Uschi!

by Tony Ungawa

  Uschi!

  Being the first book in the monsters & big tits chronicles.

  by

  Tony Ungawa

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Epilogue

  Copyright

  This is for Mom and Dad.

  For their love, their tolerance, their support.

  I owe them so much.

  I wish they could come home.

  “Uschi Digard is one of the most aggressive sex partners anyone could hope to find. Everything was real. Her life was devoted to screwing. Marvelous. We need more women like that.”

  —Russ Meyer

  “Whenever better monsters are made, I’ll try.”

  —Edward D. Wood, Jr.

  What y’all are about to get treated to is a true story. This all honestly did happen.

  Chapter One

  Her breast implants were made from gallon size Ziploc plastic storage bags full of creamy peanut butter and a car radiator’s anti-freeze. They made the titties super-sized and provided plenty of jiggle and bounce and a real nice fleshy feel to them. They were so large there honest to God was hardly sufficient room on her torso for all her pert and proud bosomania fullness.

  Her hair wasn’t blonde in the traditional golden sense, but a platinum shine like talcum powder in the moonlight. It was styled feathered in the exact same way Susan Kieger wore hers when she starred in the T&A drive-in classic H.O.T.S. Her pubic patch of hairs, dark, thick and wiry, was meticulously shaved and detailed into the grinning visage of Alfred E. Neuman, the “What, me worry?” gap-toothed moron forever on the cover of Mad magazine. How raunchy, yet creatively respectful to classic American satire.

  This ultra-vixen had been built entirely from scratch. The hospital morgues and funeral homes in the general Dallas/Fort Worth areas he’d pirated parts from had come through for him like a champ. Obvious to the eyes a patchwork job, this dead woman, no two limbs directly proportionate with the other, and the barbed wire suturing holding her together like some rag doll as disturbingly noticeable on her Tijuana bible cartoon physique as bullet holes in a baby carriage.

  Plentiful mail-order Home Shopping Network makeup had her tarted up like a caricature of a runaway teenage hooker, and she was well treated with insecticides to keep the bugs off her rotting flesh.

  Her eyes were open and dry as sand. Putrid skin pigment a green as the guacamole dip served at a high-dollar Mexican food restaurant. The face was pure cadaver, putrefaction seeing to it the more pronounced features were like something that went and escaped from an Iron Maiden album cover, shriveled and puckered in like some death by drowning victim fished from a creek and unceremoniously allowed to air dry under the sun.

  Her brain was an original. Constructed right here on these premises from a variety of special ingredients.

  Denny Gleeth’s very own homemade zombie girlfriend.

  She was on the kitchen table, laid out with a smart care for detail and loving appreciation. A dead body that had technically never lived.

  The unwelcome suspense was a downright fierce physical pain. An intense cramping in the lower abdomen and groin regions as excitement and taxed nerves pulled Denny’s penis up inside him like it was a turtle too intimidated to confront the world. Had to work at it to keep his teeth from chattering and the shakes out of his hands. A cold sweat smelling of sun-baked roadkill and soured Ranch salad dressing liberally oiled his pale flesh. An engorged vein running along his brow made rise a squiggly Y.

  Why the fuck wasn’t anything happening? What was taking so long? Why wasn’t it already over and done with by now and he enjoying his long yearned for treasure?

  He thought this guy was supposed to have his shit together. Excuse me, we interrupt our regularly scheduled programming for this very important announcement: People with their shit together all good and proper typically are not half an hour late for their prearranged appointment.

  Don’t let this fuck up. He so deserved this. He needed something good and positive to finally find its way into his miserable life. He believed the two of them had a deal, a bond, a binding contract. He wouldn’t go back on this deal, would he? Jesus, no, surely not.

  Satan best get his lazy ass in gear and get it going to work for Denny Gleeth. Denny was paying in good currency—his soul, the immortal soul of a simple man all alone in the world who worked hard at his Blockbuster Video job rewinding the videotapes and keeping the foreign films from getting mixed in with the documentaries—and was expecting some mega supernatural results.

