This time, as before, it was wonderful, almost magical. The playful teasing leading up to it was lighthearted and fun, but when it was clear where they were headed, Charlotte and Winston suddenly got serious. He lay on his back looking up at her, a long lean body, slightly bulging in the middle just above the hair between her legs. She held him in her hand, poised to drop and take him in.
“You’re sure you want do this?” she asked, breathing hard.
“As sure as I’ve ever been about anything. You’re my wife, and I love you. No matter what.”
“Thank God,” Charlotte said. “I don’t think I could have stopped myself.”
She slowly lowered herself onto him, feeling every inch of his throbbing length push inside. This was what she needed, oh yes. This was exactly it. Winston’s expression said he felt the same. She lowered all the way, their bodies so close they were as one. She felt the usual flutter of pleasure she got from this angle, but then another flutter, higher inside her. Movement. It’s the baby, she thought. I really need to tell him about that. She looked down at her naked self and saw her abdomen move, ever so slightly, a whisper under the skin. Quickly, she looked at Winston. He saw it, too. He stared at the spot. Neither moved for several seconds; neither spoke at all.
Then, she began to slide back and forth, rubbing that sweet spot on him and gliding him slightly in and out. Winston looked up at her, confused, gripped with desire, yet afraid.
“It’s okay,” Charlotte told him. “It’s okay. Just make love to me. I need you to do this.”
That was enough for him. He matched her movement with his own, quickly finding the rhythm. The wet walls of her vagina squeezed him in a hot embrace. He could feel how wet she was, the heat inside of her.
“Ah, God,” he said. “This is what we’re made for!”
Charlotte nodded, focused on her goal. Wanting him to cum, wanting to cum herself. Her hand slid down between her legs and she toyed with her clitoris above the slippery joining of their bodies. Winston watched, wide-eyed and amazed. He felt her muscles tighten, saw her face contort in ecstasy and inching closer to orgasm. He held off; he wanted her to go first. He loved to watch her cum. And she did, squeezing her legs tightly around his hips, she cried out, her whole body tense with pleasure. Winston could hold back no more and he thrust up into her again and again, faster and faster. As he came, his pleasure drove her into another frenzy of orgasms and she nearly screamed.
As Winston came, he felt it again: the gripping, the strange extra muscles inside his wife. It made his orgasm even more intense, despite the fact that the pain was greater this time. He emptied himself inside her, as if every drop was being pulled out of him, almost by force.
When it was over, he rested inside her and was nearly asleep when he felt it again. A tugging. A pulling. He was still hard, but slowly fading, and he tried to pull out of Charlotte. He could not. He was stuck. He looked up at her and met her eyes. She knew, he could tell.
“What are you doing,” Winston stammered. “What are you doing to me?”
“It’s not me,” Charlotte replied. “It’s the baby.” She was calm, even serene.
“Baby?” Winston was puzzled. “But, this is only the second time we’ve ever... and it’s only been two weeks. How could you possibly know if we had a baby? And how could it do that?”
“Oh, Winston,” Charlotte said. “I’m truly sorry to tell you this, but the baby’s not yours.”
Winston, who could still feel himself being pulled into her by something, was incredulous.
“Well, then,” he said, “whose is it?”
“A man’s,” she said. “A dead man’s.”
Winston was speechless. He stared at his naked wife, still straddling him and wondered if she was mad. Then he felt a much harder tug on his penis. This one hurt. The pulling got worse very quickly and it was all he could do not to cry out.
“What’s happening, Charlotte?” he asked. “I’m afraid.”
“Shh. Don’t be. It’s only my child, dear. I think he’s hungry.”
“Hungry?”
Yes, Charlotte thought to herself. Of course her baby was hungry. She could sense it, this need to feed. Somehow, she could feel its hunger.
Winston was pulled up suddenly, his pelvis slamming into hers. Charlotte gasped in surprise, pain and yes, pleasure too. He looked at where they were joined, and saw for a moment the wonderful sight of two as one. Then, he felt a sharp awful pain, and blood poured out of his wife. He was pulled up again, harder and this time something severed. This time, he screamed.
