by Tony Ungawa
“That’s why it’s so groovy to hang out with you, best thing. I learn new and fascinating shit all the goddamn time. Plus you got a really sweet cock that does the most wonderful things to me.”
The unexpectedness of that last statement caught Denny Gleeth unprepared. His penis had never been complemented before.
“Are you having a good time tonight?” It was the only thing he could think to say after hearing talk concerning his dick.
“I sure am. How about you?”
“Yeah, it’s an experience.” Denny could feel the toilet paper rack jabbing into the back of his knee.
“Thanks for doing this for me.” She eyed him through the sweet smelling smoke and her hand went to his shoulder and straightened the collar of his T-shirt and stroked the wrinkles that were bunching up along there out of the material. “I really do appreciate it. This isn’t your bag. I know you’d rather be at a comic book store, or home watching Manos: the Hands of Fate right now. It means an awful lot to me you would do this.”
“You don’t have to thank me like that. I’m glad to get out. Do something I never thought I would do. It makes me feel good about myself.”
They finished the joint in short time.
“Y’know,” said Uschi, “standing here looking at you, it is giving me an itch.”
“Yeah.” Denny just stood there, keeping his hands to himself, being innocent.
“It’s a certain kind of itch.”
Poor Denny. He still wasn’t getting it. He raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”
Uschi wetted her fingers and untucked the front half of his Big Bad Mama T-shirt and snaked her hand up inside there. She went to the nearest available nipple and pinched and teased it. It was amazing how unaware men were to the sensitivity of their own nipples. Denny moaned like he had never had it this blissful before and needed to raise an arm and brace himself against the stall’s wall to remain standing.
“Best thing,” she told him, “it’s a sexual itch. One only you and your mighty tallywhacker can scratch. Tend to it for me, will you?”
And she lifted the skirt of her zebra print cocktail dress. She was going commando, no panties for her. Howdy, Alfred E. Neuman and Patty the pussy, right nice to be seeing y’all again so soon.
Now he had it. She wanted some. Sex in the bathroom.
Maybe it was the tequila and pot working, or could be the love of a swell zombie dame, but Denny felt emboldened, ten feet tall and too goddamn good to be true. He believed the operation she requested was doable. His steady hands worked like a pro and dropped his jeans and underwear below the knees. “I’ll scratch you.” Not the sexiest thing he could have said, but it was all he could think of at the moment.
There was no lover’s foreplay slap and tickle preface to this fucking. This was straight intercourse. Getting to the nitty-gritty like two animals in heat. Uschi bent over the commode and grabbed on to its handlebars while Denny advanced on her from behind. Their genitalia interlocked and the pumping rhythm was instantly established. Denny dedicated all his concentration into his hip action. Uschi admired his thrusting motion, highly commendable, hard and steadfast as a machine. He got her whole person to rocking and the toilet to rattling. The bowl’s filthy brown water was agitated, stirring up a frothy head of bubbles. A soiled condom floating on the surface rode a storm tossed sea.
“That’s it,” Uschi encouraged. “Give it to me, best thing. Go. Go. Go. You are hitting the spot. Oh yeah. You’re hitting the spot. Harder. Go. Harder. That’s it. Va-va-voom, three-D, pow.” She turned her head and looked over her shoulder up at him. Her lips were curled back in a dazzling slutty snarl porn legend Seka would be envious of. “Look at me. I said, goddamnit, look at me.”
“I’m looking, I’m looking.”
“Don’t I look hot with your dick inside me?”
He had to agree she did look most hot indeed.
They orgasmed simultaneously—brilliantly and equally most gratified. About a minute to get themselves resituated and on their second wind, and then they exited the men’s room stall to rejoin the world already in progress.
The dead man they came upon splayed over the floor only a few short steps outside their fuck stall did do some damage to their positive afterglow.
“Sweet monkey motherfuckers,” calmly commented Uschi, nearly tripping over the lifeless unfortunate littering the urine sticky tiles.
“Roger Corman Christ,” added a shocked Denny.