  Like right the fuck now.

  Denny, on his knees, waited in the kitchen space of his modest trailer home, racing heart hammering away like an insane motherfucker against the back of his ribs, before him a microwave oven stationed on the counter space between refrigerator and stove. What little light there was came from the small bulb inside the open wide microwave and the fluttering buttery golden glow produced from numerous candles spaced all throughout the kitchen. Denny was in the center of a sizeable pentagram drawn on the floor with acrylic paints he picked up cheap at a Dollar Store. For extra satanic energies he’d carefully arranged the plastic fruit magnets on the top freezer door of his Kenmore refrigerator into a crude 666. He figured every little contribution helps.

  Outside, the storm achieved full force with lightning and thunder detonating in the skies above Vestron, Texas, loud as what a gas truck explosion must be like and rattling the walls. Torrential rain abused the Big Kahuna Trailer Park Oasis, pelting the roofs of trailer homes with a racket like rocks striking a tin pie plate, shooting to shit the satellite dish reception on everyone’s television, overflowing above ground pools, and smothering all in a heavy, dark blanket of wetness. Winds blowing at a good forty-five mile an hour clip howled through and bowed back tree branches and tore at the tarps tied down over all the bass fishing boats up on trailers in gravel driveways. Backyard okra and blackeye pea gardens were threatened with becoming washed away and Wal-Mart lawn furniture and uncollected Fischer Price toys were sent scattering by the big blow.

  Denny’s large eyes again darted to the microwave’s clock. Sweat beads poured off his face as if he were standing under a spraying showerhead. Shit. The lord of evil was now a whopping forty-five minutes late. Ain’t good. Maybe he wasn’t going to show.

  Don’t think like that. Putting out those negative thoughts were just going to make the anxiety and tension he was enduring all the more worse. Keep it positive. Really, work at trying to keep the situation on the positive. Satan was coming. They were going to see this deal through. Things really were going to go his way for once.

  Inside the microwave, belly up on the rotating dish, was a large and cigar ash gray toad that’s stomach after only four minutes on high had swelled and burst like an over inflated balloon. The microwave’s interior walls were a partially cooked amphibian calligraphy mess; bits of the animal were spewed everywhere, hard and crusty portions here, while softer and gooier morsels splattered there. Moist and steamy entrails drooled from the toad’s ruptured abdomen. Shrunken and shriveled eyes were still sizzling only the softest a
mount. The aroma of nuked to death toad was potent and about as loveable as a birth defect.

  His patience was short-lived and best efforts weren’t enough to keep the negative thoughts from bouncing around inside his noggin. A considerable amount of worry began to gnaw like a pack of hungry rats through Denny’s consciousness. Everything was turning into a disaster. Did he do something wrong? The other times before when he summoned up the devil they went off without a single hitch. Was something missing this time around from his private little one-man black mass? A key ingredient absent that was preventing contact between him and Satan? If he fucked this up somehow he would never forgive himself.

  He did it. He fucked it up. Naturally. He knew it now, had convinced himself with but a few quick thoughts that this was entirely his goddamn fault. Where had he gone wrong? A mispronounced word as he recited the incantation of summoning he believed he had memorized correctly from a dog-eared copy of an Anton LaVey paperback he bought at a Half Price Books? He didn’t use a cat this time. That’s got to be it. For a blood sacrifice to show his eternal loyalty and servitude to the king of hell and master of all who are damned, Denny had each time before hunted down a kitten and zapped its furry ass in his trusty microwave like it was a bag of popcorn. But not tonight. Oh dear. Tonight he stupidly went with the toad he caught hopping in the high weeds out behind his house. Damn, big mistake right there. It wasn’t like he couldn’t have gotten a kitten—there was always a healthy selection of strays slinking about the Big Kahuna Oasis—but tonight, this night when Denny was finally to get what he had desired since puberty hit, he wanted to go with a speck of variety. Instead, he’d destroyed any chance to ever be happy.

