The Skunge

by Barr, Jeff

  Contents

  The Skunge

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  THE SKUNGE

  by Jeff Barr

  Part 1

  CHAPTER ONE

  Until the girl he was fucking got her brains blown out, Christian was having an okay time—distracted, thinking about his boyfriend, and all the money this porno movie was going to make.

  "You trashy little bitch." Mik leaned over to spit in the girl's face. Her blue eyes were pried wide with pretend fear. Mik worked his chubby cock with the hand that wasn't holding the camera. "How do you like this Kansas City cock, huh?" He pushed forward, his penis at her lips, camera pointed at her face like an inquisitive dog sniffing its next meal.

  The movie had been Mik's idea. Out west, in Cali, Mik had told them, guys love this shit. The chicks out there, they're just Barbie dolls. The men dress them up, make them dance, dah-dah-dah—Mik mimed a dance like a puppet on strings—but they want to see more. More action. Rough action, like they make in Russia. But we do it with nice, sweet, American girls. Mik, his chest puffed with pride, tapped Christian on the chest. That's the kind of movies we're gonna make.

  Skin, the other stunt cock, pulled out of her and moved back to let Christian at her. Skin didn't talk much, and had the hollow bird-like chest of a meth addict. His breath, puffing out in the cold air, stank of chemicals. He clutched a huge gold-colored Desert Eagle pistol, which he kept pushing into the girl's face, leaving red marks like scars on her cheek. The girl whimpered every time the gun touched her. The glare from the portable LED set-lights caught the gilt finish on the pistol and sent back darts of light.

  Christian slid into her. His eyes met hers for a brief moment, then he turned his gaze away. He felt bad enough for her, without the added shame of his eyes on her. He squeezed her hand, hoping she would feel it and take some comfort. But she only whimpered again. She was getting paid the most, of all of them (except for Mik, probably), but from the look on her face, she hadn't been expecting this kind of filming. It was probably her first time.

  We're not going to get in trouble for making movies like this, are we? Christian had asked. He was fine with sex with women on film, but he worried he wouldn't be able to get it up, given the script—what little of it there was, only two pages of barely-legible scratchings Mik had waved in front of his face. The script was basically a bunch of women-hating. Mik was like that. Christian wasn't sure. It won't be too rough, right? Like…we're not going to hurt anyone, okay?

  It's totally legal, bro, don't worry, Mik said. Guys love to see this, but no-one makes the movies.

  That wasn't really an answer though, was it? I don't know, Mik…

  It's just acting, Mik continued. You wanna be an actor, right? Think about it like a low-budget horror movie. At the doubting look on Christian's face, Mik pushed on. No, not a movie…a film. It's gonna be fucking awesome, seriously. Trust me.

  Mik stepped back and almost knocked over a light. His cock was already shriveling in the cold, and he repositioned the light quickly, stroking with his other hand.

  The abandoned schoolhouse Mik had chosen to film in had no heat, but plenty of what Mik called local color. Christian thought it was the single most depressing and horrifying place he had ever seen. Peeling cement walls painted a strange, nauseous green, broken tile crunching underfoot like bones, black mold creeping up every wall. Christian and Skin had driven up together from Wichita, stopping only for cigarettes and McD's, and met Mik and the girl here. The setting, the girl's innocent good looks, the rough sex—Mik swore it would all be worth thousands in Cali. All Christian had to do was imagine it was a horror movie. He kept his mind on his boyfriend, and wondered what he was doing now. Despite the cold, he was sweating from the effort of keeping hard.

  Mik had introduced her as Katrina. He said he had picked her up in a small town south of here, but offered no more details. She had nice cheekbones, Christian thought, and if she managed to stay off meth, maybe she would get a scholarship, find a decent job and a husband, and make a life for herself. Christian felt awful for her; she was too young, frightened, in over her head. Her pussy was tight around him, and he felt an answering heat in his lower belly. She lay there, silent except for the occasional pretend moan or startled gasp of pain when Skin slapped her.

  They had found an ancient steel gurney in the nurse's office, and brought it here for the scene; the wheels sent out a teeth-grating scree-scree noise every time Mik tried to push his dick into her mouth. "Open your god-damned mouth, you whore. Open up for Mik." He slapped her across the face, like a petulant four-year old denied his toy. Christian kept his eyes fixed on her hands, twisting together over her stomach like frightened doves trying to hide under one another. Her nails were long and elaborate, half nuclear orange and half matte black.

  Skin stepped around Mik, elbowing him out of the way. "Let me show you how to fuck this whore." He slapped her hands away, pushed into her mouth, and began pumping away with robotic monotony. He held her face against the gurney, and her breath formed a cloud on the cold steel. He smiled like a coyote, moving his hips.

  Mik sidled in, panting a little. "Here, let me put it in her mouth too," he said. "It will be good for the movie, both of us doing it."

