Stephen McQuiggan

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 9, 2013

Stephen McQuiggan is the pen name of a ghost who communicates his stories through a sightless orphan using a series of demonic threats, raps, and shrill whistles. Any mistakes in punctuation, grammar etc., blame the blind kid.

 

MOUTH AND TROUSERS.

 

Boyle held his breath as yet another leviathan waddled by.

The Clinic was full to bursting today, just like the patients; was it his imagination or were they actually getting fatter by the session? Christ, he thought, scanning his white overalls for the slightest hint of contamination, how could you let yourself go like that? He clenched his buttocks uncomfortably and did a sneaky little shuffle, but the itch refused to go away. His ass felt like it was cutting a tooth. He couldn’t wait to get to the toilets and get a finger up there, have a good rummage around.

He hurried toward the exit, overhearing that obnoxious tub of lard, Debbie, wobbling her dewlaps about her latest trip, each word flopping out grease laden and sizzling. At least she wasn’t on about diets again; she would eat a recipe book that one, always eyeing up the pictures the way the new temp eyed up his butt.

‘We went to the Tower, the Palace,’ she slapped proudly, the smile on her face like an eyelash on a balloon, ‘and I even went on the London Eye!’ Bet it fucking squinted, thought Boyle, pushing through the double doors and the clean air of the corridor, away from the vinegary sweat and toxic farts of the human puddings behind.

The itch was nigh on unbearable now, his sphincter felt like it was glowing; the sun really does shine out of my arse. He made it to the door of the Gents, pondering as usual the ironic little stick man above its handle, when Jameson came out.

‘Ah, Boyle, just the man,’ he smiled. ‘I see on the roster you’re on toilet duties today. Cubicles Four to Eight are completely blocked again. The one in Five is a doozy. You’ll need the Stick.’ A sarcastic pat on the shoulder then Jameson was gone, leaving Boyle shuddering at what awaited him beyond the door.

Fuck it, he decided, no point in even trying to unblock them until the Fatties had left. Let them crap on top of it. There was little point in doing the job twice. He gave his ass a surreptitious scratch, jamming a bony digit as far as he could through the crease of his heavy trousers.

‘I didn’t know you were getting married.’ The voice was as svelte and sexy as its owner; Sandra the secretary.

He turned too quickly, hoping he wasn’t blushing. ‘What? I’m not…What do you mean?’

She smiled a crotch tightening smile. ‘I saw you picking your ring.’

Boyle felt his face burn. ‘It’s all those blimps in there…They make my skin crawl.’

‘It’s not just the fat who are greedy,’ said Sandra, pushing out her chest until it brushed against his immaculate whites. ‘We’re all obese in our desires.’ She watched his face burn ever brighter. ‘You talk the talk, Sonny Boyle, but I reckon you’re all mouth and trousers.’ She sauntered off giggling, leaving him feeling vulgar, disgusting, inept, leaving him feeling like one of the corpulent clientele.

It was the Fatties fault, those obese Orcas, those bilious blimps; just being near them made him break out. He must be allergic to the foulness that lived in their sweaty folds. He stormed back into the Day Room to take out his humiliation on their flabby hides. It was the one saving grace of this god awful job, and the anticipation of retribution almost made him forget the itch that now inflamed his spine.

He entered the Day Room like a gunfighter – a gutfighter, he chuckled to himself – quickly identifying his target; Bob; Bob the Blob. Yeah, plenty to chew on there.

‘Hey, Blobby!’ said Boyle, slapping the hapless lump somewhere on the rippled dunes of his back then recoiling; it was like sinking your hand into a vat of warm wet dough. ‘Been to the toilet lately?’

Bob looked up at him warily, shaking his head, the energy needed for such a manoeuvre causing a cascade of perspiration to stream down the plateau of his forehead and momentarily blind him. Boyle winced – Bob had been at the sweeties again, his mouth ringed with a chocolate goatee; he appeared to be wearing the rest. His unique odour, a heady blend of B.O. and pickled onions, was stifling this close. Boyle could not see the chair under his massive bulk – it looked as though Bob had sprouted, like some monstrous cancerous mushroom, from the tiled floor overnight.

Boyle flexed his muscles, tightened his washboard abs; he had to admit he felt good in the midst of these fat fucks. The juxtaposition was ridiculous; he was a harpoon in a sea of whales.

‘Think I’ll go for a run after,’ mused Boyle. ‘Running? You ever hear of that? You’ve probably seen it on the telly.’ Bob stared at him, his frightened eyes lost in the pasty expanse of his face. ‘Then later, sex. Ditto.’

Bob turned away, picking at some errant morsels on his jumper, licking his sausage fingers with his hideous pink duvet of a tongue.

‘Hey, I’m talking to you, Blobby.’ Boyle kicked out at the tree root of his leg. ‘You ignoring me? I’m only telling you some home truths, y’know. I’m only trying to help, it’s my job see.’

Bob emitted a pathetic mewl, a high pitched drone whose frequency aggravated the prickle in Boyle’s crease to a dancing frenzy. Boyle pushed his face down into Bob’s, unleashing his anger in an attempt to ease his suffering.

