Only the cover is censored, I did that so that you’re mom won’t freak. Horrgasm is like a mix tap of some of graphic, NSFW, sexualized stories. Horrgasm has that dirty punk, rough indie feel to it. It’s loaded with content your parents would not want you to read, and best of all it’s free. Well, for a limited time, anyway.
According to Amazon, Deadman’s Tome No Safe Word violates community guidelines but without a specific reason as to why!
On January 26th, 2017, I received an email from Amazon KDP that No Safe Word violates guidelines and that it would not be sold on Amazon. Keep in mind that No Safe Word had been active and ready for pre-orders for over a week now, and it was only when the print version was ready for purchase that Amazon gave me this notice.
I have attempted to get clarification on the matter to see what it was specifically that violated the guidelines. No Safe Word contains hardcore BDSM erotic horror with all sorts of dark perversions, but Amazon sells content like that, but maybe we crossed the line. Maybe Deadman’s Tome just pushed the envelop too far. It seems funny to me that text on paper with suggestive images could be considered pornographic or something close to that. But Amazon is not playing around. They threaten that they could close down the account if I were to violate the guidelines again. Who’s the bully in this situation? Who’s the one trying to censor art and content because oh, it’s just too edgy.
As of right now, the digital listing on Amazon is still available, but in an effort to save my Amazon account I have thrown 90% of the images and reduced the intensity of the introduction. You can still get a copy of the uncensored version of No Safe Word easily by going here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/deadmans-tome-no-7846112
The uncensored version of No Safe Word is only a dollar and you get both a PDF and .mobi file. The .mobi file will work with any eReader and Kindle.
Deadman’s Tome No Safe Word is a brutal blend of erotica perversions and chilling horror. This deplorable issue contains ten titillating and terrifying stories with each one taking the brutality to the next level.
Deadman’s Tome No Safe Word blends the perversions of erotica, the leather whips and cold chains of BDSM with strong overtones of brutal horror. The sort of relentless dark that Deadman’s Tome delivers with every release. And though No Safe Word releases in February, you can pre-order a copy and receive it the moment it comes out.
Why pre-order? What could you possibly get as an extra? Well, I know for a fact that there are a few photos of myself that are very interesting and very questionable, and I wouldn’t mind throwing that in to the magazine, but I would need a lot of pre-orders for that.
Several impatient strides brought Julio Rodriguez into the back room where he found his assistant hunched over in a corner, staring at his tablet computers with feverish intensity. Julio frowned. If it had been any other 22-year-old, he would’ve assumed young Mr. Running Deer was enjoying some internet porn on work time.
But in this case that just didn’t seem likely.
“Hector!” he said sharply.
The younger man jumped. His head jerked upward; he blinked. An instinctively guilty flick of the wrist turned the tablet’s screen blank.
“Our appointment—it’s time for us to go.”
“Right, boss.” Hector tucked the tablet under his arm and retrieved his raincoat. He followed Julio out of the office. It was pouring again and he ducked into the passenger side of his employer’s Lexus without delay.
Julio pulled out into the city traffic and headed for one of Metro Vancouver’s newest and most distinctly upscale residential developments.
“Why did she want both of us anyway?” Hector asked. “Is it some really massive collection?”
“Don’t know. But she insisted—two appraisers or nothing. Never heard of this Melinda Black, but apparently she has considerable resources.” Julio turned left and in a few more blocks to the right. “What was so fascinating online anyway?”
“Oh, that?” Hector shrugged. “Just reading a retrospective piece on the life of your friend—the one who died mysteriously six months ago?”
“Alexander Sung?” Julio frowned again. “That was strange. He always seemed the picture of health. Then they find him on his bedroom floor—alone and naked, except for a freshly used condom and stone dead, not a mark on him? But as I told you, we weren’t exactly friends. He was one of my first clients. Hired me to evaluate the antiques he inherited from his father. That was almost fifteen years ago.”
“But you saw him around pretty often? Socialized with him?”
“Sure, later on.” Julio stopped for a red light. “He dove into collecting seriously from then on—made it part of his rich playboy image. As an appraiser, I get invited to some of the same parties as those types. You will too, if you stick with it—make a name for yourself in the business. What with his heritage and his Dad’s business connections, he focused on Chinese art pieces.”
The light changed and they drove on.
Julio nodded. “At first—that had been his dad’s focus. Later, he expanded into other periods—developed a good eye, too. Soon he didn’t need an expert to tell him what was worth what. So we only saw each other casually, from time to time, and that was fine. I’ve got nothing bad to say about him. We just weren’t buddies.”
“But everybody comments on what a total charmer he was. Even what I was reading—”
“Was that article’s author female, by any chance?” Julio glanced at Hector’s uncomprehending expression and chuckled. “I didn’t have the right—uh, physical equipment—to merit being on the receiving end of his full, over-the-top charm.”
“Oh.” Hector shifted under his safety belt. “I understand.”
“Relax, Hec. You do know most folks aren’t obsessed with antiques to the exclusion of everything else? Even experts like us. You’re allowed other interests. And you really ought to find yourself a girlfriend—or boyfriend, if that’s your thing. Keeping everything bottled up inside, you might explode someday.”
Hector squinted out the window. “Rains finally slacking off,” he murmured.
“Plenty of nice girls around,” Julio persisted.
“Like the ones you go for, boss?” Hector snorted. “A new stripper every few weeks?”
“Hey, I’m not that bad! Anyway,” his employer admitted with a grin, “Vancouver’s a major hot spot that way—even a bit notorious, in certain circles. But there are lots of other places, other ways of meeting the right one for you.”
“I guess so,” Hector Running Deer said without enthusiasm.
In due course, they arrived at their destination. They buzzed, identified themselves to the same sultry voice that had made the appointment by phone—presumably Ms. Black herself.
They pulled up to a midsized mansion—only an average structure in that posh neighborhood. The automatic gates closed behind them. “Trapped,” Julio joked and stepped from his vehicle.
Julio thumbed the bell and the door opened almost instantly.
His eyes met hers and somehow he knew this would be no ordinary appraisal job. By any standard, she was stunning. Her flowing red hair contrasted impossibly with the flawless copper skin tones and distinctive facial features of a full-blooded member of one of Canada’s First Nations, yet somehow that only added to her unique and undeniable physical appeal. And there was more—something that went beyond her sleepy-eyed stare and crimson-lipped, vaguely predatory smirk. There was a sort of energy she radiated, just standing there. It was pure and raw, and dangerous. Sensuality incarnate, she posed before them atop a pair of bright red, spike-heeled, step-in pumps.
“Ms. Black?” Julio said after twice moistening his lips.
“Yes. And you must be Mr. Rodriguez,” she purred in that blatantly seductive voice—the words innocent enough, yet delivered with a tone dripping with random eroticism of the most primal sort. Then her head tilted, that weirdly wrong yet eye-catching hair tumbling with calculated allure as she refocused a near-hypnotic gaze on the clueless Hector. “And his assistant, I assume? You have the look of one of my People, young man. I’m so glad you both could come, as per my request!”
One of her fuck-me pumps shifted sideways, drawing eyes to the thigh-length slit in her dress and the lacy elastic trim atop a black silk stocking.
Business, Julio Rodriguez reminded himself and forced aside the utterly insane impulse to grab her by that inappropriate hair, put her stocking-clad knees on the plush, cream-white carpet and stick his dick down her throat, then and there. What the fuck? Julio asked himself. He liked women and loved sex, but wasn’t crude or abusive by nature. What’s wrong with me?
He shook his head, asked if they might see her collection.
“Ah, the job comes first for you? I like that. Deposit your raingear over there.” She pointed at a small, neat alcove. “Then follow me!”
She turned on those spiked heels then paused to glance in Hector’s direction. But the youthful innocence of Julio’s assistant combined with his fixation on the treasures of the past seemed to shield him, at least partially and momentarily, from her less-than-subtle erotic emissions.
Julio had no such inadvertent defenses, however. Her torrid gaze returned to him and his heart pounded in his chest.
She nodded and started down the hall, the provocative swaying of her ass affecting him—drawing him onward as no woman ever had before. The hallway was lined with assorted wood carvings, figurines and abstract paintings—almost entirely of Native American origins and all of excellent quality. At its end, two especially wondrous and absolutely authentic Chilkat blankets flanked the entrance to her living room. A third hung above the archway, the triangular point of its bottom fringe dangling within millimeters of 6-1 Julio’s head.
“These are magnificent!” Hector said his dark eyes alive with reverence as they shifted from one 6-foot-long, cedar bark fiber and dyed wool wall hanging to another then to the third. “Very fine—and old. My own people traded in these things, though never made them.”
“Oh?” Ms. Black arched an unashamedly thick brow. “Which of the First Nations might that be?”
“These days,” Hector said without prying his eyes from the mystical artwork, “we call ourselves the Nuu-Chah Nulth, what others call—”
“The Nootka,” she interrupted. “Yes, I know your folk well. I have a century-old Nootka Hat in another room. These are from other tribes, naturally—two are Tsimshian, the one overhead is Tlingit.”
“The people who allegedly originated this unique art-form,” Julio commented.
“Are you Tlingit, Ms. Black?”
“No, Mr. Rodriguez. Nor am I Tsimshian. And please, call me Melinda. You are Julio, I believe? And this fine young man is—?”
“Hector Running Deer,” the younger man said indistinctly, still spellbound by the Chilkats’ abstract designs and stylized animal figures.
