The Best Bizarro Fiction of the Decade

by Aimee Bender

  Carrie leaned against the counter. “What a dirty pig.”

  Emma poured her a cup of coffee. “Dent?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s all right. Just different.”

  “So what do you think about going to Scurvy Island?”

  Emma let out a resigned sigh. She’d just come off a three day Guzzle bender and felt deflated.

  “Not to film. To work.”

  Emma looked down at the floor, her blonde hair falling over her shoulders.

  “I do like to solve crime,” she said. “Almost as much as I like to fuck.”

  “I’ll go tell the boys.”

  “Are we bringing…?”

  “Project 26?”

  “We’re going to have to give her a name eventually.”

  “When it’s time. Maybe we’ll just leave her here to keep an eye on Frump.”

  “You think that’s a good idea?”

  “It’s either here or back to the truck stop glory hole.”

  Before traveling, the Grassville Gang liked to drink copious amounts of Guzzle Blue to keep them alert.

  Together, they charged out of the house shouting, “Grassville Gang to the rescue! Grassville Gang forever!”

  Brock Rockhard with his red bandana, sunglasses, cut-off denim shorts, and nothing else save his flip-flops and grossly unhealthy tan.

  Carrie Godown with her black dreadlocks and piercings, black tank top, black gypsy skirt, black-framed glasses, and black combat boots.

  Zeke Loner with his messy hair, dark brown sweater, khaki corduroys, and whatever his book of the day was.

  And Emma Inside, the once-reluctant virgin, now sex-starved and ready for action with her long straight blonde hair, form-hugging white t-shirt, and skintight jeans worn low around the waist.

  Together, they charged for the deep purple van. The driver’s side of the van featured an airbrushed depiction of two kids in wheelchairs playing badminton.

  The girls slid open the side door and hopped in.

  The boys jumped in front.

  Brock turned the key in the ignition.

  Loud music blared.

  Brock turned to shout at everyone in his dumb guy party voice: “It’s a good thing this baby can flyyyy!”

  And he hit the accelerator, taxiing onto the runway cut through the middle of a cornfield and, as the van went faster and faster, as they were almost out of runway, Brock flashed a thumbs up to Zeke, who opened the glove compartment and pulled the super special lever. The van lifted and took to the skies.

  Excited, as they always were before a job, and hopped up on Guzzle, the girls disrobed and began going at each other.

  Emma feverishly and continuously moaned, “Ow, my pussy’s sore.”

  Brock watched them in the rearview mirror, pulling his cock out and massaging himself. Carrie was covered in tattoos of the ugliest people she had ever seen. She added new ones all the time. Brock found their hideous faces, made even more hideous through Carrie’s contortions, quite erotic.

  Zeke opened up Camus’ The Stranger and began to read.

  They reached Scurvy Island in no time at all.

  Zeke wasn’t sure why Brock always flew the van. Maybe he’d been a pilot at one point, but whatever shred of intelligence he’d once possessed had long since been obliterated by copious amounts of Guzzle products.

  They circled the island until they found what could have been a runway.

  “Landing!” Brock took his hand off his penis to guide the wheel.

  They came down rough, in an explosion of vaginal juices, lubricant, sweat, come, and curses.

  The girls threw open the sliding door and exited the van, pulling on clothes and adjusting them, buttoning buttons.

  Zeke got out and calmly slid his old paperback into his pocket.

  Brock got out, slammed the door violently, and sniffed the air for blood or vagina.

  The front driver’s side wheel was bent under the frame.

  “You trashed it,” Carrie said.

  “I’ll fix it!” Brock shouted. He slammed his head into the quarter panel above the tire and rocked the van over on two wheels. Grabbing the tire, he gave it a yank. It came off in his hands. Brock was extreme. In fact, two years ago, he’d changed his name to Brock X-treme. Zeke wasn’t sure what kind of Guzzle he’d been on at the time, but it didn’t last long and ended with Brock going to jail, followed by rehab.

  “Now you really trashed it,” Carrie said.

  Brock hurled the tire. It landed a few feet away and rolled a while before coming to rest in the sand. Then he collapsed next to the van, pulled his knees into his chest and started breathing heavily.

