Tentacle Death Trip

by Jordan Krall

  “Let’s ask our friend here,” Tomato Joe said. He looked down at Samson. “My man here wants to know if we can go get your cunt. Is that okay with you? Can we go get your cunt?”

  “Leave her alone,” Samson said.

  “Holy shit! That’s exactly what I expected you to say.” Tomato Joe slapped his palm down on the hood of the car. “Bow, go get the cunt and feed her to the guys.”

  Bowsman walked over to the passenger side of the car and tried to open the door but it was locked. Carol screamed. Bowsman punched through the window and dragged her out.

  From the backseat, Jack jumped up. “Let go of my mom!”

  “Holy shit,” Tomato Joe said. “You’ve been holding out on us, hero.”

  Jack was grabbing Carol, pulling her back into the car while Bowsman was pulling her out.

  Bowsman said, “Let go of her, you little shithead!”

  Tomato Joe put his hand out. “Hold on a second, Bow. Let’s see what our friend here thinks.” He kicked at Samson. “So you have a kid, too? That makes your passivity all the more pathetic.”

  “Let them go. Take me, my car, whatever. Just let them go,” Samson said, getting his strength back despite another kick from Tomato Joe.

  “You see, I knew you were going to say that, too. Okay, so this is what’s going to happen. I’m going to take your kid. He’s worth some money. I’ll take him because those rich folks up north who lost their kids in the war like to buy them. They’d give anything for a fresh kid like yours. They could dress him up, play catch with him or whatever. Some psychos like pretending they have their dead kids back. I don’t give a shit myself but they pay good money.”

  “Fuck you, you’re not taking him.”

  “I wasn’t making an offer. I’m just telling you I’m taking him. That’s it,” Tomato Joe said. He turned to Bowsman. “Leave the cunt. Take the kid.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  Holy Sidekick, Batman! It looks like our man Samson has picked up himself up a little partner. This should make things interesting. Not only that but I think I saw our girl Gabby getting quite pissed off over not having the chance to run over the kid herself.

  Oh, and Junko! If you look closely at the video screens you’ll see him tearing some more of his hair out and chomping on it like it’s fistful of black licorice. Yowzah!

  *

  I.

  Junko was impressed by Samson’s rescue of the little boy but was pissed he had crashed into the bicycle shop as a result of it.

  When was he going to be shown some respect?

  He got out of the car and quickly cleaned the rubble off just in time to see Samson run over the Christians. “Good riddance!” Junko said, remembering a run-in he had had with those crazed zealots a few months back. Once the rubble was off his Honda, he sped off after Samson.

  It took him a few minutes to catch up because of the all debris in the street. The Christians had looted the stores and burnt up all the objectionable material that hadn’t been destroyed already. There were burnt piles of comic books, cigarettes, toy dinosaurs, candy bars, sneakers, science textbooks, DVDs, action figures, and dictionaries.

  Junko did his best not to drive through the garbage. He’d heard the Christians sometimes hid spikes in them and he had no time for a flat tire. The Honda pulled up right behind Samson and honked.

  “Want me to scratch your back?” Junko said. He pushed in his steering wheel which pushed out five long blades from the front of his car. “I just got my nails done!”

  He stepped on the gas and sent those blades into the back of Samson’s car, holding his ground while swerving left and right to inflict the most damage. Shards of metal hit Junko’s windshield. He giggled. “Feel good? Feel good? Bet it does!”

  Samson’s car started to leak white foamy liquid as it tried to pull away but Junko kept on it. Right, left, right left. The blades slit open the back of the car like a tin can.

  “Banzai, fucker!” Junko screamed, jamming the blades in even more. He pulled the steering wheel out and retracted the blades. Grabbing his shotgun from under the passenger seat, he moved up alongside Samson’s car. He wanted to look into the motherfucker’s eyes before he blew his head off.

  Bringing the gun up, he honked his horn. “Eat this!” He pulled the trigger.

  BOOM!

