Genital Grinder (14 page)

Von stumbled backward, dropping genitalia and implement alike. A renewed spray of crimson jetted through the suck-hole and then through two more of the descending holes as the newly minted eunuch pitched over to his right and hit the deck, a faint thud barely audible on the other side of the wall and undoubtedly lost to the nearest bouncer beyond the door.

“Come on!’ Greg seized the severed sex organ and bolted.

Von slipped in the haphazard puddles of blood, but his sudden paranoia that Greg was trying to make off with the penis gave him the proper coordination to stand erect. He grabbed the knife with a blood-soaked hand and tore off after Greg. He was quick enough to catch the side door before it slammed shut behind his companion, and he emerged into a stifling wall of humidity.

Greg was tearing through his pockets in a mad search for his keys. The contraband was slumped on the roof, losing rigidity as blood tapered out and slid down the driver’s side window.

“I can’t find them!” he shouted in panic.

Von felt something uncomfortable digging at his thigh, and remembered he’d last used the keys to open the trunk for Angelique. He dug them out and tossed them over the roof to Greg, who dropped them in his haste. Four attempts later, the key slid in. Greg bounced across the seat to unlock Von’s side. Von was shutting his door as Greg turned the ignition, and Greg didn’t even pause to slam his own door until he was peeling out.

“Slow down!” Von snapped. “People act crazy trying to get
in
to a titty bar, not out!”

Greg eased up all of five miles per hour, gunning for the exit. He came dangerously close to sideswiping a Civic before hooking a right. The horn of the other car faded, though the driver raised a middle finger for good measure. Greg remained oblivious to the whole sequence, painfully unaware how close he’d come to blowing the whole deal. “We did it!” he whooped. “The most daring tool theft ever!”

“We’ll need to clean that blood off the windows soon as we get to some back roads,” Von said, praying the Civic didn’t chase after them. He glanced backward until he was sure there would be no road rage retaliation, his head almost lighter than air. The millwork of his veins and arteries decided to do their thing again. He exhaled and resumed his train of thought. “We’d never be able to explain to some pig why holy mother of God,
what did you do with it, Greg?
” He jumped around in his seat as though stung on the ass, looking behind him, beneath him, below him. “It’s not here! We lost it!”

Greg plowed the brake pedal with both feet, the tires screeching and the body swerving uncertainly. He pulled an illegal U-turn into the thankfully empty oncoming road and punched the accelerator, hanging a left back onto Seymour Street and past a Burger King. The Electra Complex grew bigger, like a mouth about to swallow them.

“It’s by the back door!” Greg reasoned. “We didn’t bring it in after I set it on the roof, and it must’ve fell off.”

“
We
didn’t bring it in?” Von echoed. “You mean
you
didn’t bring it in!”

Greg had no reply for that as he barreled through the parking lot to approximately where they had had been before. “Shit, hang on,” he said as Von reached for the door handle. “There’s no light back here.” He put it back in reverse and flipped on the high beams. The car hitched slightly before it came to a stop.

Greg sprang out of the Nova, searching the lot frantically. Von moved more slowly, as though weighed down by a heavy heart. He immediately walked in front of the car, into the glare of the headlights, and quietly said, “Here.”

Greg followed Von’s gaze and gasped in horror.

“That’s our jillion dollars,” Von said, pointing. “You just made road kill out of our meal ticket, sumbitch.”

Greg dropped to his knees in horror and disbelief. His dramatic collapse afforded him a closer look, which he held as though the organ would regenerate back to its original—and surely pricier—form. The member was curiously white now, all its blood shot through the vessels and glans by the weight of the car; white except for the distinctive treads of Michelin tires. What had been inserted through the suck-hole just minutes ago now resembled something you’d fling on a plate with a spatula and douse with maple syrup.

“We gotta get outta here,” Von announced. “We can’t let him know we got nothing to bargain with. We’ll have to take it with us.”

“Him” was Edward Rochester, the latest addition to the men’s soprano choir. He blew a thousand bucks a night at the Complex, and seemed to arrive in a different luxury car each time. On Saturdays at 9:45, he always visited the Vacuum. Even a destitute man would find five million dollars an agreeable price for his lovewand, so Von and Greg figured Edward would be only too happy to ante up—and right quick at that. Every second counted.

Greg gave Von a doubtful look, but made talons of his fingers and tried to slip them between the flattened organ and the asphalt. Von worked the other side. It was like trying to peel the label off a packaging envelope—getting a sizable piece to come up with no problem and then losing it as it tore from its body. The member was the same way, a smidgen of flesh peeling off like masking tape, then dissolving into a cluster of various strands like bubble-gum stuck to the bottom of a shoe.

They kept an eye out for approaching cars or patrons making an early exit, but their luck held (the setback of the squashed sexual apparatus notwithstanding).