“Hector, then. But do come along, please? These items—proud parts of my collection, to be sure—are nonetheless familiar to me. I know their worth. It is only a few recent additions—things I am uncertain about—that I wish you to evaluate for me . . . . ?”
She beckoned with an extended arm and the men followed her through three successive rooms that were decorated by more of the same, plus an array of exquisite wooden furniture of assorted origins. But all of it was quite old, authentic and beautifully maintained.
Finally she paused at a hand-carved Spanish doorway. “I very recently broadened my collecting interests, so to speak. And as such, I acquired some new pieces to reflect that—courtesy a very generous gentleman friend.”
Julio’s eyes narrowed, though not in surprise. Of course, he thought with lustful passion, she couldn’t be more obvious if she wore a neon sign flashing ‘High-Paid Whore/Mistress’ hung around her neck!
“But I know little to nothing about antique pottery of this sort,” she admitted, even as she somehow turned this declaration into yet another murmured come-on. “That’s why I summoned you two.”
Julio nodded to himself, swallowed hard and watched her round ass one last time as it led them into her bedroom. The pottery collection—arranged in haphazard splendor to either side of a woven bark basket atop her massive bedroom fireplace’s equally outsized mantle—was small yet unbelievably choice. Julio’s eyes lit up, as did his assistant’s.
They staggered forward, breathlessly beholding then carefully examining what was easily a million Canadian dollars’ worth of genuine Ming Dynasty vases and urns. All were expertly fired and hand-painted, and—for Julio—all ominously familiar. Midway through, Julio eased himself into a gorgeous, and of course genuine, Louis the Fourteenth chair. From this luxurious perch, he turned his head repeatedly—alternating between halfhearted agreement with Hector’s cries of delight and sneaking worried yet compulsive looks at Melinda as she stretched out on a high-backed, semi-circular, Persian bed.
That particular piece of exotic antique furniture was big enough for three, he noted almost against his will. The rumpled purple satin sheets shimmered invitingly as Melinda methodically eased back the hem of her black dress, revealing red lace garters from a previous age and a semi-sheer thong of equally vivid red silk.
“Consider the delicacy, the sheer artistry of this piece!” Hector gasped.
“Hmm. What? Oh, yes—yes, indeed!” He cleared his throat and made a show of examining the exquisite fired-glass incense burner cupped lovingly in his assistant’s hands. There was no doubting its origin—or its previous owner.
“Julio?” Hector squinted with abject bafflement. “What’s with you today, boss?”
The older man’s eyes betrayed him by shifting past his assistant’s elbow. Hector’s head turned. He saw Melinda’s bare ass-cheeks and the fire-engine red strip of lingerie between them.
“Wha—?” he gasped again and nearly dropped the near-priceless artifact. “Oooh!”
Hector got the incense burner safely back on the mantle somehow as Julio sprang from the chair and lunged toward their leering—and possibly homicidal—fuck-slut of a client. She turned over, swung a leg across the disheveled sheets and clawed the thong out of Julio’s way. Her neatly trimmed pubic hair was the same incongruous shade of blood red, with dewy folds of labial flesh protruding from it.
Julio was facedown in milliseconds, his chin beard and mustache tickling the flesh of her thighs. Melinda moaned as her folds opened and he tongued her pussy in earnest. A small but strong hand folded across the back of his skull; her pelvis rotated, grinding against him. Her eyes rolled back in her head and a couple random obscenities bubbled from her gaping, red-rimmed mouth.
A rasping sound came from somewhere nearby—Hector, unzipping his pants. Julio smiled against her crotch, pleased that his protégé seemed about to prove a fast learner in more ways than one. He continued teasing Melinda’s grateful vagina even as he became aware of the first inklings of a strange, giddy lightheadedness. His determined tongue action continued as Hector crawled past him. He crammed a finger up her rectum and Melinda arched her back.
Her mouth twisted almost grotesquely open and she arched her back, turned her head. She accepted the younger man’s member almost to the root with a single wet gulp and clamped her lips tight around it. Her eyes burned up at him and she sucked furiously as Hector seized a fistful of crimson hair by the roots.
Julio jerked his finger from her bunghole and levered himself upright on his knees. His hard shaft sprang free as she pushed Hector back with both hands. The younger man’s throbbing dick popped free and wobbled against her cheek.
“Condoms!” Melinda commanded and then her head darted lower, effortlessly taking Hector’s entire scrotum into her mouth. Painful yet exhalant passion appeared on Hector’s face and he swung his head.
Julio hurried to sheath his member and drove his latex-bound erection deep into her. He groaned, took three or four frantic thrusts then paused to pass a second condom into Hector’s accepting fingers. Julio fucked her with desperate energy, sweat pouring out and his heart racing. He felt like he was giving away his very life force and recognized the danger involved—whether she was truly Alexander Sung’s murderer or not. Yet he couldn’t seem to make himself care, or even slow his out-of-control rutting. He climaxed powerfully and shuddered, collapsed—but not onto her, as Melinda’s strong left hand guided him down beside her.
Likewise, the uncut tip of Hector’s cock pulsed and exploded into the air before his clumsy fingers could fit the second pale blue sheath into place.
Melinda wrinkled her nose at what landed in gooey lines and round specks across her forehead, her hair and the sheets they all writhed upon. Yet she guided the unconscious younger man down to her other side without open complaint.
Two hours later, Julio awoke with a groan. He nudged Hector, who responded similarly to regaining a degree of confused awareness.
“You both survived!” Melinda Black said with delight. “I should’ve thought to try this—spreading the risk—decades ago!”
“Survived?” Julio sat up and nearly toppled back onto the sheets. He rubbed his forehead, muttered vaguely. “Decades ago?”
She looked only a few years older than Hector!
“How do you feel?”
He blinked. “Trashed, but in a good way—kind of. Like I just had the best, most intense and satisfying sex of my life and—” He stopped short, narrowed and focused his eyes on her accusingly.
“—and it nearly killed you?” she completed the thought for him and nodded.
She had showered and changed more than her clothes as the men slept off their inexplicable experience. Melinda seemed stronger, yet calmer—less animalistic than before. Like a predator who just filled-up with a good meal and now can relax?
She turned her head toward the fireplace mantle and specifically the one item there not of Chinese origin.
“That basket?” He rose, looked over his shoulder to assure himself that Hector was also recovering. Then he swept past her. He seized it with both hands, brought it down and peered inside. Bones—very old, charred by fire. “Human?”
“My husband,” she confirmed.
“That is only my most recent name, of course.”
“Yeah? You’re—a Carrier?”
“That’s the common White People word for my Nation. We prefer Dakelh.”
“Carrier?” Hector echoed vaguely. He stumbled to his feet. “Oh, yeah—you’re an inland People. Mine traded with yours frequently, back in the old days.”
“I remember,” she said. “Then the whites came with their diseases, among many other things and took away our way of life, nearly wiped us both out.”
“You remember. But that was so long ago. You look—how old are you?” Julio pressed her.
“I was almost 23 when my husband died—in one of epidemics. As per the ancient custom that gave my Nation its Anglo name, I was expected to carry his bones everywhere I went in this sacred basket for the next three years, once they came out of the funeral pyre. And in this time of mourning, I was not to be permitted sex. I honored this obligation for two years and seven months—until I encountered Angus.”
“Angus?” Julio murmured.
“He was a big, strong, bearded Scotsman who worked on the Canadian Pacific Railroad through our country. He had the most extraordinary red hair.”
“Oh, no.” Melinda shook her head. “I was full-blooded Dakelh—my name then meant She of the Darkest of Black Hair in our language, and I took pride in it. I still do, secretly—why I frequently use the name Black now, I suppose.”
“I was 25, full of youthful passion. I let Angus—hell, I was entirely willing! But my late husband’s father was the village Shaman. He found out; cast a vengeful and monstrous spell upon me. Unawares, I lay with my white man again—both of us wild with passion, even greater than before! It was the spell’s work. And even as he died, I felt the intoxicating surge of power and vitality I took from him. And my hair instantly turned an even more vivid shade of red than his—my father-by-marriage’s warning to others that I was unclean, I think.”
She blinked, fell silent.
Hector staggered up next to Julio and she eyed him thoughtfully. “In your people’s tradition, the soul is pictured as a tiny, invisible duplicate of the person that resides atop the forehead—correct?”
The younger man nodded. “More or less.”
“When the soul is healthy, it stands there erect. If unhealthy, it sits—slumps in exhaustion?”
“But what if when so weakened it was sucked away from its very perch?”
Hector drew back a step.
“Yes. That is who and what I am.”
“A sort of sexual vampire,” Hector said, wide-eyed.
“You killed Alexander Sung.”
“And many others, Julio. But it’s not what I wanted.”
The senior appraiser snorted.
“The spell—the curse! I cannot eat normal foods. And if I don’t—consume the Life Energy of men, I starve.”
“Then choose to starve,” Julio suggested grimly.
“I’ve tried—many times in the last 125 years! The compulsion, the drive to feed is too strong—it gains control. The longer I go, the more intense the need and the instinctive, seductive aura I generate draws almost all the adult men I encounter, even if I struggle against it. Most often, I have simply accepted reality and gone ahead.”
Hector pursed his lips “Almost all?”
“Another aspect of my father-by-marriage’s clever spell. I am not drawn to my fellow Dakelh and find they are unmoved by my otherwise irresistible allure—even if I go without feeding more than six months, which seems my upper limit.”
“Hmm.” Julio replaced the basket on the mantle. “Meaning Sung was your latest victim?”
