Exhibitions of Flesh

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Exhibitions of Flesh Page 3

by Jillian Rose


  “Oh baby… I’m close.” He said, his voice shuttering. I put one hand behind his thick neck, brought him close.

  “I’m right there with you. Please. Come baby. Fucking come in me. Fucking—” I began before I was cut off by his cry, almost feminine in it’s register. A second later I was screaming. In that short moment two things happened. First I felt his cock give a throb that I could feel in my fucking stomach practically, giving me that extra bit of penetration as he slammed all the way to his balls, swelling as it erupted with his first explosive pump. I could feel the molten magma inside of me, a hot eruption blasting against my colon wall right as I felt the first deep contraction in my pussy. I felt my ass clench against him like a fist, and he grunted with something that sounded like pain as I constricted him like a boa, forcing out the second hot load. Finally I released, and with it came a geyser that splashed against his chest and rained down against my face.

  “Fuck!” I screamed, getting ejaculate in my mouth, not caring. He reared back and slammed home again, cutting off my flow as he deposited another spurting hot load inside of me. He pulled back, and another jet shot out of me as I rode my own pulsating wave, contracting in time with his thrusts. This happened over and over for perhaps ten seconds before finally he had to pull out with a whimper. I let out one final blast that prolapsed both my pussy and asshole, and with a crude sound I expelled what felt like a gallon of cum, knowing we’d have to change the sheets tonight before we went to bed.

  “Holy fuck.” Jesse breathed, watching as I trembled, my hand still on my clit, barely rubbing it but determined to ride out the final ebbing wave of my climax. For that short period of time I felt like I was almost having an out of body experience, the pleasure was so mind numbingly intense. When I finally came to my senses, I laughed as I registered Jesse, his drenched body and the bewildered, amazed look on his face. He looked like a clergyman who’d just witnessed a divine miracle.

  “Yeah…” Was all I could manage.

  “Fuck… If you can do that again… but on film… We’d have some very happy customers.” He said. He leaned in, lowering my legs, I didn’t realize I still had them up by my head, I was still sort of stunned, and kissed me, licking off the few droplets of creamy nectar that I had expelled. “Warn me next time so I can get down there and drink it up. As you say, I want every drop of that sweet necator.” He said, smacking my ass as he got up.

  “Come on, let’s hop in the shower and get cleaned up.” He said, helping me up on trembling legs.

  After we’d cleaned ourselves and Jesse helped me change the sheets, we went down to our living room, and I opened up Netflix. It was October, and we being dedicated horror lovers, had made it a point to watch a horror movie in every sub genre by the end of the month. As we settled on The Thing, I opened up my phone to check my messages before turning it off, and saw the date. I realized this weekend would be Halloween.

  “Hey babe.” I said, getting his attention.

  “Hmmmph?” as he scarfed down a handful of popcorn.

  “What if we went to Dupo this weekend? It’s Halloween, we could do like a special live stream or something. If we can get a connection out there anyway. If not, still, we could upload it as soon as we got to the hotel. I think that’d be a hit.” I said. His eyebrows went up, and he shook his head in astonishment. He leaned over and kissed me on the forehead.

  “You’re a genius baby. A damn genius. Let’s do it!” he said, and snuggled up against me. I tear up as I write this, because it was one of the last good memories we had together. You don’t know how badly I wish I could go back in time, to sit on that couch with me in his arms, Kurt Russel and the gang surviving in their hellish tundra, the smell of his soap as I nestled against him, basking in the pleasant after glow that always came after some particularly good sex.

  Chapter 5.

  We left Friday afternoon with the plan to get there Friday night. Dupo was about a five hour drive from our apartment, which was the farthest we’d ever driven to go check out a site. We’d already reserved a room at the nearest hotel we could find, a Budget Inn Travel Lodge located a few interstate exits away from the small unincorporated township. Before we left, I’d printed out a bunch of stuff about Dupo, from the town history to Mobley’s trial, to the crime scene reports and a few witness testimonies from the few neighbors that flanked the isolated Mobley property. This was a typical ritual with me, as I was OCD about learning everything I could about a site before going to investigate it.

