“Don’t do it, Freddy. You’ll be sorry. I’ll make you skin your own penis with a cheese grater tomorrow if you fuck with me!”
Freddy was used to the threats. He didn’t care what the dog said. This would be its last day on earth. Freddy threw the match. He turned to get the fire extinguisher from under the sink as the dog began to howl and scream in indescribable agony. There was definitely something odd about the dog. Normal canines didn’t scream or talk for that matter or live after they’d been stabbed, shot, bludgeoned, and disemboweled.
The dog was trying to bite at the flames. It’s teeth were bared in a threatening snarl as it attacked the immediate source of its pain. The fire rapidly crawled up its back, shearing through the mangy tufts of hair as it began to consume the dog’s living tissue. The little fat still clinging to the dog’s emaciated body added fuel to the fire and furthered the progress of the flames. The poodle’s flesh was starting to bubble and run like frying lard. Both of its eyes were sizzling in their sockets like sunny-side-up eggs. They exploded with an audible pop.
Freddy sprayed the dog with the fire extinguisher as soon as it stopped moving. He had to spray the walls as well as the fire had begun to spread up the drywall. Freddy cried out in joy as the blackened canine skeleton slumped to the floor. He negotiated his way through the festering piles of feces, back out of the kitchen, down the hall, and into his bedroom, pausing only to silence the wailing smoke alarms with a few whacks from his baseball bat. The house was now eerily quiet without the horrible coughing and hoarse barks. The only sound was the hum of flies on his mother’s body, audible even through his closed bedroom door. Strangely enough, he found the sound soothing. It was like mom was humming him to sleep with some out of tune lullaby. Freddy laid down on his bed and felt years of pressure suddenly drop from his mind. The demon was dead. He fell into a deep contented sleep and dreamt of being a baby in his mother’s arms, trying to remember what the milk from her mammoth breasts had tasted like.
When Freddy finally awakened hours later, it was to the same hoarse barking and wet, tubercular, phlegm-congested coughing that had greeted him every morning of his life. His left ear dripped with snot and saliva from where the wet nose of a thousand year old demon, the same one who had told David Berkowitz to take a .44 caliber pistol to couples on the streets of New York, had whispered in his ear as he slept. The ratty carpet had a trail of paw prints in black ash that led from his locked bedroom door to the edge of his bed. The damned thing had picked his lock again! Freddy cursed loudly as he reached for the cheese grater and began shredding the foreskin from his penis. He wasn’t sure why he was doing it, but he had nothing better to do.
Rosie patiently dusted the bookshelves; removing each book and wiping it down with an electrostatic rag and then replacing it precisely where it had been. She removed each knick-knack one at a time from the mantle and wiped it free of dust. Then she ran the feather duster over the smooth surface of the oak mantle before spraying it with furniture wax and buffing it to a high gloss.
“Filthy!” she hissed in disgust.
She wiped down the television and stereo system with the rag, spraying window cleaner on the screen and wiping it until her reflection shone through. She then threw the rag into the trashcan and grabbed another, repeating her frantic wiping on every piece of furniture, every knick-knack, and every trinket in the room. Everywhere she looked there was grime and scum, tops of the baseboards, beneath the stove and refrigerator, underneath the couch and between its cushions. She ran the vacuum slowly over the carpet until she was sure all the dust and dander was gone. Then she poured water and cleaning fluid into the steam cleaner and retraced her path over the carpet until it looked as if it had just come from the showroom floor. She poured three capfuls of ammonia into a bucket of water and lowered her mop down into it. Then she began furiously mopping the floors, walls, and ceiling. When she was done the house shined like a show model.
Rosie appraised her work with admiration. Satisfied over her accomplishment she went upstairs and stripped off all of her clothing, dumping them into the washing machine along with a capful of laundry detergent. She looked her body over, sniffed her hands and armpits and wrinkled up her nose.
“Filthy!” she declared with undisguised revulsion.
