by Brian Hodge
“Because the voodoo woman said one of us has to have intercourse with him to cure him,” Max said, grabbing another beer. “We can’t just leave him like this. He’s our friend, man. He’s been our friend since grade school. If the situation were reversed, he would be helping us.”
“What if we catch the pussy?” Kenny Joe asked, his voice quivering.
“What in the hell you talking about?” Max asked.
“Well, it’s like a disease,” he explained. “What if we have sex with him and one of us catches the pussy disease? I admit if I woke up with a pussy I would play with it a lot, but it would get old real fast, man. Real fast. Don’t they have to use a douche on that thing all the time so that it don’t stink? And tampons too?”
“The voodoo lady said if we do this, then Judd will get his dick back. She was very clear on this.”
“Aren’t you afraid this will make us gay, though?” Kenny Joe asked. “That’s terrifying.”
Max took a long swig of his beer before answering. “Listen, my friend. Judd has no dick. Therefore, he’s not a man, right? Isn’t the general definition for being a woman, having a vagina? So how can it be gay?”
Kenny Joe gaped down at his rotund and bearded friend. “Well, he sure ain’t no woman, or if he is, he is the ugliest woman I’ve ever seen. Talk about falling down the ugly tree and hitting every branch on the way down.”
“That poor bastard built himself a tree house and fucking lived up there for years before falling out,” Bailey added.
“Well, I agree the man ain’t pretty,” Max said, finishing off his beer and grabbing another. “But the point is, that it is not homosexual to do this. Admittedly, it ain’t normal, but it is not gay, nor will it make us gay. We need to help our friend.” He walked into the kitchen and came back a minute later with three matchsticks clutched in his fist. “Time to draw.”
“Oh my god, bro, this is the scariest thing I have ever fucking done,” Kenny Joe said, staring at the three wooden sticks like they were tipped with the heads of his ex-wife.
“Who wants to go first?” Max asked, holding his hand out.
Bailey reached forward and grabbed a matchstick, his frog-like eyes bulging. He exhaled loudly when he saw his was normal. He looked up at the ceiling and blew a kiss. “Thank the Lord all mighty. I love you so damn much, Lord. You my man.”
Kenny Joe said a silent prayer, held his breath, and grabbed a matchstick. He gripped it before his face in trepidation and then beamed. “Jesus loves me, yes I know. ‘Cuz the Bible tells me so.”
“Fuck,” Max hissed. “This is so goddamn unfair.”
Judd wheezed and then farted loudly.
Max looked down at his friend, his eyes almost in tears. “Oh man. This is disgusting. We’re gonna have to do something to make him look more womanly. I can’t just fuck him like this.”
Kenny Joe grinned. “Want to take him out to dinner or something first? Maybe catch a flick or something?”
Bailey snickered at his brother’s joke.
“Kenny Joe that wasn’t even a little bit funny, man,” Max growled. “I’m serious here. We need to do something to make it easier for me. He has a—I mean SHE has a fucking beard for Christ’s sake!”
After a brief discussion, they decided it would help if they shaved Judd’s beard. Ten minutes later, Judd had a smooth face, give or take a few bloody nicks. Bailey tore off little pieces of toilet paper and stuck them to the wounds where they made little dots like measles.
The men stared down at Judd and tried to think of him as a woman. Again, it just wasn’t happening.
“I think he’s even uglier without the beard,” Kenny Joe stated. “No wonder he hasn’t been clean shaven since the seventh grade.”
Max nodded. “Maybe we can put makeup on him or something. A wig might help too.” He grabbed Bailey’s arm. “Go next store and ask Mrs. Anderson if you can borrow one of her wigs.”
“What if she asks why?”
“Just tell her we’re going to a costume party.”
“But all her wigs are gray. You wanna fuck an old lady?”
“Bailey…”
“Okay, okay,” he muttered and walked out the front door.
Max studied Judd. “Okay, we’re gonna need makeup too.”
“Max, this is getting ridiculous! Just fuck him and get over with!”
“HER! Don’t say him! Semantics are important here, man.”
Kenny Joe shook his head and frowned. “Just fuck HER, then, and get it over with.”
