Bullet Through Your Face (improved format) (36 page)

“—and you’re going to aspirate your semen into my mouth
several dozen times—”
Hays weren’t shore in spite’a his collerge education, but he
figgered that
aspiratin’semen
meant havin’ a nut and this sounded a
mite dandy to him too, but then a last trickle’a reason still remained in
his mind:
I’se gonna blow my cockhock in her mouth several dozen
times . . . in a blammed HOUR? Shee-it, even I cain’t come THAT
many times in a hour! It’s plumb humanly imposserble!
“—and this might strike you as humanly impossible, Officer, but
I assure you, it is not. It’s the Supremess’power that
makes
it possible,
and just as I assure you that you will have several dozen orgasms—in
my mouth—in the space of an hour, I can further assure you that they
will be the very best orgasms you’ve ever had in your life—”
Hays’mind continued to reel.
The Supremess? Droppin’a couple
dozen loads in a hour? The fuck’s she talkin’‘bout?
But the more his
thoughts continued to rebel, the more physically helpless he felt.
“—then you’ll wake up later and everything will be normal,
Officer Hays, so there’s no harm done, is there?”
“Nuh-nuh-no, I guess not,” Hays said.
“Then I take it you’re ready to begin?”
“Yuh-yuh-yes,” Hays said.
“Fine. But before we get down to businees, there’s still one more
minor thing I need you to do, okay?”
“Shuh-shuh-shore,” Hays said.
Mrs. Willis placed the hyperdermic needle into his hand. “I need
you to inject this syringe . . . into your penis...”
Say WHAT?
That were ‘bout the craziest thang he ever heard.
Ain’t no way in a million years I’se gonna stick a needle in my fuckin’
DICK?
he thought, but that’s only what he
thought.
What he
did
was
something else altogether.
Holy everlivin’SHEE-IT! What the HAIL am I doin’?

He took up that hyperdermic in one hand,
pulled up his rockhard pecker with the other, and began to point that
sharp needle right
at his dick-knob!

“Go on,” Mrs. Willis ordered from behind the pulsing dark
purple-blue light. “Be a good boy and empty that syringe into your
penis . . .”

Beads of sweat crawled down Hays’ face like
fiesty ladybugs.
His fingers properly gripped the syringe while the needle-tip lowered
ever closer to his cock-helmet, and alls he could think was:
Fight it!
Fight it!
For he figgered it out now, he did.
It’s the light that’s takin’
over my will! It’s that blammed evil purple light! Fight it!

Micah Hays cringed, his body unable to answer the commands
of his brain, and what he felt next was the tip’a that sharp needle
pushin’ inta his cock . . .

Chief Kinion was, by most folks’ standards, and pree-verussly
mentioned, a big man, so most folks might’a been more’n a tad
surprised ta see a silly old zombie grab the Chief by his collar’n throw
him clear acrost the foyer where he landed on an antique telephone
table and completely demolished it as a result (and this formidable
impact, ta be shore, demolished that there telephone ta boot!) Kinion
rolled over like a dizzied walrus, blinkin’the grog out’a his eyes, and
then lights snapped on.

Kinion looked up . . . and saw the zombie.
“Doc
Willis?
the Chief mumbled.
It were Doc Willis, all right: old’n skinny with his gray hair
stickin’up, yes sir, and he was just as Chief Kinion had seed him last,
wearing tan slacks and a casual navy-blue shirt—oh, and one more
thing. The Doc had a knife cut runnin’ from ear ta proverbial ear’n
deep enough to show the front’a the neckbone (or what would more
clinically be referred to as the pharynxal medial pterygoid plates and
petrous bone, fer those’a ya interested).

Yeah, the Doc were dead, all right, startin’ ta rot as a matter’a
fact, the skin on his old face turnin’ sort of a neat shade’a green, not
ta mention that his eyes had clouded all over.
A zombie,
Chief Kinion
thought, and he weren’t too far off, just like the zombies in that movie
he’d took Dory May to in 1969 when the Chief couldn’t get wood
so’s she’d run off ta pull a cunt-train with a Chevelle full’a snickerin’
greasers.

