King of the Perverts

by Steve Lowe

  Oh, fuck me.

  I freak.

  If I was thinking, I would probably try to execute some sort of roll-and-peel maneuver to extract myself from the plastic wrap in such a way as to avoid anything on the other side of it from touching my face.

  But I’m not thinking, I’m most definitely panicking. Of course I am. My face is covered in shit sludge.

  I scream. I sit up fast and run face-first into Carrie’s ass. There is an audible splat, even through the plastic wrap in my ears. All the sludge on my head does what gravity forces it to do and begins a horrifying landslide down. I can’t tell where plastic stops and excrement starts. I can’t see anything either. I run into the wall and bounce off the doorframe in my mad dash to the bathroom. I slam into the sink, hike my shin against the toilet, fall to my knees and reach frantically for the faucet in the shower. Hot, cold, I don’t care. I’m nearing a state of hysteria, as well as oxygen deprivation.

  I think I’ve lost my mind.

  •

  I have no idea how long I’m in the bathroom, lying half in, half out of the tub, letting the shower water course over my head. I could likely stay here until I drown. I’m not clean enough yet. There will never be clean enough. Eventually, Mongo comes for me.

  He pulls me out from beneath the stream, hauls me to my feet and slaps me a few times.

  “Fuck, alright! Stop hitting me!”

  He wipes me down with a towel and when I open my eyes, he inches from my face.

  “Time to finish this.”

  I shake my head. “No. I got nothing left, you sick bastard.”

  I mean that in an emotional sense, that I’m a hollowed husk of a human now, that I can’t possibly go on. That I’ve reached the limitations of what I can endure and I feel that I speak the truth, but my own rumbling innards betray me. A new wave of pressure in my bowels makes me nauseous.

  Mongo grins. “Sounds to me like you have one more left in you.”

  I feel like crying and then I feel like screaming. I want to lean forward and bite the nose off his face and spit it out. I want to drive my thumbs into his eyeballs and then ram my still hard dick into his empty, bleeding sockets. I want to remove his head with a dull serving spoon and deposit this new wave of shit directly into his chest cavity.

  He grips me tightly by the neck and leads me back to the room, announcing, “Alabama hot pocket time!”

  Carrie, trembling and still a little green, tosses a soiled towel into the corner of the room and says, “What in the name of fuck is an Alabama hot pocket?”

  Mongo tells us.

  We look at each other and then reply in unison, “I’m not doing that!”

  My colon growls. Mongo repositions the cameras and says, “Now is time. We do this and we win. Game is over, million dollars is ours. Don’t you want to be rich?”

  I say, “Not anymore. I’d rather you stab me than go through with this.”

  “I’d rather you stab him, too,” Carrie says.

  Mongo chuckles and reaches into his pants pocket. He pulls out a photo and holds it up for both of us to see. It’s Carrie’s little Chinese baby. “What about this little one?”

  Carrie’s face hardens and I see death flare in her eyes. “If you touch my little girl, I will never stop tracking you down, you sick piece of shit.”

  He turns to me and says, “Or maybe I pay visit to little peeing whore? Tricia is her name, I believe?”

  I want to respond, but I’m overcome by another wave of nauseous intestinal pressure that buckles my knees. The lingering smell of shit inside the room doesn’t help. It smells like a nursing home exploded in here.

  Carrie grabs my arm and pulls me toward the other bed. “Fuck it, let’s get this over with.”

  She lies back with her ass at the edge of the bed and spreads her legs as far apart as they’ll go. I shake my head.

  “I can’t do this.”

  Before Mongo can say anything, Carrie screams at me, “Come on you fucking pussy! Be a man and do what you have to do. Just get it over with.”

  She spreads her vaginal lips apart and looks away at the wall.

  I turn and point my ass at her. I can’t hold it much longer.

  I can’t believe I’m going through with this. I focus on Mongo. I direct all of my thoughts and energy at him. Anger burbles out of me as powerfully as the shit that blasts from my ass. Instead of thinking about what I’m doing, I concentrate on how I’ll make him pay for this.

