Satan Burger

by Carlton Mellick III

  Gin’s new flesh-pets are asleep. They’re more upsetting to him than the hand, because they are more numerous. Now he feels his whole being has basically come to an end. It is just a vehicle for other creatures to live. One of them is his left shoulder, who he named Encyclopedia, another is his little finger, who he named Battery, and his right butt cheek, who he named Selenson. Selenson means Son of the Moon. Nan created this name for Gin; she says it’s never been used before.

  Satan also patted Gin on the head, and made eight of his dreads alive. At this point, Gin wasn’t in the mood for naming any more body parts, so he calls them Medusa Hairs.

  Richard Stein mentioned the Medusa to me. He said that she was a little woman in Houston, who could turn a little man into her slave, making him work his little butt all day long, just for her, just so she could take his money and buy herself things. This happened every time they stared deep into each other’s eyes. What the man saw was love, what the Medusa saw was money. After the man stopped earning enough money, the Medusa divorced him, leaving him broke and empty. Richard Stein said that his first wife was this Medusa, and she had snakes for hair.

  Gin’s dreads are snakes now too, worming around in the candle flame, in the forehead of a dozen naked beings. I zoom my vision to see what the naked beings are doing inside of the candle’s flame.

  They are a group of Firemites, beings made of energy, living in fire. They originally came from the surface of the sun, where thousands upon thousands of them live, swirling around in the BIG hot. Without fire, Firemites turn into one-dimensional shadow creatures that eventually die if they don’t find fire again, just as we would die without food. This is not a problem for Firemites on their home world, but it is to the ones that are in this candle now. Their sizes change with the size of the fire, a candle will make them tiny, a bonfire will make them man-sized. It may just be a rumor, but the Firemites are supposed to have highly intelligent societies on the sun, that we cannot understand. They don’t seem to be very intelligent to me right there in the flame. They seem rather primitive, moronic.

  They gaze as a giant orgy of flames, rolling over each other, exchanging energy-like kisses, large fire cocks penetrating fire vaginas. The only thing that matters to firemites seems to be food and sex, which might be why they are considered so intelligent.

  Gin and Nan fall into blissful sleep — the best thing in life — with Gin’s living body part pets, the dreadlocks wave-snaking inside the air, hissing like Medusa, and the family of Firemites are sweating in their orgy of food and sex, hoping the candle doesn’t burn out anytime soon.

  When I go back inside my body, I see that Christian has left the room, went to the back of the kitchen, to be with someone more talkative. I totter to the employee section of the restaurant, to where Mortician is working.

  Mortician is always the one doing all the work. He’s chopping vegetables and tomatoes now, while we sit on our asses. I think he’s only like that because it’s in his character to do work all the time, no matter what it is. He must keep busy so that he won’t get bored. And I know that once he stops working, his soul is lost. Soul resin won’t have interest enough to do work as obsessively as he does it now.

  I hear Christian and Satan talking about the blue women and hurry my God’s Eyes inside with them. I can’t miss a conversation like this, not when the most beautiful creatures on Earth are involved. I still can’t get the face of that BIG-eyed blue woman passing through the festival out of my thoughts. I know Christian is as interested in them as I am. We will both go after them soon enough.

  Satan describes the blue women like this:

  They look a lot like humans, but they have red hair and what appears to be blue flesh. Their skin is really just white, just like Caucasian skin, but all the fluids underneath the skin are made of blue so the blue women appear to be blue. Actually, they’re much different than humans. On the insides, they’re more like machines, like the insides of clocks, with gears made of cartilage. They have both male and female sex organs in their mouths, and they reproduce by kissing: two blue women become impregnated by a long tongue-rubbing kiss. The sperm that ejaculates is more like lime juice than regular human sperm; very sour if you taste it.