  Normally this routine was fueled by the excited anxiety of encountering spirits, to be able to know enough to instigate a poltergeist to act, as I’d seen some professional paranormal investigators do. Call out the names of the loved ones that died, mention a piece of their personal history to get them riled up. Except that had never worked with us, and by our tenth site, I quit doing it. Now I found myself pouring over this information because of just how incredible this case was. I’d barely heard about Mobley on the news, even though the trial and the events that happened on his property are considered one of the most heinous mass murder events of the twenty first century, rivaling Jonestown in it’s scope.

  “Hey babe… Check this out, Theron Mobley was in the fucking Intelligence Bureau before he wigged out and moved way out into the armpit of Iowa to start his little commune. Dude was involved in a shitload of classified projects with the CIA before he “went rogue”, which is the term his deputy director used at the trial. That’s wild.” I said in between bites of a whopper.

  “Guy was a spook huh? Doesn’t surprise me a bit. All those Charles Manson types were government operatives I bet. Mk Ultra sleeper cells and all that. They know exactly how to manipulate people, which is how they get those cults formed in the first place. There’s a whole documentary about it.” He said as he inhaled his burger while driving. Normally I’d roll my eyes at his usual It’s a conspiracy mannn! Response, but as I read on, it looked like Jesse’s tin foil hat wearing podcasters were onto something.

  Theron Mobley, who was first in the army, served a tour in Vietnam as a marksman before coming back and, after getting a degree in abnormal psychology, received an entry level position at Quantico in the behavioral analysis unit, an oddity when so many of his peers his age who’d tried to tame the great green sea turned to narcotics and alcohol to cope with the horrors they’d witnessed and done there. According to his Wikipedia, he only lasted two years at Quantico before being transferred to the CIA, where his extensive knowledge of cognitive psychology and criminal behavior were used to formulate interrogation techniques during the cold war.

  This is where things get fuzzy. All the information I found during his time from the 1970’s says he suffered a major nervous breakdown induced by work stress and marital troubles sometime in 1975, and that was when he was fired, forced to sign an NDA about his service for the alphabet soup agencies, and eloped off to the middle of Iowa to get peace and quiet, finally.

  Yet during his court trial in 2009, a district attorney judge in charge of the case filed a Freedom of Information Act request about Theron’s time with US intelligence, and it was granted due to the fact Theron was considered a possible terrorist at the time. The documents that were attached to the blog I was reading showed a heavily redacted, but conflicting internal memo from one of Theron’s Colleagues, a one doctor Albert Roger, a psychiatrist working closely with Theron on some kind of “truth serum” that was supposed to help in the interrogation of Russian Spies. In the bits of the Memo that didn’t have a fat black line through them, I read of a haunted, bookish man who was often mocked by his colleagues for his constant moral outcries against the work they were doing. His co-workers often played pranks on Theron, or kept him out of the loop on some of the more controversial experiments, that Albert only referred to as “real mind benders…The good stuff.”

  The memo talked about how the department Theron worked for was in a conundrum about what to do with Theron. They didn’t think he would last much longer, b
ut couldn’t risk cutting him loose due to the wealth of controversial, and I quote “potentially world altering” knowledge he had about the CIA’s activities. At the very end was the smoking gun that had caused so much up roar: a light hearted mention from Albert about how the department joked about “Getting Theron all spun out on mind benders, scramble his brains enough to wear he cant tell reality from fantasy, make him the village idiot that no one would pay attention too”, which, if this actually occurred, would go in line with Theron’s sudden erratic behavior and departure from the CIA.

  “Jesus babe you still reading that stuff? Give it a rest, we’re here.” He said, and I snapped out of my trance. It was an incredibly boring drive, Missouri in and of itself north of Saint Louis isn’t that exciting, it’s the Mississippi River, corn fields, more corn fields, Wal-marts, and Anti-abortion bill boards. Entering Iowa was even less thrilling. It was a never ending flat sea of agriculture on all sides. Definitely a place I would go if I had been fried out by the trauma’s of my work and wanted a simple quiet place to retire too. As we turned off the exit to Dupo, I saw the highway that crawled away from the interstate plunged into this shoulder high sea with no discernable end in sight.