‘You think by growing a beard no one will notice your collection of chins, Fat Boy? I bet your blood cells are like dinghies, ringed by a halo of grease, I bet your liver’s like a torpedoed gunship, I bet your -’

Bob was crying, and when Bob cried his colon tended to applaud; the stench rose in a stinging cloud comparable to sulphur and napalm.

‘Jesus, you’re disgusting!’

‘I’m s-s-sorry,’ spluttered Bob. His breath was the final straw; when he opened his mouth he released a tomb full of fetid air. Boyle took decisive action. Reaching into his pocket he produced half a pack of mints (extra strong, XXX, Man Mints) and placed his knee on Bob’s quicksand chest.

‘Open up you fucking piece of lard,’ he said, trying to squeeze a chalky tablet through Bob’s mudflap lips. ’I’m doing you a favour, you hog, you’ll kill someone with that hell breath.’

Bob tried to wiggle free but to no avail; perhaps his skeleton ricocheted inside its fleshy prison, but on the outside the most he could manage was a desultory quivering. His mouth, however, remained resolutely shut. This, coupled with his burning buttocks, drew the red curtains in Boyle’s mind.

‘You bulbous piece of shit!’ he yelled. ‘Your mouth’s never closed. I didn’t even know there was a hinge on it, you fucking Heffalump!’

He began ramming the mints, one by one, up Bob’s flared and foliage strewn nostrils. ‘There you go, Jelly Belly! You could fit a manhole cover up those babies. And best of all,’ he panted, jamming the last mint so far up Bob’s snout that when he pulled his finger back out it was coated in blood and mucus to the knuckle, ‘they’re only one fucking calorie!’

Boyle!’ The red curtains parted. Boyle found himself squinting at the sudden light, his audience regarding him with horror. He lifted his head to see Flynn, his rotund boss, face apoplectic, centre stage before him. ‘My office, now!’

Boyle was about to explain how it was all Bob’s fault, pointing at the yapping mess as evidence, but the sight of one of Bob’s wiry nasal hairs, curled like a question mark and glued to his fingernail, stopped him in his tracks. The whole world shrunk down until that pubic cable resembled a lifeline or a noose. Puffing out his chest, he followed Flynn out of the Day Room, glaring at any leviathan brave enough to meet his eye.

‘What the hell are you playing at!’ demanded Flynn, slamming the office door, instantly rendering the cramped little room even more claustrophobic. Boyle’s head began to swim. He sat down quickly, hoping to rub his butt along the chair and get some relief. He barely heard the wrath spewing undigested from his boss.

‘Have you any idea what another lawsuit would do to this institution? What if he calls the police?’

‘It looked a lot worse than -’

‘Are you serious? It looked like you were trying to bloody kill him! What the hell’s wrong with you? Stop fidgeting man.’

But Boyle couldn’t.

Something was happening down below, something terrible; This must be what giving birth feels like, he thought. Something in his anus seemed to clench and yawn; there was a loud ripping noise followed by an alligator snap.

‘What the -’ Flynn was saying, coming round the desk to investigate. Boyle was standing now, staring at the large chunk missing from the cushion on which he had been sitting, at the vicious, ragged teeth marks there.

‘I think we’ve got trouble, Boss,’ he said, groping at his backside, at the nest of foam wedged in the gaping tear in his trousers. It was at this moment, fuelled by righteous anger and clutching a towel to his smarting nose, Bob oozed into the office.

‘This is an outrage,’ he was saying, ‘an absolute outrage. I demand -’

Boyle never heard his demands, so intent was he on removing the remains of the seat from between his cheeks; nor did he notice Sandra emerge from Bob’s orbit, her pretty face knuckled up and glaring in his direction.

‘I can assure you this will be dealt with in house,’ Flynn was squeaking nervously. ‘Mr Boyle will feel the full, ah…weight, of my sanctions. There is really no need to involve the law.’

‘We’ll have to bring Mr Harris to the hospital,’ butted in Sandra. ‘He’s going to need a few stitches at least.’

‘Nonsense,’ fluttered Flynn. ‘A bit of salve will do the trick. It’s not so bad, a scratch, nothing more. He’s made of sterner stuff than you give him credit for, Sandra. Isn’t that right, Bob?’

Meanwhile, Boyle’s probing fingers had made a shocking discovery during their retrieval exercise; they had landed upon a set of razor sharp teeth, behind which flicked a dry snakelike tongue. A mouth. An entrance where only an exit should be.

As if prompted by Flynn’s allusion to what Bob was made of, the mouth opened and gnashed, mauling the tip of Boyle’s pinky finger. Boyle shoved the mangled digit between his lips, sucking away the blood, finding as he did so that the maddening itch in his nether regions abated.

‘Are you…’ Sandra was grimacing. ‘Did you just pick your…then put it in …’ She trailed off, making a gesture that there was something on his mouth. Flynn and Bob were staring at him in slack jawed disgust. The itch was returning with a higher intensity. He rubbed at his lips and found some cushion fluff and faecal matter there. A crocodile snap emanated from his hind as a large rope of saliva dangled down between his legs to puddle on the floor.

