After a minute, the productive vomiting gave way to dry heaving. He flushed the toilet twice and fell back against the stall door, sobbing as he gave his body a moment to calm down. He wanted water, needed water, or something, to rinse the taste of vomit from his mouth. He almost considered drinking from the toilet but thought better of it.
Finally able to stand, Glenn made his way out of the stall, half bent over, and walked to the sink. Luckily, the bathroom was empty so he wouldn’t have to share his shame with strangers. He looked at himself in the mirror. It was amazing what one vomiting fit could do to a man. His face was suddenly drawn, almost gaunt, and pale, and his eyes were dark, sunken. His lips still quivered from the effort. He quickly turned on the water and used his cupped hands to feed several mouthfuls of water into his mouth, using the first half dozen or so to rinse the taste from his tongue before greedily swallowing the second six. He then splashed some water in his face, and as he studied his damp features, he noticed something.
He was wearing the necklace. The chain was around his neck and he could feel the diamond pendent bouncing against the hair on his chest. It burned slightly, and he swore he saw a curl of smoke drifting up from it. He didn’t remember putting it on, but he didn’t waste any time taking it off. He reached behind his head to the simple clasp and undid it, though it took some time because his hands were shaking. But it finally came off. Without a second thought, he took the piece of jewelry and shoved it back into his pocket, not even bothering to put it back into the little velvet bag.
Utterly exhausted, Glenn left the Luxor and made a beeline for his truck. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to get to his motel, strip, and sleep for twelve hours.
He reached the Comfort Inn where he had a reservation fifteen minutes later, parked in front of the lobby and, on wobbly legs, checked in. His room, of course, was on the other side of the building. He returned to his truck and guided it around the building to a parking spot near the far entrance. He grabbed his overnight bag and entered the hotel. His room was on the second floor, and instead of waiting for the elevator, he dragged himself up the stairs.
Once in his room, he stripped off his shirt and tossed it into the corner. He was about to pull down his pants but remembered the necklace in his pocket. He pulled out the piece of jewelry and dangled the diamond in front of his face. He allowed the gem to spin in front of his eyes, watched as it sparkled and danced as the light from a lamp pierced its surface and was scattered by its sharp angles. It truly was a magnificent piece of jewelry, unlike anything he had ever seen before, and he wondered how much Gary would give him for it. After the disturbing experience in the restaurant, with the eating and the vomiting and the laughter and finding the necklace inexplicably around his neck, he wondered how little he would be willing to take from Gary to simply get rid of it. He knew it was irrational to think that the necklace had somehow caused him to do what he had done, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite its beauty, there was something off about it.
He took the necklace and slid it back into the velvet pouch, then walked over to the closet where he knew a safe would be. He only stayed in hotels that had safes, not only to protect any valuables that he found, but also to store his keys and wallet overnight. He knew that the small metal box built into the wall of the closet, with its sleek digital face, offered the illusion of security more than security itself, but he liked to have it. Sure, if somebody somehow snuck into his room at night and pilfered what was accessible, any valuables in the safe would be, well, safe. But if someone came at him with a gun, demanding all of the wealth he had on his person, he would empty out the safe himself.
Glenn rested the bag, along with his car keys and wallet, onto the carpeted floor of the small safe. He closed the door, punched in a code (4169, his birthday) and listened as the locks engaged with a mechanical whine. He pulled on the door to make sure it was locked, then closed the closet door and went to the bathroom. He pissed, brushed his teeth with a disposable toothbrush with the paste impregnated on the bristles (what would those fucking geniuses at Oral-B come up with next?), then collapsed onto his bed.
With the lights still on and his jeans still secured around his waist, Glenn found himself quickly and eagerly falling asleep. As the Sandman came for him, the smell of smoke filled his nostrils, heavy and cloying, and as he licked his lips one last time before sleep, he swore he tasted ash on his tongue.
Glenn dreams every night, and when he wakes in the morning, he is usually able to capture a sliver of his nightly escapades and hold on to the quicksilver memories for several moments before they are gone. He usually dreams normal dreams. Oh, his life may be different over there, on the other side of the veil, married to different women and having different jobs and sometimes doing things that would be considered extraordinary or impossible in the real world. Like flying or fighting crime with super powers. But his dreams, when he examines them in the morning, are always timid, modest pieces of fluff. Even the nightmares are never really that scary, and they rapidly fall apart when he wakes, their substance disintegrating within minutes. But that night, in the Las Vegas Comfort Inn, with a gold and diamond necklace tucked away safely in a hotel safe not too far from his bed, Glenn dreams dreams that he knows are not wholly dreams.
He dreams in black and white and shades of gray. He dreams a world without color.
