by Jeff Strand
She didn’t deserve help.
Dozens of innocent children she should have protected.
"All my fault…" she whispered, running her fingers over the newspaper clippings.
Children from all over the country.
Children she’d never even seen.
When Charles came home from work that evening, she was still staring at them.
Common Sense
There were a million good reasons why I shouldn’t steal the Idol of Trychen, the legendary cursed voodoo relic that had gruesomely taken the lives of all who dared touch its bloodstained surface.
So I didn’t.
Gross-Out!
Story notes for the other tales in this collection are at the back of the book. This one, on the other hand, requires some up-front discussion…
Each year, the World Horror Convention features a gross-out contest, where classy folks share the most disgusting, depraved, putrescent, vile tales imaginable. The whole event is foul beyond compare, but it’s, y’know, a good kind of foul beyond compare. Unless, of course, you’re one of those whiners who’s all like "It’s casting our genre in a negative light! It’s casting our genre in a negative light! Waah! Waah!"
Anyway, in 2005 I had no plans to participate in the gross-out contest. I figured I’d just watch, see what it was all about, and participate the following year. But famous author Brian Keene, who was hosting that year, forced me to participate. I didn’t have anything gross prepared, so I simply read my non-gross story "Really, Really Ferocious" and added the following coda: "And then the old man went back into his house, where he slurped a quart of pus from Brian Keene’s open mouth."
I did not win. But the audience loved the story.
In 2006, I was actually prepared, and I read the following tale…
««—»»
Your teenage years are awkward enough without discovering that you’ve acquired a taste for vomit. But that’s what happened to me. While I was kissing my first true love, Melissa Pacione, my freakishly long tongue danced across her uvula, and suddenly I had myself a mouthful of regurgitation.
"Don’t swallow it! Don’t swallow it!" Melissa cried out, but it was like getting a second helping of the scrumptious meatloaf we’d eaten for dinner. I gulped it down and thanked her. Melissa ran away as if I had barfed in her mouth, and I never saw her again.
Having discovered this new element of my personality, I became an enthusiastic consumer of upchuck. I’d fill a wheelbarrow with cheap liquor, push it down under the bridge where all the homeless people lived, and just let them drink themselves into a puking frenzy. I had to be quick to get my mouth under the foamy spew in time, and sometimes choice chunks got away from me, and sometimes I had to suffer the indignity of lapping it up off the ground, but still, I was content.
But after a couple of weeks, I realized that an addiction to homeless wino puke just wasn’t what I wanted out of life. I tried vomiting into a beer mug and drinking that, and with a touch of garlic salt it was actually pretty tasty…but I knew deep inside that drinking your own vomit is kind of sick.
So I hung around bars, and doctor’s offices during stomach flu season, and this Greek restaurant that had a generous expiration date policy on its meat, but while it was tasty, none of it gave me the rush as when I’d drank from Melissa. And then it hit me: I enjoyed puke the most when it came from somebody I loved.
I loved my mother.
"That’s so sweet of you to pick up dinner," she said, opening the take-out Chinese food container. She took a quick whiff. "Oooh, this smells kind of rancid."
"It’s a new recipe," I said.
"What’s that green stuff floating in the egg-drop soup?"
"Green eggs. It’s a Dr. Seuss promotion."
We had a lovely dinner, and I waited for the precious moment when I could gulp down some mom-vomit from the point of origin…but nothing happened! For dessert I gave her a mixture of spoiled milk, Listerine, and ancient tuna, and then I waited and waited but the bitch didn’t even belch!
Now, you’re probably going to judge me on this, but you would have done the same thing in my situation. I bashed her over the head with a crowbar, ripped open her belly with the tuna can lid, and thrust my face into her stomach to slurp away at the slightly digested meal. I dove so deep that stomach fluids seeped into my ears. I guzzled that unpuked puke like it was a cold beer on a hot summer day, and when I’d drank my fill I gargled a mouthful, spat it back into her gut, and then blew bubbles in it, mainly to lighten the mood and ease the post-matricide guilt trip.
After it was over, I felt…unfulfilled.
That’s when I discovered that a) incest was overrated, b) necrophilia was underrated, and c) going at it with the lower intestine doesn’t require lubrication.
But that, my friends, is another story.
««—»»
It’s worth noting that this charming saga was about .007% as gross as the average gross-out contest entry. The 2006 winner, Cullen Bunn, had more grossness in one sentence than I did in my entire story. There’s something very wrong with Cullen. Avoid him.
Still, I came in third place and won a banana-flavored gummi slug, which I still have. If you ever come over to my house I’ll let you lick it. (It’s still in the original packaging, so that’s not as much fun as it sounds.)
For 2007, I was determined to finally win the gross-out contest but—spoiler warning—I didn’t. In fact, I came in third again. And I was still .007% as gross as the other participants when I read this story…
««—»»
T’was a fine summer eve as I knelt behind my betrothed, making love to her in the style of the canine. It was a celebration of sorts, commemorating the one month anniversary of my providing oral pleasure without a dental dam, and because of this, I’d been allowed to enter the "special occasions" orifice.