“Yes. I’ve tried many experiments. I thought perhaps I could stop partway through, take only some energy—sustain myself for shorter periods, but without killing. But once it started—no turning back. I thought less than full intercourse—but again, no.”
“The condoms?” Julio ventured.
“Covering a bit of skin might slow the process I thought. It’s also why I didn’t give either of you the chance to fully undress.”
Julio turned aside. “Sung was nude.”
“The second time, yes. He surprised me.”
“Explain!” both men demanded.
“I’d heard his reputation for extraordinary erotic stamina upon coming here. Legendary, almost. You understand why I must change locations every few years—before unmarked bodies begin to pile up and I am seen to somehow never age? I’ve been all over the world and only eight months ago returned to the Pacific Northwest.” She paused. Brushed crimson hair from her temple.
“Go on,” Julio urged.
“I arranged to meet him. He was attracted to me, like all the rest. The first time, he was mostly dressed and—to my pleased astonishment, he lived. Oh, he couldn’t walk without assistance for a week! But he lived.”
“And now he knew what you were?” the appraiser guessed.
“That man lived for danger. His pampered environment, all that inherited wealth. I tried to talk to him—dissuade him, make him wait a safe time and regain his strength. He—the second time he lured me—as if he was the predator and not me! He undressed out of my sight, donned a rubber and sprang upon me, dragged me into his bedroom.”
“Sung raped you?”
“Yes—and no. Although my need is controllable after feeding, it never completely goes away. Neither, it seems does the pheromones or whatever it is I put out that draws men to me—and if Sung was a fair example, having experienced the level of satisfaction that comes of being with me. Well, I wonder if it changes a man’s soul—having even a part of it drained away like that? Caught up in his blind lust, I didn’t struggle. I was strong enough by then to beat him off—as I could probably batter you both bloody right now. But—I did not.”
“Did you steal these pieces?” Julio gestured at the pottery.
“No. They were gifts from him—not the first admirers have given me, as you can surely tell. Some from before our first time and some from after, as he sought to encourage me to lay with him again. They were among his earliest pieces—from a dead relative, I understand. Parting with them was his way of showing how strongly he felt toward me.”
She shook her head again.
“Well, I can’t honestly say why I didn’t think to be with more than one man at a time before. The prospect, the certainty I would kill one at a time seemed bad enough. My experience with the extraordinary Sung—I reasoned it might be possible, after all. I felt hope—for the first time in decades. And here you two stand—weakened and I’m sure disgusted. But alive!”
“What makes you think we won’t reveal your secret?” Julio said slowly.
“Who would believe such a tale? And even if you were to convince the world—what then? Would they write new laws or find a way to prosecute me under existing ones? I don’t age, but can starve and be injured—even killed by violence, I think. At least then I’d have the solution—the way to escape the compulsion and the terrible pleasure that comes over me each time I fuck and kill!”
Hector met her eyes, stepped closer. His hand came up. It cupped a full breast through the fabric of her blouse.
“Please don’t,” Melinda Black whispered. She cast a desperately appealing look at Julio Rodriguez and saw only what she dreaded there. “At least wait till you’re both stronger?”
For the moment physically stronger than the two men combined, she pushed them back—once, twice and three times. But they just kept coming, insistent and breathing heavily, already sweating and hard. And maybe the matter of radiated auras or pheromones or dark, vengeful magic went both ways.
They tore every stitch of the fresh, clean and not especially sexy clothes Melinda Black had donned from her flesh—and she let them.
She responded in kind and suddenly all three were naked. Hector stretched out on the floor. Melinda placed herself on top of him, gave his member to her vagina. Julio straddled both and both men filled her, not even bothering with whatever minimal protection latex could offer in these unique circumstances. The men used both her lower orifices briefly, furiously.
They climaxed with the runaway passions of wild beasts, and she orgasmed with them. But only one rose up afterward. Melinda Black wriggled free from her first experience with outright double penetration and sighed. She felt good—horribly, wondrously, undeniably good—and stronger, even more alive than ever before. And she knew, deep in her dark and conflicted soul, she would feel that way again and again—every five or six months, perhaps—possibly till the end of time.
Turbo Slut 5K is an ultra-violent, hyper-sexualized, and brutally offensive tale of sizzling lust, savage revenge, and the triumph over some ruthless misogynistic scum f**ks told in six exciting chapters! Set in a dark and gritty cyberpunk dystopia, three FuckBots defy their programming and acquire a notorious reputation that earns them a hefty bounty of fifteen billion dollars! With such a price on their heads, the three voluptuous sex machines have little to no choice but to fight for survival!
Forget Little Women, forget Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, forget The Beauty Myth, Turbo Slut 5K is the ultimate pro-woman, man-hating story! The sort of story that radical, sex-negative feminists would wildly support, it they weren’t confused by the vail of shameless, pornographic debauchery. Fuckbots, programmed by misogynists to serve men for their pleasure, seek, kill and humiliate their Johns in various savage ways. Why? Because their on mission to murderize every single player in the sex trade game.
Alexis stared at her reflection on the elevator door as if searching for the slightest imperfection. Her face a canvas for a cosmetic obsession. A mole appeared just below her right eye, but then disappeared. Light freckles formed to compliment her red hair, but were discarded for being too ginger.
“Alexis, you’re obsessing,” said Loca, rolling her eyes. The Mexican FuckBot wore a skin hugging black leather dress that could hardly contain her dairy cannons. “Just go with the dimples, these old perverts love that sweet sixteen look.”
“These old perverts also love it when you call them daddy,” said Lotus, as she smacked on a wad of gum. Her blue wavy hair obscured the right side of her face. Her black leather mini jacket was opened, revealing a leather bikini with a rack so plump and juicy it would make Hitomi J-Cup blush. The pale smooth flesh of her midsection was exposed like a blank canvas ready for some sploodge art. Her curvy Asian cakes spilt out from a tight leather short-shorts too short to conceal her black thong. “And they’re gonna be on me like flies on shit.”
“I’m not doing it for them. I’m doing it for me. If I don’t want to fuck me, then its not good enough,” said Alexis, as she bent forward to get a closer look at her reflection. Her gargantuan golden tits hung low, restrained only by a lacy bra and the sweetheart neckline of her low-cut strapless dress.
Her round plump ass covered only by a thin layer of skintight red polyester.
Lotus grabbed a handful of white privilege and moved a thirsty finger for that sweet American honey. Alexis slapped her hand away. “No lollygaggin until we’re done with the assignment,” snapped Alexis. She stood up, smacked her lips for a flush of red, and found confidence in her motherload of debauchery wrapped in a coat of that good ‘ole sweet southern charm. She embodied that three gallons of crazy in a two gallon bucket stereotype that them southern boys tend to flock to. “Them old perverts are gonna love me.”
The elevator doors opened, and a cacophony of indiscernible chatter, shrill whoos, and guttural yeahs accompanied by a loud pulsating soundtrack greeted them. Vivid hues bled together and illuminated the dark interior like a gay bat cave.
“This here is definitely a republican convention.” Alexis led the way with a modest hip sway, capitalizing on that sweet and innocent southern gal trope. Her green eyes scanned the room, lifting several threads of raw data from the faces, moving bodies, and inanimate objects. The information rushed through her sensors and uploaded on to her memory banks for cross examination. Her auditory sensors delivered a continuous string of chatter to a central processing unit that filtered for keywords and trends. “Y’all, I’m having difficulty locating the target. A lot of bodies to sort through.”
Lotus scanned a pocket of suits as they raised glasses to celebrate their latest political gains. “I located a few closeted homos for you Loca,” said Lotus, through an internal channel.
“Let me guess, it’s the fat ones. It’s always the fat ones that yearn for a good ole backcountry fuck,” Loca retorted.
The full-bodied bombshells walked over to a crowded bar. Lotus placed a seductive hand on the shoulders of an older man as her moisten lips whispered in his ear, “You wouldn’t mind if I take your seat, would you?”
Panic struck his face as his lips contorted, “Oh Jesus, I hope my wife isn’t around.”
Lotus’ arms wrapped around him. Her lips released Asian fever on his ear. “Oh, such a powerful man like yourself deserves a little something extra, right? I’m sure your wife wouldn’t mind.” Her lips kiss the old wrinkled flesh of his neck, and a surge of his sexual perversions flooded her mind. “Your wife doesn’t let you have fun in the backyard, does she? You play your cards right, and I’ll give you an all night invitation to mine.”
The balding man hesitated. His wrinkled, liver spotted mouth folded into a frown. “Are you could just leave before your wife sees you with me,” she said. The old fogie awkwardly fumbled out from Lotus’ clutches, and shuffled away. Lotus shook her head in dismay and straddled the stool like giant robocock. “Geez, who invited Bernie Sanders to this party?”
“Seems like a fish out of water, sugah,” said Alexis, as she sat next to her. She motioned the bartender for a drink.
“You should be impressed, you managed to find the one honest guy. Might be the only one in this fucking place,” retorted Loca, as she sipped on her margarita. Her organic taste buds, assisted by artificial sensors and relays, simulated taste. The alcohol absorbed and transmitted through what’s left of her organic tissue.
The bartender came around to Alexis. A baby-faced Aryan race with a hard-on for old bigots, which was evident by the swastika pupils. “What do you want?”
“A whiskey sour.” Alexis glanced at Lotus. “Darlin, make that two. Two whiskey sours.”
The bartender rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. Alexis’ face furrowed as if exposed to a fart from a sweaty ass teeming with wet butt-nuggets. “What’s the problem? You’ve got no money,” said the Hitler youth. Alexis leaned in and he cut her off before she could even send him a wink. “Your boobs do nothing for me.”