Again and again, as more of his body was pulled inside Charlotte to feed her child, he screamed as no man has ever screamed before or since. Finally, his voice gave out, and then his life did too. Charlotte watched, stunned and fascinated, as the limp body of her dead husband was slowly drawn into her vagina.
Charlotte sat naked on the bed, belly horribly distended but already starting to recede. Her husband’s blood soaked the sheets, and she found herself glad that she had put down the protective under sheet earlier. The mattress might be fine after all.
It was this thought that prompted her to wonder if she was going insane.
~
Charlotte was large with child now and all the Gloucester ladies wanted to know when she was due, whether she thought it’d be a boy or girl. She wouldn’t speculate, she said. She’d be happy no matter what it was. They asked her when Winston would return from Europe, but she said she hoped it would be in time for the baby’s birth, and would say nothing more on the subject.
She asked Dr. Billings to come to her home when the time came. He said yes, and she was glad. Charlotte wanted to make sure, when her baby was born, that it had something to eat. Something other than her.
GAME OF GOLF
Gregory L. Norris
Alvin took aim and swung. “Four!”
The club could have been a driver, or a wedge, or iron, or putter for all he knew—or cared. Alvin hated the game of golf and, particularly, golfers. The club struck its target with a hollow, oaken note, mildly painful on the ear. Granted, the golfer’s head was considerably bigger than a golf ball, far less easy to miss, but pride filled him as vibrations shuddered up his arm and through his bones.
The impact knocked the poofy plum-colored cap off the golfer’s head. Metal slammed into skull bone, former caving in latter. The drive also launched a cascade of liquid crimson across the unnatural green of the surrounding fairway and down the crisp cotton of the golfer’s designer polo shirt, powder blue. The golfer, at first, remained upright, eyes wide, his surprise visible through the streaks of blood. Wetness bloomed from behind his zipper. Mouth hanging open, he attempted to comment on his condition, a series of guttural gargles and grunts spoken in some new, unique language.
Alvin snapped back on the handle and delivered another swing. This one crushed the golfer’s nose, blasting it apart in a shower of syrupy red, creating a mess across the man’s trim silver mustache that reminded Alvin of strawberry topping on an ice cream sundae or banana split.
New language died and the golfer went down, rigid from the top of his shattered head to toes curling in expensive shoes. Just to be sure, Alvin gripped the club’s handle with both hands and chopped downward, twice striking the golfer’s head, once his neck.
The other assholes with their wedges and wingtips clustered in twos, threes, and fours were far too focused on shoving their balls into holes to notice the second murder of that young morning near the eighteenth hole at the Haven Loch Golf Course. The first victim laid in pieces in the woods, partner of the one with the silver mustache, Alvin assumed. Silver no more.
He dragged Daddy War-Fucks into the bushes where, on a humid and overcast June Sunday, the flies were already feasting on Kill Number One, Richie Rich. The once-dormant animal that lived in the space between Alvin’s belly and balls had turned rabid, hungry. Thirsty, for more blood.
And there was so much left to spill, just beyond the slope.
The golf cart picked up an additional seven miles per hour on the charge down the hill. Alvin drove it into the three unsuspecting golfers. The front bumper and headlights plowed directly into two of the men, knocking them down, forward, and then down again. He only clipped the third, but the impact with the safety cage was enough to shred something tender and arterial, according to the massive spray of blood that painted his face from the right.
Of the two he nailed head-on, the damage a simple golf cart could unleash on flesh and bone was telegraphed in crunches and snaps and loud croaking pops as organs exploded and faces blew apart beneath tires.
The cart bumped and bucked over body parts. Alvin banked the wheel to the left. Gravity slammed into the vehicle’s rear, nearly spilling it onto the side. A series of deft maneuvers by bloody hands kept the cart upright and moving—and still deadly. Alvin lead-footed and took aim at the golfer he’d clipped. That guy was down but getting back up, clutching at his torn throat with both hands. Blood gouted between steepled fingers; even a battery-powered, normally lethargic lightweight vehicle could transform into a juggernaut in the right hands, apparently.