As I thrust away in a most merry manner, I noticed that the pleasurable tightness this orifice previously offered was lacking. I also questioned the quantity of moisture therein, which seemed to be a substantial increase from previous sessions.
I gazed downward at my engorged phallus in motion, and let out a gasp of astonishment at the sight that met my eyes. The orifice that I was so gleefully boning, and the lower, more traditionally used orifice, had become one and the same!
"Gracious!" I cried, so startled that I was almost compelled to stop thrusting. "What madness is this? Instead of your typical division of feminine entrances I see but a gaping, glistening gorge!"
"Don’t stop!" she pleaded.
My pelvis complied with her request. A foul discharge with the appearance of bloody egg yolk and the scent of mayonnaise past its prime squirted out of her, splattering all over my wooly mat of pubic hair.
"What has happened here?" I inquired. "Am I to understand that you’ve been afflicted with crotch rot?"
My beloved gazed back at me. "Harder!"
I thrust harder. A fountain of milky brown fluid sprayed into the air as if she’d sprung a leak. I clutched at her cheeks of passion and recoiled as they split apart, accompanied by a jettison of thick sticky feces-tainted love juice that covered my body. I spat out that which I hadn’t swallowed, and tried to withdraw.
"No! You mustn’t!"
"This is no longer pleasurable!" I insisted. "My erection drips with matter both runny and in chunks, but yet encounters no resistance while inside your body! It is as if I am penetrating a large leaking echoing tube! I shall never attain my climax in this fashion!"
"Give it to me, bitch!" she demanded.
And so I did. With my next powerful thrust, her buttocks burst in an explosion of yellow fatty blobs. I thrust repeatedly, ignoring the bones and organs that broke apart in my wake by thinking about baseball. As I fornicated my way through her body, my knees slipped on some intestine and I nearly lost my balance, but I kept going like the man that I am. Finally, my penis protruded from her open mouth, in the opposite direction to which we were accustomed.
&n
bsp; I stared at the remains of the woman in my life, which soaked the bedsheets, and felt great sorrow. But at least she came first for once.
««—»»
That ending was a last-minute addition, because my original plan was to end the story with "…and felt great sorrow…and great shame…and great misery…and great woe…" and so on until my time was up and the bouncers forcibly dragged me from the stage. But two other contestants who went before me also used the trick of being dragged off-stage against their will, so I needed an actual ending.
I’d write a better one for this collection, but then I’d be compromising the integrity of my gross-out contest entry, and I’m sure you’d want no part of that.
Bad Coffee
As Richard sipped from his mug, he noticed that the coffee was a bit…off. Not off in a "Dear God, what wretched vile cretin brewed this foul sludge?" way, and not off in a way that would cause him to make obnoxious gagging sounds and spit the coffee out onto a household pet, but just…off.
He ventured another sip. Nope. Not good coffee. Still, he’d cheerfully slurp peat moss if it had enough caffeine, so he wasn’t going to complain. In the future, he’d simply avoid buying ridiculously inexpensive coffee beans from sinister looking people on the street.
As he gulped down some more, a small pink tongue flicked out of his reflection at the bottom of the mug.
With a loud gasp, Richard pulled the cup away from his mouth. He spent a few moments nearly choking to death, spent a few more moments recovering from nearly having choked to death, and then spent some additional moments convincing himself that he had not, in fact, seen a tongue in his mug.
He peeked again. The tongue protruded from his reflection and splashed around in the coffee. As he watched in horror, it rolled itself up lengthwise and blew bubbles in the liquid. Then, with a fast licking motion, it flung some of the coffee into his eye.
Richard dropped the mug, which struck the kitchen floor but did not break. He dabbed at his eye with the bottom of his shirt as he tried to figure out how to handle the situation. Running around the house letting out girlish shrieks was the most appealing option, but Richard decided to try something a bit more masculine.
The mug rested on its side. Richard crouched down on the kitchen floor and peered into the mug from several feet away. From here, he could vaguely see his reflection…
…and the tongue shot out like that of a frog, sticking to the center of his forehead. The mug followed as if attached to a rubber band, flying across the floor and smacking him in the face. The tongue licked Richard’s nose and then retreated back into the mug.
Richard let out one of the girlish shrieks.
He hurriedly got to his feet and kicked the mug as hard as he could. It flew against the oven and shattered, spraying drops of coffee and shards of glass everywhere. The tongue squirmed through the wreckage, moving toward him.
Richard ran forward and slammed his fuzzy-slipper-covered foot down but missed.
The tongue flapped at him.
Richard decided that after he squished the tongue, he’d say something like "How did that taste?" He stomped several times but the tongue continued to wiggle out of the way.
Finally he got the tip of it under his slipper, and then crushed the rest of it with his other foot, smiling at the satisfying splat. Instead of his witty comment, he settled for a primal scream of victory.
He’d learned his lesson. He would never, ever buy cheap coffee again.
««—»»
And deep beneath the city of Seattle, in a luxurious bunker, Starbucks executives laughed and laughed and laughed.
Werewolf Porno
"Fluffer!"
