by Edward Lee
SPLAT!
—an evil-smelling liquid spilled out, then—
plop...
The stomach deflated, after squeezing something irregular and brown onto the floor, maybe nine inches long and six in girth.
"It made her have a baby!" Dicky cried.
Then they all did a double-take. "That ain't no baby," Balls noted. "Looks like a giant lump'a shit... "
The Writer summoned his bravado. He picked up the odd brown lump, wiped off some post-natal slime. "No—" and then he pulled the object apart with his hands. He showed it to everyone.
"I thought so. It's a loaf of pumpernickel."
Dicky gawped.
"A fuckin' loaf'a bread?" Balls questioned. "I'se supposed ta be impressed by that? Shee-it! That ain't no power. I wanna see some real magic."
The Spermatogoyle seemed to sense its master's displeasure. It slopped another handful of sperm up betwixt the dead woman's legs, fingered another word on her belly, and—
"Plum knocked the bitch up again!" Dicky exclaimed.
The previous process repeated: the belly swelled, and—
CLUNK!
Something much more substantial hit the floor this time: a severed human head.
"How's that for magic?" the Writer asked.
Dicky gulped. "A dude's head... "
This time Balls appeared rattled. He nudged the head with his boot, turned it face up. The head's eyes looked propped open in rage, and its lips moved, agitated.
"That ain't just any dude's head," Balls admitted in a low drone. "That's my dead Daddy's head... "
A hush filled the room.
"It's alive," Dicky whispered. "It's tryin' ta talk, but ain't no words comin' out."
"No vocal cords," the Writer assumed.
"Never did like the prick." Balls picked the head up by slimy hair. "Spent my whole childhood listenin' to him call me asshole'n shit-head'n white trash... " He opened the crematory hatch. The head's lips silently shouted, Asshole! Shit-head! White trash! and then Balls lobbed it in and reclosed the hatch. "Fuck him."
"That were amazin'!" Dicky applauded. "But look... "
"Our denizen doesn't appear to be finished with its magic show," the Writer noted.
The Spermatogoyle held up a stout finger to flag Balls' attention, then it scooped more sperm off the floor, two handfuls this time.
"What's it doin' now?" Balls asked.
"Continuing the demonstration you demanded," the Writer assumed.
The beast hunkered over now to where Cora's corpse hung. A slick wet sound clicked in all their ears as the thing spread the demonic sperm all over Cora's dead body until she shined as if shellacked. Again it inscribed some invisible occult word, but this time on her forehead.
And then—
Cora's eyes fluttered, and she began to move...
"I'se don't believe it!" Dicky posed. "It's magic dick-loogie!"
"Dang thing's spunk done brought Cora back ta life!" Balls yelled.
Cora's skinny arms raised like a sleepwalker's, and she began to squirm lethargically on the spike through her throat.
Her lips moved feebly. "I... I... " Finally the ruined voice croaked, "I need some fuckin' meth... "
"Well... shee-it," Balls remarked.
The Writer was dumbfounded by what he knew his own eyes had just seen. "That's some serious sorcerial science, gentlemen. You're not impressed?"
"Yeah," Balls reluctantly agreed. "I guess any demon who can do all'a that must know his business."
"I'd say that our erect friend is quite the metaphysician," the Writer complimented. "But now... I think it's time to unleash it upon the Minotauress."
The ceiling shook as the Minotauress howled upstairs.
"So far the Writer's been right 'bout everythang," Dicky observed.
Balls nodded snidely. "And he better be right 'bout this... 'cos if he ain't, he'll be the next one who gets sacker-ficed."
The Writer gulped.
Balls stepped right up to the Spermatogoyle. "What I want'cha ta do is git on upstairs and take care'a the Minner-tortise—"
"Minotauress," the Writer corrected.
"Whatever. You think ya kin handle it, Mr. Dick-Monster?"
The Spermatogoyle bowed in obedience one more time, then turned and thunked up the steps.