Von forced the silly putty-like chunks into his pockets, thinking this was one time he’d be sure to use the laundromat.

Edward Rochester was in a great deal of pain. He’d pay to have the bastard tortured. The seediness of the Complex appealed to him in ways the higher class “gentlemen’s’ clubs” could not, but he could have done without getting his ass kicked by an uncultured patron. He’d made the apparently ghastly error of knocking somebody’s bottle of beer off their table when trying to negotiate his way from near the stage to the door to the Vacuum. Before he even had a chance to offer to pay for a new one, the bearded patron said, “Watch where the fuck you’re going, dicksucker!” and pushed him into the wall. Edward rebounded from it, lungs whooshing from his lungs, and stepped into a right hook. A few kicks found him as he tasted the floor, and he began to worry that the strobe light effect he was seeing wasn’t part of the stage show this time. It actually was, fortunately, but he and Russell Crowe were separated by interchangeable bald men in black shirts emblazoned with white letters reading SECURITY and dragged out of the club. Hence, he’d missed his 9:45 “appointment” with Angelique . . .

In greater pain was Horace Cromwell, who’d given plasma just to treat himself to a good beejay. And now he was convulsing on the filthy floor of the Vacuum, forty-five dollars and one penis poorer.

No one could hear his screams over the music; not that he wanted anyone to find out what had become of his girth. What he did want was revenge. He’d have it before the night was over . . . if he didn’t bleed to death.

The Bic lighter cost him all of a dollar, but it was reliable. It flamed on, first try. He didn’t want to look at the stump, at the mangled roots of what had given him so much pleasure and disappointed so many girls since high school. It was like looking at a tangle of circuitry spooling from an open wall socket. He could feel his pulse in the mess of severed blood vessels, a renewal of pain with each pounding beat. Blood matted his thighs like he’d just given birth, and he probably didn’t have much more he could waste.

He was telling his hand
No!
even as it brought the lighter closer. The searing heat was close enough to scald the blood and torn skin, discomforting and nearly agonizing. Horace gritted his teeth and brought the flame home.

If he’d been in pain before, he was in Hell now. An electric current of agony erupted in his groin, his original pain with a whole battalion of reinforcements. He felt every orifice knot up as if to contain the sparks shooting through his nerves. The world became a vision of fire and only a chaotic scream with no beginning or end as the soundtrack. He pierced the veil only in brief flashes of reality, as if he could only bare glimpses without losing his mind. When he could finally align his vision with the grim reality, he saw the ultimate parody of male human reproduction—a blackened, smoking gorge of a stump. He fancied that he still heard the sizzling of the veins as they cauterized and stemmed the flow of blood, a morbid sound and odor he knew he could expect to be waiting for him in dreams, waking him up in the dead of night.

He vomited convulsively into his lap, whether from the tidal wave of pain or the reek of his own smoldered crotch he could not say. Some of the bile caught in his stub, and mildly bubbled from the heat. He thought he might have passed out at some point, but wasn’t sure.

He crawled to the door and unlocked it. Someone was waiting outside.

An animated customer greeted him, eyes wide with admiration. “Dude! That must have been the best nut ever, you screamed like a yodeler caught in a thresh machine!”
    Horace staggered past, trying to button his pants. He could still hear his genitals crackling. The new arrival gave an astonished gasp behind him at the sight of all the blood in the Vacuum.

Horace followed the trail of his blood to a back exit, just in time to see them leave in the Nova. Hunched over and groaning miserably, he ambled toward his car.

“What’s he gonna do, ask to talk to it?” Von asked, maybe trying to convince himself more than Greg. “Make sure it’s still alive? He’ll leap at any chance to get it.  We’ll take his money and shoot him in the back. It won’t be the worst thing that ever happened to him, now, will it?”

“Good plan, king,” Greg complimented.

“I just hope Sammy doesn’t act crazy tonight. That boy ain’t all there.”

Greg nodded uneasily, even as he drove them to Sammy’s house. Neither of them ever knew what to expect from Sammy, and they’d already had one bad surprise this evening as it was. It seemed a bad omen of the shape of things to come . . . and the night hadn’t even really begun.

Part II: Slut Necro Lambda and The Divided Man

Sammy feverishly worked his inches, member in one hand and his mother’s soiled undergarments in the other. He ejaculated into a tube sock with faded yellow stripes and an increasingly cardboard-like texture. He supposed he could have used Mom’s underwear, but that was just sort of sick, the way he figured. It was a show of respect. He shuddered in the aftermath, smothering his nose and mouth with the panties, inhaling the musky dampness. It was almost enough to stiffen him again—three more today would make a baker’s dozen—but he would have company soon. There were other tasks to perform.