“How did Loca get a drink,” asked Alexis, discombobulated.
“You know why.” Lotus redirected her to a sight of a man’s hand grabbing a handful of meat that poked out from Loca’s dress. “I have a feeling we’re going to be wallflowers at this event.”
“Don’t be jealous,” retorted Loca, through internal channels. “If you’re nice, I might get you a drink but I’ll want something in return.” Loca gave them both a coyful wink.
“Darlin, these guys can’t all be gay. Most of them are married, and their wives are present,” said Alexis, as her processors continued the scanning through the bodies.
“Seeing Kommie Sanders swap spit with a Limbaugh in front of his wife does not bode well,” said Lotus, as she shook in horror. “Loca, where’s my drink dammit!”
“Don’t worry I got you covered,” said a dark haired, crooked jaw motherfucker, a smug sense of pretentiousness thick in every word. He inserted a ChipCard into the bar, and instantly the Hitler fag greeted him with a smile so white it must’ve been glossed with cum. “I’ll have a whiskey, neat. And she’ll have a…”
“Whiskey Sour. Make that two. One for me and for my friend.” Lotus’ smile sealed the deal.
“I’ve never seen such an incredible rack on an Asian before,” he said, as he stared at her skin trench.
“You’re one with words, aren’t you.” She maintained her smile.
“My mother always said I was gifted with a silver tongue.” He laughed as if he disclosed something that resembled a fun fact, grossly ignorant to the obvious fact that Lotus did not give a fuck.
Alexis spoke on an internal encrypted channel, “I found our target. He’s in the back booth with loaded security.”
“Neato. Does that mean we can waste him and blow this joint,” Lotus responded, while laughing at another stupid joke about some con man’s childhood.
“I reckon you didn’t catch that he has security. Fully loaded security. We gotta do this discreetly. Let’s see if this southern belle can get his attention.” Alexis chugged her drink. Her synthetic taste buds registered a flavor to transmit from a database. The alcohol, however, was broken down for material determined useful for body maintenance. Momma had yet to approve of the inebriation augmentation she had requested a year ago.
Alexis navigated through a den of snakes and smirked with cute dimples as she approach the dead squirrel wearing buffoon. The orange faced butt plug boasted about his business and claimed his father’s success as his own with arms that swung wildly. The Asshole’s moment at the helm of the glorious ship that is the U.S. of Fucking A had long since passed, but his insistence on his significance had not.
“They said I wouldn’t do it, but I did! And, I got Mexico to fucking pay for it. Oh, you better believe I had something old El Presidente! My huge, and I mean huge American cock!” The Don erupted with bombastic laughter.
Alexis blushed as she approached The Don. “Oh, dear.”
“Well, excuse me miss…”
“Don’t worry about little ole me. The name’s Alexis.” Alexis beamed with manufactured modesty. “Excuse me, Mr. Drumpf, I just wanted to thank you for your brave sacrifice for our country.”
He puckered his face, looked through her with piercing eyes, and frowned. “What’s your angle, tuts?”
“Bless your heart,” she said, confused by his sudden defense. “I’m only wanting to give you gratitude for your.”
“Bullshit,” interrupted The Don. “You waltz up here with your pornstar body and want to shower me with gratitude? No. What you want is to shower my dick with kisses, but for that you’re gonna have to wait in line.” He glanced at his black companion. “Chocolate Thunder, give the bimbo a number will you.”
The muscular bald black man pulled a card from his jacket and placed it on the table. “Look at that. You’re number twelve.”
Alexis grabbed the card and glanced at it as if stunned.
“Don’t worry, tuts. The card will buzz when your number is up,” said The Don, as he took a sip from his drink. “I’ll need you to be committed to your turn for dick sucking. To make sure you’re committed, my guys will come and get you.”
The Don squinted, spasmed as if passing a stubborn fart and then sighed. A brunette emerged from under the table, licking the Asshole’s essence off her lips. “Thank you, Mr. Drumpf,” said the brunette, glowing with enthusiasm.
“You still got a few more drops, baby.” The Don shoved her head back down. “There you go, eat Mr. Drumpf’s shit, baby.”
Alexis forced a smile and turned around. She walked away tearing the card into shreds. “The motherfucker has a fucking list! You believe that shit!”
“Jump ahead,” responded Lotus.
“The carrot skinned fucker is being serviced right now.” Alexis returned to the bar. “Lotus, where did you go.”
“I’m getting rid of a distraction,” she said, internally. Her hands roamed over the senator’s body. He snapped, grabbed her arms, and pinned her face against the tiled walls. “You fucking whore. I’m gonna fuck the sin out of you.”
“Finish up, will ya? I think we need to try something else.” Alexis’ voice flowed through her.
“Did your mom also teach you how to talk dirty,” said Lotus, as she licked her lips. “You should tell her that this little Japanese hoe loves it.”
The sleazy senator’s fingers spread her cherry blossom, while his head swelled with purple torment. “I’m doing this to teach you a lesson.” He shoved his cock into her wet pussy.
“Alexis, I see you’re not concerned about your Mexican sister. Did Mr. Drumpf’s racism get to you already?” Loca’s saucy accent transmitted internally.
“So am I.” Lotus moaned. Cytotoxic fluids gush out from her insides, flooding her vagina cavity with acid. Instantly, the Senator’s dick dissolved down to a bloody pulsating stump. He cried out for help, but a quick stab of a well-timed blade rendered such alarm impossible. Lotus sheathed the blade back into her wrist, and positioned the bleeding body on the toilet.
“Hardly,” said Alexis, while she sat at the bar, trying to sucker someone into buying her a drink. “I figured you’re so deep in the closet that you’ve found Narnia.”
Lotus stabbed the senator’s throat with her fingernails. She drained blood from his body, while a free hand searched for loot. A thin black wallet with a ChipCard, a dozen Benjamins, and presidential clearance card. She pocketed the wallet in the inside pocket of her mini jacket. Satisfied with the amount of sustenance received, Lotus dislodged her fingertips from his neck.
She squeezed her leather short-shorts over her thick thighs and plump ass. She freed one of her Asian melons and aimed an enlarged and enticed nipple at the metal privacy bolt. A thin arch of acidic substance shot from the pink love button and melted the bolt into the latch. She climbed over the stall.
“If Narnia is somewhere in the depths of Kristi-Kream’s asshole, then I’m about to find it,” said Loca, as she made waves out of the bloated pig’s ass cheeks.
“That’s disgusting,” Lotus added, as she checked herself out in the mirror. “Not to add pressure to this assignment or anything, but we’ve got a gift with an expiration date in the men’s room.”
Alexis slammed her fist into the bar, cracking the surface just beneath her hand. “What the fuck? I thought you understood that we need to be discreet.” She glanced around as she covered the damage from curious eyes.
“The motherfucker had it coming,” said Lotus, as she adjusted her hair.
“Lotus, meet me near Mr. Drumpf. I’ve got another plan,” said Alexis. The triple-D redhead bombshell snuck away from the bar, navigated through the throng of corporate owned, family-value praising, self-loathing homos. The roaming waves of light illuminated elder men engaging in all sorts of carnal activities. The wives drank their wine, and watched, while recording future blackmail material.
Alexis bumped into a suit. The tall form turned, revealing a face that triggered her alarm. A white bearded canvas with a familiar face tattoo. The entity did not speak, not even to apologize. The beast of a thing just lumbered away awkwardly. “Lotus, you need to hurry.” Alexis watched as the lumbering giant forced his way through the crowds. Her sensors failed to lock on. “Those guys that beat the shit out of Loca are here.”
“Are you certain,” asked Lotus, as she slithered out from the darkness to join Alexis.
“Yeah, I’m certain.” She shook her head and fixated her vision on Mr. Drumpf. Alexis glanced at Lotus and gave her an assuring smirk. The smoking fire bunny and her buxomly fucky-fucky strutted towards the bombastic carrot. Without any warning, Lotus leaned in on the man, and whispered a thread of hot lust into his ears.
“Pardon me, Mr. Drumpf, but I’m not waiting in line for you dick.” Alexis bent forward with her hands on the table, and watched as Chocolate Thunder and Mr. Drumpf’s other friends stared into her flesh chasm. “When I told my friend the news, that I would have to wait, she just couldn’t bare it.”
“No deal,” said The Don, as he shoved off the thick dose of Asian persuasion. “I get offers from bimbos like you all the time. You losers want it too much. No deal.”
Lotus and Alexis shared a look of confusion. “I was rejected, again!” Alexis yelled through their internal intercom.
“Blackmail might work,” responded Lotus.
“Not likely. He’ll double down and then we’ll be on the defensive.” Alexis body language matched her silent dialogue.
“Ladies, I’ve got this.” Loca emerged from the thick crowd. “I hope these two sluts aren’t bothering you.” Spanglish fell from her black lips in heavy waves, as she approached the booth.
The Don examined her up and down, and his wrinkled frown relaxed. He motioned for her to come closer, “You must be the black rose of Mexico.”
Loca blushed. She placed her feminine hand in his, and leaned in for a whisper. A sweet gift for one wrapped in a promise of political gain escaped from her lips. The Don stared through his people, captivated by the intoxicating offer.
“Leave a man to do what two hoes can’t,” joked Loca, as The Don escorted her towards the elevator.
The Don led Loca inside a small hotel room and closed the door behind them. Loca sat at the end of the bed, smiling at him as he fixed himself a drink. “So, what did my people tell you?”
