Like Porno for Psychos (3 page)

“Motherfucker!” G exclaimed, letting the joint slip from his lips onto the floor. He broke down the door and staggered into the room with his shiny black Glock .40 pointed at the piranha’s head. Only now it looked like a pussy again and Selena looked like a blow up doll with exceptionally large vibrating orifices.

“Get your filthy hands off my ho!” G could barely hold the gun steady as the room began to swirl around him. He had to focus to keep the two in his sights. He had drunk way too much.

“Hello, son,” the piranha spoke, grinning from ear to ear with his gore-streaked maw, bloody strips of Selena’s vagina still drooling from between his fanged teeth.

“Back away from her!”

“Don’t you know who I am son?”

“I don’t know you, fool! A guy with a head that looks like a vagina with teeth? I don’t know no muthafuckas as ugly as you!”

“That’s the Absinthe talkin’. Look deeper. You know me, Tyson.”

“How did you know my name?”

“Look deeper.”

G stared at the man’s hideous countenance as he continued to chew. The man’s face lost its cohesion and began to run like melting lard. The piranha/pussy face fell away and the face beneath it swam into view. Now, G recognized him.

“Hundred Dollar Bill! You’re that old pimp from New Orleans, right? The one that hipped me to La Bleue?”

“Yeah son, but I’m more than that. Look deeper, Tyson.”

G-town stared at the old wrinkled brown face, the bushy eyebrows and goatee that were now almost completely white, the shaved head. Then he stared into the man’s cold black eyes. It was the eyes that gave him away. G remembered looking into those eyes while his own filled with tears, watching them stare down into his mother’s grave without a hint of remorse. He remembers seeing those eyes look back at him as he stood beside his mother’s tombstone watching his father drive away.

“Dad?”

The other whores came into the room now. They’d heard Selena’s screaming stop and figured it was time for them to earn their paper. They took one look at Selena’s ruined sex, the piranha’s blood-soaked whiskers, and G-town’s gun and began to scream. The piranha grabbed both of them by their throats, abruptly choking off their nerve-wracking shrieks, and turned back around to face G.

“But why? Why are you killing these girls? Why the fuck are you killing my bitches?”

“It’s about the power of creation, son, the power of a god! They have it and we don’t. What I’m doing here is taking communion, ingesting the very essence of creation. The pussy. The womb. The universe is in here, son. This ain’t just pussy here, boy. It’s heaven. It’s the motherfuckin’ house of God!”

“You are fucking crazy, old man!”

“And you are just not high enough yet. Smoke some more.” He nodded toward the joint that sat on the kitchen counter already rolled and waiting and G walked over and picked it up.

“Smoke, son. You’ll see. We’ll take communion together, as father and son, the way God intended.”

Tyson Price aka G-town Slim, lit up the fat cigar filled with opium and marijuana and put it between his lips, inhaling deeply. This joint was twice as strong as the ones he rolled and he was already so high that this last hit nearly knocked him unconscious. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he was still conscious or not. He could feel the world reel and tilt like he was in a dream. Everything began to dissolve and fly asunder. The girls no longer looked like whores. They didn’t even look human. They looked like eternity. They looked like all of nature compressed into two single forms and at their center swirled a maelstrom of energy, power, creation ... right between their legs. The nexus of all realities.

“Ah, you see it now.” His father cooed seductively.

The two whores were scared to death and were still staring at the gun in G-town’s hand. They relaxed visibly when he dropped the gun. Then they tensed again when they heard Selena moan. She was still alive and in pain. The old man released the two girls and snatched a roll of copper wire from the kitchen counter and wrapped it around Selena’s throat. He began to strangle her as G stood watching in a narcotic stupor.

“Now, son! Before the light goes out!”

G looked down at the ragged hole his father had chewed in Selena’s sex, in that good Puerto Rican pussy. He could see a glow there, like a sunrise, moonlight and stars. He felt a hunger surge within him. The hunger to become one with her, with everything. He knelt down and began to feed, first on her breasts and then on the remains of her sex. The two whores began screaming again. They ran back into the house. G rose from between Selena’s thighs as her body began to convulse in spastic death throes that resembled orgasm.

“I can see it! I can see God!” G exclaimed as he rose from between the whore’s legs, picking bits of fallopian tube from between his teeth.

The notorious pimp known as G-town Slim, knelt back down and continued chewing his way into the womb of his dying moneymaker. A universe of colors filled his head. He ate and ate until he could feel the power coursing through his blood stream. His father had been right. All along it had been right there. He had used it, abused, and sold it on street corners from Philadelphia to Las Vegas. But he’d never truly appreciated its power. Its glory. It had never occurred to him that pussy could be anything more than a receptacle for a man’s seed. That it could possess the infinite power of eternity was something he’d never imagined. Either that or he was just high as hell.

G paused a second to take another hit of the cigar before kneeling back between Selena’s blood-splattered thighs and tearing out her entire uterus with a sickening wet “Riiiiiiip!” followed by a horrible slurping sound, as he swallowed her womanhood in a few quick gulps. Somewhere, within the darkened house, the other two girls were still screaming.

“Come on, son, we have to catch them,” his father said. He could hear the girls pounding on his front door, trying to get out. One of them broke a window.

Still drunk off Opium, Xstasy, Absinthe, blood and pussy, G ignored his father and reached down to pick up Selena’s discarded purse. He rummaged through it, withdrawing a handful of twenties.

“Two hundred fucking dollars? What the hell was that ho doing all night?!”

“Pimpin’ ain’t easy.” His father snickered, shaking his head at his son’s pitiful take.

