by Wol-vriey
“Texas?” she asked silkily, “Whatever were you doing in Texas?” She sat up in bed, her nightgown falling down her left shoulder, revealing some nipple.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Auntie . . .”
Predictably, Jackson was suddenly filled with an overwhelming desire to suckle at her sumptuous breasts, just as he had last week. “I was so glad to see you last week, and then you left New York again and I felt so hurt . . .”
“Last week? Whatever are you talking about, Jackie?”
“Last week in New York, Aunt Marie, when you said you loved me and would never ever leave me again . . .”
He sat beside her on the bed.
Marie Busybody regarded him, this pathetic man-child, his swinging cock that never erected unless she . . . Then she saw the sickle he was carrying. “Where’d you get that sickle, Jackie?”
“Dunno, Aunt Marie. It turned up here with me.”
Marie Busybody had followed the stories about the New York Ripper with some interest. With some great surprise, she finally came to the correct conclusion regarding the perpetrator’s secret identity.
She could only gape in horror at her nephew. “You’re the Ripper, Jackie?”
He moved in closer to her, placing a hand on her exposed breast. “No, not anymore Aunt Marie. I’ve given it up since you came back to me. I’ll not kill anyone ever again – not since I’ve got you here.”
Leaning in closer still, he laid his weary head between her pillowy, sumptuous breasts.
Marie’s only thought now was to save herself from Jackson, mistakenly convinced that he’d come to kill her. She pushed him away from her and rolled across to the other side of the bed, where there was a dresser with a gun in it. While Jackson watched, perplexed, she got out the revolver and a box of shells, fumbling bullets into its chamber.
“What you doing Aunt Marie? I’m not going to hurt you. I love you . . .”
Marie turned to face him again, gun raised and pointed at his head. “Now listen to me, you little piece of shit – You’re insane. I want you out of my life for good! Leave here and don’t ever come back.”
Jackson was horrified by her rejection.
“But Aunt Marie, I love you, and you said you . . .”
Marie’s voice was several degrees even cooler when she replied. “I don’t love you, you little psychopath. Never have, never will. I’d rather love a snake – they’re less poisonous, anyhow . . . You killed all those girls, why?”
Jackson shrugged. “Because you left. Their deaths helped me to get over the pain of losing you.”
Marie noticed the matter-of-fact way in which he replied, explaining that the prostitutes he’d murdered were simply medication prescribed to cure his insane heartache. And the inference was that she was somehow responsible – He blamed her?
A sudden urge to rid the world of this human scum before her filled her heart. Jackson was an absolute waste of royal skin. She’d kill him and dispose of his body, dissolving his corpse in a bath of acid – just like Dudley had insisted was possible. If no one had seen him arrive at the mansion, after all, then certainly no one could link his disappearance to her, either.
And if they did, well, he was naked here now, and carrying a sickle . . .
“I don’t understand Aunt Marie,” Jackson said. “How can you say all these horrible things about me?”
Marie smirked. “You’ve got a lot to learn about the world, Jackie boy – too bad you won’t have the time . . .”
She pulled the trigger. The gun barked like a dog, a hole immediately appearing in the plaster behind Jackson.
Jackson stared at her, more perplexed than afraid.
Marie fired again. The bullet hit Jackson in the left shoulder. He staggered back, gripped this latest wound, and brought his hand away red. He stared at the blood as if it held the secret purpose of his life.
“Do you get it now, you little piece of shit? I’m flushing you down death’s toilet!”
Jackson’s bewildered expression turned into a wicked snarl. “I’ll kill you for betraying me Aunt Marie – then I won’t have to kill anyone else EVER AGAIN!!!”
Still in the sights of her gun, however, he made no attempt to attack her. For a moment, Marie was very frightened by the impassive look that had set upon her nephew’s face. Then, steadying both her mind and her hand, she determined to rid the world of Jackson right there right then, and that was it.
