Uschi!

by Tony Ungawa

  Denny sure hoped he was doing the right thing. Awful steep sacrifice to make all for essentially a quality fuck whenever he might like it.

  “Anyway, earthworm, appreciate your little performance there. Put me in such a favorable mood.”

  That explained the devil’s tardiness. Denny hadn’t done anything wrong. His black mass and invoking of blasphemous powers were solid. Satan was here all along, patiently waiting for the tension to get the better of Denny, knowing full well it wouldn’t take too long to send a high-strung butthole such as himself past his limit and set him off. The whole delay was just to get a comedy routine out of him.

  Well, ain’t that a none too delightful pisser?

  The running blood from Denny’s nose had reached his lips and gotten into his mouth, putting a salty copper taste on his tongue. Bruises from his beating on himself were starting to become noticeable on his face, ugly and angry looking red and purple tender splotches rising. He found the courage to speak. “Okay. You’ve had your laugh, sir. Glad you enjoyed yourself. Can we please get on with this now?” This all came out of Denny sounding so like a mewling whine. He knew that it did, but it couldn’t be helped. Fears, pain and escalating excitement all conspired to see to it that this was the only tone of voice he could manage. This has got to work. “Please, sir, make my dream woman live?”

  “Ah, eager to let your funky lovemaking get going, eh? I can understand. I too am something of a willing slave to my own carnal urges. Panic not, Denny. Female companionship at last is at hand.”

  If he wanted one, Denny could get a real woman. He truly could. Granted, he wasn’t anything close to being a good-looking man—physique underdeveloped and puny, eyes a bit too big and buggy and Steve Buscemi quality for his face, blessed with the personal hygiene habits of a pigeon, and a share of noticeably hillbilly crooked teeth here and there in his smile—but he certainly weren’t no circus freak, either. The man had had his portion of experiences with the ladies. Okay, face facts, maybe ladies, yes, was a stretch of the imagination. Can you really call a gal with shitbird ugly butterflies prison quality tattooed on her saggy titties and letting her flabby ass hang out of the back of her thong on a night when the temperature was below freezing and will happily go down on your dick for thirty bucks while you sit behind the wheel of your El Camino that’s pulled over to the curb a lady? No, truth be told, you couldn’t do that. They were nothing more than whores. Serviceable, moderately priced street walkers. But that’s cool. They did for Denny what he needed to get done—a quick, convenient orgasm and the release of some useless fluids. No love. No caring. No complaints.

  They weren’t what he really desired, them hookers. None of them were even remotely close to his idea of his ultimate fantasy woman. The woman he could love and share his world with. No average woman could ever hope to fill that bill.

  What Denny Gleeth wanted was a smoking hot super vixen living dead girl.

  Now, this was not any of that ordinary necrophilia business. Denny didn’t want to just play hide the salami with any ol’ simple dead body. That turd won’t float. If that was the case, then all he had to do to quench his unnatural urges was to get a job at a funeral home, or perhaps become a happy-go-lucky serial killer. This was a terribly particular fetish Denny had here. Denny’s girlfriend had to be returned from the grave, a corpse once lifeless and decomposing nicely and now up and at it again. Preferably her flesh clammy to the touch and with a hint of rigor mortis firmness to her sexy little toe-tag needing self whenever Denny would embrace her in his arms. Her personal odor death camp in summer time fetid, a facsimile of pulse and respiration entirely optional and horny just for this one sex cowboy who was to share this trailer home with her.

  What the boy wanted to be was a zombie fucker. That was about as blunt you could manage it. Only that would satisfy him.

  Lucio Fulci movies, the brilliance of Frank Henenlotter’s Frankenhooker, and the make you jackoff right then and there into your popcorn while sitting in the third row at the movie house drop dead gorgeous Kathleen Kinmont in the inferior than the original but still hot damn stimulating Bride of Re-animator were some of his favorite pornography. Hustler ain’t got shit on Evil Dead.

  Sometimes he’d pay extra for a whore to wear a Don Post original zombie Halloween rubber mask as she would work on him below the waistline. Seriously, he did that—the mask’s mouth hole he’d fixed with scissors to make it more accommodating for the professional to get her lips around his tallywhacker. But that shit always came off as shabby sloppy seconds. Our fearless hero needed to get his hands on and dick inside the real deal.