“They’re your people, Miss Mexico. You should know,” said The Don, as he poured whiskey over ice.
“You and I both know my people are idiots. Blundering businessmen that aren’t willing to play ball, but they’re not me.” Loca examined her nails, and sighed. “That’s why I’ve come to you directly.”
“I’ve already got my hand in just about every export Mexico has, what more could you offer,” said The Don as he leaned against the desk with arms crossed.
“There’s a whole market that you have been blind to this whole time,” she said, taunting words seethed in a thin veil of courteous advice. “A market that would give you leverage over your rivals. So what if it involves exploiting children. They’re Mexican children, right?”
The Don furrowed his brow, squinted his eyes, and crumpled his wrinkled mouth into flabby folds. “Why would you want to go against your people? What’s your angle, Miss Mexico?”
“I want the same thing you want: Power.” Loca swayed her hips as she slithered closer to The Don. Her arms wrapped around him.
He pushed her away and chugged his drink. “What do you want from me right now.”
“Your full cooperation.” Her dry tone raised The Don’s guard. She shoved her long black nails into The Don’s neck. “No screaming for help, Mr. Asshole!”
She felt his blood pump through her fingertips. She slammed her knee against his junk, delivering a catastrophic world of hurt. She bashed her whoreknee against his damaged goods, again. His balls popped and white gunk and blood sprayed like a busted water hose. A mess of ball juice and dark crimson dripped from his saturated slacks. He fell to his knees.
Loca withdrew her fingernails and blood leaked from his perforated neck. “You want huge? You want to see huge? I’ll show you huge!” She inched her leather dress up her thunder thighs.
“Is eleven inches of pure Mexican meat huge enough for you?” She grabbed her thick flaccid cock like a bat and slapped it across his face as if going for a home run. A splatter of blood and saliva shot from his mouth.
“Remember, what goes around comes around!” Her thick meat smashed against his face like a raw 8lb steak. A tooth rolled along the carpet, with a trail of red driblets.
“Now open your fucking mouth,” she roared!
Air bubbles seeped out from his neck wounds, as his lips attempted to mumble something. Loca grabbed a handful of blond roadkill. “If you don’t open your fucking mouth. Miss Mexico is going to skull fuck the shit out of you!”
More air bubbles.
Two-feet of erect Mexican meat slammed against The Don’s right eye like a battering ram, and delivered a jack hammer lobotomy.
A pounding at the door shook Loca from the thrall of a good cranium fuck. She pulled out. Chunks of brain matter stuck to her cock. “Who is it?” She scanned for heat signatures, but did not detect anything near the door.
“Girls, is that you,” asked Loca, as she approached the door. Pieces of brain gunk fell from her stiff member.
The door flew open. Loca ducked as it slammed into her. The wood splintered, while a shockwave pushed her back. A fist battered through the door frame like a sledge hammer, clearing the way for a massive beast of a man. Its blue rageful eyes locked on her, while the familiar face tattoo seemed to glow.
“I’m guessing you’re here for round two,” muttered Loca. She touched the flesh behind her ear to communicate with her sisters, when the beast picked her up by her hair. Its titanium fist pounded into her chest like a battering ram and sent her plowing through a wall. She pushed herself from off the floor, and rolled to escape an incoming wave of mini-rockets. Explosions ate through the interior. Shattering the floor, scorching the carpet, and blasting chunks of gooey gibs from the frightened dudes that held each other in tender embrace.
Loca dodged another close encounter with a rocket. The side of her dress melted into charred flesh. She clinched her fist. Three gun barrels slipped through a small compartment on her wrist, and immediately released a dose of hot lead. Small bullets pierced through the colossal’s suit, picking at bits of flesh.
“You want me that bad, do you?” Loca charged at the roid-raged freak, while she liberated her chichotas from their leather restraint. He fired another mini-rocket from his shoulder cannon. The volatile shell blew through her thigh, taking with it a chunk of flesh and metal. She seethed with gritting teeth, and jump on the muscle-on-muscle freakazoid. He flailed around to get her off, while her nipples doused the fucker’s face with a downpour of cytotoxic fluids. His fleshy face boiled and bubbled to the sizzling chemical burn, as he collapsed to his knees.
Loca forced her milk bags back into the dress. A bit of acid leaked from her left breast and burned through the leather. She limped her way through the devastated hotel room, and into the hallway. The ceiling sprinklers released a stream of water, while an alarm wailed like a banshee.
“So much for discretion,” muttered Loca. She pressed a spot behind her ears. “No one’s worried about little Loca this time?” She dragged her injured leg as she inched her way towards the elevator. “Ladies?” She seethed, and punched the down arrow. No response. She punched it again, and noticed an emergency decal that advised to use stairs in case of fire.
“Jesus H. Christ, I’m not walking down a flight of stairs with this fucking leg,” she mumbled to herself. She pressed her index finger on the emergency switch on the control panel.
“Alexis! Lotus! C’mon, answer me.” The elevator doors opened and revealed a smear of blood. “I take it you two also had a party.” She limped into the elevator. “The silent treatment isn’t cool, ladies.”
The elevator doors opened and Loca stepped into a bloody warzone. Body parts strewn here and there like discarded bones after an all you can eat buffalo wings buffet. Blood ran down the walls and rained from the ceiling. Mutilated bodies with minutes of life flopped on the floor like fish out of water. The wounded crawled under tables and other obstructions for safety.
“Looks like the latina Turbo Slut is ready for round three!” the voice echoed throughout.
“Loca, over here!” Alexis’ voice shouted from the shadows.
“I hate it when they help each other.” The voice resonated along the walls. A slender bearded wonderbread with a face tattoo and cybernetic eye stood on a balcony. He fired a series of slugs from massive machine guns with rotary barrels that ran under his forearms. Chunks of wall splintered, tables shattered, and burst of blood pumped from the scattered bodies.
Two full-bodied silhouettes ran from booth to booth, barely escaping the line of fire. Loca did not need her visual sensor to know that they were Alexis and Lotus. She raised her gun hand at the cybernetic cyclops, when something that had to have been a silverback gorilla pummeled her. She found herself snug in a bear hug, ensnared by tree trunk of arm painted with the blackest of black.
“NiggaPunk got you, bitch,” grunted the gorilla before he executed a body slam. Loca’s vision fluttered. Pixels and static scattered throughout.
Loca kick wildly. Her legs clutched and held in the grip of a wild ape. Partially blind, She fired rounds from her gun arm. The sound of punctured flesh and wet blood, followed by the guttural grunt of pain, told her that she hit her target.
“NiggaPunk about to get fucked up!” She wiggled out from his grasp, and fired at the bastard until the magazine ran dry.
NiggaPunk hunched over and ribbons of blood seeped through his hands. Metallic spikes ran along his head like a morning star. Shades covered his eyes like a Blade wannabe. Golden teeth poked out from behind thick lips that folded into a snarl. NiggaPunk ripped off his red muscle shirt, and pounded on his chest like a fucking ape. Thick globs of saliva flung from his foaming mouth, while the bullet wounds sealed to a close.
“Your ass ain’t nigga cheap,” said Loca, as she backed away with her dick in her hand like a shotgun.
“I’m gonna use that dick as a toothpick, you fucking piss flipper!” NiggaPunk charged the Mexican tranny. Loca cocked her erect dick and shot wad cytotoxic jizz. The acidic cum splattered on the gorilla’s face, but his animalistic rage drove him through it. NiggaPunk rammed his spike head against Loca’s chest, knocking her into a mess of scattered tables.
“Fuck me,” she said, as the winced at the sight of her ruptured fun bags. Blood leaked from the craters in her chest, while fractured titanium exposed sparking circuitry. “Someone needs to put this fucking gorilla back into its cage.”
Like a goddamn stereotype, NiggaPunk pounded on his chest like an alpha ape high on testosterone. Even more typical, he pounded on the floor like a frenzied King Kong boasting for territory.
Loca rolled on to her stomach. She raised her ass up into the air. The ground shook as the wild ape drew closer. She closed her eyes, and waited. The ground shook harder. The chairs, the tables, the bodies all vibrated as the beast drew near. The ground around her splintered as the silverback gorilla honed in on her. His hands wrapped around her lower back. She smiled. “I hope NiggaPunk is an ass man.”
NiggaPunk’s chest cratered. Chunks of dark meat and organs blew out from his back. His arms and legs grew weak like wet noodles. The wild beast collapsed on his ass, where he bled like a blood piñata.
“Fuck Harambe,” muttered Loca, as she pulled herself off the floor. The flesh on her chest had begun to reform, but the dented titanium and exposed circuitry remained. The huge gash on her thigh had reformed, with flesh rebuilding around the exposed electronics.
She grit her teeth, fought through the pain, while scanning for Alexis and Lotus. She found them. Alexis’ voluptuous triple-D breasts bounced as she showered cycloptic Wonderbread with a slew of bullets. Heavy machine guns attached to her wrists smoked as the rotary chamber spun.
Lotus’ thick thighs and big ass wobbled as she ran towards a burly thug. Blood splattered on her midsection, as she punched through a motherfucker’s chest.
Loca attempted to communicate with her sisters again, but no response. She noticed Wonderbread had pinned Alexis under fire, and raised her gun arm to rectify the problem. A quick burst spurted from her barrels. A stream of tiny bullets nipped at the red-eyed cyclops’ face. The face tat motherfucker grabbed his face, and groaned.