  Another reason why blue women smell like machines is that they don’t need to sleep, and instead of eating they run on fuel, a fuel that males produce. Actually, any male mammal produces the same fuel, and all types will do them fine, but human-like males are attracted to them and will get inside their vaginas without being forced. Blue women usually molest every male person or beast they can get their wiry fingers on, because they need to ingest the cum through their vaginas and into a certain gland that isn’t all that different from our stomachs. That’s why they still have sexual intercourse with. To men, it is sex; to blue women, it is food.

  Sometimes the blue women carry diseases and give it to the males they sleep with, just like some mosquitoes give people malaria when they drink blood. It’s very dangerous to be around blue women because of these sexually transmitted diseases, mostly because they are irresistible to men. If one comes in contact with a hungry blue woman, there is no escape; even an old blue woman is irresistible. They must remain irresistible their entire lives, in order to attract males. They grow up to full maturity when they are two years old and die at the age of two hundred, before their bodies grow too withered and smelly to attract men. During their two years of childhood, blue women molest animals, forcing the mammals to ejaculate into their vaginas by handling or sucking their sexual organs.

  Blue women are also mute. They only speak to each other telepathically, and they have no vocal chords at all. The only sound that comes out of their throats are soft breaths, and smacking lip vibrations. Other than that, they are as silent as a landscape painting.

  “Leaf?”

  I hear Mortician calling to my body; my mind is in the next room.

  “Leaf, could you take out the trash for me?” he says.

  I look over at him, dizzy from the mind-body transaction. I don’t say anything.

  “That one over there,” he says, pointing his knife at an orange garbage bag.

  I tie it up and take it out to the thick-greased dumpster behind Satan Burger, out into the fresh-sober morning. Another cigarette machine hostess, not the one at the entrance, opens the backdoor for me. It’s the employee cigarette machine, made for employees to buy cigarettes conveniently on their cigarette break, on their way outside. Since they’re free, I decide to take a pack. I was never a smoker before — I never cared enough to start smoking — but it’s all right to now. The worst smoking could do is kill me, and dying isn’t something to be afraid of.

  I buy a pack of Carlton’s, which were always considered one of the low-tar brands of cigarettes, very sophisticated too I think. I’ve never tried them before, but I always said that they’d be my personal brand of cigarette if I became a smoker.

  If everyone had not lost their soul, there would still be a BIG conflict between smokers and nonsmokers. Neither of the two groups would ever have given up until the entire country, or maybe even the entire world, was split into two parts: a smoking section and a nonsmoking section. Many of the people were neutral, like me, not smoking but not complaining about smokers. I hate the nonsmokers that complain. They’re the reason why I take the smokers’ side over theirs. Smokers always seem to be more down to Earth, not so uptight, not afraid to die.

  The outside is still morning, infinite morning. Richard Stein always called the morning his cool blue lady. It was the only woman he ever truly loved.

  I light a Carlton cigarette with an old book of matches I found under some newspaper wanderers, and fill my insides with acid-pleasant harshness. This harshness is what I enjoy from smoking; the nicotine doesn’t do much for me.

  I look up the hill and see a swarm of scorpion flies, circling, no one is below them, except me, but I’m not worth eating. The scorpion flies find a nice cow and settle down with it.

  The s
corpion flies are buzzing closer than they should be, all wired in some sort of panic. Like something is wrong. Like disaster is going to happen.

  Scene 10

  Hog World

  After the working day is considered fully cooked, and Mr. Satan is left within his cancer-breathing office counting his newly earned souls, licking chortles and rubbing himself with fruition, Mort, Christian, and Leaf, go out for a night of drinking and celebration. The celebration part is meant to stop boredom and make us happy. Without happy, the walm might steal our souls before our first paychecks come in.

  We go to a pub called Hog World, around the side of the Tower Shops — the only business still open at night. It’s a dirt-sweaty place, but always filled with new and slosh-interesting people who always know to fun it up crazy.