Suddenly, Cheshire Cat appeared in the air between them. Full body this time, it stood floating before Marie.
“We servants heard the noise and thought to investigate. Are you all right, milady?”
Marie sighed. Damn, now she had a witness . . .
Jackson resolved that problem for her. Cheshire Cat hadn’t noticed him yet.
He coughed softly.
Cheshire Cat spun around and genuflected. “Oh, good evening my lord prince – whatever happened to your clothes? Should I have a frog bring something suitable up here for you? And my word! You’re bleeding as well . . . ”
Jackson decapitated the cat with a single swipe of his sickle. Before Marie could guess his intentions, he flung its head at her.
The cat’s head hit Marie square in the tits. She fired again at Jackson, but her aim had been thrown off by the surprise attack. Having previously used the cat as cover, she’d been aiming for his heart. The bullet intended to end him only grazed his left side instead.
Jackson recovered swiftly. Before Marie could fire again, he lunged across the distance remaining between them and knocked the revolver out of her hand, pinning her down on the bed. He straddled her, quickly rendering her unconscious with a swift head butt before she could call for help.
Once she was out cold, Jackson suckled at her milky breasts, masturbating twice before he finally killed her in the same fashion as all the streetwalkers who’d served as her surrogates before.
He took his time afterwards gutting her, flinging her intestines around the bedroom with much glee.
Alice
She walked out amongst the cows for a while. They neither saw her nor felt her. The cattle could at least sense her presence, however, mooing in disquiet as though a ghost were among them. Her invisible body passed right through their visible ones – as if they weren’t even there.
She took to walking through the cows from head to tail and back again – i.e. moving about inside individual bovine bodies, as if their limits marked the boundaries of her world. She got an innocent little thrill from spooking the cows like this.
This is great, Alice thought, I could do this forever.
Immediately on the heels of that thought, another stampeded into her mind – the realization that if she gave in to her temptation to wander outside forever, at some point her physical body would grow tired of waiting for her spirit’s return. It would have to switch itself off, eventually, at which point she’d be definitively dead.
With this caution in mind, Alice decided to complete her survey of the ranch. She simply couldn’t afford to take much longer, now that she knew her body could die at any moment. On her way back to her physical form, she decided to walk through at least a few more cows just for fun.
She ended up crossing the entire ranch without ever losing contact with the chain of cows she followed, as if she were navigating a maze made of meat. Several times she nearly got it wrong – the cow she was about to step into stepped away, forcing her to retrace her steps. Finally she became quite adept at predicting which cows were likely to move and which would not, traveling relatively fast through the chain.
It turned out that there was precious little to see on the ranch, besides just cows, cows, and more cows – a veritable sea of beef stolen en route to its destination in the stomachs of northern North America.
Gradually, Alice became aware of a distant rumbling – a thunder, like the cows stampeding, only they weren’t . . .
She realized then that it was the sound of approaching vehicles. She ran through
the mass of future barbeques, T-bone steaks, and family dinners to see who it was. A mob of Indians in steamcoaches then appeared on the prairie before her. Their foreign, frightening faces were set in looks of grim determination, as if they were intent on lynching someone.
Alice had by now wandered to the outer perimeter of Baker’s ranch. As the Indians zoomed past, Alice ran as fast as her feet would carry her back to the mushroom house – to warn Baker and the Graceland cow-folk of the danger approaching from the west.
Alice was impressed to find that she could now run like the wind.
Passing through the walls of the building and back into herself, her flesh welcomed her spirit back home.
Prince Jackson
A loud knocking had begun at the bedroom door.
“Milady, are you all right milady!”
More loud knocking.
Looking around at the grisly scene he’d created, Jackson started to panic. He was as good as dead if found there. Badger and frog servants tended to be loyal to a fault; one look at what he’d done to his aunt (their mistress), and they’d rip him to shreds with their bare hands. They wouldn’t even consider the fact that he too was royalty.