  When I’m done, I turn and look at Carrie. She’s staring up at the ceiling with a look of anger mixed with horror. Her voice is barely a whisper as she says, “Please just hurry up and get this over with.”

  I nod and slide into her. I close my eyes and try not think about the hot slop enveloping my crotch and sticking to our thighs, the sickly stickiness as I slap against her. I block out the odor, the texture, everything. I have one focus: Mongo’s bloodied face. On his knees. With his hands tied behind his back by barbed wire. I conjure the image of a hot poker in my hands. I imagine the kind of revenge to be had with such an implement. I can hear his screams, pleading for his life. Begging me not to hurt him.

  I pump harder, determined to finally finish this. I’m lost in the fantasy of revenge. I’m thrilled by the promise of torture. I’m near climax when, in my mind, I rear back with the glowing poker and give Mongo one more chance to plead for his life. I relish it. Then I plunge forth. I finish it.

  Carrie is beating against my chest and sliding away from me. She’s saying something but I don’t understand her. She points behind me. I turn and realize that the sound of Mongo’s pleas for mercy are still in my ears, very real.

  But he’s not begging me to stop. He’s pleading with the two gorillas who have him flat against the plastic-covered floor, his arms pinned behind his back and a handgun pressed deep into his cheek.

  A moment later, Peter Oh’Tool strolls into the motel room through the open door. He flashes me a greasy smile and shoots me with a thumb-and-forefinger gun.

  “Howdy, Dennis.”

  Peter looks down at Mongo and shakes his head. He squats down and leans close to the Russian bear’s face and says, “Dmitri… why are you trying to ruin my show?”

  Mongo, or Dmitri, I guess, starts to say something in a whiny, high-pitched voice, but he’s cut off by a vicious downward thrust of the gun barrel across the bridge of his nose. Blood spews from his face across the plastic, mixing with small puddles of brown fluid.

  I collapse onto the bed.

  •

  Carrie takes a shower while I stand at the sink in the bathroom. We’re in there for quite some time, both of us silent as we clean up. We emerge in a pair of threadbare bathrobes to find the room has been restored to its original dumpiness, the plastic tarp gone. And there’s no sign of Mongo anywhere. I hope he’s encased in that tarp, stuffed in the trunk of a large black sedan.

  We stand side by side facing Peter Oh’Tool. He looks at Carrie in the same way he looked at Mongo/Dmitri a few moments ago.

  “Now,” he says, “what to do with you.”

  Carrie has tears in her eyes. “Please…”

  “You should be in a trunk with Dmitri right now for helping him, you understand that right?”

  She nods vigorously.

  “But I’m not going to do that. When he threatened your child, that’s where I drew the line. But you understand this: if I see or hear anything more about you sniffing around Dennis here for the prize money, I’ll come back. You understand?”

  Carrie nods harder.

  “Alright, get the hell out of here.”

  Carrie grabs her clothes and can’t leave the room fast enough. Peter and I watch her go and then he turns back to face me.

  I say, “Prize money? So that means I won?”

  Peter smiles his onstage porn star smile and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Are you kidding me? You did it, alright! You’re King of the Perverts!”

  He’s a lot happier about it than I am. “So, n
ow what?”

  “Now, we get all this footage edited and make a show out of it. We begin airing next month.”

  “Next month? That fast?”

  “Sure, we don’t fuck around here. We’ve been working on your stuff since the beginning. Once I saw that alligator fuckhouse of yours, I knew how this contest was going to turn out.”

  “What are you saying, you rigged the game?”

  Peter laughs at me condescendingly. “Yeah, man, this is reality TV. You didn’t think any of that shit was actually real, did you?”

  “I don’t know, I guess not. So, did you send the little guy with the glasses? Jack Mehoff?”

  “Actually, that’s my big brother Todd. He’s a bit touched as I’m sure you noticed.”