“Do you want to do it instead?” Max asked, glaring at his friend. “I thought not.” He snapped his fingers and ran into the kitchen. “I got it!” He came back carrying a plastic cup full of magic markers.
Max pulled out a red marker and colored Judd’s lips. He stepped back and studied his friend’s crimson mouth like an artist. He narrowed his eyes, nodded to himself, and grabbed a blue one. His face lined with concentration, Max applied the wet tip to Judd’s thick eyelids. He looked over to Kenny Joe for approval. “What do you think?”
“He’s still fucking ugly. Maybe even uglier.”
A teardrop fell down Max’s face. “I know. Maybe the wig will help.”
As if on cue, Bailey walked in with a gray beehive wig. “This was all she had.” He saw what they had done with the magic marker. “Oh, man. That is just scary.”
“Just shut the hell up,” Max said, grabbing the wig from his hand. He placed it on Judd’s head and frowned. “Fucking frightening.”
Kenny Joe painted large circles on each of Judd’s cheeks with the magic marker. He grabbed two of the sofa pillows and stuffed them into Judd’s shirt in a vain effort to make breasts. “The finishing touch.”
Judd looked obscene. The blue “eye shadow” made him looked like Tammy Faye Bakker’s ugly sister. Red ink was smeared all over his lips, giving him the appearance of a one-dollar whore. His rouge, two large, red dots painted on his cheeks, made him look like a frightening fuck doll. The beehive wig made it look like he was wearing a giant melting ice cream cone on his scalp. Tiny dots of toilet paper stuck to his face like freckles. One pillow fell to Judd’s side like a huge, sagging breast.
“So how you gonna do it?” Kenny Joe asked.
“What do you mean?” Max asked, staring down at his painted friend morosely.
“Well, you gonna do him-”
“HER GODDAMMIT!”
“Okay, HER! Are you gonna do her missionary style or doggie style?”
Max frowned. “You better not be fucking joking, man, because I am so close to choking you.”
“I’m serious,” Kenny Joe said, his face devoid of a smile. “It’s something you need to consider.”
“I would do it missionary,” Bailey suggested.
“Of course, I’m going to do it missionary. I’m a self-respecting Baptist.”
Kenny Joe and Bailey nodded in unison, agreeing wholeheartedly with the profound truth in his words. Judd muttered in his sleep and they watched him quietly.
“Well, I guess we better leave now,” Kenny Joe said, patting Max on the shoulder.
Max sighed. “Judd better appreciate the hell out of this.” He exhaled sharply. “Shit! No condoms.”
Kenny Joe went into the kitchen and came back with a box of plastic wrap. “There you go, bro. I remember fitting my dick into a zip-lock bag once, but that’s a tale for another time.”
After the Butler brothers left, Max had a brief moment of panic. He thought of all the times Judd had bailed him out of one ass-burning frying pan or another and he couldn’t help but break out into a grin. Any time he had ever needed anything, Judd was there with a smile and a six pack.
Max gazed down at his painted friend and shook his head sadly, a ghost of a smile on his face. The only magazine he was able to find to get himself aroused was a National Geographic, but he was quite surprised at how fast he achieved an erection.
He found a nice picture of a group of beautiful Pygmy women in the magazine, nestled it deep
into Judd’s beehive wig, and tried not to weep. He grabbed a thick wad of plastic wrap and put it to use, his heart beating in trepidation. When Max entered his friend, he whined.
Every time he thrust himself deep into the warm pussy, a wave of foul, whiskey-tainted air would blast into his face. At one point, Judd moaned quietly, a sound he found terrifying. Max closed his eyes and tried to pretend it was a woman, but Judd’s hairy legs kept tickling his thighs.
He ejaculated five minutes later and rushed into the shower. He scrubbed himself in the hot water for an hour, nearly using up a bar of soap.
The next morning, the penis had grown back. Everybody thought things had gone as well as possible considering the circumstances.
It wasn’t until Judd started gaining weight that things got complicated.