  “It’s okay,” Emma said. “Just calm down. I’m sure somebody here can fix it.”

  “I think that’s the Sheriff.” Zeke pointed across the hood of the van.

  A deeply tanned man with shoulder-length gray hair and a well-clipped beard approached them. He looked a lot like Kenny Rogers before the botched plastic surgery. He wore long khaki cargo shorts, ratty white Converse, and a stained white wife beater with SHERIFF written across his ample stomach in black marker.

  “Denny Rogers?” Carrie stuck out her hand. She hoped the Sheriff wouldn’t notice that it smelled like vagina.

  “The one and only.”

  “We hear you have a problem,” Carrie said.

  “That I do. You here to help me out?”

  “Well, we’re always up for a good mystery. We like solving crime. Almost as much as we like to fuck.”

  Rogers looked momentarily perplexed. “I think there’s been too much fucking ’round here, if you ask me.”

  “Tell us all about it.”

  “Tell you. Hell, I can show you.”

  They hopped into the Sheriff’s car, a rusted out hulk that would fit about a hundred people, and drove to a barn toward the middle of the island. They didn’t pass a single car. Didn’t see a single person out walking. The entire island felt abandoned.

  Standing in front of the barn doors, Rogers said, “I wasn’t really sure what to do with them so I just put ’em in here.”

  He swung open the doors and entered the barn. The Grassville Gang followed him in.

  There must have been a hundred or more stalls. A pregnant woman was in each one. They were all naked, holding their huge stomachs and looking sadly at the Gang, as though they had come to free them.

  “I’m running out of room,” Rogers said. “And the tourists are running out of entertainment. Therefore, I’m running out of tourists and running out of money.”

  “Why are they in stalls?” Carrie asked. “It doesn’t seem right to just lock them up like that.”

  “I have to go,” Zeke said. He had his book out, holding it in front of his crotch. Carrie wondered if he was appalled by the conditions or really needed to read. He couldn’t have been aroused.

  “I think we’ve all seen enough,” Carrie said.

  Brock moved up to one of the stalls and began massaging a woman’s breasts.

  “Mmm,” the woman moaned. “I’m lactating too… You want summa that? Huh? You want summa momma’s milk?”

  Brock stepped back as the woman squirted two streams of milk into the air.

  “Sick!” Brock shouted. He ran out of the barn in fear. Everyone else followed.

  They hopped back into Rogers’ cruiser and drove through the quaint island town until they reached a pizza shop. Once inside the pizza shop, they were the only ones there besides the young island boy behind the counter.

  They slid into a booth and Brock barked, “Five large pies!”

  “Sir,” the island boy said quietly. “You’re going to have to put on a shirt.”

  “It’s okay,” Rogers said. “He’s with me.”

  “But the health code…”

  “I have one hundred and twenty-six pregnant women locked in a barn. Fuck the goddamn health code.”

  “Whatever…” The boy retreated back behind the counter.

 
“Can we get some beer?” Rogers asked.

  “A keg!” Brock shouted.

  The boy wheeled out a keg and sat five plastic mugs on the table before struggling to hoist the keg up. The boy filled the glasses. Beer was technically now Guzzle Gold, but most people still just called it beer. The boy disappeared again.

  Rogers took a long sip of his beer and shook his head. “I know you guys probably think it’s inhumane to keep all them girls locked up like that, but I have reason to believe that… when they deliver the babies, they might be dangerous.”

  “How do you figure?” Emma asked.

  “I personally examined each one of them.”

  “You mean like their pussies?” Brock said. He held his left hand into a circle and punched his right index finger in and out of the hole.

  “Yes.” Rogers looked embarrassed. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Brock nodded his head up and down knowingly and made a raunchy face.

  “Now hold up. I didn’t fuck any of them. I just examined them. Anyway, they each demonstrated similar signs.”

  “Similar signs?” Carrie asked.

  “The person who impregnated them had a very large penis.”

  Carrie wondered if it was larger than Zeke’s.

  “Have you come to any conclusions?”