  "Like fuck," Skin said. "You're dick isn't touching mine, you little faggot. You can wait your turn, and if I feel like giving you one, you can have one." He sneered down at her, and pinched her nose closed. He started pumping again. Mik circled with the camera, leaning over from the other side of the table. His shriveled dick hung out of his zipper like some sort of obscure sea creature. The light from the camera caught her blue eyes and made them look like pale gray stones.

&n
bsp; Skin pounded away, sneering down, then suddenly grunted a curse and jumped back, pulling out of her mouth with a pop. He swiped frantically at his penis. "Christ, what was that?" Skin craned his neck, looking down. "There's something in her throat. It bit me."

  "Fuck, I see it," Mik said.

  Christian saw something coming out of Katrina's mouth—something black and crooked, twisting like a screw, moving with stuttering speed, like a snake captured on a skipping reel of film. Skin cried out, the gun flashed in the lights, Katrina gasped—

  BLAM!

  The girl's face detonated. Shattered teeth and gobbets of hot bloody flesh splattered against Christian's bare chest. He screamed. Katrina's pussy clenched around his cock, and for a moment he entertained the notion that she was going to rip it off. He swiped at his face and chest, feeling slivers of teeth and bone scrape his skin. Mik screamed and tumbled backward, crashing into a light pole and sending crazed flashes of LED light in every direction.

  "Fuck!" Christian grunted. His cock was stuck in Katrina. What was worse, her body was still moving. She shook and spasmed like a boated fish. The only sounds were the squeak of the gurney, Mik's moans from the floor, and the panting breath of Christian and Skin.

  Skin gaped at the shattered remains of Katrina's face. He cocked his head like a dog. The moment yawed and stretched, hanging suspended like a fat drop of blood. Christian heard the creak of Skin's neck as he looked back up, a slow and sunken grin wreathing his face.

  "There, she'll be fucking famous now, yeah? Like she wanted." Skin bared his teeth in a gesture that could have been—in a dark room with your eyes squinted—mistaken for a smile. The smile didn't extend to his muddy eyes. "Gonna be the most famous porn star in the world." He prodded at what was left of her face with the gun barrel. Chunks of broken teeth glinted like crushed pearls in the churned red mess of her face. Christian gagged as Skin waggled Katrina's tongue with the pistol. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the hideously intimate image of Skin pushing the mouth of the gun into the ground meat of her shattered mouth.

  "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck," Mik gasped. He lay amid the broken tile and lighting equipment, both hands between his legs. His hands were bloody. The black stubble on his cheeks stood out in stark contrast against his pale face. "Skin, you stupid fucker! You shot my cock off! Oh fuck oh fuckfuckfuck!" Red wetness leaked through his fingers.

  Christian was still stuck inside her. If anything, his cock was even harder now. Suddenly, she spasmed. Groans and unintelligible gobbling noises emerged from the mess of Katrina's face. He almost screamed, but even as his heart jumped in his chest, he marveled at how tight and wet she felt—

  Christian shook his head, shocked by his own thoughts. Holy fuck, I am in the middle of a snuff film. This girl is dying, and I am fucking her. I'm a goddamned animal. Nausea churned his gut, but he still couldn't move. Her pussy was a tight, sucking mouth, pulling him further and further inside, and as she began to shiver, dying inch by inch, the last of her breath rattling in her lungs, he felt pleasure bloom like a warm bubble in his belly. Felt himself shooting deliriously toward the edge, ready and so close and now, now—

  Her body spasmed with galvanic force, and she squeezed around his cock so hard that Christian felt it bend. He exploded, bucking uncontrollably, crying out with the searing pleasure of release. His mind driven from his body, floating above the scene, watching with horrified eyes at his body driving forward into her shivering, jerking body. The whistle of breath in and out of her broken windpipe matched the frantic pumps as he emptied himself into her. Every striation of her muscles stood in relief, like an anatomical model sprayed with white paint. The pleasure wracked his body and threatened to buckle his knees—and then all at once it was over. Christian felt his consciousness slam back into his body, sucked back into himself by the receding wave of his orgasm. Katrina flopped back on the gurney, a frothy mass of blood bubbling out of her throat, her remaining eye locked on Christian's like a curse.

  He fell backwards, his cock purple with trauma, and landed on his ass. He lay there, fighting for breath, staring as her leg pendulumned in diminishing arcs above him. Steam wisped from her skin as she surrendered the last of her heat to the frigid air. Mik gasped and mewled, rolling on the floor. Skin stared down at Katrina's corpse, face blank as unlined paper. The camera hummed to itself, satisfied, red light winking like a hellish cyclopean eye.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The rusted out Mustang rocketed down the highway, creaking and groaning with every curve and pothole. Skin drove like a maniac. Rain bucketed down, sluicing over the windshield, smearing it into a gray blur. At every bump in the road, Mik screamed in pain.

  Christian looked back. Mik lay across the back seat, shivering with pain, sweat pouring down his face. He held both hands jammed between his legs, covering the raw red mess of his crotch.

