DINNER BELL FOR THE DREAM WORMS
by
Jason Wuchenich
PUBLISHED BY
LegumeMan Books
Copyright © 2010 by Jason Wuchenich
Cover Illustration © 2010 by Jason Wuchenich
Design © 2010 by The Spatchcock
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except where permitted by law
First, I would like to thank Carlton Mellick III, Jeff Burk, and Gina Ranalli for their kind input and advice during the beginning phases of this endeavor.
Eternal gratitude to the dream worms for leaving their droppings in my sleeping brain, your jobs are far from over.
I would like to thank my wife, Courtney, for her acceptance and tolerance.
Thanks to the countless post-black metal and DSBM albums for providing the soundtrack to my writing.
Mom, Dad, Dominic and Anne, thank you for not disowning me, but if you ever read this book, you will turn into pillars of salt. Heed my warning.
Finally, I would like to thank the mighty Brothers Gunther and Minx for their unwavering faith, support, and dedication to my debut book. Cheers.
CONTENTS:
STINKY INCUBUS
SKANK CLUSTERS: FOR SALE!
"People don't read any more. It's a sad state of affairs. Reading's the only thing that allows you to use your imagination. When you watch films it's someone else's vision, isn't it?"
- Lemmy Kilmister
Lemmy, if you ever read this, I, in no way, think of you as a smelly, shit-sucking demon.
"When one creates phantoms for oneself, one puts vampires into the world, and one must nourish these children of a voluntary nightmare with one's blood, one's life, one's intelligence, and one's reason, without ever satisfying them."
-Eliphas Levi
"Welcome to my nightmare. I think you're going to like it. There'll be some more when you come down.
-Alice Cooper
Stinky Incubus
It wasn’t easy for an Incubus to obtain fresh guts. In truth, most Incubi didn’t need guts, but all Incubi need to be able to materialize. There were different methods that different Incubi employed for their materialization, but for Lemmy, he had to fart. A standard, run of the mill fart would give him about thirty minutes of solid form. No fart, no materialization; no materialization, no physical sensation; no physical sensation… well, there was no point for an Incubus that had no ability to touch. So, Lemmy had to fart in order to claim his slumbering souls. He never had a soul collection, and the ones he did manage to obtain (one per century, perhaps) always slunk away when he was distracted. Eons of failed attempts have the propensity to leave one lonely and desperate for love, which is all he now wanted – someone to share hugs and times of joy with. He wasn’t bad looking and he certainly didn’t lack charm, he just stank. The farting assuredly didn’t help, but the true odiferous culprit was the stench seeping from his pores because of his peculiar diet. However, the foods he ate gave him the ability to produce more gas so his entire existence was a rather slapdash catch 22.
The intestines were still warm. That was probably the principal characteristic Lemmy liked about them – their ability to retain the natural internal body heat long after they were removed. After filling himself with the necessary sustenance, in shadow form, he would intrude into the bedroom of his hapless female target, and push. Most times he would shit himself without the slightest puff of fart, but every so often, he would succeed and materialize.
Lemmy, like all Incubi, could use his telekinesis to have objects do the physical work he needed done. His body still went through the normal motions, even though he was invisible. The most important task Lemmy employed this technique for was gutting his sleeping victims (if they were human) and stealing away with an armful of trailing innards. Then he would dash home and begin preparing his meal, to obtain the potency to materialize for longer stretches of time and hope to woo a soul or two.
He had them all piled in front of him on what he called his “flavor table.” The small intestines were buried in coiled glop-strands underneath the large intestines with the descending colon, rectum, and anus pointing straight up from the sloppy mess like a charmed snake. The anus looked like a fleshy eye frozen in a wink. He held his grooming shears tightly and began cutting two-foot sections of large intestines. Once cut, Lemmy laid the segments out in front of him and, pinching the left end shut, he held it above a cauldron that lethargically sat on the other side of the gut pile. Dangling the shit-sheath over it he milked the mucousy stools out of each strand, forming a heap of reeking offal. He repeated this with all the large intestine segments, emptying them of their contents and making sure he gave them a good twice over. It always made him think of getting the very last drops of toothpaste out of the tube. Lemmy had a good two pounds of hearty gut stew, but his favorite part was next.