  Way to go. Classic Denny Gleeth. Ruined things again. Just like he had ruined every fucking thing else in his sorry excuse for an existence. Never earned a high school diploma, never achieved a girlfriend, no real friends at all ever for a moment at any time in his life. He didn’t even own a dog. He struggled to think of any dreams fulfilled or goals he’d seen through to the end and managed to accomplish—some proof that he hadn’t always been directionless and a failure—but he found dishearteningly little to nothing. The biggest thing he could come up with was that he last month attended by his lonesome the big Chill-O-Rama horror, sci-fi and exploitation films and culture convention held at a Holiday Inn hotel in Fort Worth. He got an autographed topless 8x10 from Kitten “Hotter than a Mexican’s lunch” Natividad. That was a big thrill at the time and left him feeling proud. She’d smiled at him and called him sweetie as she had handed the photo over to him. Cost him $40.00 and it was now framed and hanging on his bedroom wall.

  What would it be like to have a real, honest to goodness fulfilling life outside this trailer house and Blockbuster Video employment? Answer: Surely lightyears better than this loser reality he had going for himself now.

  Godfuckingdamnit, he was so worthless, totally useless, a complete waste of space. He truly didn’t deserve to live.

  And now Denny was off his knees, abandoning the pentagram, pacing the kitchen like a large animal trapped in a small cage, anxieties and pitifully low self-esteem on full power and going to cruel work on him.

  “Idiot! You fucking idiot! Why did God curse you to be this way? Why?” The words came out on an adrenaline-spiked and machine-gunning tempo. The tone to it all was low and rough, a guttural growl, conveying nothing more than pure self hate. “Momma should’ve gone and done the right thing and gotten herself an abortion when she was pregnant with me. Would’ve done the world and myself a big whopping favor if she had. Yeah, one of those late along in the fourth or fifth month jobs them pro-life Jesus freaks are always so giddy to share horror stories about to anyone that’ll even so much as halfass listen. One where I get vacuumed out of the womb all still alive and percolating fine. And it becomes necessary for the doctor or nurse or somebody standing around and collecting a paycheck from the clinic to step up and terminate my after birth slimed self by giving the gift of a sharp head twist and snapping the neck. Painful and gory—a proper way for me to’ve been removed from the world. Why couldn’t you have thought ahead and done that for me, Momma? I fail at everything. My life is garbage. I’ve destroyed my last chance to ever be loved. I am always going to be alone. Always, forever, no woman will ever want to be with me.”

  Verbal abuse was quick to lead to the physical. Continuing to hustle from one end of the kitchen space to the other, Denny commenced to punctuate each hurtful word he unleashed on himself with a doubled-up fist hammered against the side of his head. These were some pretty good licks he was laying in, too. The sound of impact loud and meaty and depositing a pain behind his face as intense as a dog biting on the scrotum. The sweat flew off of him with every self-inflicted punch like water from a lawn sprinkler, a misty spray sparkling in the flickering light from the candles, splattering the trailer walls. He soon managed a bloody nose. From there it wasn’t long before he had his hand in the silverware drawer and was slamming it shut on his fingers.

  Then he heard it. Over the sounds of the upset weather outside and the singing of the rage-fueled blood pumping through his skull and echoing in his ears he heard it quite clearly. Coming from behind him, somewhere in the close vicinity of his microwave oven.

  It was laughter, deep and all masculine. Someone was laughing their ass off at Denny.

  His fists fell to his sides and he grew calmer as a rush of relief began to set in. He recognized the voice. Oh thank goodness, he knew that voice well. Denny turned around and looked right to the microwave, knowing full well where the laughter originated.

  The exploded and splendidly deceased toad in there was having a good laugh at Denny Gleeth’s expense.