She sprinted to the shower and began furiously scrubbing at her flesh, using various soaps and bath gels before grabbing the bottle of bleach and dumping it over her head, wincing in anticipation of the burn. Various cuts and abrasions sang out in agony as the bleach seared her flesh and she scrubbed herself raw. When she finally stepped from the shower, she smelled as fresh as new linen.
She dressed in fresh clothes and went out onto the porch to watch as the garbage man struggled to heft her two trashcans into the trash truck. She winced when he dropped one of the cans and piece after piece of her drunken adulterous husband tumbled out onto the sidewalk. Blood flooded from the upturned receptacle and stained the sidewalk crimson as first his head, eyes still wide in surprise, mouth open as if still trying to lie his way out of it, then his legs, arms and finally his bloated torso splattered onto the street behind the garbage truck. Blood rolled up onto the driveway in a wave as blood, organs, and intestines came boiling out of the tremendous gash bisecting the corpse’s stomach and chest. Last, the gore-streaked weed whacker, the pruning shears, and the meat cleaver slid out of the garbage can on a slick trail of blood and viscera.
The two garbage men were shocked but managed to avoid throwing up and further soiling the blood-soaked street. They cautiously approached the second trashcan. The braver of the two stretched out his foot and kicked the can over, leaping back as the woman came sliding out leaving her skin and much of her flesh crumpled up at the bottom of the can. They both lost all pretense of bravery when the woman whose breasts, ass, and vagina had been removed, carved out so that the white of ribs and pelvic bone gleamed through where her sexual organs had been, turned eyes wide with terror towards them and began to scream. They hopped back into their truck and peeled out of the cul de sac, leaving the bloody mess behind.
“Filthy!” Rosie shrieked, her voice trembling with the force of judgement, tears beginning to well up in her eyes. She turned and went back into the house to collect her cleaning supplies.
Tina looked in the mirror and felt her stomach roil with revulsion. She looked at her reflection and saw billowy rolls of adipose tissue dripping from each bloated appendage. She saw her own hideously distended torso enclustered with grotesque lumps of bulging fat and felt sickened. She didn’t know how Hank could make love to this horrible corpulent cow; why anyone would want to. Her pudgy cheeks were so swollen that she could barely see her own squinty, piggish eyes. The image she saw staring back at her looked as if she’d been stung by a dozen bees, or like she had eaten bad seafood and was having an allergic reaction. Tina wanted to cry. She was getting fatter everyday.
Yesterday, she spent two-and-a-half hours on the treadmill. She had it in its highest gear and was turning red from both the exertion and the certainty that the people on the stationary bikes in back of her were laughing at the ripples she knew must be going through her massive ass. After the treadmill she’d gone to the weight-room for an hour, then to the sauna for forty-five minutes, and then ten-minutes in the bathroom regurgitating breakfast into the toilet bowl. Still, the image she saw in the mirror was no thinner.
Sometimes she thought about taking one of the knives from her kitchen and getting rid of the fat one cut at a time. The only thing stopping her was the certainty that she would get too carried away and wind up taking too much off. It was better to let the professionals do it. She was already scheduled for her third lyposuction surgery. The fat just kept coming right back. The doctors said that this would be the last surgery. After that there would be nothing more they could do for her. If it didn’t work this time... well, she wouldn’t think about that right now.
Perhaps, the mirror was lying. She knew it could do that sometimes. Perhaps
she was losing weight and didn’t know it. She stared at the hideous lumps of cottage cheese flesh that hung from her engorged thighs and tried to see the slim beautiful person within. All she could think about, however, was how many layers of fat lay between her musculoskeletal system and her skin. She estimated that there must be a foot or so of superfluous tissue between where she began and where she ended. She wondered what it would feel like to be hugged without so much excess flesh between Hanks body and hers; what it would feel like to make love without what felt like a whole other person in bed between them. It was time to step on the scale.