The Writer, Balls, and Dicky all looked uneasily at one another, but it was the Writer who broke the silence:
"Gentlemen? I don't think this is something we can miss."
The Writer went up the brick steps, right behind the Spermatogoyle. Balls and Dicky paused, then followed.
They could hear the vicious snorting through the door. The Writer had the impression that the Minotauress knew an adversary was in its midst. I'm following... a giant penis up the stairs, he thought. Hemingway himself couldn't have asked for more adventure.
The Spermatogoyle opened the door with no reluctance and plodded right out into the hall on its big, splayed feet.
The candlelight moved like a luminous veil over the walls. Much of the first floor was a shambles now, the Minotauress having had a heyday of vandalism. The voluptuous-bodied demon stood in the background, its perfect breasts heaving, the eyes in its bovine head strained open in what the Writer thought could only be fear. With horns like that, he wondered, why would this thing be afraid of a ridiculous giant penis on two legs?
Once again, the Spermatogoyle began to masturbate, brawny hands stroking its elephantine body...
The Minotauress bellowed, snot flying, then turned and fled down another hall. The Spermatogoyle thunked after it.
"What's it gonna do?" Dicky asked. "Looks likes its jerkin' off again."
"Maybe it's fixin' ta dick-spank her," Balls ventured.
Thrashing and more bellows could be heard in the rear hall. When they looked down, the Writer was amazed to witness the Minotauress cowering terrified in the corner. The Spermatogoyle's hands stroked its body more frenetically now, hose-like veins tensing.
"I believe we're about to witness an anointment the likes of which have yet to be espied on God's green earth," the Writer said.
What followed next had little to do with the earth or God. The penile demon shuddered, veins standing out beneath its sheath of flesh, and then its second inhuman ejaculation transpired. This time the puckered hole atop its glans seemed to vomit another massive pile of sperm. The first gout splattered the Minotuaress' head, while subsequent gouts ran over the impeccable physique until it was cocooned in the thick, semi-translucent slop.
The house shook as the Minotauress, teary-eyed now, gave up one last, pitiable howl and then fell limp to a bout of harmless shivering, as the Spermatogoyle finger-wrote another supernaturally charged word on her belly...
"Dang!" Dicky exclaimed.
"That's what I'se call hosin' a bitch down hard," Balls added. Their flashlights beamed on the quivering, sperm-cloaked form. "Is it dead?"
"No," the Writer ventured. "The potent brew of supernatural sperm seems to have subdued the Minotauress to a comatose state. I can only presume that the word our ally wrote on her abdomen triggered some sort of paresis spell."
The Spermatogoyle stepped back as if winded, then bowed to Balls in veneration. The bastard daughter of Pasiphae had been rendered innocuous.
The Writer seized the moment for a metaphysical summation. "The ultimate allegorical showdown between male and female: virility versus fertility. As in quality speculative fiction, the themes become tangible living things. It's clear that in the realm of the occult, abstractions such as symbolism are as concrete and objective as the physical in our realm. Notions are represented by sentient entities."
"That's the reason the big dick's cum took the wind out'a the bitch's sails?" Dicky asked, confused.
"No doubt, Mr. Dicky. The symbol of masculinity reigns supreme."
Balls shot the Writer a funky look. "That's the dumbest-ass thing I ever heard!"
The Writer lit a cigarette and shrugged. Sounded good to
me...
Balls opened the front door. "You done great," he said to the ludicrous bipedal sex organ. "Go have yerself a run around the yard. You deserve it."
Enthused, the Spermatagoyle leapt through the doorway to revel in the twilit night.
"What now, Balls?" Dicky asked.
"Finish loadin' Crafter's shit in the U-Haul and split, I reckon."
"What a night of great adventure," the Writer commented. "And now, it would seem, great profit for you gentlemen."
But Balls seemed seized by a contemplation. He scratched his goatee, looking down at the incapacitated Minotauress. "Shee-it, guys... "
"A conjecture, Mr. Balls?"