  The owners and most common customers of Hog World are of the Hoggian race, but we all know them as Hogs. They are the only race of people that brought their riches with them through the walm. They never go anywhere without their wealth, and were able to fit into Earthling society without difficulty. Hogs are actually the only wealthy people left in Rippington now. The original Rippingtonians are all poor or going poor, including those of us at the warehouse. The only income we have, besides life-force, is rent money from John and Satan, and we have to split that up four ways. We’re going to Hog World to blow the last of this money, but it is blowing to a worthy cause, so none of us are caring. It is, however, the last time we’ll be able to have this sort of fun, which is very ill-depressing. I try not to mull on it.

  The walk from warehouse to Hog World is still carpety soft on my bare feet, and I have a constant need to say, “Oh, poor parasites,” over and over again, directing it toward the people on the streets, but I mean to direct it toward the rest of the world too. The alcohol has given Leaf some sense of disgust for all people, even the thousands of homeless around me. And I think it’s fun to be mean to them. They are, mostly, the ones responsible for ending happiness in this world, even their own happiness. So I say, “Oh, poor, poor, poor,” all the way to happy Hog World.

  Hog World doesn’t let any parasites inside — they have no money and do nothing but steal oxygen. The Hogs charge ten dollars at the door, which isn’t that much considering it’s the smug-fanciest pub in town, but during these weeks ten dollars is BIG money, and wasting BIG money isn’t that terrible anymore. Money is an endangered species now.

  They say, “Fifteen Dollars,” when we get to the door.

  Face-fuckers, Christian whispers, but I just laugh, not very surprised. And there is a snarled crowd of starving people, watching us as we pay to go inside. A child with penis breasts cries into my thigh.

  I just say, “Poor, poor parasites,” with a cold smile.

  Richard Stein always said that the RICH are the scum of the world. He is wrong. In this world, we are all scum.

  Inside is another one of these round-a-go crowds that I keep seeing into… too many people jolly-dancing in the waves of my vision…

  God’s Eyes:

  Above the crowd, a ceiling fan’s view, Christian, Mort, and my body walk through to the bar and sit down for some sticky goo-doo — a drink like honey with alcohol mixed in. A shoe spider is on the counter, pulling a small wagon of walnuts for the customers to handle and eat. Shoe spiders are much like hermit crabs, but they live inside of shoes instead of shells.

  I take a walnut and put it inside my sticky goo-doo. Walnuts have strong flavor and taste good in thick drinks.

  “Let’s get fucked in the ass!” Christian says, screeching a party call.

  Christian is not as homophobic as Mort, and thinks it’s funny to talk like he’s a homosexual. But he wouldn’t have said anything if Satan had been around; Satan doesn’t realize that Christian only says these things when he’s drunk.

  In other words: GETTING FUCKED IN THE ASS = PARTY.

  Christian actually enjoys getting fucked in the ass — that is, if a girl is giving it to him with a strap-on dildo. He feels very homosexual for enjoying the performance and won’t tell any of his friends about it. Sometimes a girl will think peculiar thoughts of Christian when he asks her to take him in the behind. Sometimes a girl will become thrill-enflamed by the opportunity to take a man like men take her. Sometimes Christian masturbates with a dildo.

  The shoe spider crawls back into his shoe.

  “I’m getting laid tonight,” Christian burps.

  He puts on his girl-maker face — a sly hollow. Then he turns the beams of his forehead on, scoping the room for a good score — a woman with six breasts maybe or one with more curves than a human girl would own. I only see two humans in here, females, sitting on the laps of Hogs, very RICH.

  Hogs are a flabby sort of people. Not too ugly, but very unexercised. The women have large ears and unusually large breasts that bludgeon their sex opponents. Their eyes are speckled with purple and their clothes, ripped for style, expose the very pale, almost gray, skin underneath. The men are shorter than the women, stocky, BIG teeth in their smiles. They go, “Gar, gar, gar!” when they laugh.

  Christian isn’t interested in a Hoggian though. He wants the girl with two sets of arms, sitting in the corner over there. She has a very attractive face, but no breasts. Smooth yellowish skin, sliming, which is why Christian wants her. His color is yellow this year. He goes to her without telling us, a man-sly walk to her and she actually seems interested in it. Well, maybe she’s just happy that somebody is interested in her. She looks very lonely.