Humanitarians
by Weston Ochse
The Lincoln Town Car pulled into the yard, dust and leaves crunching beneath its tires. Adam stepped out, briefcase in hand, wondering for the third time why he was here. What had brought him to this point? The sad thing was that if it weren’t for this sad family, he would have been fired on Monday.
The dogs launched from the porch and stampeded towards him. He’d learned to keep completely still after Monday’s episode and since he only had one good suit left, he followed the lesson closely.
There were eight of them, and never had the AKC even fathomed that such color and body combinations existed. He’d run from them on Monday, and when the owners of the house had finally called the dogs off, his clothes had hung in strips. They’d loaned him an old pair of jeans and a stained flannel shirt, and when he’d returned to the office, everyone had laughed — that is until he’d plopped the contract on his boss’s desk.
And then all the bastard had said was, “We’ll wait until the check clears before we start celebrating.”
This time the mongrels recognized him and after a few minutes of spastic sniffing, they shuffled back to their places on the stoop. Adam sighed and headed across the dirt yard to the house. He wove around several rusting hulks of trucks that had seen their best days when his father was still in canvas hi-tops and black and white television was the height of technology. The house was a miracle of clapboard and tarpaper architecture. He imagined the builders blindfolded, drunk and in the midst of acid experimentation as they hammered and stapled the incredibly rambling structure into crazed existence.
More unbelievably, the Wheaton’s had purchased homeowners insurance.
“Hey Momma, it’s that insurance guy again,” said the thin girl who opened the screen door.
Adam waved and smiled his trust me smile at Enid. She was a sweet girl and he felt sad for her physical problems. Her left arm was six inches shorter than her right and her eyes were slightly off-center, so that staring into them made one queasy. He fixed his gaze on her mouth, a slightly less disturbing vision with the orange tint of never-brushed teeth.
“Good Morning, Enid,” he said. “Is your Momma around?”
She stared at him with cross-eyed befuddlement. “Of course she is, Mister. Didn’tcha hear me callin’ her?”
Adam grinned and stepped carefully over the step that he had fallen through on Tuesday. “No, I didn’t,” he said. “Will you tell her I’m here, young lady?”
“You need to get your ears checked, Mister. I done told her and she said she was comin’ as soon as she finishes up with the turkey.”
Adam smiled and decided if he mentioned that Enid only had one ear and shouldn’t be talking about ear problems, he wouldn’t make his fourth sale this week to this seriously strange family.
“Let Mr. Connors in, Enid. Don’t make him stand there at the door,” came the husky voice of the mother from deep inside the shadowy depths of the kitchen.
Enid opened the screen halfway and stepped aside so Adam could enter. He sucked in the fresh Tennessee air before he accepted the invitation, then crossed the threshold. If this had been two years ago, he never would have stepped foot inside the place. The recession had hit him hard, however. With his company going belly-up, and the divorce, and his present boss on his ass to make his quota, he had little choice.
It wasn’t so much that everything was dirty. It was just that a film seemed to be coating the furniture, the walls and the floor.
To his left were the two boys, who sat watching Goldberg slam The Blue Flame again and again on the wrestling ring mat. Not boys, really. They were thirty-three year old twins, who in their simple-minded enthusiasm grinned toothlessly at their favorite sport. The remnants of homemade pork rinds lay scattered along their three hundred pound, overall-covered frames, and littered the carpet at their booted feet.
Enid indicated he should sit in a low-backed chair by the plastic covered window. He sat and sank deeply into the old cushions. On his first visit, he’d discovered it was the Grandmother’s Chair, but the old woman spent most of her time in bed. The exception was Wednesday, when she’d come shuffling out in an old robe.
She reminded him of a gnarled tree — thin, but tough enough to have weathered innumerable seasons. She’d touched him and felt his muscles, commenting on how poorly fed he was. He guessed that since she’d lived through the Depression, being well fed was an important thing in her life. He’d always felt a little on the scrawny side though, and her clucking had made him feel like the one hundred and fifty-pound man he was.
But this family seemed determined to change it. He could have sworn he’d gained thirty pounds in the last few days. They were forever feeding him and offering him drinks. He’d even eaten the pickled pig’s feet and chicken beaks offered up in an un-appetizing bowl of brine. After all, he needed the commission more than his pride. The pecan pie was the best, though. Yesterday, to the extreme happiness of the mother, he’d eaten an entire pie.