  Much to Junko’s surprise, glass was crashing into his car and his face hurt as if stung by a dozen wasps. Through bloodied eyes he saw Samson smiling. Junko leaned over the passenger seat and tried lifting the shotgun again. Out the window he saw what had shot him: on top of Samson’s car was a giant blowgun which was now retracting back into the car.

  The needles embedded in Junko’s face sunk into his skin, burning it. He screamed and fired the shotgun, missing Samson’s car and hitting the inside of his own car door.

  The Honda swerved to the left, went off the road, and into grassy vacant lot. It struck a brick wall with graffiti that read THEE FACE OV THEE BLUE C.

  “Fucking asshole!” Junko yelled, slamming his fists down on the steering wheel, his face gushing thick gobs of blood and poison.

  “Maybe…just maybe,” he said, grabbing one of his blades. Perhaps if he cut his face off the poison would drain out. Yeah, that sounded like a good idea. But before Junko could follow through it, he was pulled out of his car.

  “Lemme go, fuckers!” he yelled while trying to get a look at his kidnappers through the blood in his eyes. It was just a blur of red and black.

  A calm voice said, “Go limp, sinner. It’ll be best for everyone.”

  “Fuck you!” Junko never went limp for anyone and to hell if he was going to start now. He punched and kicked but his broken bones wouldn’t follow through with the force.

  Finally someone tied his limbs with wet rope and gagged him with a crumpled up newspaper. Again the calm voice spoke, “Do you wish we turned your sin to bread?”

  Junko felt his dress ride up above his waist, his white panties on full display. Then another voice spoke but this one was less calm than the first. “Don’t tempt us, freak!”

  Junko resisted with weak spasms while he was dragged across broken glass, sharp stones, and asphalt. His body wasn’t the only thing that hurt. Junko’s pride had taken a beating. There was just no respect left in the world.

  His captors dropped him in front of a butcher’s shop. Someone wiped his eyes with a smelly handkerchief. Junko looked through the windows and saw that the store had been converted into a chapel. Crosses made of rotting meat and peacock feathers lined the walls while bone-candles formed a rectangle in the middle of the room. A pulpit holding a cash register stood on the far end of the store.

  Junko tried rolling over but a kick to the ribs stopped him.

  “Stop fighting the will of the Lord, sinner!” a voice said. “Here he comes. Kneel before Hoghead Slim.”

  A chorus of voices repeated, “Hoghead Slim!”

  From the sidewalk Junko watched as the man named Hoghead Slim approached him. He was wearing dress shoes made of wet leather and a white robe splattered with blood. Slim was tall and wide, rolls of fat rippling under the butcher’s garb. The sidewalk thumped with his every footstep. The only thing that was clean was his hair which was immaculately styled with animal fat.

  “Sinner, sinner, sinner,” Hoghead Slim said. “Your painted face and frilly undergarments won’t entice me or my congregation.”

  Junko looked at Hoghead. The man’s head was twice as big as a normal one. It looked like someone had placed a pumpkin on the shoulders of a bulbous scarecrow. Through a mouthful of newspaper Junko said, “Fuck you!”

  “I don’t understand what you’re saying but I imagine it’s something vulgar. I would expect nothing less from such a crass display of meat.” He crouched down next to Junko and poked him with a sausage-like finger. “You’ll soon learn how to properly serve the Lord.”

  Slim’s followers grunted in agreement and then shouted, “Feed him to the Peacock!”

  “All in due t
ime, my family.” He got close to Junko’s face. “Your yellow flesh will turn blue. Then you’ll understand His true glory.” He snapped his fingers at a woman who then handed him a bible. Slim opened the tome slowly, licking his lips.

  Junko squirmed not because he was in any more pain but because he simply hated religious people. Just the very sight of a bible pissed him off. He wished he could hock up phlegm from his throat, hurl it at the holy book, and wash the lies away.

  Hoghead Slim held the bible open and said, “Dear Lord, what can be done to cure rotten meat? What can be done in Your name to turn such a putrid earth spider into something worthy of Your glory?” He turned a page in his bible, slipped his hand into the book, and pulled out a fistful of tiny razors each in the shape of a cross.