  “How long did you know what Mong-er, I mean, Dmitri was up to?”

  “Since yesterday. I sent Todd here to tip you guys off with the remaining lineup of challenges. Dmitri responded by beating him within an inch of his life. My plane landed in Indianapolis two hours ago and we’ve spent the past thirty minutes in the room next door watching and listening.”

  I’m quiet for a while, taking it all in. Peter Oh’Tool saw everything, then. He and his goons could have come in and stopped this at any time, but he chose to wait. He wanted to see it through. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

  Peter heads for the door, leaving me to digest all of this. On his way out, he turns back and shoots me with his finger gun again and winks.

  “See you in Vegas for the final show.”

  “There’s more?”

  “Of course. We have to cap the contest off with the live crowning of our King!”

  Final Interlude

  The Aftermath

  One by one, the girls show up. Each of them pretty much does the same thing. They enter the coffee shop and look around a minute, hovering near the door like they can’t decide whether they want to go through with this or not.

  Danielle looks a little scared and unsure.

  Pauline looks pissed and ready to amputate a limb.

  Misty looks… I’m not really sure how she looks. I honestly don’t remember anything about our encounter past that initial meeting in the bar, and even that is lost in a murky vodka haze. Pangs of shame stab at me for not being able to recall giving that poor woman a shit mustache.

  None of them see me sitting at the next table, but then I’m pretty well camouflaged in a long coat with a high collar, sunglasses, and a ballcap pulled down low. They walk right past me to the table where Tricia waves to them. I’m sitting with my back to them, right behind Tricia. Misty is the last to arrive and once they’ve all sat and introduced themselves, Tricia jumps right into it.

  “Thanks for coming,” she says. “I know my message was pretty cryptic, but it was necessary. I’ve asked the three of you to join me here today because each of us has something in common. Or maybe I should say, someone in common. Now, before I tell you who that is, I need each of you to agree not to make a scene. At least not here.”

  I’m not watching, but I know Tricia is staring right at Pauline when she says this. We agreed beforehand that this message was basically for her. We didn’t expect any outbursts from the other two, but of the three Pauline is the one that actually scares us. All three women eventually give their promise to remain calm and cool. When they have, Tricia turns and says to me over her shoulder, “OK, we’re ready.”

  I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I have no idea how this is going to go and I’m nervous as hell. I stand and take off my coat, place it on the back of my chair, which I turn to face the table of women. Before I can lose my nerve, I remove my hat and sunglasses and sit down.

  It takes a second for each of them to react. They are not exactly the reactions I am expecting.

  Danielle gasps and rises a few inches out of her chair and says, “Motherfucker.”

  Misty’s mouth drops open and she says, “You’re alive.” Then she stifles a giggle.

  Pauline just sits there and blandly says, “Hi, Dennis.”

  “Hi ladies.”

  We’re all silent for a second. I meant to plunge right into my spiel but the nerves have taken over, seeing all of them together here. I’ve already told Tricia everything and she promised she was OK with this idea, but I’m still worried about how she will react. She smiles at me and nods encouragingly.

  “Um, I know you’re all wondering why you’re here.”

  Pauline says, “Not really. This is about the show, right?”

  “Well, yeah, actually, but I also need to tell each of you something first.”

  I take another deep breath.

  “I need all of you to know that I’m sorry for what I did to you and how I treated you. I showed no respect at all and want to express my deep shame over my actions.”

  Misty flat out laughs in my face. “OK,” she says, “apology accepted.”

  Pauline just shrugs her shoulders and says, “And? Is that it?”

  Danielle sits back and stares at her hands. She doesn’t say anything.

  “No, that’s not it.” I reach into the pocket of my coat and pull out the papers and set them on the table. I pass a stack to each of the girls, except for Tricia who already signed hers, and I tell them, “You might not have known this at the time, but when we, um, were being intimate with each other, you were being secretly filmed for a TV show.”

  Pauline shrugs again and says, “Yeah, I know this already.”