Alvin ran into the golfer and over him as he fell. A solo performance of high-pitched shrieks briefly rose up, more of that agonal chorus made by souls en route to Hell. A few hard turns and the music shorted out, replaced by the tenebrous calm in which only Alvin’s galloping heart dared speak.
In one of the golf bags that spilled out of the cart’s ass end, he found a hand gun. Neat little semi-automatic piece, the perfect instrument of murder for your typical soul-stealing corporate cocksucker seeking to relieve some stress and compete with his fellow cocksuckers for cocksucking bragging rights on the green.
He checked the clip and carefully tucked the gun beneath his belt, the metal icy against the top of his crack.
Alvin moved on to the next part of the killing chute.
~
The pair he bludgeoned to death at the sand trap fought back and nearly ended Alvin Morris Lampson’s killing spree far short of the first hole. Young, the pair of eighteen- to twenty-somethings likely crowned with pretentious rich kid names like Brandon or Cody or Jason—who spoke in uppity lingo punctuated by the word, “Dude,” played water polo in their families’ in-ground pools, drove new-model sports cars, had never known what it was like to go without, not for one single want or urge, the spoiled fucks—caught sight of him as he approached, his skin glistening with sticky wetness, blood hanging from his chin in clotted ropes, his clothes soaked through with red.
“Chad, what the fuck?” the closest of the two tools asked.
“I don’t know, Trip,” his fellow golfer and near-future corporate hit man-cum-cocksucker answered.
Trip, so the privileged prick was third in a long line of bankers, lawyers, politicians, and pukes. Rapers of humanity and of the Earth.
In his rage, Alvin overlooked the all-important element of surprise that had served him so well to that point and showed his hand too soon. The one named Chad got in a swing with his club, a wedge or a driver or a dildo he’d later use on both himself and Trip after they dined on some endangered roasted animal dressed in fleurs of radish and tomato and sipped Pinot trodden by the feet of the peasants kept chained in their wine cellars.
Exquisite agony burned across a kidney, forcing Alvin to suck in a deep swoop of air. As the painful wave traveled through him in brilliant concentric ripples, some disconnected register realized he’d subsisted on shallow sips since jumping the fence on Mack Hill Road, along the tree line. Almost as sickening as the agony of being clubbed in the flank by the dick’s stick was the smell that filled his lungs from the dick himself—a thick and cloying cologne, designer and expensive no doubt. An image painted on the inside of Alvin’s eyelids between rapid blinks, of that foul cologne lingering on sofa cushions and bed sheets long after the silver spoon soaked in the noxious shit wandered away, spent. A choking haze mixed with sweat and blood, filled his lungs.
Expelling the foul breath, Alvin charged, nailing Chad or Buffy or Binky or Thurston or whatever the fuck his name was in the junk. He fired a kick at Trip’s groin. Soft meat flattened under steel toes. As he dropped, the prick’s face turned an ashen shade belonging more on a corpse than one of the living.
Wincing, Alvin grabbed the Chadster’s head.
“Dude?” the golfer mewled before Alvin slammed his face into the sand, again and again, until the stink of expensive cologne vanished beneath the metallic tang of fresh-spilled blood. The fucker, Alvin noticed when rising, had messed his golf shorts.
Alvin dragged the remaining golfer over to the twitching corpse of his bent-over buddy and stomped his head into strawberry jam, howling, “Suck on your momma’s titties, bitch. Yeah, suck the vinegar out!”
Two more down, and Alvin still didn’t feel sated, like he’d hoped. Two golfers left in chunks and pieces on the sand trap. So many more to go.
He realized that it was the strawberry jam comparison that kept his rage fueled, sending him on to the next target.
~
Alvin drowned one man in the ball washer. Held his head under the water, which was tinted pale blue with a cleaning solution. Bubbles sloshed as fists hammered the plastic tank and legs attempted to launch him into the sky. Maddening seconds after the plunge, the golfer went slack. Alvin relaxed his grip. The golfer’s head slipped out of the ball washer, his lips now blue, too, his face purple, his eyes bulging and cocked in different directions.
Alvin grabbed the man’s golf tees, spilled on the ground, and popped two into his face, one per eye.