  “I think the same person impregnated all of them over a three day period. Of course, that’s been months ago. I wasn’t even aware of the problem until recently and I’m afraid it might be too late.”

  “It’s not too late,” Carrie said. “We’ll find him. Whatever it takes.”

  The island boy returned with their pizzas. Everyone was ravenous and busied themselves eating. By the time they were finished, Rogers and Brock were both too drunk to carry on a conversation. Carrie, Emma, and Zeke helped them out to the car and Zeke drove to the Labrador Hotel. They left Rogers in the car and went into the hotel to confer.

  The Grassville Gang did their best thinking while shooting porn.

  Once inside their hideously dilapidated room, they flopped Brock onto the bed. Emma turned on the docked iPod and tuned it to some mood music. The mood music was one long repetitive piece Zeke’s friend recorded using his keyboard under the moniker Your Mom’s Face. Carrie opened up the cooler and passed around bottles of Guzzle Pink. Zeke stood behind the camera.

  Carrie unbuttoned Brock’s denim shorts and pulled them down his legs. Everyone in the Grassville Gang was natural except for Brock, who was a mess of chemical tanning, electrolysis, implants, steroids, and numerous penis modifications. No one was sure where the penile parts came from, but it was so racially diverse it was the genital equivalent of a college brochure.

  Carrie began sucking his scarred, multi-colored member and Emma forced some Guzzle into his mouth.

  “Wait,” Zeke said. “What do we call this one? We can’t just start shooting without a title.”

  “Hmm?” Carrie mumbled around Brock’s penis.

  “A title?”

  “Oh.” Carrie came up and held Brock in her hand. “Why don’t we just call it Out of Their Heads (And Clothes) Part 12?”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Thanks.” Carrie went back to sucking Brock.

  Emma stood up, downed her Guzzle, and slowly took off her clothes while making eye contact with the camera. She finished off the Guzzle and tossed the bottle into the corner where it shattered.

  “Mmm, I’m so wasted,” she said into the camera. “And my pussy’s sore.”

  She climbed onto the bed and straddled Brock’s face. He was out of it but still knew enough to perform his duties. His tongue began lapping at Emma’s pink vagina.

  “Ow, my pussy’s so sore.”

  Carrie stopped fellating Brock and began removing her clothes. The more flesh she revealed, the more disgusting tattoos Zeke had to focus on. Her latest addition, just above her left breast, looked like a man who had a horn growing out of his cheek. She left her glasses on.

  “You like this one?” She stroked the new ugly man. “I want that horn up my wet cunt.”

  She slipped off her white underwear and flicked her clitoral ring. She downed the rest of her Guzzle in one gulp. She staggered and took a step backward. Zeke zoomed in on her unfocused eyes.

  “Fuck,” she said. “I wanna fuck till I puke. Yeah? Does that sound good? You wanna make me puke?”

  Then she was on the bed, straddling Brock’s wildly erect cock. “Oh, yeah,” she said. “Bury that shit in me. Oh fuck. I’m gonna rip off my nipples.”

  She tugged vigorously at her nipples.

  Zeke set the camera up on the tripod and checked to make sure it was focused on the bed.

  “Ow, my pussy’s sore,” Emma cried.

  Zeke took his clothes off behind the camera. He was thin, pale, and hairy. His penis hung down to his knees.

  “You gonna gag me with that thing?” Carrie said. “Huh? You gonna slide that monkey arm down my throat till I puke? Puke and come?”

  “Yes,” Zeke spoke in an enunciated monotone. “Whatever. Life is meaningless. Might as well fuck until we die.”

  He approached the bed. While riding Brock hard, Carrie grabbed Zeke’s cock and slowly took it all into her mouth, down her throat.

  “Ow, my pussy’s sore.”

  The bass from the stereo had kicked in and the Grassville Gang was lost in the haze of Guzzle and sex.

  Carrie gagged and pulled away from Zeke’s monster cock. “Aw, fuck, baby. You gonna shoot your jibbles on my teeth?”

  “No.” Zeke sounded bored. “I just want to (sigh) stick this big cock in your tight hole.”