  Hence the bargain with Old Scratch. Seemed like this was his last chance if ever he wanted to achieve true love and perfect pussy. Where science had failed (never try to jump start a would-be squeeze freshly liberated from her final resting place with jumper cables and a brand new car battery. You’re just begging for fire damage to your home and a trip to the ER for treatment for second-degree burns if you do) and heathen juju sorcery proved a heartbreaker (he was still trying to get all those goddamn chicken feathers from his last bungled voodoo ritual out of the carpeting) perhaps good ol’ fashioned Western Hemisphere Satanic witchcraft just may yet triumph.

  The dead suited Denny. They made this awful world bearable. The roadkill he collected and played with in so many unique ways as an introverted, friendless young boy were his best companions throughout childhood. Dead things didn’t behave in a manner like his Momma and Daddy. They went through life perpetually disappointed and embarrassed over the way their only son had turned out. Ugly, stupid, non-athletic and able to quote verbatim every line of dubbed dialogue from Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster was not the caliber of man Tabor and Dottie Gleeth intended on raising. The two of them gave up on their baby boy long ago. They hadn’t talked to him in years. A cadaver didn’t bully and intimidate Denny as most men could do. Rotting remains weren’t nothing like living girls. Girls with heartbeats were always eager to openly giggle behind their hands at the sight of poor Denny doing no more than passing them on the street or in the mall. Women would stare at him with heated eyes blazing with this toxic cocktail of disgust and contempt for him, act toward him like he was nothing less than a foul bit of filth dug out from under a toenail. Denny’d rather take a brick slapped upside his jaw than endure one of those Ugh, how gross! looks from a woman. The dead treated Denny Gleeth with the greatest respect, forever accommodating, couldn’t give a damn if he wasn’t good enough to be amongst regular people, happy to bring pleasure into his small life.

  This was a good thing he was doing. Everything from here on out was sure to change for the better. After tonight, with the love of a good zombie woman behind him, there’d be nothing Denny couldn’t put his mind to and not accomplish. Never again would he be alone and unloved.

  “I take it all is in ready?” asked Satan.

  “That’s a big and greasy ten-four. I’ve built her up from scratch exactly to the specifics I want and a few others that you insisted on. Now it’s your turn to deliver.”

  “Alrighty. Stand back, I’m ’bout to put this bitch in gear.”

  The storm remained a terror. Thunder boomed and the lightning flashed and the rain hammered down as if God and his boy Jesus both stood on the edge of heaven and were pissing like a pair of racehorses down on creation with all the hard-hitting full bladder action they could give. And all the while a strange glow commenced to fill the trailer home’s kitchen space. This glow was all purple and pink and gold and other colors popping up here and there in it. Pulsing rhythmically as if in tune with a human heart, the many colors coalesced into a mist-like cloud, gained a liquid consistency like that of someone’s vomit, and promptly settled in the air above the buxom female body on the table. A few seconds of time passed, then, as supple as an eel entering its ocean floor lair, this hellish mist-cloud of ill colors lowered like a shroud over the figure and seeped into the dead flesh, oozing through the lifeless skin’s pores, vanishing insi
de it.

  This is it. This is it. A turtle no more, Denny’s hand was at his crotch and rubbing at the fast developing railroad spike hardness there behind the zipper of his blue jeans. He figured he had about a dependable six inches of dick to him. He surmised this because of this one time when he measured himself with the able assistance of Dawn of the Dead playing in the VCR and putting an at least seven-inch-tall McFarlane Snake Plisken action figure up next to compare to what he had to offer and estimated that size amount.

  Please let this go right. Please let this be perfect. Please let me be happy. Please, please, please.

