by Tony Ungawa
Shitfire, that looked real. And painful. And good enough to cause honest to God authentic damage on a body.
But not painful or damaging enough to put the Lampshade Maniac down for the three count. The wrestler grunted like a bad tempered bull and shook his head a few times as if he were warding off something as simple as a sudden chill, and then he was getting to his feet and turning himself in Denny’s direction.
The lampshade that concealed his whole head and face was turquoise in color and matched well with his navy blue tights and laced up boots. The hit to his skull had smashed and crumpled one side of it in a fair share. He now from the shoulders up looked lopsided.
This up close, Denny could make out the two little eyeholes the Maniac looked through. That unblinking stare he was giving him didn’t appear to be all too tolerably sociable. The red and puss-fattened body acne from years of steroids and other growth hormones abuse was everywhere on his shaved smooth and tanning salon bronzed monstrous physique. He was slimed in a heavy coating of dripping sweat and smelled of ass and feet.
There is an unwritten rule in professional wrestling that only a select few fans of the sport ever learn firsthand. That rule is if you get in that ring uninvited, then you’re taking your life in your own hands.
Fuck the script and the rehearsals, this shit just turned real.
The Lampshade Maniac, twice the size of scrawny Denny, came for him. This didn’t seem to trouble Denny, who held the chair below his waist and pointed down to the mat. He kept on keeping on with his smiling and didn’t give an inch before the giant wrestler’s approach.
“I’m gonna pop you like a dog tic, boy,” the wrestler growled through his lampshade.
When he was in range, Denny abruptly struck out with the chair. He swung with an upward backhanded motion, too fast for the Lampshade Maniac to raise his arms in hopes of defending himself against, and connected inside the lampshade and directly under the chin. This headshot was even worse than the original one was.
The auditorium crowd collectively cringed and cried “Oooooo!” at the moment of devastating impact. The Lampshade Maniac’s teeth were slammed together, many fracturing and shedding enamel shards, and profuse bleeding from the mouth was quick to start pouring out from behind the lampshade. His head was batted back and he teetered on the heels of his wrestling boots.
Denny didn’t give him a chance for any recovery. As he was reeling, the metal folding chair came back around and slapped against his chiseled six-pack abs with all the loving compassion and tenderness of a head on collision between two garbage trucks. That took the air from him and doubled him over. He was laid wide open for Denny’s patented finishing maneuver.
Up went the chair above Denny’s head. The crowd was back into the action, cheering and stamping their feet. Denny’s tattooed arms brought it down as hard as he could work it across the rear half of the Lampshade Maniac’s head.
BAM!
Knocked the ever-loving and living shit out of the muscle-bound jabroni and left him laid out flat on the mat.
Denny quoted the late great Gorilla Monsoon. “’Stick a fork in him. He’s done.’”
Denny stood victorious over his foe and basked in the appreciation of the audience. He never saw the huge and hairy knuckled fist coming at him.
Again the wrestling fans cringed and cried “Oooo!” when they witnessed the severity of the punch to the side of Denny’s face. Down he went, hurting and bleeding from a cut beneath an eye and harming the integrity of his ducktail hairstyle. He was able to prop himself up on one elbow and try and look up. Through the pain fog that distorted his eyesight, Denny was just able to make out the shaggy and savage form of the modern day barbarian, Thongor Bronson himself, towering over him and set to really get started with the high caliber ass kicking.
“Dude,” Denny moaned as his face throbbed, “it’s cool. I’m here to save you.”
Long strands of brownish-red hair ran down past Thongor’s troglodyte prominent slopping brow and hung in front of his eyes. He was breathing hard and heavy with the occasional booger blasted from a nostril and redeposited into his bushy wildman beard. It was Thongor Bronson, in his furry tights and needing no one to save him. He sneered and said, “Fucking pencil neck geek.”
He raised a booted foot, intentions to stomp Denny’s face in, but Uschi and her extraordinary feminine curves entered the ring in time to prevent that from happening.