  “Before you’re baptized by the Peacock, you must be cleansed,” Slim said, taking the handful of razor crosses and rubbing them along the inside of Junko’s thighs, moving up until he reached the crotch of his underwear. “Everything must be cleansed, sinner.” He grabbed hold of Junko’s penis. “Everything.”

  II.

  Samson sped down a side street to try to lose Gabby. After a few quick, tricky turns he succeeded. He drove down a street covered in destroyed books and as he did so his car started to make a grinding sound.

  “Shit,” he said, pulling over. “Stay here. I have to check my car. That Junko guy did some real damage.”

  “Don’t go out there!” Paulo said. “They’ll get you!”

  Samson pulled out his handgun and showed it to the boy. “I have this. Don’t worry about it, okay?”

  Paulo nodded his head and frowned.

  Samson opened the door and looked around. There didn’t seem to be anyone in sight. It was quiet, too, which wasn’t really a clue as to the danger that could be hiding. His only hope would be that the Christians were preoccupied with the other racers or the people he had run over.

  He got out and walked on the broken books on the road. He got on the ground and looked under his car. That’s when he heard the shouting.

  Luckily it didn’t sound close. Samson turned to Paulo and made a gesture for him to stay in the car. He walked down an alley in the direction of the noise. At the end of the alley there was a brown picket fence and he was just able to look over it.

  On the next street the Christians were dragging Junko towards a giant peacock made out of wood, bone, canvas, and car parts. In the center of the peacock was a large opening that held a bathtub.

  “Feed him to the Peacock!” voices screamed. “Feed him good! Then he’ll see the blue light of the Lord!”

  Samson watched as Junko was placed inside the bathtub of the peacock’s belly. A large man in bloody white clothes held a flaming torch to the tub as the rest of the people started throwing pages of books into it. Soon Junko was covered and the large man set the torch down into the tub.

  It was very faint but Samson thought he heard Junko scream. The peacock’s plumage started to flutter, causing a whistling sound like someone blowing across the top of a soda bottle. As the bathtub erupted in flames, the Christians rejoiced. One of them stuck a long scythe into the bathtub and pulled out Junko’s fiery corpse, waving it around to the cheers of the crowd.

  Samson heard a sound behind him. He turned around with his gun pointed and saw Paulo standing behind him.

  “What the hell did I tell you? You were supposed to stay in the car!” Samson shouted.

  “I-I-I wanted to see…,” the boy said.

  “You wanted to see? See what? That?” He turned and pointed over his shoulder. “You wanted to see a man get killed?”

  He grabbed Paulo and hoisted him up to see over the fence. “That’s what you wanted to see? That?” The Christians were now sticking spoons, forks, and straws in the corpse.

  Paulo started to cry.

  “No, don’t cry now. I told you to stay in the goddamn car.” Samson put Paulo down and walked back to the car. He shouldn’t have let the Paulo see that shit but that kid should have known better. “Let’s go.”

  The boy jogged to catch up and then passed Samson to get into the car. His tears were gone but his expression was one of disappointment both in himself and in Samson.

  Samson took another look under the car and saw a femur bone caught on his exhaust pipe. He dislodged the bone, threw it across the street, and got back in the car.

  “You yelled at me,” Paulo said, matter-of-factly.

  “I know.”

  “I just wanted to see.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.” Samson patted him on the top of his head. “But next time you have to listen to me, okay? I don’t care if you want to see something. You stay in the car. If you can’t listen to me then I’ll tie you up and put you in the backseat for your own good, okay?”

  Paulo nodded.

  “Let’s get going,” Samson said, starting the car and speeding off down the street and out of Hoghead Heaven.

  III.

  Gabby saw that old bastard who reminded her of her father. He rescued that little brat, the one she had really wanted to run over.

  Her cell phone “rang” and she put it to her ear. “Hello? Yeah, I’m following that guy I told you about. Sam something. What? I don’t know.” She stared out through the windshield at the dilapidated buildings and burnt out shells that used to be houses. A smile appeared on her face. It was nice seeing all the destruction. Stupid people and their ugly houses.