"Dicky! Go out ta the car'n fetch some'a them Flex-Cuffs you gots from yer uncle."
"What'cha need them fer?"
"Just git 'em... "
Dicky lumbered out the door and returned momentarily with said Flex-Cuffs.
Now Balls walked eagerly about the candle-lit room, rubbing his hands. "Ya know what's worth more than all the ‘spensive shit in this house, Dicky?"
"What, Balls?"
"That," and Balls pointed down to the afflicted Minotauress. He quickly Flex-Cuffed the creature's ankles and wrists. "We'se gonna be millionaires!"
"Yeah?"
"Shee-it, Dicky! Use yer noggin! We'se gonna sell this big-tit bitch to a circus or zoo or somethin', make a fortune!"
"Quite an industrious endeavor," the Writer said. "Or perhaps start your own exhibition, traveling from city to city to sell tickets to the public. I suspect people would pay handsomely to see such a spectacle."
"Hail yeah!" Balls whooped. "And ya knows what, Writer? We ain't even gonna kill you now! Dicky and me? We're gonna make you a partner!"
"My gratitude knows no constraint," the Writer said.
"Come on, boys! Lets get this bull-headed ‘ho loaded!"
The three of them pitched in to carry the spermatically enslimed Minotauress outside to the U-Haul. Balls secured the latch, and the sound of the door closing echoed through the night. The Writer glanced errantly into the back property and saw the Spermatogoyle chasing squirrels amongst the gravestones.
"Time ta blow this pop-stand!" Balls celebrated.
Dicky got behind the wheel while the Writer squeezed in next to Balls. The big engine revved, fracturing the night's stillness; then Dicky put the Hurst in first and drove out the front gate.
The car passed fine but as soon as its back bumper cleared the entrance—
"The hail?" Dicky remarked.
The El Camino stopped short as if it had run into a wall.
Balls glared. "Don't tell me you just dumped yer brand-new trannie ‘fore we'se can even get out'a here!"
Dicky tried to continue forward but the hot-rod only spun its wheels.
"I know what the problem is," the Writer volunteered. "The salt."
"The what?" Balls questioned.
"What we observed previously. The property is completely surrounded by a line of hexed salt, what an occultist would refer to as a warding barrier or a totemic boundary. Presumably anything hellborn can't cross it. That's why the car stopped. The salt functions as a force field, so to speak. Once it detected the presence of the Minotauress in back, the field activated, causing the creature's mass to be repulsed."
"Well what the hail we gonna do now?" Balls complained.
"Mr. Dicky? Back the car up, please. I'll be right back." The Writer disembarked, and when the vehicle had backed up past the salt-line, he got down on his knees and pushed the salt back with his hands. "Try driving through now," he called out.
The car rumbled past the gate, encountering no preternatural resistance. The Writer quickly redistributed the salt back across the entrance and hopped back in the car.
"I think that should do it," the Writer announced.
Dicky paused before pulling off. "Hey, wait a minute... What about the dick-demon?"
They all looked over their shoulders and saw the Spermatogoyle continuing its romp through the graveyard. It was masturbating itself once again.
"Dang. How many times can that thing beat off?" Dicky posed.
Balls' arched a brow. "Wants ta bust another pile'a demon jizz, looks like."
Intrigued, the Writer watched. Dicky asked, "Think we ought'a take it with us? That way we'd have two demons in our road show."
Balls seemed to mull the prospect over. "Naw, leave that ‘un be. I've had me about enough'a that wacky peter."
"Shore," Dicky agreed. "But I wouldn't mind seein' the look on Crafter's face when he comes home."
Balls chuckled. "Yeah. The old geezer's gonna pull up to find a big dick runnin' ‘round his yard."
Dicky laughed and pulled off. The Writer continued to watch out the back window as they cruised down the lane. Now the Spermatogoyle was heaping still more sperm, this time onto one of the unconsecrated graves. Would the infernal seed seep down through the soil to resurrect the cursed corpse beneath?