  “Get your jibbles off? Aw, fuck! I wish you could fuck my spine. Oh, baby, yeah. I’m gonna roll on the floor.”

  Carrie pulled herself off Brock and began rolling on the floor. She rolled until she hit the wall and then rolled back until she hit the bed. Zeke went to the head of the bed and bent Emma over Brock. She eagerly started sucking Brock, proffering her ass to Zeke. “Careful,” she said. “My pussy’s sore.”

  “The pain will make you feel more alive.”

  Zeke slapped her ass hard and mechanically.

  “Hurdle!” Carrie stood up from the floor and took a running leap over the flesh heap on the bed. She flew into a table and broke it. Bleeding and splinter-pricked, she stumbled over to the bed and started smacking Emma in the face as Emma sucked Brock, Zeke pounding her from behind.

  “Stick your fingers in that asshole!” Carrie shouted savagely.

  Zeke obeyed, plugging Emma’s ass with his middle finger.

  Things became even hazier after that. The foursome ran through every combination possible until they reached their grand finale.

  “Matter spatter!” Carrie shouted.

  “God. Pussy’s so fucking sore…” Emma hissed through gritted teeth.

  Carrie lay down on her back. Zeke and Emma rolled Brock on top of her. Emma fed his cock into Carrie’s vagina. Carrie shouted, “Shitstorm fiasco!” Emma sandwiched her hips between Brock and Carrie’s heads so Carrie was lapping at her cunt and Brock was tonguing her asshole.

  Zeke lubed up his penis and worked it into Brock’s filthy rectum. This was a special scene. They could only do this when Brock was really, really wasted. Zeke worked away for a few minutes and Carrie shouted, “Matter spatter!” again.

  Zeke pulled out, kneeled beside Brock and began slapping his back with his feces-covered cock.

  Emma crawled up to the head of the bed, splayed her legs, and put a bag of ice on her vagina before sticking her thumb in her mouth, looking into the camera, and crying.

  “Get your jibbles out!” Carrie yelled. “Get ‘em all in that shit!”

  “Yes. I’m getting ready to come in this shit. This shit I got from fucking another man in the ass.”

  “Oh God. Oh fuck! I’m gonna fucking puke. Puke and bleed and pass out!”

  Just as Zeke was ready to come, the power went out.

  “What?” he said.

 
; He heard things moving around. Brock wasn’t under him anymore.

  Carrie kept shouting, “What the fuck is going on!”

  “Ow, my pussy’s sore? Even though I have ice on it?” Emma called. Zeke wasn’t sure where she was.

  Then he heard a shrill voice coming from somewhere near the window.

  “Ha ha! You may be almost as good at solving crime as you are at fucking, Grassville Gang, but you’ll never catch The Impregnator!”

  And then the window shattered and all the power came back on.

  “Zeke?” Carrie called from the bathroom. “You’d better come here.”

  Zeke walked into the bathroom, his bare feet crunching across the debris.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Carrie said.

  The bathroom was covered in shit, blood, and entrails. Brock lay in a pool of gore in the bathtub. Carrie vomited into the toilet.

  Emma came into the bathroom and said, “I think that guy raped me. My pussy’s sore, like, for real this time.”

  “Okay,” Zeke said. “We need to call Sheriff Rogers.”

  “I gotta get out of this bathroom.” Emma turned back into the main room.

  “And we should probably all put some clothes on,” Zeke said.

  He grabbed his clothes from the floor and put them on. He grabbed his cell phone from his pants pocket and called Rogers. It rang and rang.

  “He’s not answering.”

  “Did you call 911?” Carrie was now examining herself in the mirror and pulling splinters out of her skin.

  “Do you think that even works here?”

  “Sure. Why not? It works everywhere.”

  Zeke shrugged and dialed 911. It rang and rang.

  “I’ll go down to the lobby,” Emma said. “See if they can help us.”

  “Don’t tell them about Brock,” Carrie warned.

  “Who?”

  “The lobby people. We don’t want to incite panic or anything.”

  “Whatever.”

  Emma left the room and walked down the tiled hallway until she reached the front desk. A rotund islander sat sleeping in his chair, head lolling back, drool slicking his chin.