  Gabby answered the silence on the other end of the phone. “What? No, I’m okay. I almost had him.” She nodded her head while pulling at her shirt. “Hey, can I call you back? My bra is killing me.”

  It had been ten years since she had a really good bra. The one she wore was sweat-stained and covered in holes. Gabby was pretty particular about the kind she wore. There had been a few opportunities when she could have grabbed a few but they were from Walmart. She’d rather be naked than wearing one of their no-name brands.

  With one hand still on the steering wheel, Gabby lifted her shirt and bra. She saw a dark red ring around the bottom of her breasts. The filth of the ten-year old bra had taken its toll. “Eww, gross.” Flakes of skin fluttered off onto her legs. She pulled off the bra, rolled down the window, and threw the thing out. In the rearview she saw it take off in the wind like some old designer bird. It landed on a pile of destroyed board games.

  She sped down side streets randomly, hoping to get behind that bastard. He was probably her only real competition in the race so she wanted to take him out early. It wasn’t just to win the race, however. She’d take great pleasure in running him off the road and popping him open like a can of Red Bull.

  Gabby was driving past a comic book store when she saw him.

  “Here I come, asshole,” she said, speeding up behind Samson. She saw the kid looking back at her and wanted to wipe that innocent look off his face with her sledgehammer. But she had to get them to stop first.

  Gabby rolled the window down and grabbed her pistol. It was a Desert Eagle she had taken from that asshole named Eastman she fucked and killed back in the Western Wastelands. She remembered he had said he was from Europe which explained his funny accent and the fact that he was as hairy as a fucking sasquatch.

  She stuck the pistol out the window and fired three quick shots at Samson’s car.

  Samson swerved to the right. That gave Gabby the perfect opportunity to pull up alongside him on the left. She lowered the passenger’s side window and pointed the pistol at Samson.

  “Oh shit.” It took only a split second for Gabby to realize she wasn’t going to get the shot off. Instead, the barrel of Samson’s gun was aimed at her. A flash from it brought pain to Gabby’s shoulder. She went off the road and crashed into a house.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Yowzah! Sorry all you Junko fans. It looks like our little cutie is fodder for the peacock now. Remember, folks, we never said it was going to be pretty! At least it gave something for the Christians to eat.

  What about Mama Hell? Or
better yet, where in the blazes in our glass-skulled sweetheart Drac? He’s got to be around here somewhere….

  *

  I.

  Drac hauled ass out of the Gears and into Hoghead Heaven.

  He knew about the religious fanatics who populated the area and if he had to kill a few of the Christians, he was fine with that. There was no way he was going to lose any sleep over a few dead Jesus freaks. Their superstitions were crude and primitive, like the games of mentally-challenged children.

  As he drove through the city, Drac saw corpses, fire, and debris. It looked like some shit had already gone down. The race was starting to get interesting. He reached a barricade made of street signs and old plywood. Driving straight through it was an option but there was no use in damaging his car any more than necessary. Drac made a quick right and then a left onto a side street. All the buildings on that road were painted blue and decorated with wings made of bones.

  “Don’t come out here, people,” he said.

  As if taunting him, a dozen Christians ran out of buildings on both sides of the street. They were about two blocks ahead but Drac could see they were holding weapons.

  “You should have stayed inside, people. Now I’m going to have to destroy you all,” Drac said, speeding up and sending his tentacles out from under the car. It would be nice to let them grab a Christian or two, shake them up, and squeeze them like fragile bags of blood. He stepped on the gas and pushed the button for his convertible top to go up. There was no need for the blood of Christians to ruin the upholstery.

  As he approached them, they were chanting, “Vanus Christus! Vanus Christus!”

  The Christians walked in front of his car as it smashed into them. Bones broke and clothing ripped from the force of it. The car’s tentacles grabbed a fiery young man and twirled him about, squeezing and squeezing until the man’s abdomen popped open.

  “Thirsty, this makes me thirsty,” Drac said. He grabbed a tube from the dashboard and sucked down some gasoline, filling his glass skull. “Fill me up, fill me up.”