He threw the emptied innards aside and moved on to the intricate labyrinth of small intestines. He cut smaller segments with them, only a foot long, and instead of milking them he blew into them like deflated bicycle tubes expelling watery, enzyme-coated “flavor-bits.” Going through twenty feet of small intestines always left him feeling light headed from all the blowing, but his resulting poop-porridge was well worth the effort.
After his cauldron was brimming with bowel brine, he covered it and hung it over his hearth. A low fire tickled the bottom of the caldron as choppy hiss-chuckles escaped the lid. As it brewed, he napped and projected his ethereal body to nearby maiden’s homes searching for a proper soul mate. By the time Lemmy returned to his mystical hut, his bile-shit-food-chunk stew would be ready for eager consumption – and would hopefully fill his own bowels with materialization wind.
* * * * *
As Lemmy’s supper simmered, he chose to stroll an unfamiliar stretch of countryside. It was this chance night, that he stumbled upon the hut of a particularly beautiful girl who appeared to be unclassifiable by the current feudal system. She was by no means upper class, but not really a peasant either. As she slept on an old-fashioned waterbed made of cow udders, he watched her closely, taking note of her character – you can tell a lot about someone by the way they sleep. She was uninhibited and content, snoring in kitten purrs. She rested on her back with limbs sprawled, and completely naked. Lemmy could clearly see that the maiden was a virgin because her hymen was the size of a dinner plate. It had elaborate veins that gave it a distinctive ‘Victorian’ floral design. One could say this was love at first sight. In shadow form, he would worm into her dreams and influence her to think of him. You can’t smell your dreams, so this part always made Lemmy feel safe. Without hesitation, he dove into her nightly reverie and inaugurated her with a romp of hedonistic debauchery.
The dream encounter was blissful, for both parties. Lemmy was certain that he left a sticky seed of his memory dribbling down her cortex. He felt the urge to fart, but held it in.
The seed must grow, and she must dwelleth on me for a fortnight. I will visit again on the morrow to plant more seeds so that a garden of Lemmies shall sprout from her hair. In two weeks time, I shall reveal myself to her.
As he exited her quarters, he investigated the other rooms of the hut. The next boudoir was that of an old crone. There was a familiar stench that seeped from the sparsely woven crinoline that garnished her waist. It seemed to serve as her blanket or nightgown but also housed labia large enough to rival elephant ears. The stench-mist crept out between her ribs and when he hovered over the woman, he noticed she had a colostomy bag. Such delectable treasures are seldom found, let alone sought! This
humble abode houses treasures beyond imagination! Still hovering and now flabbergasted, a long string of shadow-drool wavered down like a midnight paratrooper and plopped on her sleeping chin. Being nothing more than a lack of light that dotted her skin, she slumbered on.
His excitement was so stupefying that he haphazardly let out a squeaker. It wasn’t much in the way of a full-blown fart but sure enough, the mere fact that the slightest of gasses found its way out of Lemmy’s clenched anus, made him materialize. He fell from his hover and landed squarely on the stunned beldam. Quick to think, he locked his fingers around the slushy sack and plucked the filled colostomy bag like a rutabaga. The glurp sound it made being wrenched off the nodule of protruding intestine covered up the gasp that escaped her frightened lips. Off like a dart, Lemmy was, with bounty in a quickly fading hand. Just after he escaped the hut and made it to the tree line, he vanished.
* * * * *
Mildred rolled out of bed with terror-stricken alarm. Her crinoline was quickly shed as she shakily inspected her stoma. The loose and wrinkled skin of her arm frantically jiggled like enlarged labia which, oddly enough, she had.
“Geraldine! Geraldine!” shouted Mildred, as worried as she was alarmed.
“Yes, mother,” came a soft and groggy response.
“Are you safe, Geraldine?”