‘I’m…hungry,’ he said apologetically.

‘That’s it, I insist you call the police this instant,’ blurted Bob. ‘It’s clear this man’s unhinged. He assaulted me and now he’s -’

‘Let’s all calm down, shall we?’  Flynn’s unctuous voice was anything but the panacea he believed it to be. ‘Assault? That’s stretching things a little, isn’t it?’

‘But he -’

‘You were choking, Robert. Mr Boyle was merely trying to remove the obstruction.’

‘What!’

‘You fell asleep, had a nasty dream no doubt, nodded off mid biscuit and awoke to find Mr Boyle trying to clear your airways. Naturally, you panicked.’

‘How dare you, I -’

‘You should be thanking Mr Boyle who, like all our conscientious staff, is well equipped to handle such emergencies. It’s highly probable he saved your life.’

‘You can’t be serious !’

‘if only you shared Mr Boyle’s concern for your own welfare. I see by your chart you have gained sixteen pounds since your last sojourn here.’

Even through the gnawing in his derriere Boyle couldn’t help but admire Flynn’s slick reversal of blame. Bob on the other hand was less bowled over, visibly so. Speechless with rage, his complexion a diseased scarlet, lips flapping like gills transposed on his cantaloupe of a head. His very skull seemed to be swelling with indignation; any moment now, thought Boyle, it will burst open like a giant piñata, showering us all in a storm of Oreos and Snickers, cooking oil and pork rinds.

Bob waggled a ham sized fist at Flynn, wheezing like he was deflating, then dropped to the floor, sending out a shock wave that toppled the photo of Mrs Flynn and her pet Pug ( or was it just a hairy baby? Boyle could never bring himself to look at it long enough to draw a conclusion) from the desk.

‘Don’t just stand there!’ yelled Flynn, turning the sleep deprived gravel pits of his eyes onto Boyle. ‘Do something!’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know. You’re the one trained in First Aid.’

‘If you think I’m putting my mouth anywhere near his…’ began Boyle, remembering Bob’s sewer breath, then faltering when he realised what was currently smeared around his own lips. ‘Besides, you were about to fire me. You kiss him.’

‘If you can get that Blubberbucket’s bellows blowing again I’ll reconsider,’ wheedled Flynn. ‘Just pump his chest or something.’

‘Would somebody phone a fucking ambulance!’ Pale as tap water, Sandra had finally found her voice, and it sounded disconcertingly like a chainsaw. The itch in Boyle’s butt sprang up in sympathetic harmony.

‘How will I explain this?’ Flynn was asking the ceiling, the walls. ‘Third time this bloody quarter.’ He pointed to the prone and pallid Bob. ‘Fix this, Boyle, or I swear by the Seven Holy Bastards I’ll fix you.’ Sandra trailed out in his wake, reluctant to be left alone with either Boyle or Bob.

What now?

Boyle’s knowledge of CPR had deserted him as soon as he had finished the class; he recalled nothing save the little redhead sat two rows in front, the one he had tackled in the car park and – and the itch burned fiercely once more as Bob turned a worrying shade of blue.

Boyle straddled the big man’s belly, feeling like Mowgli astride an elephant, and starting pumping on Bob’s chest, then pounding with his fists; there was no danger of breaking this fat fuck’s breastbone, armoured as it was by an igneous layer of flesh.

He ceased abruptly as his sphincter drew in a long cool breath that momentarily froze his heart. There was a door slam clench and the itch was replaced by an orgasmic rush as hot blood seeped around his buttocks.

Boyle closed his eyes as Bob’s innards were chewed and sucked, devoured by the gaping maw residing in his fundament. Bubbles and burbles, gurgles and gaggings, Boyle rode atop them all, jarred only by the occasional scrape of anal incisor on bone.

His mind soared in an ecstasy of satiated bliss that no drug could ever hope to replicate, his pleasure swelling, filling his head, the office, the world until Sandra’s screams popped its burgeoning splendour and he returned to skinny reality with a sickening thud, no longer the hedonistic astronaut floating on the boundary of a tactile nirvana but a thin man sitting on a charnel mound of half digested offal.

Bitch, he thought as the itch returned. She fainted as he rose, bending over to show her his new feral smile. He contemplated squatting on her face, eating that indignant pout, those judging eyes, but why settle for such meagre fare when a banquet awaited him in the Day Room.

He shuffled out into the corridor leaving a bloody slime trail as he went. He was so hungry; he felt he would never be full.

I will eat until I explode, he thought, pushing open the Day Room doors, staring greedily at the corpulent bounty laid on before him; I get it now, I really do.

In the heavy silence the sound of one of Bob’s eyes, and half his lower intestine, slapping out onto the floor as it was regurgitated by  Boyle’s anal mouth set his stomach rumbling. ‘That’s right my dear,’ he said, shivering a little in anticipation. ‘Make a little room for dessert.’

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