Tina flexed her glutes, trying to keep them from jiggling as she crossed her bedroom floor and walked into her bathroom. The slight movement of her thighs as she walked, the even smaller jiggle that went through her buttocks, even the bounce of her breasts, appalled her. If the scale didn’t tell her what she wanted to hear she would take that knife to herself. She crept across the cold vinyl floor and tapped the edge of the electronic scale with her big toe. She saw the screen light up and a row of zeroes line the liquid crystal display. Then she stepped both feet onto it and waited as it contemplated her body mass, preparing to give its verdict.
One hundred pounds. She gasped in astonishment and repeated the actions again. Stepping off the scale, tapping the clear button with her toe, stepping back onto the scale. One hundred pounds. She began to cry. Tears rolled down her smooth aquiline cheeks, down over the bones jutting from her chest, and between her withered breasts, over her protruding ribcage and concave stomach. They trailed over her sharp, painful looking pelvic bones and down her bony legs. She began to wail out loud.
“I’m still fat! Still fat! Still fat!” she screamed shaking her fist at the numbers blinking on the scale’s display screen.
Once again, her weight had not changed at all. It was still in the triple digits. It was the same as it had been since she was eight years old. Back when the kids use to call her “Fat Girl” and “Lard Ass”. She’d been dieting, and exercising, throwing up more than half of the few calories she ingested. She’d prayed, had surgery, and her weight was still the same. She was still that little fat girl the kids had made fun of.
Tina slowly pulled herself back together. She stepped calmly from the scale, wiped the tears from her eyes, balled her hands into tight fists, and took a deep breath; steeling her nerves. She knew what she had to do; the only way she would ever get that weight off. She walked into the kitchen and pulled the big Ginsu carving knife from the drawer. She looked at it, watched it shimmer and shine in the morning sun, then she shoved it back in the drawer and took out the slender filleting knife. She imagined what Hank would say when he saw her with all that disgusting fat finally off.
He was always telling her that she was beautiful, that she was just fine the way she was. He even tried to tell her that she was losing too much weight and needed to eat more. He pointed out other women on the street and in magazines and told her that she was skinnier than all of them. But Tina knew. She knew that no one was calling them “Lard Ass.” She knew that Hank would love her more without the jiggling ass, and corpulent thighs, the hideous bulging layers of fat. She knew how to get rid of it all once and for all.
The blade cut deep and Tina had to bite down on a dishrag to keep her screams from being heard. She sawed deep; cutting through the flesh of her thighs and removing layers and layers of tissue. She’d been right of course. Once she started, she knew there was no way she could stop. She wanted it all gone. When she saw the gleaming white bone poke it’s way through the layers of bloated flesh that had covered her thigh she smiled. Now all she had to do was get it off the rest of her body, then she would be skinny, then she would be happy, then no one would ever call her “Lard Ass” again, then Hank would never look at other women. She scraped the blade down her femur removing more and more flesh as she screamed into the dishrag and tears of joy ran down her face.
According to the priests and preachers and conservative moralists, everything about him was an abomination, a crime against God and nature. Mickey smiled and combed his long golden tresses out of his face with his painted and manicured talons. He applied another coat of lipstick to his full bee-stung lips, smoothed down the wrinkles on his velvet mini-skirt and adjusted his bra-strap. He was beautiful. No matter what the bible-thumpers said. Deep down, he knew that half the repressed cowards that condemned him secretly lusted for him. And why shouldn’t they? He could do things for them that no woman could. He brushed his luxurious eyelashes with mascara and winked at himself in his hand-held mirror as a potential client rolled to a stop by the curb in front of him.
Mickey recognized the corpulent politician behind the wheel of the Mercedes. He’d seen the predatory hypocrite down there before. Hunting young street hustlers of both genders. The same gutter trash that he was lobbying hard to remove from the Boulevard. He’d watched him join televangelists on national television in denouncing the very behaviors he himself was addicted to. Often, the unfortunate victims of his lust would return to the strip with welts and bruises as evidence of the politician’s peculiar passions. Mickey smiled and batted his long eyelashes at him.
“How much?”
“How much you got?”
Mickey waved his tight little ass at him and the man waved back with a hundred-dollar bill.
