance. “How does she know, I tell you! How old is she? 22? 23? She hasn’t known me for my whole life! It’s implausible!”
The police broad crossed her arms over her chest. “Why don’t you step into the next room and tell her that for yourself?” She ominously stepped to the side, a door behind her. It was closed, but Cliff knew that if he were to walk over to it, he could open it with the doorknob.
Cliff felt his heart skip a beat. Just how much of what he had experienced was totally a fabrication of his mind? Who was this woman really, if she had not been the foxy Amanda Handy? That secret agent with firm, taught buttocks, able to sever piranhas in half with her katanas? Who was this woman really?
Cliff crossed the room, his shaking fingers reaching for the doorknob. He turned it and pushed the door open and stepped into the room. Into the small, empty room, with nothing but a mirror inside.
Stepping forward, he ran his fingers down the glass. “Me? I’m Amanda Handy?” he said. Then, his eyes bursting with tears, he cried out, “No! No way, man! It’s impossible!”
He pictured himself driving both of those cars to that forest. Spending all night practicing the martial arts so that he could give a convincing display of killing a bunch of piranhas with katanas, and thus fool himself into believing Amanda Handy was a secret agent. He pictured that moment when he was having sex with himself against that tree. That was weird. Especially since picturing it was giving him a huge erection.
“I’m Amanda Handy,” he said, looking at his exhausted face in the mirror.
The lady cop stuck her head in. “No, sorry; there’s a mirror on the back of that door. Go into the next room. That’s basically a small hallway. I should have mentioned that.”
Cliff turned the doorknob and stepped within the next room, a familiar and comforting face greeting him.
“Mom?” he said, his boner shrinking immediately.
Stab of the Screwnicorn
Albert C. Clapp
“I can feel it, coming in the air tonight. Hold on.”
--Phil Collins
Chapter 1
“D’you know what this song is about?” Blaine said, his hands gripping the steering wheel of his red Ford F150. His muscular, sinewy arms were catching in the light of the rapidly passing streetlights, illuminating the tattoos on both of them. An assortment of tattoos, some of them characters from his favorite video games, some of them the logos for assorted bands he enjoyed thoroughly. A few pin-ups as well.
“No,” Carrie said. She didn’t give a fuck, and was more concerned with getting this swirling world to stop spinning quite so fast. She’d had a little bit too much to drink at the New Year’s Eve party they’d just left, and keeping the contents of her stomach down was much more of a priority than knowing the secret message behind a Phil Collins song.
They’d arrived at the party a mere three hours ago. Blaine had immediately begun having fun, the way it was easy for Blaine to do. Arm wrestling and laughing with his friends. Talking about sports. For her, it hadn’t been so fun: being trapped in a house with Bambie, the girl Blaine was madly in love with just three months ago.
“Phil was walking around by a lake this one time, and he saw someone splashing around in the water. There was someone near enough to save the guy, but the dude was just watching. Just watching him as he floundered in the water,” Blaine said. He lifted a bottle of Smirnoff vodka and took a long drink of it.
In Carrie’s less-than-lucid state, she hadn’t realized he’d brought alcohol from the party and was still drinking it as they zoomed down these Kansas back roads.
“Blaine! Get rid of that! You’re already drunk!” She reached for the bottle, but Blaine shrugged away her attempts to grab it.
“Chill it, babe! Nobody’s ever on these back roads anyway! Even if we swerve off the road, what’s the worst that could happen, huh? We find a soft landing in a corn field?”
Blaine was being a dick, and it was annoying Carrie. “If you stop drinking that vodka, I’ll listen to the rest of your Phil Collins story,” she said, grasping at straws to preserve her life on this New Year’s Eve night.
Blaine cranked his window down and tossed the bottle out. “The next day, Phil discovers the person in the lake actually died. They found a skeleton, picked clean. Not a scrap of meat anywhere on it. And Phil wrote the song about how he felt on that strange night, and about what it would be like to find the person who stood by and allowed such a horrible thing to happen. To allow someone to be eaten by piranhas right before your eyes.”
Lighting another cigarette, Carrie took a deep inhalation, then exhaled. “That was a stupid story,” she said, still remembering how excited Blaine had been to see Bambie. How he’d wanted to dance with her, saying it was because they were “friends now.”
“Did somebody put extra bitch in your drink tonight?” Blaine aggressively questioned.
Carrie stared over at him from the other side of the truck. “Blaine, I saw the way you were staring at Bambie all night. You could barely pry your eyes off of her. And even worse, you didn’t even act like we were there as a couple! You spent the whole night traipsing around like some kind of bachelor!”
Blaine took a small whiskey flask out of his jacket pocket. “So what? Do you think we’re in some kind of serious relationship now, doll-face?”
“You said we were last night!” she exclaimed.
“That was pillow talk, baby,” Blaine said with a shrug. He took out his cellular telephone and began texting.
“What the fuck are you doing? You’re drunk driving while texting?”
“Ding ding ding! We have a winner! That’s exactly what I’m doing!”
The truck was veering all over the one-lane road as Carrie reached over and tried to get her hands around that cell phone. No way was she going to let this asshole end her life over something stupid like drunk texting while drunk driving. “Who are you texting? I’ll type the message for you.”
“No, babe, it’s alright,” Blaine said, his eyes lingering on the screen of the phone as they sped through the black emptiness of an unnamed Kansas back road. “I’m just sending Bambie a quick message.”
Carrie could feel the color rising into her cheeks. Suddenly, everything about this boy she was dating was getting under her skin: his childish tattoos, his military flattop, that splotch of brown hair on his chin he called his soul patch. Everything about him was quickly becoming repellent. “I just want to go home.”
“I’m feeling kind of sick, honey face. I’ll drive you home in the morning. Tonight, we can have some fun!”
Fun. It suddenly seemed like an ironic choice of words when everything about Carrie’s life was spinning out of control.
Just then, the truck veered out of control as they rounded a corner going way too fast, like a metaphor springing to life and becoming reality. The ice patch that sent the truck careening was invisible in the darkness, as was the platoon of small children that were leveled by the bumper. Carrie had a brief moment to see the fear in a woman’s eyes before the woman was also hit by the truck. Then, they smashed into an electrical box.
Blaine smashed through the front windshield and cleared the electrical box, landing somewhere out in the corn. Carrie, who always bragged about remembering to buckle her seat belt, remained upright.
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