He dreams of sex. He is a member of a giant orgy with too many members to count. He is having intercourse with numerous members of both sexes. And enjoying himself, regardless of the gender of his partner at the moment, which shifts from frame to frame, never the same for more than a few seconds. Sometimes he is above, dominant, sometimes he is on his back or on his stomach, submissive, in pain but savoring it. The smell of sweat and musk and sex fills his nose, along with the sickly smell of smoke which hangs thick in the air. Smoke from cigarettes or joints or something like that, he assumes at first. But the smoke doesn’t smell like that type of smoke. It’s not the raw odor of burning tobacco or weed. It smells like… like… and he doesn’t know how he knows it, but he knows that it smells like the odor released when a body is being cremated or simply burned. The smoke of flesh being charred. It should make him ill. It should turn his stomach. But it doesn’t. It just drives him on, and he can feel the orgy coming to some giant climax as all of the members suddenly explode as one and every one collapses into one giant heap of quivering, sweaty flesh below a gray cloud of smoke that carries the smell of death and human suffering.
If that was where the dream ended, maybe Glenn would have been able to shrug it off in the morning, chalk it up to the decadence of Las Vegas. But it doesn’t end there. The sexual orgy, it is just the beginning.
The pall of smoke, carrying the acrid scent, begins to drift lower during those languid moments afterwards, those moments when the hundreds of participants in that night’s activities take a collective sigh. But when tendrils of the stench invade the noses of the men and women, it clouds their minds and opens something primitive in their brains, something previously only accessible to the most primal of creatures, to demons and beasts and men with no moral fiber, driven to kill for enjoyment only. That smoke that smells so much like corpses set to flame unlocks something inhuman in the gathered people, and as one they rouse from their gentle slumber, their minds infected and their vision red with one simple need. To kill. Not for food, not for defense, but for the sheer enjoyment of the action. For the sensation of teeth tearing and nails rending and fresh blood flooding their palates.
Those that come alert last are the first to die, those who wake to the hunger quickest pouncing on the most defenseless of the group. Animalistic grunts and growls and howls of glee fill the air, mixing with the awful sounds of people being slaughtered and torn apart. Glenn is one of the lucky ones, if anyone there could be considered lucky, burying his teeth in the neck of the man lying on top of him, tearing out his throat and ending his life in a wash of blood and awful gurgling sounds. From the
re, he simply fights, flailing with hands and tooth at whatever he can, his naked body slick with the fluids of sex and slaughter.
But still, that isn’t the worst of it. Once the initial joy of the pure killing ends, the two themes of the night, sex and violence, join together. The killing and the rending continue, but only during copulation, as those few left alive began to fornicate again amongst the blood and the gore. And as climax nears, the violent urges return, and the members of the orgy once again fall prey to the blood lust, going for each other’s eyes and throats and nipples and the other soft, vulnerable regions.
Glenn is on the bottom during this final act, his nails thick with blood, his mouth filled with the tang of copper, a woman writhing in ecstasy on top of him. And as the end begins to come, as he feels it build inside of him, his thumbs go for the woman’s eyes, his dirty nails pressing the soft, fleshy orbs back into her skull. But being on his back, he has little leverage, and the woman above him, the woman riding him, manages to get his left forearm in her mouth and she tears away a large chunk of skin and muscle, eliciting a howl from his aching throat. She spits the chunk out, then goes for his throat, sliding her teeth into the soft muscle there, tearing and yanking and chewing no matter how hard he pulls her hair. And when her teeth finally disengage, his flesh in her mouth, he hears her laughing, a throaty, seductive—
Glenn shot up in bed, his torso and neck thick with sweat despite the air conditioner running full tilt. His heart pounded violently in his chest, set off by the memories of a primal terror. He sniffed in, smelled the scent of smoke, sniffed in again, and smelled… nothing. His hand went to his throat, his fingers frantically dancing over the skin, searching for any evidence that what he had just dreamed, what he had just experienced, was real. But he found nothing. Nothing.
He looked at the clock. It was eight in the morning. He had slept the whole night through, though he certainly did not feel like he had just enjoyed almost nine hours of shut eye. He felt as if he had just woken up from an hour nap.
Muscles stiff and joints achy, he stood up and went to the bathroom, unloading a stream of piss into the toilet that elicited a moan of relief and pleasure from his dry throat. After relieving himself, he turned to the mirror and turned on the faucet. He slapped a couple handfuls of cold water in his face, hoping the shock would wake him up and unclog his musty mind. It did the trick to a degree, forcing him to peel his eyes open all the way. He looked at his reflection in the mirror but he didn’t notice the bags under his eyes or his general haggard appearance.
All he could see was that damn necklace dangling around his neck, the stone twinkling in the darkness despite the lack of light.
As if it was laughing at him.
Chapter 7
Michael woke up at seven thirty in the morning with a splitting headache, which didn’t surprise him in the least. He didn’t drink very often and was very prone to hangovers when he indulged too much of the wrong stuff. And last night… he had shared a whole bottle of champagne with the lovely Jenna before… before…
He had done it. He had really done it. His memories were hazy and foggy and disjointed, but there was no doubt that he had enjoyed—yes, had immensely enjoyed—a night of sexual adventures with a woman other than his Vanessa, something he hadn’t done in well over twenty years. He was sure that he had called Jenna by his wife’s name at least once or twice, but if it had bothered her, she hadn’t showed it. And why should she? For the money he was paying her, he could have called her all sorts of names, including those of the more masochistic and derogatory nature, without her uttering a word of complaint.