Alexis exploited the distraction and sent the squirming cybernetic cyclops a fatal dose of headshot. A gusher of blood sprayed from Wonderbread’s mutilated neck, as the remains of his body plummeted to the ground.
“Loca, are you okay,” said Lotus, internally. “I found the fucking communication jammer.”
A wide grin grew across Loca’s battered face. “I’m alive. Fucked up, but alive.” Toxic milk leaked out from her punctured breasts. “Alexis, what happened?”
Alexis groaned as she limped over the slew of bodies. “These motherfuckers knew we would be here.”
Loca limped towards the bar. “You’re sure about that?”
“They blocked all communication with a jammer, and used tech to throw off our scanners and heat sensors. Yeah, I would say they knew.”
“I think she was being sarcastic,” chimed Lotus.
“You ladies made a mess of these fuckers,” said Loca. Her hands feeling through a jacket on the bar. “I think the military will be looking for us now.”
“It’s not our fault,” Lotus exclaimed. “Five billion changes people, and those thugs and gangbangers did most of it.”
Loca rifled through the contents of a purse, pulled a few cards and a wad of cash. “Just don’t let them go to waste.”
“We don’t have time for that,” said Alexis, tone rushed and alarmed. “These fuckers knew we would be here and there’s a reason for that.”
They got on separately, at different stops. The first snuffed a cigarette on a lamp post and entered wordlessly while flashing a monthly pass to the driver. He was a bit past middle-aged and wore it more obviously than most. He dressed himself as an icon of a bygone age; torn and dusty and almost entirely in blue denim; jean jacket covered in iron-on biker patches. Beneath it all was a graphic tee, detailing the rules for dating his teenage daughter.
The second man wore a conservative grey suit; also middle-aged, but a lot better looking for it. He sat down a seat behind Blue Denim. A couple stops passed by in silence until the Businessman tapped Blue Denim on his shoulder, and then, flashing a broad smile, pointed to one of his patches.
Blue Denim grinned and nodded. “Went there last summer, man. Time of my life.”
“Me and the family went just a couple weeks ago.”
“It’s a helluva place.”
They shared one last smile, like old friends remembering that time in that placeyears ago. Then, Blue Denim got off at his stop and it was only me and the Businessman.
I’ve seen young men with missing teeth playing music on their phone, unaware or in spite of headphones. I’ve seen fare arguments with screaming, cracked-out mothers-to-be. I’ve seen welfare parents off to interview at fast food jobs they couldn’t get. But, the conversation between Blue Denim and the Businessman was a different sort of interaction. Everything else on the bus was a desperate transaction. But their conversation was easy. It was intimate, soaked with the warmth of recognition. A few stops later and I was still replaying it in my mind.
Meanwhile, the businessman sat, swaying with the bus’ stops and starts while I was searching his back for something. I silently rehearsed my words and once I gathered the courage, I asked aloud the nagging question: “What’s Maritimus?”
The Businessman turned and smiled– a garish plastic thing that came with the ring of a cash register. He looked pleased to see I was eavesdropping. “It’s a little resort town on the coast,” he said. “You have kids?”
“I have a daughter.”
“Just turned sixteen.”
He adjusted his belt and gave me a flash of his realtor’s smile. “She’ll love it. Great place to just, you know, unwind.”
He said it as if he was indulging in an obvious innuendo. His smile flashed again with conspiratorial panache, and I found myself longing to know what knowledge was buried behind those bared teeth.
He turned back around to stare out the window and in another stop he was gone, briefcase in hand strutting importantly into a grey compound under siege by shiny new cars. His words tumbled about in my ears. Five stops later, I was surrounded by treeless lawns and cracked sidewalks. Houses painted ugly shades of yellow flanked my own, painted an ugly shade of pink. It was cracking like lizard skin in the summer sun. A part of me hoped it would all just fall off in flakes and save me the trouble. I walked up the dead grass of my sloping lawn and opened the door.
Kayla was already home and on the couch, a blanket covering her legs, her eyes glued to the flat, smooth glass of her smartphone. She greeted me without as little as a look.
I closed the door and began the steps to our usual dance. “How was school?”
“Diddly-dank,” she said, rolling her eyes.
I closed the door and slung my bag on the chair. “I’m not stupid, Kayla. I know no one says that.”
She rolled her eyes and said, “I say it.” She then tossed her phone to the side and stretched her arms out. “What’s for dinner?”
“I don’t know, doll. We have chicken defrosted, so probably some sort of chicken.”
Kayla went to the kitchen to look at her options and I sat down. She brought me a beer, and I thanked her. She asked me if she could have one too. I told her no, and our after-school ritual survived another day.
I thought of the bus.
Blue Denim and the Businessman ran through my mind as the bitter lit my tongue. Kayla had resigned herself to chicken and was improvising a marinade. I swished the beer around my mouth, letting the bubbles invade and pop in every toothsome crevice.
I hadn’t realized how tired I was. The walls of our home, modest to be sure, seemed to inch closer together every day. Maybe the talk of resorts wormed its way through my sense of space. I suddenly had the tangible feeling that I was missing something. As Kayla was in the kitchen, digging for ingredients, potatoes for a side, the thought grew, ballooning until it started to carry weight; a slab of concrete on my shoulders, pressing me down into the couch cushions, souring my beer… Minutes passed and it was like being stoned, I tried to chuckle quietly at my own anxiety, but levity did nothing. I had to expel it. I had to vomit it out, like a poison. I chewed on the words, till they were practically mush. Finally, I acquiesced and called to the kitchen with fateful words: “What do you think about going on a vacation?”
Kayla looked up, cocking a head out of the refrigerator and asked, “What were you thinking?”
“Some guys on the bus were talking about a place on the coast. Maritimus.”
Kayla raised a single, mocking eyebrow. “Seriously? Maritimus?”
“You’ve heard of it?”
“Jesus, Dad, like every girl at my school is rocking a Maritimus hoodie with a seal or some bullshit on it.”
“Don’t you wanna ‘rock’ one too?”
“Dad, please. Maritimus is for kids and old people.”
“I just thought it sounded fun. Good place to unwind or something. Sound of the ocean. All that jazz.”
“Its a tourist trap, dad.”
“Maybe,” I admitted. “Probably, actually. But it could be a fun one.”
Kayla dropped the chicken into a plastic bag filled with a myriad of seasonings and worcestershire sauce. She said, “Whatever,” but it was as good as ‘yes.’
That night I lay awake in my bed. My sheets were chilled and the night was still. I was tired, but I lay awake. I thought of the ocean air. Seashells. Sand. Rocky cliffs that stood noble and proud; jagged gargoyles to keep the ocean at bay. Helluva place.
I felt myself growing hard. I reached down to my thick shaft and started rubbing it up and down, at first weakly, and then faster, and then faster and harder still. At the end it didn’t even feel like flesh.
It was a mere two weeks before we departed. Summer break came. Vacation days were marked on the calendar.
Kayla rolled her eyes, as she was apt to do, and I understood it. Maritimus wasn’t quite cool. But, she was sitting beside me. Content to leave for the coast, to indulge in ol’ Dad’s fantasy vacation as long as her eyes were allowed to roll back and forth at will. It was a small concession.
I let her drive til we got to Portland and then I switched for the last hour. Windmills passed us faster than traffic. Grey and pregnant clouds stretched out across the sky as far as we could see. There was nothing dreary about them. The wind blew the scent of rain yet to fall.
A rustic sign of carved wood appeared on the horizon. Mountains and waterfalls and a spare elk framed Maritimus, OR, carved deeper than the rest. I rolled down the window and smelled salty air. Kayla stirred and looked up.
“Oh look. They have an iHop,” she said, pointing to a sign filled with restaurant logos.
“They also have shopping, and the ocean, and crafts, and I’m sure a lot of other stuff.”
“Tons of stuff.”
“You’re a peach, doll. Shut up and have fun.” I couldn’t help but smile when I said it. She looked like me then: looking out the windows, picking apart the seams of Maritimus, searching for disappointment.
But the air. It was sweet and salty, and suffocated my own cynicism. “Listen,” I said. “Do you hear that?”
Just over the car engine, the cutting call of peace. The ocean washing over sand, slowly eroding jagged rocks into smooth pebbles, seagulls honking for food.
Kay looked over at me and smirked, and then put her hand through my hair and tousled it, “You’re a cute kid, Dad.”
The hotel was quaint by design. It looked like an old lodge, with the outside of it covered in what I would assume were fake logs. The lobby was cavernous, with big wooden pillars holding the ceiling. On closer examination, I realized they were carved with various animals; one with a bear, another a seal, and another had a scene of salmon jumping from a stream. Another was of a native woman, eyes closed and arms crossed over her chest, a subtle smile spread across her lips.
The lady at the front desk was exuberantly friendly. So much so that on her second “You guys are going to have so much fun!,” Kayla gave me her you-have-to-be-fucking-kidding-me eyes.
The room had the same Trapper’s Lodge aesthetic as the rest of the hotel. Kayla jumped on one of the two beds. I was pleased to see she was impressed for once. “This place is huge,” she said.
“It’s nice, right?”
I took that as confirmation and looked at the tourism pamphlets spread out on the night stand. “What do you wanna do first?”
She looked up at me and shrugged, “I don’t know, Dad. You’re the Maritimus expert. This is your deal.”
It was almost lunchtime, and the sun was high in the sky. The air was crisp and cool. “How about we walk down to the coast and find some place to eat?”
Kayla agreed, holding her stomach and making exaggerated claims of hunger. She freshened up and we went back downstairs, the lady at the front desk smiling broadly, giving us double thumbs up as we left out the doors.