  Satan was in the building and, finally, making his presence known.

  “Shit in my mouth and tell me it is warm banana pudding, boy, you just ain’t right. Seriously, I mean it, all kinds of crazy fucked up in the head. Beating on your poor pitiful self like that. A punishment crazy motherfucker, that is you.”

  The toad remained on the microwave’s rotating dish, inanimate but for the mouth, which spoke its words only by simply flopping open and closed like something from a cheap pull string operated ventriloquist puppet ordered out of the back of a comic book. The horror movies had it all wrong, the voice the devil spoke with was not unlike the one you’d hear from a typical hardcore working class man trying to make ends meet and keeping his wife and kids clothed, sheltered and fed. Nothing spectacular or memorable. Just some damn dude’s ordinary speaking voice, with a Texas good ol’ boy drawl about it as thick as the gravy spread over a chicken fried steak dinner. This never failed not to strike Denny as a disappointment. To his way of thinking, the devil should talk like a large and angered beast, all feral growls and reptilian hisses echoing out as if originating from the bottom of a deep, dark pit no living thing had any business making a home for itself in, not a trace of humanity detectable in the vocal stylings. Certainly would’ve been more impressive that way, and would’ve made Denny feel he was doing something more unholy and obscene in the eyes of God and decent thinking people. Instead, he was left at times believing he was ordering aluminum siding over the phone from just another Joe Blow. Why couldn’t the things that occur in his life ever live up to the expectations that he had created for them in his imagination?

  “Denny, my little earthworm, you are funnier than almost anything playing on the TV these days. I swear it is so. A one-man slapstick comedy routine. Quality work. Why, I’d put you right up there next to Abbott and Costello, Mel Brooks or the Three Stooges. No bullshit, you are that good. Only thing missing in your act—the absent ingredient keeping it just a cunt’s hair shy of attaining memorable brilliance—is testicle mistreatment. A good shot to the crotch is always comedy gold. Do me a favor, boy, and think about adding that to your routine the next time you happen to loose it and find yourself gone apeshit. Maybe you could scorch your scrotum with a waffle iron. Hey now, there’s something to keep in mind, am I righ
t? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.

  “You’re Shemp funny, that’s what you are. Shemp was always my favorite Stooge, and I don’t give two shits and a chili dog fart who knows it. I’m not ashamed of my admiration for his comedic talent. The man is grossly underrated, that’s a fact. Those Curly aficionados can kiss my ass and enjoy the tangy after taste. You know, one of them is down here with me. A Stooge. I shit you not. There is a Stooge damned for eternity to hell. Yessir, there sure is. It’s Larry Fine, the fucked up haired one that was typically in the middle and was on the receiving end of the majority of Moe’s nasty eye pokes. True story—he burns in hell. You’d be surprised about the real Larry; despite his loveably goofy looks, he was quite the unsavory rascal. Back in the early fifties, he killed a whore with his bare hands because she stupidly made the big league mistake of snickering over the smallness of his pee-pee when he exposed it to her. Larry was a sensitive soul and self-conscious toward the caliber of his manhood. He promptly beat on her until she stopped living and dumped her remains in a ditch. He as well enjoyed harming his wife ... liked to use her face as an ashtray for his cigars. Plus that absolutely huge collection of child porn he kept hidden away from the Howard brothers and the rest of the world didn’t exactly endear his ass none to any of the heaven folk. One day, Denny, you will join Larry and me here in hell. Don’t the thought of that excite you? It does me. We’ll have us some good times, you’ll see. The devil, the Stooge in the middle, and you, the boy who loves zombies.”

  More of Satan’s laughter via the dead toad’s flopping mouth. Like listening to the cackling of a white, middle-aged man who pulls in around less than thirty-five grand a year getting jolly at hearing an off color ethnic joke shared with his fellow aluminum siding salesmen over a beer and catfish platter lunch at a Red Lobster.