“Yes, mother, I’m fine. Just sleeping. What’s the matter?” she shouted, slipping on a raggedy white night gown.
“Someone came in my bedroom and stole my hag bag!”
“Why on earth would someone want that?” Geraldine said as she crinkled her face in disbelieving disgust and meandered into her mother’s room. She lit the lantern that hung on a horn-shaped tree root affixed to the wall next to the entryway.
“Oh, well I assume it was my fault that a wild boar rammed its tusk up my rump.” Mildred didn’t even flinch as the light drowned out the night. “It’s not a satchel of leprosy you snotty curse, it’s perfectly natural to have a false rectum.”
“I didn’t mean to offend, mother, I just thought it was a strange item for someone to steal, that’s all.” Geraldine rubbed her eyes like she was making freshly squeezed orange juice.
“Well I have no idea why this person wanted it, but if I don’t make a new one quickly, I’ll soon die of sepsis.” Mildred, suddenly saddened, sat back down on the edge of her haystack bed.
Geraldine, eyes now adjusted to the light, laid a reassuring hand on her mother’s shoulder. “It will be alright, mother. You still have a few spare pig bladders in your nightstand drawer you can use until I harvest the colonthimum plants in the morning.”
“Oh, I guess you’re right, my daughter. Thank you.”
“Did you get a look at the thief?”
“Not at all, but he smelled terrible! He smelled so bad that my chin mole crawled up under my bottom lip to hide.”
“Well, I’ll sit up for a while and make sure he doesn’t come back. Put in your pig’s bladder and go back to bed, mother. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Bless you, Geraldine. Bless you.”
Geraldine bent down and kissed her mother on the forehead, then blew out the lantern and went back to her room. As she snuggled back into her cow udders, her mind drifted back to her dream lover. He was tall and slender with curly, dark hair, toned but not too muscular. She had never had a dream like this and had never seen a penis before, but she thought it looked magnificent. She removed her nightgown and started playing with herself. Her hand rested on her humongous hymen, desperately wanting to punch through it, but instead, she toyed with her clit. She thought of how he grabbed her hair and mounted her, whispering words that she imagined George Gordon Byron or Giacomo Casanova would recite. Soon she quivered in orgasm, squeaking like a chew toy and squirting feminine ejaculate through a pin-sized hole in her gigantic hymen. It was nowhere near the vehemence that was bestowed upon her in her sleep, but at least it was brought on by the thought of him.
* * * * *
Safely at home, Lemmy didn’t even bother to check on his boiling meal. He gently laid the crap bag on his flavor table, treating it like a fragile box of chicken eggs. The smell of feces percolated through the studio hut with an odor so potent it was visible. Lemmy actually had to tap the stench on an uncertain shoulder and politely ask it to clear some space around his flavor table. When the stench reluctantly obliged, Lemmy seated himself on the bench and curiously poked the sack. As his reservations receded and his excitement could no longer be holstered, he latched on to the colostomy bag, wrapped his lips around the tube opening, and squeezed in exuberant vivacity. It was far less viscous than he expected, resulting in a volcanic eruption of liquid feces spraying aimlessly out of his mouth.
Ay, alas! This was a hasty endeavor and must be thought out with deeper deliberation, Lemmy thought, bemused.
He managed to choke down enough slop for his stomach to start acting up like it was filled with rumbling gophers. He felt the air inside him thicken and journey through the passages of his insides. Then, mere moments after consumption, it happened. No force was necessary to expel the trapped wind; it just broke loose as if a herd of prisoners escaped from a popping balloon. It was the loudest fart he ever managed to produce. The effluvium of reeking vapor was so intolerable, the odor that was asked to step aside left Lemmy’s hut, slamming the door on its way out. He could hear it mutter as it dispelled into the early morning sky. There he stood, fully embodied and more solid than he’d ever felt. Oh, if only my lady fair could share with me her tender lips in this moment of jubilance! He knew he stunk, and he knew he stunk BAD! He almost let his passion outrationalize him, wanting more than anything to visit his new obsession, but he restrained himself thinking, absence makes the heart grow fonder, like a wind fanning a flame, not realizing the pun.