The aging pimp’s head looked once again like some carnivorous venus-flytrap vagina, with a razor-barbed clitoris and tusk-like fangs jutting forth from between the silken folds of flesh. G didn’t find it so hideous anymore. He imagined he probably looked the same way now.

Again she drew the knife across her naked breasts, carving through her flesh and leaving long rivulets of blood crisscrossing her torso. Her arms, thighs, face, breasts, and stomach were crosshatched with slashes and cuts bleeding down her still staggeringly beautiful body. The cops surrounded her, pointing their guns and ordering her to drop the knife. That was one of the crowning moments of absurdity in a lifetime marked by madness and lunacy. If she didn’t stop hurting herself the officers would shoot her.

The man upon whose flayed chest she knelt was Eddie Walker. He was a sadistic serial rapist and murderer who screamed and cried like the little girls he’d raped, when she disemboweled him. She wished she had the nerve to follow through with her threat to skip rope with his intestines. But she’d found the feel of his steaming, bloated entrails as repulsive as the smell. It smelled like vomit and ammonia.

Shana knew that God, her God, the God of her people, helped those who helped themselves. He gave you strength and the rest was up to you. She lifted the severed penis, still sizzling like a sausage on a grill, and the shriveled sack of burnt flesh where his testicles had been, up in front of her face and was surprised that she could not recognize it. It had only been ten years since she’d had it in her mouth. She spat at it and flipped it over her shoulder into the dirt, watching the cops wince and groan as they realized what it was that she was tossing at their feet.

Eddie moaned beneath her. Even with his torso bisected from his groin to the tip of his chin and his fat purple intestines boiling up out of the massive wound, he was still alive. Even with his genitals burnt to a blackened ruin, sawed off his body and scattered in different directions, he continued to breath. His heart continued to beat. It was true what they said. Evil never dies. Shana spit in his face.

It was not his fault alone that she had wound up this way. Her entire life had been marred by pain. She had never known joy.

Tears rolled down her face as she lifted her arms skyward and called out to the Lord. She knew it was futile. Hers was not a God of mercy. He didn’t respond to self-pity. He didn’t listen when her Nana cut out her clitoris with a sharp blade, no anesthesia, and sewed up her vagina with catgut to keep her pure for marriage and protect them all from the curse. He didn’t hear her cry as her sex was mutilated ensuring that she would never enjoy sex as other women did. As she was prepared to become the property of her future husband once he’d purchased her for the price of thirty or forty cows, her virginity ensured by the destruction of her desire as was the custom in her culture. Even though she’d been born in America, and had never even been to Nigeria, and had been too young to understand that tradition had declared her sex fit only to be receptacles for a man’s seed and nursemaid to his children. That a curse placed on her family centuries ago now placed a horrible penalty on anyone in her family who did not obey tradition.

She’d screamed and cried out for Chango, the Yuruba god of thunder and wrath, as her mother held her down and her Grandma took a thin blade used to filet fish to her most sensitive parts. Female circumcision they called it. It was supposed to keep her safe, protection against the family curse. She’d only been eight years old then. She’d been twelve when a filthy, wild-eyed, speed freak, who looked to her like the pictures she’d seen of Christ, had ripped wide the sutures on her labia. He cut through the stitches with a Swiss army knife before impaling her with his brutal penis, laughing at the thought that someone had tried so hard to keep him out, as he assaulted her in an alley she’d used as a short cut to school. Chango hadn’t answered her prayers then either. Still, she’d called out his name over and over again as the man’s sweat dripped from his brow into her eyes, his alcoholic breath steamed in her face, and his harsh and grimy hands pawed her young flesh while stabbing himself deep inside of her, ripping and tearing her tender flower.

Even then she’d somehow known that she was using his name in vain. Chango was the god of vengeance and wrath. He blessed his followers with the power to avenge injustice. It was up to them to survive it on their own.

Shana could remember looking in the mirror after she’d gotten home that day, looking at her smeared lipstick and torn clothes, the mascara running down her cheeks like black tears. Now she looked exactly like the whore her father had accused her of being when she first started wearing makeup. She knew then that no man would ever marry her now and her parents would blame it all on her. They’d always said that she’d become too wild and undisciplined, corrupted by the decadent American girls she played with. Funny that none of them had been punished as severely as she had. And all she’d done was put on lipstick and wake up too late to catch the school bus.

Storm clouds darkened the sky everyday after that. Sometimes a flash flood would pound the earth with a deluge of rain, washing away all the garbage from the streets and thunder would roar in the skies like the lion of Judah. Lightning bolts would strike the earth making it look like a battlefield, and Shana’s parents would lock themselves in their rooms until it was over. Sometimes she would hear them whisper Chango’s name in hushed reverent tones as the skies unleashed their fury and they cowered from his wrath. Other times they would whisper the name of “Obaluaiye” the god of pestilence, disease, and retribution. On those days, Shana would go out into the backyard and let the hard rain pound down over her. Hoping it would cleanse her of the memory of the assault, wash away his filth, which she could still feel on her skin like an oily film. Once the rain had continued for hours and the water level had risen to above her kneecaps. Still, she’d stood there adding her own tears to the rising torrent, as bolts of lightning scorched and churned the earth all around her.

Her parents had begun to look at her as if she had disgraced them, as if the rape had been her fault. Her father would threaten to emasculate the man with a dull knife when he finally caught up with the one responsible for violating his daughter’s innocence and then in the very next breath accuse her of having none. Her mother and father would argue all the time about what to do with their “corrupted daughter” now that she’d been “ruined.” Soon they seemed to lose all interest in finding the man who’d assaulted her. It had all been her fault.