  Now it’s just me and the Mortician. Drinking…

  I decide to get very drunk, not just normal drunk like I usually am. I want to drink like it’s the end of the world, which it might be. Where the world ends, hell begins… at least in the traditional sense of the word hell.

  I drink some sticky goo-doo and wash it down with common Earth gin. Mortician neck-dribbles the gin after me, garbling about his philosophy on life.

  “That’s how every day should be,” he says, Japanese accent thicker than usual. “You just work all day and get drunk all night.”

  “What about weekends?” I ask.

  “You get twice as drunk on them.”

  “Great philosophy,” feeling the buzz stab deep inside.

  He slicks back an oil-stiff drink, hard on his chest. “Goes down like a cactus.” He hasn’t been speaking in his pirate accent today. I don’t wonder why, but I’m glad.

  “Speaking of philosophy,” he says, making me cringe. “Did you read any Sorpon Black?”

  “Sure.” I don’t get excited. Philosophy is an ugly

  color, especially when you’re drinking.

  “What do you think about him?” Mortician asks.

  Mort is BIG on philosophy. Always gaming for debates during the drinking times, his way of socializing. He does this with religion too, and politics, and food selections. But Mort is more into the arguing part than the deep-thinking part. And Mort is never able to start up debates with enough people these days since nobody believes anything sacred enough to argue over.

  As for Sorpon Black, he was an oldtime hippie philosopher, whose deep-thinking came out of his ample supply of repressed sexual energy. Old Sorpon never had sex a day in his life, not even with himself, and he was an extremely attractive guy. But very bitter. The reason why he never had sex was because he was afraid of his own penis. He couldn’t handle the way it slunk-stickered in his shorts, so sensitive when rubbed against his thigh. To make matters worse for him, his penis was unusually BIG. It was five and a half inches larger than mine, and my penis isn’t considered small — at least for my height.

  The sick-scary part for Sorpon was the erection. When erect, there’s nothing a man can think about other than his penis, whether he’s sitting at work or playing a basketball game or fully-engorged within a woman’s vagina. When Sorpon was in elementary school, he would scream blood-shrieks while watching his erection grow and grow and grow to the unbearable maximum. It was like a poisonous salad snake had been droppe
d in his lap.

  This phobia came from a childhood mind-molestation, at the age of six, when his very nice neighbor taught him how to perform oral sex and anal sex by showing him homosexual pornography. But the neighbor never performed these sexual techniques on him. He just liked to mess up the insides of young brains. Experiencing this kind of thing as a child will definitely mess up the insides of your brain. It will either discourage you from being intimate with anybody when you grow up, or it will throw you into the opposite direction: nymphomania for females, andromania for males.

  But Sorpon Black’s philosophies had nothing to do with his enormous cock. They had to do with the intelligence of sandwiches.

  “I don’t think anyone really believes that sandwiches are the creators of the universe,” I tell him. “Sorpon Black was just trying to be entertaining.”

  “Hardly,” Mort says. “It all makes sense because sandwiches are made from all four food groups. And if you compare the four food groups to the four elements, they are relatively the same idea. And if the four elements were layered together like a sandwich, you would create a god. Therefore, sandwiches are gods. Don’t you agree?”

  “I guess,” I shrug. Not actually interested. Like most philosophies, Sorpon’s theory is worthless to argue against. And I am not one for arguing.

  “You’re not a deep thinker, are you?” He realizes my lack of enthusiasm.

  “I was into deep thinking when I was a kid, but then I grew up,” I say, insulting his use of the word deep.

  “Are you saying philosophy is immature?”

  “Basically,” I tell him. “To most people, philosophies are just common sense.” Then I get personally mean — I’m in an odd mood I guess. It’s fun to be mean. “People like you don’t have common sense, so philosophies seem new and interesting to you, but you don’t realize that they’re not at all new. Only to the immature.”