* * * * *
As the morning sun tiptoed towards the horizon, a still sleeping Mildred became host to the most unlikely of guests. A band of minstrel arachnids, fairly large in size, scampered up her torso and found their way inside her barren colostomy hole, setting up shop somewhere within her digestive tract. Mildred, fatigued with the night’s startling events, fell asleep before she managed to insert the pig’s bladder. It sat motionless and upset next to her slumbering body. Mildred awoke with a start to the most soothing of tunes.
Awakest thou, now ye must go
to lands of freshly fallen snow
Follow to whence the wind doth blow
Oh, surely ye must go
The voice she heard was filled with a beautiful vibrato and the instruments were adeptly played. She could hear the resonance of the harp and flute long after the short verse stopped. “Geraldine! Geraldine! Is there a merry band of minstrels in the house?”
Awoken by her mothers questioning rants once again, Geraldine reluctantly swiveled out of her udder bed. Plucking away yellow clumps of hardened eye goop, she answered with a swift, “No, mother,” as if she already knew the question was coming.
“I just heard the most soothing of tunes. It literally pulled me out of sleep with silken hands.”
“My, that sounds lovely,” feigned an unbelieving Geraldine. “Shall we empty your pig’s bladder crap-sack now? Then I shall tend to the colonthimums and harvest you a proper new receptacle.”
Resting next to Mildred was her pig’s bladder. It was removed and isolated from the others relaxing in their special drawer. The pig’s bladder huffed and puffed in heaving breaths of anxiety. It was scared, and could you blame it? No particular duty or function, no company – just segregation. Mildred noticed the dreary plight and beckoned once again to her most caring of daughters.
“Geraldine, my makeshift colostomy bag is hyperventilating! I collapsed in exhaustion after the debacle of stench and thievery and plumb forgot to put it in. The poor bugger is twitching with torment and we need to get it a paper bag to breathe in!”
“There are no paper bags, mother! I’ll be quick and pluck one of the colonthimums. We’ll let the pig’s bla
dder breath into it a few times and then we’ll set it back in your bottom nightstand drawer. Then we absolutely must affix it to you appropriately.”
“Oh, you just have all the answers don’t you, Geraldine,” Mildred honestly speculated.
Geraldine slipped into her morning gown and walked out of the hut in cat-skin slippers. As she walked the breeze caused by her forward momentum gently spread the gown apart, exposing her luscious breasts and enormous vulva. When she wore more confining garments, the awkward protrusion of her hymen could be folded in on itself to hide the unnatural spectacle. While she was with her mother, she didn’t care – it was normal to be naked as god intended.
The grass outside was still moist with dew and soaked Geraldine’s slippers, giving her squish-toes. Tiny splashes dotted her shins as she made her way over to the western side of the hut where the colonthimums grew in huddled clusters. They were tall and slender flowers with translucent petals that were the size and shape of baby elephant ears. Only one petal could be plucked at a time because the others needed to obtain nourishment for the rest of the plant. Insects were lured to the petals by a sweet and pungent pheromone and would fall to the bottom where the plastic-like texture was too smooth for any escape attempt. The liquid at the bottom of the petals contained powerful enzymes that started breaking down exoskeletons almost immediately.
Geraldine found a bug-free petal, containing only the digestive juices, and snipped the stalk just below the petal. She quickly buried her head in her armpit like a bird, evading the jet of enzymes that shot out of the severed stem in an arterial spray of self-defense.
Geraldine walked back inside and met her mother at the washing basin where Mildred was preparing some fresh vegetables and eggs for breakfast. Mildred was also naked but she covered her midsection with her labia. Grotesquely long and floppy, they were draped around her waist like a flesh-shawl. If she chose, she could clasp one lip in each hand and pull them far over her head, which she did often for amusement and artistic displays of shadow puppetry.
Dinner Bell for the Dream Worms Page 1