You could hear the coast wherever you were in Maritimus. It was as omnipresent as air. You could follow it, an audible compass to due west. We saw couples holding hands, splashing their feet and running away back up the wet sand. Kayla was braver than I, dipping a sandaled toe into the ocean. She withdrew it quickly and shivered, “Shit, that’s cold.”
We heard cackling, loud and mirthful. At first I felt a pang of shame, but it dissipated as I saw they weren’t laughing at us. They appeared to be locals, seven women, of varying ages laughing to themselves at a private joke. Their clothes looked like a lighter shade of burlap. Their spot on the beach was covered in straw. One of them, a brunette about twenty years older than me, turned her head slightly and acknowledged our presence. Kayla watched them curiously as I turned the other direction.
“Let’s go get some food,” I said.
She turned after a moment, as if we hadn’t seen anyone, “Not seafood.”
“Fine. You still like burgers?”
Kayla nodded and followed along behind me, up the beach to a series of businesses that looked like seaside cottages. Gauche fish seemed to be jumping over every decal. A diner called Maritimus Maximus looked to be our best option, built around a dissonant Roman gladiator theme that also incorporated marine imagery, perhaps even more dissonantly.
“What the fuck is this place?” Kayla asked.
“Watch your language,” I whispered, “We’re in public.”
She rolled her eyes, not bothering to correct them when a waitress only a couple years older than her popped into sight.
“How are y’all doing today?” She exclaimed it almost as a declarative, like the answer was a foregone conclusion of ecstasy. She turned to Kayla and hunched over a little, who was the same height as her and said, “You spending the day with your Daddy, girlie?”
Kayla looked at me from the corner of her eyes, it was a look of panic. “Uh, yeah,” she said.
“There’s a lot of things to do in Maritimus,” she said sweetly, “But nothing’s better than hanging with your Daddy!” She then gave me a knowing wink and sat us to a table booth overlooking the beach. Kayla mouthed ‘what the fuck’ to me as soon as she left us our menus.
“Well, it looks like they have burgers.”
Kayla shook her head and giggled. I started to laugh because she looked the same as when she was an infant and I’m sure our waitress’ heart warmed, watching father and daughter have a grand time.
We both ordered burgers with tacky Roman names, each with the suffix -us and they came out quick enough that we barely had time to make conversation.
In between mouthfuls of beef, grease dripping down her chin, she asked, “Who were those women?”
“No idea,” I answered, “Probably just locals hanging out.”
“I figured locals would be bored with the shore.”
“Probably just a club or a church group or something. Why stay inside when you have the beach so close, you know?”
The waitress picked up our plates. “I hope everything was super great!”
We told her it was and I paid the bill while Kayla texted.
“Anything catch your eye?”
“I saw a row of shops and stuff on the way down to the beach, maybe tool around there,” she said casually.
“Sounds good,” I agreed, and I let her lead the way.
It was a sort-of pseudo boardwalk. The ground was planked with white wood that served as a pedestrian walkway as big as the average street, with signs warning vehicles that it was not an actual road. I stood off to the side, picking benches to sit on as Kayla wandered from gift shop to clothing shop to milk-sugar-coffee shop. I wandered into a shop called Maritimus Mercantile. A lone shopkeeper, a chipper young man with a bright face greeted me excitedly.
It was half-museum and half-tourist shop he said, self effacingly. But the deprecation was surface level. His excitement betrayed no sense of shame. There were displays of pieces of wood, ships that sailed a long time ago, when Maritimus was a port on the way to Canada and beyond, a strategic fuel stop that faded into a resort town as ships became more advanced as well as anachronistic. A tribal headdress was on the wall, displayed like the head of a hunter’s kill. Maritimus boasted kind and progressive treatment of the native population back when such tolerance wasn’t in vogue. White settlers and natives exchanged culture and assimilated evenly and quickly. These facts were presented typed and printed, framed by red construction paper under an ancient photograph of men, women, and children, both native and settlers, smiling together arm-in-arm.
“We have a very rich history,” said the young man behind my back.
“Yeah,” I said. “Looks like it.”
I heard the door chime ring a set of ascending notes and turned to see Kayla with an iced coffee in hand.
“Whatcha looking at?” She asked.
“Oh, you know. Just checking out the local history.”
She nudged me in the side and she said, “Guess who I saw?”
“Those ladies in the weird brown dresses. They were walking around and I said ‘hi.’”
“They’re part of some sort of local committee, apparently we hit Maritimus during festival season.”
“What kind of festival?”
“C’mon, Dad. I thought you were reading up on the local history? We’re celebrating the day the town was established.”
She shrugged, as if not wanting to come off as too excited, “Well, yeah, a little. They invited me to go along with them and check out the town.”
“Yeah,” she said, circling to the point, “Can I go?”
I thought a moment. I said, “Sure,” but I wasn’t sure I meant it. I turned to the shopkeeper, who was adjusting a painting of Maritimus of olde, and asked, “What’s the story with the festival?”
He beamed at the question. “It’s a celebration. Of community and persistence, along with everything that makes Maritimus, well, Maritimus!”
“Do you know the women who are involved in the planning?”
He cocked his head robotically, “Oh? You mean Becky, Sue, Rachel, Erin, Gertrude, Olivia, and Willow? Yes, of course! Wonderful women, all of them. Very knowledgable of the area. All of them have keys to the city, well, practically. They are the folks that keep Maritimus as a place families can be themselves and relax! Bearers of the old ways, I’d say!”He laughed aloud at his rhyme.
“Alright,” I said to Kayla, “Just meet me at the hotel for dinner.”
Kayla agreed and gave me a peck on the cheek. Soon I was left alone with the sun, the sea, and the feverish keeper of the gift shop.
Maritimus was a good place to unwind, I decided. I laid on the beach, which was cool, but warm enough with the sun I didn’t mind. I read a book and breathed in the air. Down the sand, I saw other tourists, similarly complacent and relaxed. Another father, a little older than me, held his daughter in one arm, and his wife in the other. They laughed together as they watched a crab scuttle past.
I rolled over and closed my eyes, listening for the sound of rolling eternity. The laughing was too loud though, so I turned back and opened my eyes. The man looked at me and winked, then kissed his wife on the lips, long and hard. And then, without a second thought, turned to his daughter and did the same. All three looked at me and giggled.
I sat up, unnerved. Curious and sick. But they didn’t come to greet me. They turned away and continued to laugh, heading back to the center of town. I tried to push it out of my mind and watch the ocean lapping like a hungry tongue at the sand.
And then out of nowhere came a voice. “You enjoying Maritimus so far?”
I jumped, startled, then turned to see an old man in a white shirt and straw fedora standing behind me. He smiled broadly and offered a hand to shake. “Yes,” I said, “I am.”
He had a short white beard and shiny white teeth. When I took his hand, I also realized he was wearing white cotton shorts.
“My name is Emmett Grover– I’m the mayor.”
“No other,” he said with a grin. “I like to check in personally on our guest’s good time.”
His face stared back at me expectantly, daring me to be unsettled, to be anything but relaxed and happy. “I’m having a great time,” I said.
“Just wait for the festival,” he whispered conspiratorially, “It only gets better. I like to think of Maritimus as the ultimate resort town. And you know what makes it special?” He opened his arms, as if the town behind him was his to display, “Authenticity. Locals and tourists understand Maritimus intrinsically, because it is real. There’s no fakery, no plastic tourism. It’s a real town. A place like this, a place where a man can unwind, is good for the soul, you know? It helps you shed layers. Here, on the beach, with the sand, and the water, you become the real you.”
“You don’t need to sell me.”
“Ha! Ha! Of course not, dear sir! Of course not! You enjoy your time in Maritimus, and let us know if we can help you with anything.”
And with that, he ran off, hooting and hollering up the beach, like an excited child.
Through a mouthful of marbles, Kayla gargled up the words, “Now, Dad, don’t be mad.”
I was going to say, “Why would I be mad?,” but then she opened her mouth. In the center of her tongue was a diamond stud, shining white under the hotel room’s lamplight. I said, “Holy shit,” instead.
Kayla explained as best she could, around her swollen tongue. “I’ve always wanted one and Becky said carpe diem.”
In the face of my daughter’s tongue piercing, words escaped me. “Dad, stop looking at me like that. It comes right out,” she said as she played with the sharp rock, “But not for another month. It needs to heal.”
Her eyes glistened with tears, but she wasn’t upset. She looked at me like I was a pathetic little kid, or an out of touch old man. Maybe there wasn’t that much of a difference. She told me she loved me and that it’d be okay, rubbing a smooth hand across my face. “It’s Maritimus, Dad. Relax. Let’s just have a good time.”
I had that same numb sick feeling from the beach. It never left. The air just magnified it. The dissonance. Nevertheless, I sat numbly on the bed and accepted her words as truth. She brushed a soft hand across my face, and held my head against her chest, like she could see and feel my unease; softly whispering that everything was okay, that everything was good. That Maritimus would bring us closer together. She turned off the light and took off my shirt, and then took off her own and tucked me into bed. She laid beside me, warm and soft and young. And soon, we were both asleep.
The sun dodged through blinds and carried with it the warm glow of a new day. Kayla was snuggled up in the crook of my arm. She woke up looking at me, with her big eyes and long lashes, an affectionate smile on her lips. I struggled with the intimacy for a moment and then it dissipated when she yawned and everything started to feel normal.