Exsanguination was the cause of death. The body’s blood had been quickly and violently drained from the torn open throat. The prominent lip imprints made from tremendous suction pressure circled the wrinkled, puckered wound. There were other corpses not far off from where this one laid. A half dozen or more puddles of dead meat strewn across the men’s room floor and one left propped sitting up against the side of a urinal. All of them on the receiving end of the relative same level of graphic neck mistreatment. All this murderous mayhem committed in only the short spell of time Uschi and Denny where inside the shitter.
“I told y’all this shit was to be continued.”
That voice, like Slim Pickens seasoned with Charlie Manson Hee-Haw cornpone drawl. The words took control of the room the same as would the crack from a snapped bullwhip.
There stood Li’l Bocephus, arms crossed over his chest and leaning a hip against the sink and wearing this total rascal smile on his anemic Jethro Bodine of a face. “Did you two turd monkeys honestly think I was done with y’all? You thought you could put me out of your minds and go and do whatever you wished? That I weren’t ever gonna come back and do something wicked toward y’all? You did think that? Well, that wasn’t in any way, shape or form smart thinking on y’alls behalf, was it? I told you I put my mark on you two. I promised that this ain’t over by a long shot. I said I’d get you. And now, retardo and blimp tits dead whore, the shitting and the getting is upon us.”
The atmosphere was electric with eminent hostility. One of the toilets was experiencing water pressure difficulties. It gurgled like a content frog in a pond.
“I got me some plans,” coolly informed Li’l Bocephus. “Put a lot of creative thinking into these plans. Y’all are a critical part of them. They’s revenge sort of stuff. It’s gonna be nasty and bleak for y’all. Time I give the two of you the gift of a little Li’l Bocephus goodness.”
Chapter Eleven
“Why, if it isn’t the NASCAR fan nightstalker,” pleasantly exclaimed an excited Uschi. “Well, alright. I’ll have you know you’re the reason I skipped dinner. I knew we were going to run into your tasty self somewhere along the way tonight. Hey, you’re looking a lot better than the last time we met up. You seem right fine and peppy.”
That was true. A day’s rest inside his Chevy Silverado’s toolbox had worked shock-you-shitless wonders on improving Li’l Bocephus’s condition. His eye was fully-grown back, pushing out the clod of steel wool plug sometime during his daylight slumber. He had removed the duct tape from his hand and chuckled in relief when he found brand new pinkie and ring fingers. The fingernails on these two new ones were disease free and immaculately clean, unlike their eight dirty and fungus infected crusty yellow brothers. That duct tape was made to last and what he had wrapped around his middle wasn’t cooperative when it came time to remove. It required serious effort to tear it away. But he finally got rid of every last bit of it, and there beneath waiting for him was his bare belly, sealed shut and the pale and freckled skin smooth and displaying not a hint of the zombie massacre comeuppance he was the victim of. Those good ol’ intestines and organs in him were feeling fine and settled and exactly where they ought to be. His roof shingle mask the last thing he ripped off of him and now he again was as whole-faced and pretty as ever.
The dark ink of that ROY ROGERS FUCKED MY MOMMA tattoo on his arm caught the bathroom’s lighting and glistened like chocolate syrup on a bone white china plate.
Li’l Bocephus thought to bring backup to this shindig. Three more vampires were as well in the men
’s room, each one as murderous and supernatural in origin as he. They were currently holding down the fort over close by the urinals. You couldn’t get anymore arrogantly cocky than the way they were presenting themselves. Smug douche bags unrestrained.
The blood-drinking trio Uschi gave a good looking over. She was far shy of being impressed with what she was getting an eyeful of.
“Truth is told about it, pilgrims, I’ve seen better in Jess Franco movies.”
There was a dark-skinned Mexican gentleman. He was beer loving potbellied and dressed in stained sweatpants and a Pantera concert T-shirt. His eyebrows were large and fuzzy and grown together to form one giant unibrow that cut a bushy horizontal slash along the upper half of his face. The eyes were charcoal black with gold irises and the teeth very unnaturally long and very unnaturally sharp. He tirelessly picked his nose and greedily devoured whatever snotty treasures he discovered.