But then the indisputably dead doc Willis did somethin’ that
none’a the zombies done in that movie.
The zombie dropped his trousers and took a shit on the floor.
“What the hail’d ya do that fer?” the Chief couldn’t help hisself
but ask.
The zombie didn’t answer, ‘least not with words on account the
Chief didn’t suppose zombies could talk. How this zombie’a Doc
Willis
did
answer, however, was by haulin’ up his pants, and then
grabbin’ the Chief again by the collar’n draggin’ him kickin’ and
screamin’ toward . . . Guess that?
That’s right. He were draggin’the Chief right smack-dab toward
that pile’a zombie shit.
And—oh, Gawd!—that pile’a shit were steamin’, it was, and
then it became quite apparent what the Doc-Willis-the-Zombie
intended ta do—
The Chief’s face was held less than an inch from that pile! And—
ooo-eee!—did it stank! About the only thang that smelt worse than a
pile’a shit was a pile’a
dead-man’s
shit, shore enough!
—was ta push the Chief’s face right straight down inta the shitpile until he smothered!
Aw, Gawd . . .
The Chief’s face were now just about ta kiss that big slab’a zombie
fecal matter, it was, and he thought he just might die from the
smell alone well before his face got stuck in it but . . .
No dag zombie’s gonna kill me, no sir! Not without a fight!
But before the Chief could surge up against that zombie’s
intractable supernatural strength—which shorely he would’ve and
then set ta open a can’a whup-ass on that servant’a Satan—he, well,
what he done first was he burped hard’n heavy from all the viddles he
et today, and when a man the size’a Chief Kinion burped, it can cause
a fairly serious gastic hitch, it can, and when that hitch occurred, what
happened next was the force’a that burp throwed the dead Doc Willis
right off’a him, and . . .
Thuh-thunk!
The zombie was done throwed clear back into the front’a the
stairwell, tripped, and landed with some force on the stairs themselfs,
causin’ the back’a the Doc’s haid to impact quite forcefully with the
edge’a the seventh step.
Then . . . nothin’.
The Chief drug hisself up, he did, and he were a purdy happy
camper ta finally git his face away from that steamin’ pile’a zombie
shit, and then turnt ta see what up’n happened to his attacker . . .
“Well, I’ll be . . .”
The zombie that were Doc Willis lay across the stairs with his
head busted open like a coconut and alls’a his dead zombie brains
muckin’ up the carpet.
“Yeah-boy!” the Chief celebrated. “See what happens when
zombies mess with Chief Richard Kinion!”
He clapped his hands and guffawed up at his victory, and when
he were done guffawin’, he looked down again and then he saw—
“What’n tarnations?”
He saw a hinged wood panel along the side’a the stairwell
hangin’ ajar.
Hmm,
he thought.
I’se wonder what’s behind there . . .
Well, he found out right quick when he flipped that panel open’n saw a fuckin’ set of wooden steps!
A set of wooden steps leadin’
down . . .
Now, the Chief didn’t really
want
to climb down them steps, no he did not, but he
figgered it was his duty ta do so, ‘specially given the
oddities that were aboundin’, and one oddity in particular bein’ that
he just watched a dead fella shit on the floor and then had ta kill him.
Shore as chittlins was better fried than boiled, somethin’ were amiss
in this here house, and the Chief needed ta know what it was. So with
more effort than was worth mentionin’, he squeezed his girth into the
opening behind that panel, and begun to descend them narrow steps.

Once he got down he found hisself standin’ in the middle of
what looked ta be a laboratory of some kind, fulla micrascopes’n lab
tables’n test tubes’n what not. And linin’ the walls was the big metal
racks loaded up with boxes fulla blinkin’ lights’n meters’n knobs.
A
laboratory, it shorely is . . .
But weren’t that the dangedest thing?