“Milady!” the servant animals called again and again. Massing up on the other side of the door, they began forcing their way inside.
The bedroom door bulged ever inward, straining at its hinges.
Jackson picked up Marie Busybody’s revolver. He emptied the spent casings and reloaded the weapon with live ammunition.
Maybe he could get out through the window, he thought. Still, he wouldn’t likely get very far without any clothes . . .
The door finally broke open. First into the room was Marie’s huge badger footman. It was carrying a Winchester rifle. The furry, bucktoothed creature took one look at its mistress’s grisly remains, strewn about all over the room, and pointed its rifle directly at Jackson.
The bullet hit Jackson in his right leg. Yelping in pain, he dropped his pistol and grabbed the wound. The gun rolled out of sight under the bed.
Other servants had now rushed into the bedroom. Some were armed with knives, some with guns. The mole gardener carried a pitchfork. All of them stared at the gore in the bedroom in horror. Forming a collective wall of hate, the mass of them advanced upon Jackson.
“Leave him – he’s mine!” the badger said, sliding back the rifle’s bolt to chamber another round. “How dare you kill our mistress, human?”
Jackson let go his thigh, realizing that he’d inadvertently disarmed himself. He ducked down and frantically felt beneath the bed for the revolver. His fingers settled upon something hard but slippery. Relieved to have found the pistol butt, he pulled it out to discover that it was only one of Aunt Marie's kidneys.
Kidney in hand, Jackson stood and faced the servants.
It’s over, he thought.
He was waiting for them to rush at him, shooting, stabbing, biting, clawing – each one out for its own pound of royal flesh. Guns or none, he’d take some of them with him for sure. He wasn’t about to go out without a fight, like one of his prostitute victims.
But the animals didn’t attack. They just kept staring at Jackson like they were seeing a ghost. It made no sense whatsoever to him until he looked at his body and saw that he was vanishing like a kid’s pencil-drawing being erased, like an oil smear being wiped off a plate. Empty spaces began to appear on his skin, linking together until he’d completely vanished from that plane of existence.
Though he felt nothing, he was already gone up to his chest before . . .
Marie’s animal servants finally got over their shock at Jackson’s perceived corporal disintegration. Those with weapons raised them and began shooting at what was left of the crown prince.
“Hit him, boys!” the badger yelled over the gunfire. “Don’t let him get away!”
Prince Jackson could feel the hail of stinging bullets passing through him, but just barely.
Book Two: Alice Across America
Part Three: The Mech-Sioux
Chapter 1
Jackson re-materialized in his chair, draped over it and drained of all energy.
Baker considered his subject’s condition. He pushed the plate before Jackson aside and scooted forward to peer down at his limp body. Perched there on the edge of the table, the caterpillar began jotting furiously on its clipboard while muttering to itself.
“Test results for magic cake #267: The subject, Jackson, a human male in good physical and mental health, departed fully clothed, but has returned unclothed, and in a state of both severe fatigue and perceived emotional stress. In addition, he has sustained three bullet wounds, and is covered head to foot with blood. The distribution of the blood on his body relative to his wounds indicates that most of it isn’t his. There are also splatters of semen on his thighs, indicating that orgasm occurred at some point in his experience.”
Baker noted the weapon in Prince Jackson’s hand.
“In addition, the subject is clutching a bloody sickle in his left hand and a human kidney in his right. Neither object was in his possession on his departure. Will interview subject further once . . .”
Seated unconscious in the chair next to Jackson, Alice suddenly opened her eyes. “There are some very odd-looking individuals approaching” she mumbled, disoriented, “in even odder vehicles . . .”
“Ah, another hallucination!” Baker said, excited. “Describe them for me, please.”
Alice did as requested. Baker flipped sheets on his clipboard and continued jotting down notes. “Cake #242: Subject Alice reports visions of Mechanical Indians on their way to attack this research center . . .”
“I’m not hallucinating,” Alice said. “I saw them!”