He couldn’t help but smile as he rolled from bed. And he hated himself for it. Hated himself for how whole he felt. How satisfied. He thought he would be awash with regret when he woke, a sign that his moral compass was still pointed in the right direction. Yes, he did feel a little guilty, but not as guilty as he felt he should have.
It wasn’t just the memories that caused him to smile. It was the smell, her smell, that lingered in the air even six hours later: The intoxicating aroma of fresh strawberries and cream (her perfume) and the scent of lavender (her shampoo) mixed with the unmistaken musk of sex. The pheromone soup made him yearn for more. He felt himself stiffen beneath the boxers he had thrown on after Jenna had left at two, seven hundred dollars richer.
For a moment, Michael considered calling the escort service again (while prostitution was legal in Nevada, it was not legal in Las Vegas, hence the need for escort services, which basically rented out mobile prostitutes). His flight wasn’t until later that night, and he could probably squeeze another session in beforehand. Considering the prices these services charged, he was fairly certain they had arrangements with hotels across the strip where they could rent a room for an hour or two for clients who had already checked out, hadn’t yet checked in, or didn’t want to take the girls home to where their wives slept. Where was the harm? He could ask for a brunette this time. Or maybe a brunette and a blonde.
But this thought, along with making him even harder to the point of discomfort, brought a sudden wave of guilt washing over him as the enormity of what he had done finally settled in. He quickly reminded himself that this was a one-time thing only. Something to get him through the next couple of months until…
Until what?
Until the hunger blossomed anew and he quite possibly did the same thing, again. It was a stark admission of the reality of the situation.
He would return home tomorrow happier than when he had left, a desperate, starving man finally fed what he needed to keep going. And the memories would keep him content for a while. But sex was like a drug, one that most people were hardwired to need, and he knew that he would look for it again. Never an actual affair, though. Nothing regular. Never the same person twice. Never someone within five hundred miles of where he lived. Only when he was away. Despite the problems at home, he cherished his marriage and would never do anything to risk it. Until death do you part, the reverend had said, and he would be at her side until then.
But that was what a lot of men probably thought when they started their extracurricular activities. Just a bit here, a bit there, for those times when the wife just wasn’t interested. But then you fished a little too close to home a little too often because you couldn’t wait for the business trip in two weeks and someone who knew someone found out and everything fell apart.
He promised himself at that moment that he wouldn’t be that kind of guy.
Once a cheater, always a cheater, a sibilant voice whispered in his head. Don’t kid yourself. Don’t tell yourself you’re being noble. Once you start letting your dick lead you away from your marriage, there is no going back. It always ends in heartache.
Michael pushed the voice away as he walked to the bathroom. He needed to be on the convention floor at the Bellagio in an hour. But he needed to shower first; if he went to work smelling like this, everyone would know what he had done last night. The odor was that overpowering, and his skin was steeped in it. He stepped under the scalding water and bathed, relieving himself of his pounding erection halfway through and feeling all the more relaxed for doing so. He got out, brushed his hair, and dressed in a pair of black slacks, a gray shirt and a Mickey Mouse tie (he was allowed a little whimsy on this job). He grabbed his briefcase and started toward the door, but something caught his eye as he passed the dresser where the TV sat. It was a small business card he knew he hadn’t left there. And that meant one thing. Jenna had left it.
He picked the card up. It read “Gary’s Pawn Shop” in big black letters, and under that it said “We buy, sell and pawn: electronics, jewelry, precious metals, electronics, sports memorabilia, and almost anything else you have lying around your house!” Michael turned the card over in his hand and found a single sentence scrawled across the back in a tight, feminine hand. They have the best selection of jewelry at reasonable prices. He turned the card back over and gently slapped it against his left palm.
&nb
sp; I’ve done this before, she had told him. Slept with married men. And when they woke up in the morning a couple hundred bucks lighter, feeling angry or guilt-ridden or terrified or some other powerful emotion after what they had done, that little business card offered them some sage advice on how to assuage any guilt they may be feeling.
Michael looked at the address. He pulled out his smart phone and mapped directions from the Bellagio to the pawn shop. A piece of jewelry wasn’t a bad idea, not only because it would alleviate some of the guilt, but because Vanessa did deserve it. It had been a while since he had bought her something beautiful, something to let her know how much he loved her. Now seemed like a good time to do just that.
The possibility that Gary’s Pawn Shop may not be a good deal, that Jenna and some of the other escorts had a deal in place to get a certain percentage of the profit from whatever johns they sent over, did cross Michael’s mind but he pushed it aside. Jenna’s intentions seemed genuine. And she seemed honest.
An honest whore, a dark part of his mind, the same voice from earlier, whispered. What, were you born yesterday? Remember when she moaned Oh, Brian, you’re the biggest I’ve ever had? I guarantee you you’re not the biggest she’s ever had. It’s a show. They’re actors. They play whatever role their clients want them to play. They live to fill whatever needs their clients have. They create fantasies where nothing is real. And they don’t give a crap about your marriage or your happiness after they’re gone
Abomination Page 14