The one in the middle must be a Republican. A proud Rush Limbaugh dittohead filled with an obscene abundance of Anglo-Saxon Caucasian moral and financial conceited superiority. The idea of Ronald Reagan’s face added to Mount Rushmore probably made his dick hard. He was tall and in good shape and the brown suit and red tie he was wearing dirty and overdue for a pressing, but besides that smart and conservative. A small American flag was pinned to the left lapel of his jacket. He featured Clark Kent hair, dark and cut neat and strict, greasy like it were combed with slices of buttered toast. The vampire fangs inside his blood slobbering mouth were white the same as powdered sugar and serrated as much as the cutting edge of a steak knife and were the only thing outwardly showing he didn’t work in some medium high six figure capacity at a savings and loan bank and volunteer his evenings to a committee dedicated to keep another pro-abortion liberal judge off the Supreme Court.
Number three was Linda Blair in Roller Boogie. Frizzy brunette hair trapped in a tacky perm and the headband circling her cranium scaled in purple sequins. Her teenage physique was still hoarding plenty of baby fat and encased in control top pantyhose and a flashy purple Danskin leotard. Her roller skates were hot pink with neon bright orange laces. There were plenty of freckles on her dimpled cheeks and her fangs resplendent smile was as wholesome as acid thrown into your face.
The four undead commenced to close in on the man and zombie couple. Uschi assumed a protective stance in front of Denny. The compulsion to quote Rock ’N Roll High School was overwhelming. “’This is the big time, girlie. This is rock ’n roll.’”
Linda Blair in Roller Boogie was the nearest, and Uschi threw back the skirt of her cocktail dress and attacked with a swift Rockette’s high kick to the face that sent the high heel of her shoe up beneath the chin and stabbing through the floor of the mouth and spearing the tongue and burying itself in the palate. The roller disco queen of the dead spasmed and convulsed at the end of Uschi’s leg like a bug pinned to a corkboard, her clattering skates frantically scurrying over the floor and gaining her no traction. She spewed hemorrhaging blood from both her mouth and nostrils. The shoe heel was lodged in there impressively firm; Uschi didn’t bother with trying to free it, opting instead to slip her foot out and leave it behind for a falling ungracefully to her ass Linda Blair in Roller Boogie to keep and enjoy.
Next she put her hands on the ringleader, the delicious Li’l Bocephus. She put him in an arm lock powerful enough to double him over and spun him around to face where he had just been. Taking hold of him by his ugly-ass red hair along the back of his skull, she none too gently steered him into the bathroom sink. An unprepared to counter such an aggression Li’l Bocephus had just enough time to scream “Cocksucker!” before his brand-new eyeball went into the faucet’s spigot. The optical organ ruptured with a gush of blood and jelly and made a mean and juicy sound like a nailgun puncturing a ripe cantaloupe as the faucet penetrated the eye socket to its full length. Damned if he didn’t become wedged in there tight. Try as he might, it was impossible for a cussing and fussing Li’l Bocephus to pull himself loose of the sink. Uschi left him there fucked up sound and proper.
Unibrow Mexican she went after now. She kicked off her one remaining shoe for better and faster maneuverability and was on him before he had barely a chance to realize he was next on her hit list. He was confused and unbalanced to have intended prey come forward and confront him instead of the typical other way around. He was too slow to react in any meaningful way. Uschi gave him a backhanded slap from hell that threw him face-first into a urinal so hard the entire men’s room wall trembled dramatically from the awesome impact. The porcelain broke and many shards of varying shape and size embedded themselves in Unibrow Mexican’s face and neck. Somehow the piss-soaked soap cake at the bottom hopped up and managed to go in his mouth and slipped whole down his throat like the world’s biggest aspirin. The taste was nothing for him to get excited for.
Uschi then stomped down across the back of his neck, and his mouth slammed on the urinal’s edge. A fair majority of fangs were snapped off at the gum line and sent scattering over the floor like dropped loose change. The plumbing held together—Unibrow Mexican not so much. Muscles, tendons and stringy gristle and such tore away and the skull and spine’s cervical section parted ways. The head of Unibrow Mexican ripped off above the lower jaw and was left behind at the bottom of the urinal; it situated in a position where blinking eyes could look out over the men’s room, the expression to them quite a bit on the baffled side of things.