  “Me too,” says Misty.

  Only Danielle reacts the way I was expecting. She continues to stare at her hands, but her ears are red and she’s shaking her head.

  I say to the other two, “You both knew about the show?”

  Misty says, “Fuckin’ duh. That little weasel guy, Captain Sweaty, he told me all about it.”

  Pauline nods in agreement and picks up the papers I slid in front of her. “What’s this, release form? Shit, pass me the pen, I’ll sign it.”

  “Just like that? You’re not, like, pissed at me still?”

  “Pissed at you? For what?”

  “You know, that donkey punch thing? I thought you wanted to kill me.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Shit, man, don’t you know acting when you see it?”

  “You were acting?”

  “Hell yes. What, did you actually think you hurt me with that punch?”

  I blush at the challenge to my manliness. “Well, yeah, I kind of did.”

  “Dude, no disrespect, but my own nieces can throw a better punch than you.”

  Judging by the scars on her face, I completely believe her. She finishes signing the release form with the pen Tricia slid across the table to her and Misty holds her hand out for it.

  “And you’re not going to push me down another set of stairs for giving you a dirty sanchez?”

  Misty laughs again, a robust sound that turns several heads in the coffee shop. “That knock on the head must have screwed up your memory, huh?”

  “Actually, I guess it did. I don’t remember shit about that night.”

  She’s nearly doubled over with laughter now. I’m moving beyond embarrassment and beginning to get a little irritated with her. “Are you going to tell me what happened or are you just going to humiliate me?”

  When she catches her breath, she says, “Dennis, you didn’t give me a dirty sanchez. I gave one to you.”

  People are beginning to whisper and point now. My face feels like it’s on fire.

  “You started crying,” she continued. “You were blubbering and really drunk and I could hardly understand what you were saying. Finally, you just lay this huge confession on me and then get on your hands and knees and start shouting, ‘Do it to me! I deserve it! I’m such a bad person!’”

  All four girls are laughing now, including Tricia. She leans toward Misty and says, “He asked me to pee on him!”

  This breaks them up further. Yeah, we’re having just a great time now. Whee.

  Misty chokes back her laughter
long enough to tell me, “You asked me to ride you like a donkey. You made me smack your ass and say giddy-up. And then you told me to do it. So I did, and it was a really good one, too. You must have had an all-day shit brewing in there. Then you started bucking like crazy. You threw me off and went tear-assing out of the room, and the next thing I know, you’re at the bottom of the steps outside, bleeding everywhere and your Russian buddy is standing there freaking out. I seriously thought you were dead, man, so I got the fuck out of there. But I made sure to wash my hands on the way out.”

  That breaks them all up again. This goes on for several excruciating minutes until Misty regains enough composure to sign the release form and slide it over to Tricia. Once everyone finally calms down, we all eventually turn to Danielle. She doesn’t look furious any longer, but her smile fades fast. I feel like I need to say something more to her.

  “Danielle, please know that I –”

  She cuts me off, saying, “No, don’t talk.” She sits quietly for a moment, gathering her thoughts. When she continues, she looks me straight in the eye with laser beams that cut right through me. “You humiliated me, Dennis.”

  I nod and have to look away from her.

  “What you did to me… I can’t even begin to explain my… my… fury at you.”

  That pretty much kills the jovial mood, which is more what I expected from this meeting. I wait for her to say something else, but when she doesn’t, I try again.

  “You have to believe me when I tell you I’m sorry, Danielle. I really am. I have no excuse for what I did to you. But that’s why I asked you here. All of you. I want to make it up, at least a little bit. You know that this was a show, but really, it was a contest. Each one of you represented a challenge, a test for me to pass. And I did.”

  I nod in Misty’s direction and say, “In my own strange way, I did. And I won.”

  All the girls look up at me with genuine surprise on their faces.

  “I won the contest, and after the final show airs in a couple months, I’ll receive my prize. And I want to share that prize with each of you. Five ways, evenly split between all of us.”