Wrestling fans weren’t too sure how to react to the arrival of a voluptuous green woman with barbed wire running through different parts of her figure and a face so decomposed it barely at best could any longer pass for a human being’s. So they for the most part remained neutral. A little polite applause from some and a few jeers coming out of others.
As Thongor was standing balanced on a single foot, she came up on the modern day barbarian from behind and sucker punched his ass in the kidneys. He hadn’t ever been hit that hard before. And God willing, he never would be again.
Thongor couldn’t keep erect after a turd walloping such as that, the strength just all of a sudden evaporating out of his barbarian physique. He collapsed like melting butter to his knees. His face flushed with humiliation as he listened to the sad and long-winded pitiful weak man’s moan that escaped past his lips. A line of sloppy drool began to unspool from his slack mouth. The ruined kidney made him unable to stop his bladder from voiding. The front of his fur-covered tights became a sopping wet mess of blood and piss.
Reaching out at him from behind, Uschi took hold of his face with her hands. The smell of advanced corpse decay and insect repellent wafting off of her almost drove him to vomit. Uschi, in-between sucking at the popcorn kernels and rodent hairs and roach carapace shards caught between her teeth, politely but firmly informed Thongor, “Excuse me, sir. I represent the estate of the late Lin Carter. This is your cease and desist order in using the copyrighted name of Mr. Carter’s beloved Lemurian barbarian character.”
Her fingers dug in like steel hooks in a side of beef, ruthlessly piercing facial matter. Thongor commenced screaming. Uschi hardly noticed any resistance from his pliant flesh as she pulled the two sides of his face in opposite directions. Skin was stretched, became taut, and finally reached the limit of its elasticity and snapped.
The face ruptured open with a rich spew of gore that darkened a fair majority of the canvas mat and managed to blood spatter freckle the first three rows of wrestling enthusiasts facing Thongor. As she continued to pull, it split in two down the middle. Skin and muscle and all other things facial came away from the bone.
Thongor’s screaming was over.
Uschi crammed one whole handful in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. That was one tasty half of face. The other handful of face followed the first into her hungry mouth. The beard whiskers helped bring out the flesh’s natural flavor.
The naked skullface of Thongor Bronson was like the poster art for an early 1970s Amicus horror picture suddenly and quite successfully brought into reality. With the unruly and filthy barbarian hair swinging in front of it, the unveiled bone was pearly white, with very little blood smears marring its smooth complexion, and shiny wet under the Kaki Hunter Sports Auditorium’s lights. His fear and agony dilated eyes were still intact within the sockets, now lidless and as big around as ripe oranges. Absent any lips, it was now unattractively obvious that the wrestler suffered from gum disease problems and they were receding from his smoker’s stained teeth. The nasal cavity drained clear, watery mucus. The tip of his moist tongue poked out past the teeth and did a bit of wiggling, but only for a brief moment.
Thongor fell dead at Uschi’s feet. Not a single spasm or squirm left in the remains, instantly at rest and unmoving. One, two, three—ring the bell. The modern day barbarian was off to that big wrestling federation in the sky.
Auditorium security, fat, middle-aged weekend wannabe cops armed with only rubber nightsticks and watered down pepper spray, finally arrived at ringside and were about to storm the r
ing, but when they witnessed the gruesome face eating, they stopped and seriously hesitated about going any further. Might be this was a something they shouldn’t tangle with.
The crowd was apeshit with panic. The may be professional wrestling aficionados, but they still knew enough to know when something real was really real. And, brother, this was real. That guy in the center of the ring was just barehanded murdered. A collective decision all at once passed through everyone’s head: This was the time when the getting was good to get the fuck on out of this place and not look back. A mad stampede broke out for all available exits.
Uschi rushed to Denny’s side and knelt beside him. The worry was easy to read in her expression. “And how’s my best thing doing?”
He was going to have a whale of a bruise there on his face. The cut under his eye continued to leak; it would require doctoring. It had to be hurting him something terrible. Her poor best thing.