Surprisingly, this did not actually qualify as a complete decapitation.
With the gore wet fart noisily flowing from him like a spraying lawn sprinkler, what was Unibrow Mexican from the chin on down sprang erect and put on a show. He waved his arms in front of him and set off blindly running from one end of the bathroom to the other. His spry self tripped over anything happening to come under his feet and he bounced rough off of the walls whenever he struck them. His undulating dark tongue was reared back like a cobra anxious to strike and was now the highest part of his person.
“Hey, look at me go!” yelled Uschi, blood spattered and unabashedly proud with her big-busted walking dead self. She put arms out wide and was bouncing her titties and shaking her ass like a hyperactive Vegas showgirl. “I’m happily kicking the snot outta all y’all despicable motherfuckers!”
With flashing fangs and mouth distended to impossible proportions, the Republican attacked like a savage beast operating entirely on agitation and blood lust. He charged the homemade zombie girlfriend. And she greeted the charge with a straight-hand chop descending from above to the top of his head. Uschi’s fingers, strong as steel rebar, cleaved through the conservative vampire’s skull like the blade of a broadsword and didn’t stop until arriving at about mid-throat. The divided head yawned apart like a fat phone book opening along the middle, each skull half coming to lay on top of a shoulder. The blood poured a copious amount and the brain matter that wormed its way between her fingers felt as mushy as overcooked white rice drowned in brown beef gravy.
The Republican’s gurgling cries were quite similar to those of the commode with the plumbing trouble. He sank to the floor like a withering plant, settled toes up. His limbs feebly thrashed and kicked.
Uschi made haste and lifted a foot and stomped him a good one dead center of his stomach, and the things inside him ruptured with a terrible authority. He super herniated with his scrotum ballooning to the bursting point and producing a D-Day on Normandy beach gore splatter in his pants. The belly split open along opposite sides and passed rich and chunky mashed viscera. Colon was turned inside out and shotgunned from the prolapsed anus, a septic tank of a disaster was let loose in the seat of his boxer shorts. Other intestinal matter was forced up the esophagus and vomited from the throat, pooling on the floor between the two head halves.
By now Unibrow Mexican from the chin down had found the men’s room door and was somehow working it open. When the sounds of Feces from the Ass on stage came flooding inside, Uschi looked up just in time to see him scamper outside.
She turned her head toward Denny, smiling wickedly sly and sexy the exact same way Ellen Barkin did to Dennis Quaid in those special scenes in The Big Easy, and told him in Nipsey Russell worthy rhyme, “I’ll be back in a flash, and later tonight I’m gonna give you permission to fuck me wild and funky in the ass.”
And then she was in hot pursuit, determined not to let the job go halfass, and was out of the men’s room in the blink of an eye.
Denny Gleeth was on his own.
Not long after Uschi’s abrupt departure, Linda Blair in Roller Boogie was finally successful in prying the shoe from her mouth. The shoe heel puncture wound behind her chin was a vaginal-like slit that leaked a steady flow of syrupy blood and spittle down the front of her. She rose to her feet, looking around for something to take her frustrations out on. She right soon settled on Denny. She hissed at him like an aggravated Gila monster.
“Bleached assholes and Harlan Ellison,” he cussed under his breath.
She executed a number of nifty disco moves as she rolled toward him, whirling herself around in tight pirouettes and hips wiggling and the occasional legs split. The whole while she was in motion she softly sang to herself “Boogie Wonderland.”
The band started in on “No More Mr. Nice Guy,” and Unibrow Mexican from the chin on down picked that moment to dash onto Club Mutt’s dance floor. His was a presence that couldn’t be ignored, arms windmilling every which way and his fat gut bouncing and his tongue flopping up and down like a madman operating a sock puppet over the jagged shards of ruined fangs running along the lower jaw. He continued to lavishly bleed, spurting and spewing in all directions from his raw stump, and, what with the strobe lights flashing around him and the music thumbing and smoke machine billowing between his nonstop going legs, was an instant success with the crowd. It was simple for most to imagine it was like a lost scene from the Thriller music video. An Alice Cooper song seemed the perfect music to accompany him.