“I slept so good,” she said. Her diamond tongue refracted light, a lighthouses swinging beam on the rocks of a dangerous shore.. I couldn’t help but think, in the early morning light, that it completed her though. Like a natural extension of her personality, a real-life gemstone joined to flesh.
She swayed her hips and yawned once more on the way to the bathroom. I was rock hard. Ready to explode. With her out of sight, I was overwhelmingly tempted to self-pleasure.
I shook my head and closed my eyes, burying my face into the pillow for a little longer, feigning sleep.
“Anything I can help you with, Dad?”
Did I imagine how she said it?
I shifted my head, my erection burying itself into the bedspread, leaking like a pubescent boy. She was standing, fully dressed, a half-smile, possibly a knowing half-smile, on her lips. “Like coffee or something?”
“Sure,” I said. And she was out the door. I followed her footsteps down the hall, lightly tapping out an arcane rhythm. I held the blankets close.
By the time she got back, I was dressed again. I was composed. I was her father and she was my daughter. I made peace with her piercing, and briefly told her to ask me next time she made a big decision. I drank coffee from a paper cup and we wandered out to the lobby. Everything felt like a dream, like it was floating on Maritimus’ salty air. We were light, nearly weightless, and on the horizon, past the ocean on one side, and the mountains on the other, I was sure there was nothing else but where we were right then.
“Look alive, Dad. It’s Maritimus Day!”
And then as soon as we exited the hotel lobby there were the women in burlap: Becky, Sue, Rachel, Erin, Gertrude, Olivia, and Willow. And in the center of them, in white cotton from head to toe was Emmett Grover. His mouth was a wide open ‘o’ of excitement, as if he and the committee had just taken a walk, right up to the doors of our hotel and that running into us was but a happy coincidence.
“Oh dear! Look who it is!”
Kayla waved to the ladies and stuck out her tongue, showing her diamond. One of them, a raven-haired woman of about forty-five beamed and said, “It looks beautiful. What do you think, Dad?”
Without thinking, I said, “It is very becoming.”
The raven-haired woman winked at me and I felt exposed and disgusted.
Emmett Grover’s teeth were as white as the rest of him, they showed when he spoke. “Why don’t you all join us for the rest of the day? A first hand tour of the freedom and family values that runs to the very core of Maritimus.”
“That sounds lovely, Mr. Grover,” Kayla said. I didn’t know how she knew his name.
She grabbed my hand in hers and pulled me along as the group moved down towards the ocean. Grover and the women, who only spoke to correct him on the minutia of the town’s history, led us to the water. Overnight a carnival had been erected, straw had been formed with twine into the shape of men, themselves arranged in a triangle. Each had a phallus made of sticks, denoting their sex. At the high point of the triangle was the sole female figure, twine binding the straw into a curvaceous figure. Between the three points, was a pedestal.
“Authenticity! Honesty! With yourself and your neighbor! Love!” Emmett Grover raved. “That is what Maritimus is about.”
He turned to no one in particular and shouted: “Soon the shackles will be lifted!”
Others were gathering, following the siren song of the carnival. Kayla ran off into the crowd leaving me with little but my thoughts and discomfort.
The crowd was swelling as conversations turned to a wave of indistinguishable static. Emmett Grover was running pell-mell through the crowd, and I could hear his voice piercing above it all. “The transference of power! Our deepest temptations turned to our greatest memories! Maritimus is good! Maritimus is great!” He reminded me of those old movie posters, with giant radioactive cockroaches and a strong-jawed leading man. “Romance! Thrills! The Greatest Spectacle on the Silver Screen!”
From here, things only got stranger.
The beach was packed, the faux-boardwalk was packed. The entire population of the town was gathering for the festival. I was being pushed along to the triangle. Emmett Grover was on the pedestal. The women, Kayla included, were hauling giant sacks of burlap, the same as the women’s dresses. The fabric darkened where the wet soaked through. They dumped a small furry body at one tip of the triangle. I squinted and saw that it was a young black bear, mouth slung lazily open. At another was the slick, wet, gray body of a seal, blood oozing from the concave hammer blow atop its skull. Finally, they reached the last point and dumped a bag of silver and asphyxiated salmon. Kayla turned to me and waved and then took one of the salmon and ripped it open with her teeth. She held it up in the air and the town erupted in cheers. A hundred pink eggs fell into her open mouth and she mashed them with relish. Her pink lips held a thousand promises.
I gagged on my questions– the who’s and the what’s and the when’s stopped in my throat. I was numb, and then I was shocked, then revolted, then– most strangely– I felt–
My eyes turned to the mayor.
Emmett Grover stripped off his clothes with aplomb and produced a knife in which to slice the seal jaw to fin.
He pulled out big bloody-white handfuls of blubber, rubbing it up and down his naked body. The women were skinning the bear.
(My beautiful daughter)
Before long one of them, the youngest, was wearing the skin. And through it all, children sat in the ferris wheel, laughing and pointing, cotton candy crystals hanging to their chin.
It was night time. I don’t know where the time went, but miraculously, the sunlight became torchlight and I was naked like the rest of them. Maritimus was alive with energy. The perfect little town. The ultimate resort. Helluva place.
Kayla was leading me to the pedestal. I suddenly remembered watching the other men go up, giving their penance in exchange for dreams. The young girl in the bear skin was already in the water. It was a lovely display, I remembered. Emmett Grover was standing behind a teenage girl with bird-like legs stretched out, gyrating hungrily into her ass. The whole beach smelled of a different sort of salt. Of flesh and sweat and sickly-sweet lust. Everyone was doing it, I realized. The older women were applauding and offering advice and commendations, the younger were paired with sometimes two-to-four men, three to four times their age.
Kayla took me by the hand. I was scared, and she knew it. She put her lips to my ear and told me it would be okay. Grover was raving, madder than ever, his body glistening with the seal fat, the girl in his hands face twisted in wretched pain. He wasn’t speaking English. Some forbidden portmanteau of syllables, a curious patois that everyone seemed to understand but me. I stared out at the ocean and was sure it was staring back.
I stood on the pedestal and Kayla kissed me deeply. She held me by my hips and suddenly I didn’t care that we were being watched. Her diamond tongue clinked against my teeth and I was hard again. Thirsty for her touch, ready to take it if need be. But when she broke her kiss, I knew there would be no need for taking. It was the inherent promise of a resort: transcendence from means, weeknight dreams made weekend reality. Her eyes said it all. And it was all for a price.
I was happy to pay it.
I was naked. She took me in her mouth, bobbing her head. The same head that kissed me on the cheek when she was a little girl. That giggled when I gave her raspberries on her four year old belly. She was a woman now, and she was finally mine. Running her diamond tongue back and forth along my shaft, slicing my most precious skin. Tendons and vessels shredded. Years from now I would delight in my disfigurement.
I made good on the promise sixteen years in the making. Blood and semen washed over my daughter’s diamond tongue.
Maritimus grew and shrank in my vision, swelling as I did. Wilting as I was. Kayla stood up and let me taste her lips.
The women took her body to the water and let her sink as I assumed they had done so many other times. The ocean roared and for a moment I thought I saw something rise out of its waters, but my knees were weak and I just wanted to lay on the sand. I saw her diamond shine from beneath the ocean. The other women tended to my shredded member, sucking the last bit of life from me, healing me of my weakness. I turned to see hundreds of glinting diamonds in the dark crowd, nearer to me I saw dozens of scarred genitals and the smiles of their happy owners. They gave me knowing winks and I felt elated to be so acknowledged.
An amalgam of animals rose out of the sea, eyes gleaming green, with my daughter in its arms. Emmett Grover said that this was Maritimus’ very own Director of Tourism. Its mouth was hungry for dread dreams, he said.
Kayla was awake. I was dripping out her mouth. The other girl too, bear skin still draped over her shoulders. He laid them down on the beach. When they came to, they began to kiss. The crowd cheered. “Another hundred years of seaside tourism!” “We’ve been saved!” “Print more hoodies! More posters! More everything! Maritimus is here to stay!”
Emmett Grover pulled us together in a big, naked hug. He smelled of sex and carrion. He handed us a big burlap sack, filled with sweaters and T-Shirts, calendars and trucker hats– all emblazoned with the town’s name.
Everything was soft and the world shifted lazily. I hugged my daughter and she hugged me back. We told him we couldn’t wait for next year and he laughed a deep laugh and slapped me joyously across my back as giving eyes from the ocean twinkled like diamonds in an old and forbidden rough.
Deadman’s Tome is a growing horror zine that publishes horror short stories and horror flash fiction. The online magazine publishes dark and gritty content from professional horror writers, Bram Stoker award nominated horror authors, along with talented newcomers of the horror writing craft. Deadman’s Tome features chilling, terrifying horror shorts ranging from ghost stories, zombie invasions, bigfoot sightings, monster horror, and even horror erotica. Deadman’s Tome is one of the best online horror zines to publish horror short stories, horror flash fiction, and dark flash fiction. The darker the tale the better. If you enjoyed the story, or even if you didn’t, leave a comment below as it helps the horror authors.
Mr. Deadman explores how a story like Unbloom could work in real life where a wife knowingly allows for her husband to pork cold dead underage flesh that he keeps in the basement. Perhaps the wife is one of those regressive Left types that would defend her husbands “condition” because it’s not hurting anyone, right?
Mr. Deadman uses Fly Blown as an example of what not to do for both men and women. Ladies, wash your vaginas! If you have flies and maggots going on down there, then just isolate yourself from society, please. Or just, give up on life. Like a video game reset, but with a handful of pills or a glock.