He gingerly removed the tube sock. As he feared, the friction had caused his sores to run. It was probably to be expected after so many transmissions today; you pay to play. Off-white streams of pus ran in rivulets down his shaft, erupting from the tiny mouth-like lesions. The accompanying agony (including a gasp-inducing, white fire painful sensation while urinating) and random discharges concerned him. At times, it was downright unbearable.

Probably something he ate, he figured. Lotta bacteria out there. It would pass. It sure was taking its sweet time, though. He didn’t want to contemplate the day when it would be more trouble than it was worth to jack down. A man should have a fake tooth hollowed out with a cyanide tablet in such an event—break in case of emergency.

Behind him, the Divided Man stood sentinel. From the attic, a thumping sound. And from below, feeble screams from the basement.

Sammy chuckled as he pulled up his pants, wincing a bit the complaint of his sores. He addressed the Divided Man. “If they thought before was bad, they’re gonna
love
what happens next.”

The paring knife appeared slight, but for all the caterwauling it provoked as it carved out Mary Jane Turner’s anus, it may as well have been a jackhammer. The girl was too weak to lift her head a scant five minutes ago, but now she was flailing from the meat hook like a speared fish. The other sluts were about as vocal as they witnessed the excision—till capable of being shocked after months of imprisonment and experiments that made Josef Mengele look like Dr. Spock.

Surgery to Sammy was art, and the more involuntary the better. He was damned good at it. On the rare occasions that perverted fantasies of his mother (often they were technically
memories
) failed to shove a beat-off session past the finish line, he’d remember the screams of Linda Gordon (missing 01/27/2000) as she awoke to find a Labrador retriever’s head (missing 07/17/2000) sewn to her shoulder, its tongue dangling to her nipple. On the heels of that, she discovered the dog’s tail had been power-stapled between her buttocks. Sammy had been unable to do anything with poor Spot’s doghood, so he placed it on a saucer and told Linda, “Bon appétit!” She was understandably reluctant, but her hunger weakened her resolve three days later. By then, the bubblegum-pink “cocktail,” as he liked to think of it, was collecting a rather devoted congregation of flies. She scarfed it down like a real trouper . . . and was then served another, this from a poodle (missing 07/23/2000). She failed to learn her lesson and waited again, vowing she would not succumb this time, would not afford him any more of her dignity. Whitney Houston would have been proud. She lasted four days, and then pitifully brushed away the flies and dropped it in her mouth like a popcorn shrimp. Linda wasn’t so successful at chowing down for Old Glory this time, though, and her quease gland was wrung like a chicken neck. Shriveled giblets of flyblown dog dick and chyme were rerouted up her gullet in a powerful deluge that doubled her over with sobs, regurgitant flecks stuck in the fur of the Labrador’s head (Sammy didn’t care very much for poodles either, admittedly).

Yes, thinking about her ordeal could fill a tube sock faster than you could recite your social security number.

Linda was a remarkable accomplishment and would have been a primo addition to anyone’s resume, but the piece de resistance was undoubtedly Sheryl Gray, with contribution from her fellow sorority sisters. Slut Necro Lambda, he called it. The endeavor had been a real challenge. The removal of five vaginas took two days, a painstaking process of careful cutting and hacking. He’d botched a sixth attempt, which would have been a complete waste had Von and Greg not volunteered to take her off his hands. A prone Sheryl was then the recipient of the world’s first multi-vaginal transplant. Rather crude exploratory surgery techniques freed enough room for the canals, in effect becoming makeshift passages to her digestive system in most instances. Removal of bone segments allowed for more slightly varied installations of these surrogate fuckholes. Sheryl did not survive this radical procedure, regrettably . . . but that was merely the final ingredient to the thrill.

This unparalleled success earned him the esteemed title of Doctor Butcher from Von and Greg. Sammy let them have a turn with Slut Necro Lambda, under the stipulation that they both had to use the same orifice. Why not? He had plenty to spare. And he still had plenty afterward—the crazy bastards had used the backdoor. It defeated the whole purpose of the operation, but that was Von and Greg for you.

Back to the business at hand, Sammy couldn’t help but notice Mary Jane Turner’s anus looked like the underside of a mushroom. He was puzzling over whether or not this was erotic, and why the incising sounded like nothing more exotic than the dicing of a tomato. This was for culinary purposes, of course, but you’d expect a more significant soundtrack to accompany the theft of someone’s asshole. The flesh could be so banal, even with artistry like Sammy’s to spice it up.

The incision came full circle and the perimeter dropped out. Sammy peeled it off the floor, though not before fully appreciating the anatomical delights he’d uncovered. A more educated person could probably shoot out five syllable terminologies for everything, but to Sammy, it was just glistening and rather stringy rectal meat dripping like a melting icicle.