Despite all that horseshit, Denny gave his graveyard ghoul girl a little fondle along her right boob, cupping what he could fit in the palm of his hand. He let his thumb pleasingly rub over the T-shirt and make her nipple beneath stand at attention. “Ain’t no need to be all concerned, sugar cube,” he good-naturedly informed over the chaos of the fleeing audience. “I happily assure you I am still moving and grooving and boogalooing with the best of them.”
Uschi looked to the hooter in question that was receiving the heavy petting, and then back at the beautiful man who was doing it to her. In answer to his feeling her up, one of her copiously blood-dripping hands ventured to his crotch, unzipped him, and exuberantly reached inside. He jolted and sucked in his wind and managed quite well to never falter in continuing to give her tit attention as she indulged in a hardy handful of hard-on.
Uschi told him, “I love you.”
Denny smiled with only one side of his mouth and did his best Han Solo at the end of Empire response, “I know.”
PART 2
Later, at Corpus Christi’s only Half Price Books, the two lovebirds huddled close together amongst the shelves in the MEDICAL section and were hot and bothered lost in an old autopsy manual that provided a wealth of graphic photographs. The book’s contents were lust at first sight for the both of them. Who would have ever imagined the illustrated step-by-step guide for the proper procedural for spleen removal could be so romantic?
“Are you what we think you are?” The question was asked with one part wonder, another part fanboy getting to meet a celebrity hyperactivity, and a dash of disbelieving skepticism.
Uschi looked up from the manual. “I don’t know,” she said. “Depends on who y’all might be taking the time and effort to think I am.”
The ones asking were a pair of gawky teenage boys wearing tawdry horror movie T-shirts and ugly punk rock haircuts. Plenty of pimples and overweight and the two of them were probably the only friend each other had. There were difficulties maintaining eye contact with her, what with them braless Gojira-proportioned knockers under her T-shirt an out of control grass fire in your very own front yard major distraction. But one boy found enough willpower to look her in the face and asked, “Aw, you know, one of them? Like from the movies?”
Denny was using the distraction to work on his ducktail. Comb out of his pocket and molding and striving for perfect hair. His black and blue face bruise was major and Neosporin and butterfly sutures were applied to his cut. There was going to be a scar. That was fine and dandy. Uschi said she thought scars were sexy.
The other boy joined in on the conversation. “You know, one of them? ‘They’re coming to get you, Barbara.’ You know what we mean, yeah? ‘When there is no more room in hell the dead will walk the earth.’ That kind of folk? ‘Brrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiins … More brrrraaaaiiiins.’ Is that what you’re up to?”
She raised a hand and put a not that innocent coquettish look upon her beyond the body bag face. “Guilty as charged.”
“Cool,” said one boy.
“Righteous,” spoke the other.
“That’s right, gentlemen,” said Denny. He finished for the time being with his hair and wrapped an arm around his walking dead honey. Uschi leaned in close and snuggled against him. With his other hand he hiked up her skirt the short distance required to leave her beaver open for a peek. “Say your Satanic prayers, eat your vitamins, and do good in school, and maybe one day you too can achieve quality pussy such as this for yourself.”
For both boys this was the first time they ever saw a real female pussy. This up close they could smell the rancid juices and count the cracks in the desiccated rock hard clit.
No way could the two young geeks not avoid making cock snot in their pants after noticing lady business as blissful as that. So fucking awesome. This was the kind of behavior you’d expect to see on the red carpet by a porn star nominee attending the Adult Video Awards, not a used bookstore customer. Best. Book. Shopping. Trip. Ever.
“Could we maybe get your autograph?” Perspiring and his face flush in the afterglow of cuming in his underwear; his arms went out, reaching toward Uschi with a ballpoint pen and a paperback copy of Resurrection Dreams by Richard Laymon. Uschi would have also accepted The Book of the Dead edited by John Skipp and Craig Spector or anything by Brian Keene.
“Ah, the demands of being famous,” she joked and took the pen and book in her hands. She asked for the boys names and scribbled this on the dedication page:
To Bismark and Faust,
Fuck something dead any chance you can get.