“Yes, you clearly are,” Baker said with finality. “And I’ve asked you more than once to stop interrupting me. Please stop. More than anything else, it’s just horribly impolite.”
Alice shut up then. Looking over, she noticed that Jackson had returned. She looked at his bloodstained body and what he held in his hands, and then quickly looked away. Where on Earth had he been?
“Maybe we should investigate, Boss,” Aron said nervously. “Girl here seem mighty serious . . .”
“Yeah, Boss, member that bother wit’ Chief L’il Jon, ‘bout Miss Mince Men mincin’ ‘im . . .”
Baker laughed. “Boys boys, calm down now, it’s only the cake . . .”
Alice’s eyes went momentarily blank, and then she was back again. “They’re right outside . . .”
“So you think,” Baker said. “And stop interrupting . . . Oh, dang blast it! You seem incapable of shutting up, anyway.”
Baker spread four sets of arms expansively. “Boys boys, don’t you understand? We’ve found the breakthrough her majesty the goddess has been seeking – powdered and dumped over New York, cake #242 will turn the . . .”
There was a noise outside. The mushroom house suddenly exploded, its cake bricks detonating overhead like fireworks in the sky.
“I TOLD you they were here!” Alice screamed, frantically patting her dress back down over her thighs.
Not understanding how the attackers had managed the trick, they suddenly found themselves sitting out in the open. Everyone was still right where they’d been, only now they were covered in soot and surrounded by Mech-Sioux.
The mechanical Indians were a motley lot. Even knowing that their body modifications were self-inflicted, Alice thought they looked like something Lord Busybody would’ve created if he were God in heaven.
Big Chief Little John, for instance.
The Mech-Sioux chief was an immense man, with a metal right arm almost as large as his body, whirring and clanking whenever it moved. His left leg was also made out of metal, but more proportional to the rest of him. He wore a traditional feather headdress and a beaded rawhide loincloth. His massive robot hand gripped an equally massive tomahawk.
All of the other Mech-Sioux, men and women alike, had similar body modifications t
o lesser or greater degrees. Many also had cybernetic arms or legs; others had metal torsos sprouting limbs of flesh and blood, making it seem as though they were wearing iron dinner jackets.
Some braves were naked except for built-in steel codpieces, which could be flipped open during urination and procreation. Similarly, most squaws favored armored bustiers, which could be unlatched in the middle to expose their breasts for nursing and sexual stimulation. A few of them even had completely metal heads, their faces set in statuesque ferocity. Many of the Mech-Sioux sported metal mohawks, affixed to their heads by bolts in their skulls.
The Indians were armed with a variety of weapons that would make fitting additions to Lord Busybody’s laboratory – guns even odder than the bullyboy’s steam-rifles. They also had bows and arrows augmented with automatic reload arms and telescopic sights.
Alice was glad to have no argument with them.
***
Big Chief Little John strode forth from the mass of augmented Indians.
Three young braves accompanied him, easily disarming Elvis, Aron, and Presley along the way. Knowing there was no chance in Hell they could fight off so many heavily armed opponents at once, the bullyboys meekly surrendered their weapons.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Baker blustered from his tabletop, incensed that his house had been destroyed, his research disrupted.
“I told you we’d be settling unfinished accounts, caterpillar,” Little John began, “over that Metal Feather business.”
Baker lit a cigar and puffed on it.
“We both know that wasn’t my fault, Little John . . .”
“Aw Chief,” Aron interjected. “Y’all knows Boss Baker don’ mean y’all no . . .”
“Shut up Aron, you double-negative droning doofus!” growled a metal-legged squaw. “Metal Feather says otherwise, Uncle Caterpillar.”
Her legs weren’t of normal human shape – thin, metal stilts with frog-like flippers for feet. As though she’d given her lower half the day off, her upper body was gorgeous and shapely beyond compare; her breasts full, her face the picture of beauty.