Carl watched the silicone-enhanced blonde let out an annoyed sigh, shove a bookmark into her copy of Women Who Do Too Much, and walk across the set. Without a word she knelt down in front of Teddy "Third-Leg" Tracer and went to work.
This was Carl’s first time on the set of an adult motion picture, and he was still getting used to the fact that people could be standing around looking bored while an attractive woman performed oral sex. Most of them weren’t even watching! He wanted to shout "Hey, you jaded idiots, there’s a hot chick in a thong bikini giving a blowjob here! What the hell is your problem? Gape, already!"
Even Teddy didn’t seem all that interested in what was happening below his waist. Carl, who had never gotten oral pleasure that didn’t receive his 100% undivided attention, wanted to slap the guy with one of the strap-ons that had been used in the previous scene.
"Let’s go, let’s go!" shouted the director, Garry Ecks. "Time is money!"
The fluffer pulled her mouth away from Teddy, which took a moment. "If you’re in such a big hurry, you suck it."
Garry ignored the comment and turned his attention to the lead actress. "Darla, dammit, if you don’t quit moving I’m going to weld your knees to that mattress! We’re on a tight schedule here!"
Darla Duncan was one of the rising stars of the adult entertainment world. She was nineteen years old and had skyrocketed to fame after starring in the incredibly popular reality porn series Darla Dares, where she’d pick up random guys off the street and perform whatever acts they dared her to do (they were usually naughty). Less than half an hour ago, Carl had learned that the "random" guys were in fact paid actors and that the entire series was completely scripted. A little bit of light had faded from his world.
Darla was currently on her hands and knees on the bed. She shifted positions long enough to give Garry the finger. He glared at her, glared at a few random crew members for no apparent reason, then glared at Teddy. "Are you ready yet?"
Teddy gave him a thumbs-up sign. "Hard as molten steel, baby."
"Molten steel is melted steel, dipshit," said the fluffer.
"No, it’s not. It’s rock-hard steel."
"No, it’s steel in liquid form. In times of yore, blacksmiths would pour it into molds to create weapons and tools for use by the populace."
Teddy frowned. "Huh?"
"Goddammit, stop confusing my star!" Garry shouted.
"Since when the fuck is he the star?" Darla demanded.
"Enough!"
"It’s my name selling DVDs, not his!"
"I said enough!"
Teddy put his hand on the fluffer’s head and chuckled. "Here, babe, create my weapon for use by the…uh…"
"Put your hand on me again and I’ll gnaw your dick off."
"Enough! Enough! Enough! Enough! Enough! Enough! Enough! Enough! Enough! Enough!" Garry’s face looked almost fluorescent red and Carl worried that his brains might pop out of his head like a money shot. "We’re on a tight schedule here and we don’t have time for this! Teddy, are you good to go or not?"
"My weapon is ready, baby."
"Then get on the goddamn bed! You need to get in there, come, and get out so we can set up the orgy! Is everybody ready to go? You all damn well better be ready to go! Action!"
Teddy climbed on the bed behind Darla, grabbed her by the hips, and thrust his extremely ample manhood into her. They went at it for a few moments until Garry shouted "Cut!"
"Cut? What do you mean, cut?" asked Darla.
"Could you please try to pretend that you’re getting some pleasure out of this? He’s not defragmenting your hard drive, he’s screwing you! Act like you’re getting screwed! Put on your ‘I’m getting screwed’ face, for fuck’s sake!"
"Should I pull out?" asked Teddy.
"Yes! Pull out! We’re gonna start over!"
Teddy withdrew and got off the bed. Darla gave Garry the finger again.
"Keep it up and by this time tomorrow you’ll be turning twenty dollar tricks at the geriatric ward," said Garry. "Are we still taping? Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go! Teddy, are you ready?"
"Hell yeah. I’m gonna defragment her hard drive, baby."
"You are such a dumbass," the fluffer informed him.
"Shut up, everyone! Action!"
Teddy got back on the bed and re-entere
d Darla. Carl didn’t notice any real change in her demeanor, but Garry seemed satisfied and stopped shouting for a few minutes.
Jeez, he’s good, Carl thought as Teddy pounded into her over and over at a staggering pace. God, and he had at least three inches on Carl, possibly four. (Carl didn’t have a ruler handy, nor was he willing to endure the socially awkward situation of asking Teddy to submit to a measurement, particularly when his penis was busy.) The first tremors of performance anxiety started to form in the pit of his stomach.
Garry had assured him that his lack of a gargantuan phallus was okay, and that he wouldn’t be expected to go at it like a seasoned porn star. "You’ll just lie there; she’ll do all the work," the director had explained. "As long as the moon does the trick, we’ll have ourselves the ultimate porno flick, a bestiality masterpiece beyond anything the world has ever seen!"
Carl was a werewolf. Once a month, on the night of the full moon, he’d lock himself in his basement, transform into a snarling, howling beast, scrape the hell out of the concrete walls, and then return to human form by morning. He always took precautions and he’d never killed anybody, not even the neighbor’s cat. He’d been bitten three years ago, during a camping trip that had been rather pleasant and relaxing until the gory werewolf attack. Though the first few months had been kind of rough, these days it was really not much more than a minor inconvenience, sort of like menstruation.