  “I thought we were going to the hotel?” I asked, looking at my phone, it was nine in the evening, my ass was sore from sitting in the Taurus’s shitty bucket seat for hours, and the more I was reading about this case, the less I wanted anything to do with this town, a small township with it’s own post office and municipal services, founded by an absolute mad man, who could of very well been a demented genius.

  “We are, I just wanted to drive through, get a feel for the place.” He said as he piloted the car down a long winding state highway flanked on both sides by corn. I felt oddly closed in, confined with the shoulder high corn on both sides of me, and almost wanted to scream at Jesse to turn the car around. But I bit my tongue. After all, I was the cynic, right?

  We eventually passed the sign that said DUPO-POP 112, with a smaller sign underneath, barely legible with pock marked buckshot, that said “NOW PROPERTY OF MOUNT SEYLAR COUNTY”. The corn fields receded, but only slightly as we passed a few run down farm houses, one of which had a message sprawled in huge white letters on the front.

  AINT NOTHIN HERE WORTH DYIN FOR.

  We eventually came to a 4-way junction, on one corner of which was a small brick building, the post office where Mobley had sent out his orders for the large amounts of hallucinogens he manufactured and sold to fund the construction of his underground bunker. One way took us to the county seat, Mount Seylar, the other to a place called Gideon. I could see a small gas station a couple hundred feet to the right along the highway. Going straight would eventually take us to a gravel road, PROMISED LAND ROAD it was called. Jesse went straight, and kept going until we came to the two orange saw-horses placed out in the middle of the road. ROAD CLOSED-NO TRESPASSING BY ORDER OF THE MOUNT SEYLAR SHERIFF’S DEPARTMENT the reflective sign said.

  “Jesus, the road goes on for another three miles before we get to his ranch. The county must really not want people going out there.” Jesse said, backing up to turn around.

  “Guess not.” I said, feeling an oily ball of anxiety slosh around the greasy fast food in my stomach. As we came back to the four way stop, we noticed a non-descript black car pull out from the gas station and quickly accelerate towards us. It wasn’t until it turned right and got behind us that it turned it’s lights off.

  “What’s the deal with this jerk off…” Jesse said, an edge to his voice he usually only got when he was about to kick out a rowdy patron from the venue’s he sometimes worked security at for an extra buck. The ball of anxiety tightened like a fist and I thought my burger was about to take the express route into the floor board of Jesse’s car.

  “Jesus!” I heard Jesse yell, so I stuck my tongue to the roof of my mouth and closed my eyes, taking a deep breath, commanding the nausea to fuck off. Then I forced myself to open them. I had to squint as the rear view and side mirrors were now filled with the dazzling brights of someone who was only a few feet behind us.

  “God who the fuck is this asshole.” I said, trying not to sound afraid.

  “I don’t know, but he’s sending a message.” Jesse said. I saw he was doing 65, ten miles over the speed limit, and our mystery driver still stayed on our ass. The interstate ramp seemed like it was all the way across the state, but soon I saw the blessed sign for the north bound I-35 ramp. For a heart wrenching moment I thought the car would turn with us onto the ramp, but eventually it sped past as Jesse veered to the right. When we were back on the comforting sprawl of the interstate, Jesse let out a sigh of relief.

  “Probably just some rednecks trying to fuck with us.” He said as he rolled down his window to smoke a cigarette. I could see the trembling ember of the cherry as his fingers shook from adrenaline. I didn’t say anything to that, not wanting to show how rattled I was by the encounter. That sure as fuck didn’t look like a hillbilly vehicle, I thought as I recalled the glimpse I got of the car, a slick black low profile sedan, more akin to an undercover police car than something a few drunken rednecks would drive. I kept my concerns to myself however, not wanting to ruin the vibe of the trip. We pulled into our hotel parking lot, the lobby of which was decked out in silly Halloween decorations.