Breast wishes,
Uschi
They thanked her and soon moved on, thrilled more than they had ever yet been in their lives.
“Well,” commented Denny, “it’s good to know the youth of America has got its shit straight.”
PART 3
Here it was. At long last.
The ocean.
Denny was actually for the first time ever here and laying eyeballs on it. Experiencing it. He had made it. Another life-long dream of his come true, motherfuckers.
The tide came in and loudly crashed against the beach of Corpus Christi Bay. The calendar said fall was fast approaching, but the weather said different. Summer was continuing to go strong in these whereabouts. The night air on the Gulf of Mexico coastline was hot and humid and quite still, made a body easily turn to sweating and feeling sticky. In the moonlight, the frothy whitecap crests on the incoming waves appeared to be the same chrome coloring as great pools of mercury.
Denny stood on the edge of the water. He wore baggy swim trunks; ace bandages were wound Aztec mummy snug around his ribs and there was an amazed expression over his features. Time to go for it. Tentatively, he ventured toward the water. The first wave to come at him scared him. He yelped and retreated from it, feet backpedaling.
You can do this. I know it.
Again he approached the water, determined this time to surrender no ground. He met the next wave. It splashed against his calves and submerged his feet. The wet sand tickled as it passed between his toes. It weren’t that bad. Kinda nice, in fact. It didn’t feel like any pool or bath water he’d ever come across. It was surprisingly cool and seemed to feel thicker than what he was accustomed to.
He dared to go further. Arms elevated, he waded in until it was around his waist. A new wave struck, hitting him in the chest, spraying his face in sea foam and leaving droplets falling off the end of his nose. He laughed a little bit and lowered his inky arms into the water. He was out far enough now he could push off with his feet and float and bob on the surface before slowly sinking back down to the sandy bottom.
I’m doing it. I’m in the ocean. Fucked by a Democrat while a Republican videotapes it, I’m one frolicking in the Atlantic crazy asshole.
Denny stayed out for a while. Playing and laughing and enjoying himself. There was nothing Esther Williams graceful to report here; he got about in the waves as lithe as a mischievous monkey in pancake batter, a lot of flopping and splashing and churning up a turbulent spray in his wak
e wherever he went. But who cared how pretty he looked? It was fun. He was having an adventure he would always cherish.
Finally, tired and feeling his skin starting to prune, he returned to dry land. Uschi was waiting for him at the picnic area they had set up for themselves. It was after midnight, not another soul in sight, and the beach seemed reserved exclusively for the two of them.
Uschi was sitting on a large beach towel with paper plates and drinks spread out before her. She dressed in a taking care of business wickedly provocative red sequined tiny slingshot bikini that hardly bothered to cover her top and with a holy shit thin butt floss thong that went deep between the ass cheeks and rode up camel toe perfection snug against her magnificent pussy. The new fridge magnet stuck to the tuna can was a watermelon slice.
As Denny sat panting and dripping wet across from her on the towel, she struggled to find just the right way to spray a blast of Raid ant and roach killer on her armpits. “Putting deodorant on with big tits,” she said, “is like working for a moving company.” Eventually, she figured it out and saw the good zombie hygiene task through. Her attention she subsequently put on him.
“Well, best thing, how was it? Was it as Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange as you hoped it would be?”
And Denny gave her a beaming smile. His hair was a tragedy. It was now sopping wet and the salt water had made simple work of washing any trace of the Hep Cat pomade out, had lost all psychobilly ducktail shape and definition. Catch his second wind, and then he’d get a comb and set to work on repairs. “Ah, sugar cube, it was all that and more from beginning to end.”
“That’s what I was hoping to hear. Can we talk, best thing?”
“Well, sure. What do you want to talk about?”
“Are you okay with the way things have turned out? You’re homemade zombie girlfriend having plenty of attitude and taking you away from the Big Kahuna Trailer Park Oasis and setting you off in all these wild hair up the ass escapades? Do you ever regret me coming into your quiet, alone nerd boy life? Do I make you happy?”