  Skin hit another pothole, throwing Mik an inch off the back bench. He slammed back down, and sprayed puke with a belching cry. Brownish-green chunks of partially digested food spewed across the back seats. With every convulsive heave, he howled like a dying animal.

  "Shut the fuck up!" Skin shouted from the front seat. The pistol, still splashed with dried blood, lay on his lap like a crucifix. Christian stared at it, almost looking forward to the inevitable car crash that would jettison them headlong into the cemetery.

  The rain rattled against the Mustang's windows. Christian's window leaked, and cold air wormed its way inside and down his collar. They struck another bump, and the car shook as if suffering a grand mal seizure. The wind howled with morose fury and Mik returned its cry from the back seat.

  "We're lost," Christian said. The stink of of Mik's sick and Skin's increasing mania closed in on him until he thought he would choke. He lit a cigarette and puffed hard, filling the car with clouds of smoke. "We are so lost."

  "The fuck we are. This is the same road he brought us in, it'll take us out. Isn't that right, Mik, buddy?"

  Mik answered with another howl, and Skin giggled, a high-pitched manic sound that seemed too loud in the rattling confines of the car.

  "You turned at least twice. If you knew where you were going, we'd already be there." Christian asked. He held the cigarette clamped in one corner of his mouth, and his right hand gripped the door handle hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

  "I know where I'm going," Skin said. He drove with one hand, the other holding the pistol.

  Christian fell silent. Images of Katrina played through his mind on a grimy film loop. Her eyes, innocent China blue, just before the bullet smashed through her brain and sprayed it all over the dirty floor of the schoolhouse. He vowed to himself that if...no, when he got out of this mess, her death would mean something. Anything. He would remember her. Like a portent, an orange sodium light, almost lost in the gloomy torrent, startled him out of his reverie.

  "There!" He rubbed at the glass, peering into the driving rain. "There's a town. Turn here, turn here!"

  "The fuck I'm stopping here. We're going to Wichita." Skin spoke through smoke and gritted teeth.

  "We can find a place to take Mik. Come on, man. He's hurt bad." Christian lowered his voice. "What if he dies? What would we tell the cops. Just stop, please?"

  Skin sneered, but turned into the town.

  The town was a nightmare of leftover black-and-white TV shows. Gray buildings skinned with shitty plastic siding, rotting brick, boarded windows like blind eyes. Lifeless grass the color of dirty sheets grew around abandoned playground equipment scabbed with rust. An abandoned train station slumped at one end of town like a forgotten place of worship.

  "What a shit-hole," Skin said.

  Christian caught a glimpse of a dark figure standing at a window, half-hidden by yellowing curtains. There was something wrong—indistinct—about the figure, like a hastily drawn silhouette. He looked away, feeling his skin prickle. A little girl, no older than seven, sat on a crumbling curb clutching a kitten to her ragged coat. Her knees and elbows were gras
s-stained.

  "Stop there," Christian said. "We can ask for a hospital, or a clinic. "He checked the back seat. Mik lay, chest barely moving, mouth hanging open. His skin had gone slate-gray.

  "This is stupid. We should just drive through to the city, I'm telling you." Skin scowled out of the windows.

  "And what about Mik? What if he dies in the back seat?"

  Skin sneered. "If he dies, he dies."

  Christian brought his hand down on Skin's arm and squeezed, hard. He leaned in close, making full eye contact. "Stop. The. Fucking. Car." For a moment, he feared Skin would laugh in his face—or worse, reach for the big gun on his lap. But he only stared back a moment and then grinned his ugly, wolfish grin.

  "OK, big man. But just so you know: no one lays hands on me. Especially a homo."

  So he knew then, that Christian was gay. There was nothing to be done for it, now. "Whatever. Just pull over."

  They stopped next to the girl. Christian rolled down his window and grimaced at the rain. "Hey Princess. Our friend is hurt. Is there somewhere we can take him?"

  The girl looked at him as if he had suddenly sprouted two heads and spoken Hindi. She cocked her head. "What's wrong with him?"

  "Do you have a doctor here?"

  "Not for him. Not for you." She rose to her feet and skipped away. The cat hissed at them over the ragged shoulder of her coat.

  A couple of thugs sauntered over to the car. They bore scruffy mustaches and faces spotty with adolescent acne. One of them sported a large black birthmark that crept up from under his t-shirt to stain the side of his neck. They both wore sunglasses.

  "What do you need here?" the shorter of the two rasped. He sounded like a lifelong smoker in the body of a teenager. "Nothing here for you, go back to the city."

  "We're looking for a hospital. Our friend had an accident, and he needs a doctor."

  The short one bent to peer into the back seat. "Some accident." The insectile lenses of his glasses reflected Christian's pale, drawn face. "Better get back to where you came from, before anything worse happens." He smirked, displaying teeth like a rotting picket fence. "No doctor here." They chuckled like trolls as they walked away, moving slowly, like they might decide to come back any moment. As they turned the corner, something caught Christian's eye. His blood froze.