  The hotel was located in a place called Collinsville, one of those interstate metropolises that was a town pretending to be a city with all the chain restaurants and lodging. After Jesse checked us in, we both grabbed our personal bags and the few duffel bags of camera gear and hauled it into our room. Once everything was stowed away, we grabbed a bite to eat at a near by waffle house, and then stocked up on snacks and supplies at the super market across the street from the hotel. I bought a six pack of some holiday pumpkin flavored ale and a bag of candy to feel more festive, and because I knew we both would need something to take the edge off tonight after the incident with the car, and me especially as I continued reading up on Mobley once we were back at our hotel.

  Chapter 6.

  We tried to find something to watch on the shitty basic cable the hotel TV had, figuring AMC or one of the other movie channels would have some kind of horror flicks playing with it being Halloween eve. But there was nothing except fox news and evangelical Christians on podiums speaking fire and brim stone. Jesse ended up going to sleep, he was worn out from the drive and insisted we get up and head out first thing in the morning, his theory being that no one except the farmers will be up at the crack of dawn, and with the added advantage of day light we could scope the property out, moving the saw horses back in place once we crossed them, and then wait until night to do the filming. I couldn’t think of a better plan, so I agreed to it.

  While Jesse snored, I stayed up, hooking my laptop up to the shitty free wifi the motel had and researching more about Mobley. I knew I shouldn’t be doing it, I was only going to psych myself out more, but I found an insatiable urge to learn everything about this now dead man. I looked up sector 5, who until the late nineties were an innocent commune of hippies who followed the psychedelic rock group Big Skyy, who rode off the Black Sabbath era satanic imagery that drove so many conservative parents frothing mad during the satanic panic era.

  A group once dedicated to pacifism and rebranding Satanism as a respectable religion among western esotericism, Sector 5 was the poster child of Laveyan satanism in the early seventies and eighties. They ran charities from the Big Skyy shows and donated a good chunk of sales from band merchandise to women’s safe houses, groups that investigated child abuse and pedophilia in the roman catholic church, and other wholesome causes to shed their previous imagery of cat sacrificing degenerate goths.

  I went to their web site, now long defunct, and perused the old geocities hosted website, a hold over from the late nineties, and I felt a peculiar nostalgia fill me as I saw the old clunky HTML formatting, the toxic waste green text against black background, cheesy word art pentagrams on either side of the we
bsite banner. I saw blog posts that dated as far back as 2001, when Dupo was founded. I saw images of Mobley standing with a group of beautiful women who looked straight out of the flower power era in front of the town sign I had seen only a few hours ago, without the buck shot added in.

  I referred back to my notes, where there was testimony from four of the surviving members of sector 5. By the time the remaining members had been interviewed, they were already placed in witness protection, so I had no hopes of looking them up.

  “He just sort of…like, showed up man.” Said one of the members when discussing Mobley’s sudden appearance into the group. “He saw we needed a leader and he just… Appeared liked Christ, to lead us. We were rapidly disintegrating once BS broke up, they were our guiding light. Then Wolf came along and changed everything about the group. Turned it into a business, shit, a dynasty.” Wolf was what they called him, was what he called himself. It wasn’t until after the trial that people knew him by his real name. He certainly looked the part, with a long gray mane and huge bushy beard, thick rimmed glasses and piercing eyes.

  “Dude said he used to work for the government. We thought he was spun out till he showed us the documents and stuff. He was the real deal. And he knew how to make some out of this world stuff. It was like mescaline on steroids. Shit forced your third eye open and wrung your soul dry. He said his bosses were trying to weaponize this stuff, and that he wanted to make it available to the public. Said it could be used for good, to get people to wake up. He had some wild ambitions man. Wild ambitions. But he knew how to talk, he was so goddamn smart. You could listen to that guy talk for hours about psy ops and Vietnam and just everything man. We needed him. We flocked to him and he built us up. Shit, he even gave us a town.”

 

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