The Writer preferred not to speculate.
««—»»
The car sped around winding, tree-lined roads, cruising through the dim night. They were on their way back to Luntville. But what would happen now?
"How ‘zactly do we go inta the freakshow business?" Dicky raised the issue.
"Dang, Dicky. I don't know." Balls looked to the Writer. "You's the one with all the brains. Thank'a somethin'."
"Oh, I'm confident that with a solid business plan, we'll be making money in no time. Just let me do a little marketing research, find some carnival schedules, etcetera."
"Et what?"
The Writer smiled. "Leave it to me."
Of course the Writer had no true intention of going into the freakshow business. I'm a novelist, not a carnival barker. He'd simply go along with the plan until he could escape these two dimwits and get back to his work in progress. Yes, he thought with an unsurpassed creative elation. White Trash Gothic...
Next, Dicky scratched his head in another contemplation. "I was just thankin'. What we gonna do if that dick-demon's cum... you know... wears off, and maybe that special word it wrote on the bull-gal's belly loses its kick?"
The Paresis Spell, the Writer mused. And it was a good question. How long would it keep the Minotauress subdued? "I can't say with any authority, but you men did seem to secure her sufficiently. Plus, I'd imagine the latch and hinges on the U-Haul are quite sturdy."
"Aw, shee-it," Balls dismissed. "You boy's are worryin' like a couple'a chicks. Dicky, them Flex-Cuffs are as good as steel cable. Even if the big dick's mumbo-jumbo does wear off, ain't no way that bitch'll snap those cuffs."
Dicky seemed pacified by the response, but then his face turned concerned in the dim dashboard light. "Dang. We ain't doin' squat less'n we get some gas, and I'se mean like right now."
Balls glanced down. "What'cha got fer a brain, Dicky? The tank's on E!"
"Yeah, sorry. I were so excited 'bout knocking over Crafter's place, I didn't check it."
"Man, you're about as smart as the loaf'a pumpernickel that dead ‘ho popped out her pussy! We ain't even halfway back to town yet!"
"Relax, gentlemen," the Writer cut in. "There's a filling station right there."
CRICK CITY EXXON, the glowing sign read. OPEN 24 HOURS!
Dicky pulled in. "Fuck, I left our cut from Clyde Nale's run at the house. You got any dough?"
Balls fished in his jeans' pocket. "Dang. I got's nothin' neither." He nudged the Writer. "Don't tell me you're broke too."
The Writer checked his pockets and ankle belt. "I'm afraid I spent the last of my cash at the bar—"
"Fuck!"
"But take heart, gentlemen. I do have my credit card."
"Come on, let's go—"
"Hey, git me a bag'a Funyuns while's yer in there," Dicky called after them. "And a Mr. Pibb, but not that diet stuff."
Dicky, lo and behold, had pronounced the word diet as "dat."
Balls and the Writer approached the pump, but a sign told them:
PAY INSIDE AFTER 10 P.M. A bell rang when they entered the brightly lit mini-mart. Balls parted at once to pull several bags of Funyuns off the shelf, and get drinks. The Writer's eyes slid across a magazine rack comprised mostly by x-rated fare, with names like Poppin' Mammas! and Gobblin' Grannies! and Tinkle Drinkers! Next, he noticed a revolving rack of used paperbacks and he perused the titles, hoping for a gem. Satan's Lovechild, Nazi Nuns in Heat, Lusty Lesbo Love Party. The Writer nearly shrieked when he saw one of his own books, The Red Confession, next to a book entitled, Farm Girls Just Want To Have Fun.
He looked over his shoulder, then quickly placed his book on the top of the rack.
"Can I help you?" asked a drab, pimply faced young man behind the bulletproof cubby.
"Yes, please. We'd like to fill it on Pump 1," and then passed his credit card through the slot. "And, also, my friend's getting some snacks."
The boy ran the card through the machine, then passed it back.
"You can start pumping now."
"Thank you."