  The homemade zombie girlfriend’s ultra-bosom suddenly jumped up, those mountainous titties swelling like hastily inflating twin Goodyear blimps in a hurry to get in the sky and commence circling the Super Bowl. A startled Denny stumbled back a step as her first ever intake of breath was sucked in with a rousing gasp, and then the chest slowly lowered as she calmly exhaled. A few more easy breaths were accomplished. As she sat up, the atmosphere crackled with the brittle sounding snaps and pops of newly reanimated joints, ligaments and muscles functioning. A dark silhouette in the puny candlelight, she swung her legs over the side of the table, lowered her feet to the floor, and stiffly brought herself to a standing position.

  Her first few tentative steps were a shambling, awkward mess, but Denny’s lady was a fast learner, picking up the skills and sense of balance to strut her stuff in no time flat. Pretty soon she had it down perfect, prancing into the stronger light made from the open microwave, hips giving a Jayne Mansfield quite aware of Marilyn Monroe’s popularity exaggerated swaying. Gravity be damned riding high boobs fleshily jiggled on each step she executed. Nipples were hard and at erect attention in the center of areolas that were roughly the circumference of a 7-11’s Big Gulp’s to-go lid and black as the spoiled splotches found on the rind of a bad avocado. A couple of these crusty around the edges open sores dotting her Valentine’s heart shaped ass were weeping a vulgar fluid similar in color and density to that of strawberry jam spread over a warm slice of toast. The most precious little yarn of spermy drool oozed from her full, pouty lips and dangled from the chin.

  “She’s beautiful,” spoke Denny in a voice no more than a soft and awed whisper. He refused to blink his eyes; terrified he’d miss some new detail about her. “Prettier than Barbara Steele with window cleaner injected straight into her brain. Perfection encased in flesh, that’s what we got going on here. I shall call her … Uschi.”

  And these parting words from the devil: “Oh. A little speck of warning for you before I pop out. I made her a feisty bitch. Gave her plenty of personality. So she may from time to time get somewhat uppity with you here and again. You with me on this, earthworm? Just thought you should know. Enjoy your fucking, and be seeing you. I’ll tell Larry you said howdy. Hey, y’all take care.”

  The mouth of the dead toad in the microwave oven then fell shut. Satan had left the building.

  Man and undead were alone now in the trailer. Time to let the romancing commence. Time to turn on the ol’ Gleeth charm.

  Hands were lickety-split to go to his head and try and finger comb his hair down as neatly as he could work it. Face twisted into what Denny hoped came off as a confident, he-man sexy smile. One of those bold and sassy lips parted back wide jobs, this smile, exposing rather shoddy dental care practice. What a terrible time not to be wearing cologne. He gave her solid eye contact, an act he rarely mastered with any living female. The voice that came out of him was not his usual one, this one practiced along with the toothy smile countless times before in front of the bathroom mirror slick and honey sweet and aiming for some of that 1970s Burt Reynolds masculine sexy coolness. “Hey, baby, and just how is the world treating you tonight?”

  Uschi came in close on Denny, close enough for the hardness of her big, arrogant titties to brush against his Beneath the Planet of the Apes T-shirt and the weird supernatural aura that powered her to absorb dry the sweat from his skin. The autopsy Y incision on her ran from below the shoulders, down between her titanic tits, and stopped just above her navel. The parts of Uschi where she was joined and barbed wire sewn together appeared ruffled and almost fluted like the crust on a baked pecan pie.

  A change came to her eyes, abrupt and dramatic. Gone was the lusterless, unfocused stare of some simple dead thing, and replaced now with what Denny identified as the lusty predatorial glint of a porn star not yet used up and burned out by the fucking and sucking business. She lifted a hand and first seductively ran her fingers along the deep cleavage of her veiny knockers, and then she reached out toward his face. Her lacquered nails, long like the talons of a bird of prey, were painted fresh blood red and were the epitome of trailer trash chic.

  Rain hammering the roof and a sizeable crack of thunder was all that interfered with the intense silence existing between the two.

  She put her thumb on Denny’s upper lip—her touch not too different from a putrefied slice of processed bologna lunchmeat pressing against him—and she wiped at the snotty blood that leaked from his nose. As her pale and fat snake of a tongue eased out past her lipstick coated lips and licked her thumb clean, she moaned in pleasure a grandma in the hospital deathbed rattle of a noise.