They entered a rundown one-bedroom flat with a warped and splintered wood floor and yellow, grease and cigarette-stained walls. There was a bed in the center of the room with a tattered, lice-ridden mattress stained with urine, semen, and blood. Mickey turned up his nose but turned to the politician and smiled.
“What does Daddy want?”
The fat politician’s squinty little piggish eyes gleamed with hunger and delight as Mickey squeezed out of his mini-skirt and halter-top. Clients were sometimes taken aback when they discovered that he wasn’t entirely female. But he knew that this pervert wouldn’t mind. Just as he knew that the runes and symbols carved, branded, and tattooed across large portions of his flesh would only add to the thrill for this sadistic trick.
Mickey withstood the man’s pawing and groping hands, endured his slimy tongue slathering his flesh in saliva. He allowed the man to spank him with a spiked paddle and flay his back with a cat o’nine tails before he revealed himself to him.
Mickey’s skin opened up and he shrugged himself out of it. The politician began to scream as his eyes filled with the site of the monstrous creature uncoiling from Mickey’s flesh. A serpentine body at once reptilian, insectile, and anthropoid, encrusted with scales, spikes, and horns, with a face dominated by a massive jaw like the mouth of some prehistoric reptile, scampered forward digging its polished and painted claws into the wood floor.
Mickey knew what the politician wanted. All Christians secretly lusted for the divine pleasures of hell. Pleasures for which Mickey’s hell-spawned flesh had been expertly designed.
Mickey smiled at the puzzled look on the politician’s face. His confusion was part of both his horror and his still undiminished lust. He could see the politician’s mind desperately trying to make sense of Mickey’s arcane anatomy; part human, part dragon, part praying mantis, even as he began blubbering and crying like a child as Mickey cornered him on the bed and reached for his still oddly erect penis.
Mickey’s smooth scaly hands crawled over the politician’s throbbing cock and his tremendous mandibles parted wide to consume the tender organ. Mickey smiled revealing rows of fangs as his true sexual organs writhed like a nest of tentacles between his thighs and reached out for the politician, coiling around his body and slowly constricting him even as they began to enter him, finding orifices even this jaded libertine would have never conceived of. The politician’s screams became piercing shrieks as his erection went between those lethal jaws and down Mickey’s throat
Mickey fucked him violently, mercilessly, ripping into his puckered anus, ejaculating his scalding black seed down his throat filling up his mouth until it spilled across his cheeks an
d dribbled down his chin. Mickey was not surprised when the politician’s screams turned to sultry moans and he began to convulse in the throes of a violent orgasm, no longer caring about his soul which Mickey was eagerly sucking out through his swollen cock, too lost in the rapturous agony of myriad voluptuous sins.
“Oh my God you are incredible! I love you! More! Give me more!”
Fucking hypocrites. They were all the same.
It looked like a staple gun or something you used to shoot penny nails into two-by-fours. I felt a shivering fear rake it’s icy nails up my spine as the nurse swabbed my arm with alcohol and brought the lethal looking contraption down to the thick pulsing vein on the inside of my elbow. There was a bluish green vial on top of the gun and I watched as the 40-year-old, surgically rejuvenated nurse, pulled the trigger and the algae colored vaccine shot down into my veins. The cure. A shit load of adrenaline coursed through my veins. I felt like superman. The motherfucking cure! I was invincible now! I would live forever!
I wanted to fuck the entire world, including the silicone enhanced, peroxide blonde, big-bootied nurse, who had the hardened look of a street prostitute several birthdays past her prime. She had that deep line on either side of her mouth that I always associated with giving too many blowjobs. Right now, after a decade and a half of fear and dick shriveling precautions, latex, spermicides, awkward interviews/interrogations about past lovers and sex practices, anyone and everyone was fuckable. There was about to be a worldwide sexual revolution that would make the birth control pill and the ‘60s free-love movement look puritanical, and I was gonna be a part of it!
“You might experience a few side effects for the first few days but it should be nothing worse than a bad cold and generally no more than a runny nose. If you experience anything more serious than that please call us right away.”
Like Porno for Psychos Page 6