“Mr. Connors. It’s so nice that you found the time to come back to us.”
“Mrs. Wheaton, of course I returned. You told me your husband was returning today and how keen you both were on the Term Life policies for your family. If there is anything that’s important, it’s providing for the survivors in the event of unfortunate death. I can’t tell you the times where folks felt everything was going okay and they had too many credit cards and... ”
“We don’t own any credit cards, Mr. Connors.”
“Still,” he continued without hesitation, “It would certainly help finances if... ”
“What the fuck is goin’ on here and who the hell is this man!”
The figure that stood the door was not the patriarchal presence he expected. The intimidating shadow and deep voice revealed a man that had to tip-toe to reach five feet, but wore his machismo upon his tanned and wrinkled face like a matador.
Adam stood quickly, his briefcase slipping to the floor. The twins jumped up and ran over to their father. They surrounded him, hopping from foot to foot in childish glee.
“Da, you bring us presents? Did ya, huh?”
The father glared at his two sons momentarily, then smiled.
“In the truck boys. Bring in Da’s things and there’s something special for ya in the cage.” When the boys scampered out the door, Mr. Wheaton returned his attention to Adam and his face reverted to what appeared to be a comfortable sneer. “Now you! What the fuck are ya doin’ here? If it’s my Mable you’re after, you’re gonna have a fight on your hands.” The last he punctuated by drawing a long fish knife from his hip.
The smaller man went into a crouch, the tip of the knife steady — deadly.
“Sir! Sir! I am not after your Mable, I’m here to... ”
“What do ya mean you’re not after my Mable? Ain’t she good enough for ya!”
“Well, yes. Of course. I mean no. I mean, I’m here for insurance, Sir.”
“You’re gonna need insurance after I’m done with ya,” screamed the smaller man launching himself across the living room.
“Henry! Stop this now. Poor Mr. Connor is here for dinner.”
Henry sat on the
insurance man’s chest, the tip of the knife quivering at the pale throat. He turned to see his wife in the kitchen door, her hands covered with brown and white feathers. His mask of rage smoothed into a broad smile.
“Why didn’t you say so before?” he asked, standing up and sheathing the knife. He reached down and helped up the insurance man. “Sorry about that, Mister. Welcome to our home.”
Adam stood shakily and tried to catch his breath. His hands went absently to straighten his mussed suit, but his eyes were still locked on the knife at Henry Wheaton’s hip. Adam’s brain screamed for him to run, but his legs refused the commands. The dire need for a commission still held him in a tight grip.
“Pleased to meet ya, Mister,” said Henry proffering a small strong hand.
Adam felt himself accepting and squeezed a weak reply to the iron grip of the smaller man. With the handshake, however, his fear seeped away and he smiled. It was just a misunderstanding. Maybe he could still unload the insurance — and if he did, he’d shove it down his boss’s throat.
“Pleased to meet you too, Mr. Wheaton,” he said, trying hard to control the quavering in his voice.
“So Mable says you’re here for dinner,” said Henry, looking Adam up and down. “You’re a little thin, though.” He turned to his wife. “You been feedin’ him, Honey?”
Mable smiled proudly. “Sure have. He’s been here everyday sellin’ us insurance. But I’ve been makin’ sure he’s been eatin’. It’s all that unhealthy big city livin’ I say.”
Henry nodded once. “Good. Good. Bring me the jug and get on back to the kitchen.”
Henry sat on the couch. Picking up a few loose pork rinds, he shoved them into his mouth. His gaze went to the television and he grinned as Goldberg threw The Blue Flame into the second row of the screaming crowd. When Goldberg shot his victory sign, Henry joined in, the middle fingers of his hands rising toward the ceiling. As the man laughed, rind residue shot out and onto the coffee table where they landed among magazines and spit cups.
The boys exploded through the door, whooping and hollering. Each carried a metal Coleman cooler and the stench of fish swirled into the room. Sitting atop each cooler was a small metal birdcage containing a beautiful multi-colored parrot.