  That was the sexiest goddamn thing Denny had ever been fortunate enough to be witness to. Fucked by Forrest J. Ackerman, he almost came in his Fruit of the Loom briefs right then and there. Everything was ninja killing cool now. Denny’s life was going to be wonderful from here on out.

  “Why don’t we head on back to the bedroom now, honey. We gonna get on top of my Empire Strikes Back bed sheets and do some things that no registered voter would ever approve of. I can promise you that. Let’s hustle our asses. I’m eager to perform. I’m simply desperate to ride you like Roy Rogers did Trigger.”

  Uschi’s hand moved away from her mouth, fingers straight and spaced apart, once more reaching out to Denny. She touched him below the chin and settled on the throat. She rubbed his Adam’s apple, a ticklish sensation making him reflectively dry swallow. All the while her other hand went exploring between his legs and found his erection. Could feel it throbbing beneath his clothing, and she prodded at it as if she were attempting to antagonize a caged animal.

  “I like the way your mind works, sugar cube,” he told her.

  And then, with a sudden degree of frightening force Denny never anticipated Uschi capable of, she took firm hold of him by throat and groin and with a positively sinful ease lifted him off the floor and spun him around and into the kitchen counter. The impact was great enough to make the plates in the cabinet shelf above and silverware in the drawer below rattle with a fragile shivering. One of Denny’s arms swung out, elbow hitting the microwave and batting its door shut. Uschi was quick to follow through by leaning into him a good deal, them Godzilla and Rodan monster mammaries of hers pressing down and weighing heavy on his chest. Denny was trapped, pinned between the counter edge cutting into his jelly soft ass cheeks and his homemade zombie girlfriend crowding him. He was off balance, elevated to where he shakily stood only on the tiptoes of his Converse All Stars.

  “Whoa. Gently, gently. Honey, trust me on this; it ain’t at all a crime to go about it nice and easy. I swear it ain’t.”

  But Uschi would have none of that. Quickly and efficiently she undid his belt and unbuttoned his Lee jeans. One good tug, keys and spare change in the pockets jingling away like poorly tuned Christmas sleigh bells, and she had jeans and underwear both puddled around his ankles.

  His concrete hard-on sprang out like a circumcised jack-in-the-box. It energetically swayed from side to side. If this were a Looney Tunes cartoon and not the real live world there would’ve been an exaggerated BOING! sound effect to accompany the grand unveiling. Erection calmed soon, became stationary, settled on sticking out like a meat truncheon. Snaky veins bulged across the sides of the tallywhacker like tiny water hoses filled with high pressure running through them. A few kinky gray hairs were starting to accumul
ate in his pubes.

  The fresh air on his genitals kickstarted his jock itch troubles and got him wanting to sneak a hand down there and start scratching at the perspiration slimy skin surrounding the scrotum, but what Uschi did next wiped that urge clean away.

  She took a solid grip on his penis.

  “Heavens to mergatroid!”

  As if a cattle prod were just introduced to his tailbone, Denny’s entire body jerked violently for one quick but memorable moment. Head snapped back and bounced off of the cabinet door, the muscles in his face tightened as much as they could go, and he sucked in a sharp intake of oxygen between clenched together teeth. No way would he ever become accustomed to having a woman put her hand on him down there. She began to stroke his member, her eyes staring into his face, the rough skin along her corpse palm most pleasurable on the sensitive foreskin. His impatient loins begged for release, but something inside Denny told him to hang on. An instinct coming from somewhere in the back of his brain knew he had to stay strong and wait, the best was yet to get going.

  Her free of dick hand took one of Denny’s by the wrist—the drawer abused one, fingers sore and red—and brought it up and slapped it down on one of her jumbo breasts. It looked like he was palming a basketball, the tit so sizeable in contrast with his hand. In the beginning, Uschi was the effort behind his hand kneading her breast flesh, but eventually he caught on to what it was she desired and in little time flat he managed doing it very well all on his lonesome. He teased and pinched the nipple. The condition of her skin was room temperature and a hint mushy. Quite pleasant to Denny’s way of thinking.

  Uschi was having a good time. These piggish grunts of delight came from her drooling like a Mongoloid’s mouth. Eyes were now half-lidded in an erotic passion.