~
Alvin slipped into the cottage-style men’s bathroom and resumed the carnage.
Two men dressed in matchy-matchy golf outfits, one canary-yellow, the other a bruised shade of claret, stood side by side at a pair of urinals, discussing the muggy weather, johnsons in hand. In one fluid motion, Alvin reached out and drove their foreheads into the tiled walls directly in front of their faces. Porcelain subway tiles cracked, as did noses. Still spraying their urine, which flew up in little golden fountains, the men crashed spines-down on the unforgiving floor.
Alvin moved toward the feet of the two dazed men. “What have we got here, laddies?” he posed in a Scottish accent.
Kneeling, still wincing from the blow to his flank, Alvin yanked off the largest man’s right shoe.
“A couple of golfers, aye. Golf, such a fine Scottish game. The game of kings. Are ye kings, laddies?”
The two men moaned. Alvin raised the shoe, spike-side aimed down.
“Kings that need crowning…”
He slammed the sole on faces a dozen times each, rapid fire. Blood spattered as flesh shredded and bones broke and matter not quite gray, more the color of orange sherbet, stained canary-yellow and claret clothes alike.
Alvin laughed, his voice resonating sharply, madly, off the urine-stinking walls. “Take that, ye dirty golf devils!”
He was about to exit the cottage-head’s confines and continue onward when a muffled whimper reached his ears through the dying echoes. Alvin tracked it toward the stalls. A set of hairy shins over funched-down shorts trembled beneath the farthest door.
Alvin licked his lips and tasted something sour that his tongue translated into strawberries. “And what have we here, laddies? A bit of raised kilt and sporran? One of the clan in his tartan finery?”
He dropped the bloody shoe, shook the door.
“Open up, lad,” Alvin ordered.
“No,” the voice on the other side said.
Alvin kicked open the stall door and choked the quaking golfer right where he shat.
~
Alvin reached behind his back and drew out the semi, took aim at the face-lifted fuck wearing a visor and shorts too short for a skeleton her age. Diamonds dripped from the gold bands on the woman’s fingers. Mother probably to more than a few of these rich pricks, he hoped the two dead dicks in the sand trap had come shooting out of her gi
tch as he nailed her cleanly through her ear.
Alvin fired again, capping two of Lady Macbeth’s gal-pal crones. The pops of thunder bounced off the surrounding trees and up into the sweaty gray sky, alerting the rest of the country club set that something truly wicked would handicap their game of golf this day.
It could have been minutes later or perhaps hours when the siren-song of approaching Crown Vics and ambulances joined in counterpoint to the screams of the shot and dying. By the time a uniform tazed the blood-drenched murderer babbling in Pigeon Scottish, a total of twenty-nine dead golfers lay strewn about Haven Loch, most in remote corners, some in several pieces.
~
White male, twenties—and clearly quite, quite mad.
“Why’d you do it?”
He could have told them:
“Alvin Morris Lampson’s my name. Don’t you recognize it? You should. Lampson Farm? It was only the biggest producer of quality food in the area for like a thousand years, you bleeding gits. Lampson Farm, where my grandfather and his father and his father going all the way back to the powdered wigs…well, you get the fooking picture, laddies…ah, yes, our clan farmed this great land. A hundred and seventy-seven acres, I’m told. It was half that when I was a wee bairn; I was seven when they took the cows away. That was the government’s doing, farming out as much of the American menu to foreign countries as possible, and putting the small farmer out of business.
“They raised the taxes, and when we could no longer pay them, they took the land, bit by bit. And by my tenth birthday, they stole the last of it. They bulldozed the house, which had stood for two hundred years; the sweet antique grapes whose precious vines originally came across on the Mayflower, aye; torn out of the earth, they were, tossed into piles of flotsam and jetsam to be carted off to some landfill, along with an acre of strawberries and my great grandmother Sarah Elizabeth Wakefield-Lampson’s heritage roses. Torn out, they were. Made extinct, like the good Lampson name—all so that a bunch of privileged fucks can stroll over the bones of my clan, knock around a little ball while making deals that fill their coffers and degrade the earth and destroy families…”
Doa Ii Page 27