Will, the Writer

Things will never be the same. Will carved his initials into a tree-trunk somewhere in the middle of nowhere. And all these fucking cliches seeped out of his brain. He put on Beethoven’s 7th and started thinking about the time he and his friends were lollygagging in a big open field, high on mushrooms.

He used to return at night from the bars and go down into his parent’s basement and type little stupid poems on a computer. It was better than jacking off.

“If you’ve got a home at night, then I guess you’re doing all right.” His dad used to say that. Fucking wanker.

Will never got laid, but eventually he did have a place to flop. And through his depressions because of the world making him sick in his heart, balls, tongue, and gums, he managed to do what his destiny told him he should: Write.

He didn’t care about capital letters or slogans or marketing gimmicks. He just wanted to do the damn thing he was born to do. But that was just what the world wanted to steal from him: His soul.

So I guess it would’ve been better to jackoff and sleep or whatever writers did at night, budding like toadstools under Dorothy’s skip-to-my-lou bullshit. Eventually, those toadstools would sink. Too many burgers after midnight, the bitch.

Will howled with laughter as the years passed him by, and there remained a sort of sublime nature to his own undoing. At this point in his life, he wasn’t Shakespeare, and he most certainly wasn’t Alexander the Great. But he was still able to aim his piss into the toilet without any help, and having a place to sleep at night sure beat the couch of a fuck-up friend who toiled in drug abuse, alcoholism, and the eternal splendor of hearing their own voices: Will hated everybody secretly.

Soon, it wouldn’t be such a secret. And isn’t that a damn shame? Writers are annoying, especially when they aren’t writing. That’s when they’re at their worst.

Oh well, Will thought, and he skipped like a rock across a dirty pond with lots of elk surrounding it, pissing and shitting into the wind. “The Wind Cries Mary,” Jimi Hendrix sang. And then he died from choking on his own vomit.

Will kept going, and the worst part about that was that he did so even when he didn’t feel like it. That always felt like climbing a ladder that somebody moved whenever you tried to get some shut-eye. It was probably best and better for his innate madness if he could just get laid. But how?

Will found himself looking in the mirror. Maybe I should cut my hair, he thought. Nah. That realization, though, always came too late. Heh, heh.

One day he was in Austin, Texas. Having a shitfit total mental breakdown. He met some girl from Dubai. And he said, yes, I am a writer. I drink wine. One day I am going to smoke a cigarette without a care in the world, and I will write about you, oh sweet dearie. But don’t you worry a thing about it. Because I won’t use your real name, and let’s be honest. You’ll forget me anyway.

Will found himself atop the girl on a Monday afternoon in a motel in the dark, trying to suck her teat. Tit. Oh Christ. He didn’t even know what to call it. Try again, you sappy little schmuck.

The girl abandoned him, and that became a theme in the life of a writer. Look at Hemingway. He had five wives. And he must’ve had a beer-can of a cock.

Speaking of second base, the words started to come. Heh, heh.

And that felt good. But the memories of his life at this point would ultimately dwell upon the kindness of strangers and friends. He was becoming himself while simultaneously becoming a total pain in the ass. What would Bruce Springsteen have done? He would’ve written a song about it. He would have changed up the tenses, past and present. He would’ve developed a southern draw or maybe a midwestern twang. He would’ve grown out his hair and started drinking like James Dean or Waylon Jennings, and he would’ve lived along a lake and got shitfaced drunk, almost to the point of tears because his woman wouldn’t take him back. Why were writers, why were men, why were little lost boys always so dumb?

It was going to take a lot of words for Will to finally find his balls. Almost like Balzac. Heh, heh. He’d have to write volumes without signing his name. However, and this was most unfortunate, he did not have the wherewithal to understand that important point: If you’re going to pour your guts and heart out to strangers, don’t expect them to foot the bill.

So Will got up from the floors and couches and found a job. It would’ve been a great career choice to find a cushy position at an Amazon warehouse. He could piss in a bottle and make lots of friends.

Will did do one important thing, though. He kept one crucial element to his spasmodic foreboding, under the rug, beneath his collar, by reading lots of books. And listening to lots and lots of music.

The pages came like waterfalls of ceremonious guilt, and throughout his late 20s and early 30s, he turned himself (secretly) into an F. Scott Fitzgerald wannabe. Finally, he found his Zelda.

She popped lots of pills. But they were prescribed. So that was okay. It was her condition. And what was his? Just hide your belongings behind the couch, you son of a bitch. Sooner or later, she’ll leave the room, and you can sneak her pill bottles by the handful and eat ‘em like Captain Crunch.

Will wrote his first novel. And then he wrote another one. And when they (she) finally saw his words, she thought he was a madman. “The bitch,” he thought, “she’s never read Celine. She doesn’t know Knut Hamsun. Otto Frank. She doesn’t even know that the Western world is in decline. Nope. She’ll have a kid, and that kid will become a Muslim. And they will all pray to god that the world will get better. And since I’m such an advocate of religious freedom, such a tolerant bird, I will let them go, and I will feel almost nothing. Because after so many years of my own rosy crucifixion, like Henry Miller wrote into a trilogy, I will write mine too.” Nobody cared.

It was like poop on a stick. Or in the undies. It was like the eyes of a crocodile. Writing. It was totally heartless and yet it meant everything to him. The heart was actually there. The soul was there too. A walking contradiction. Where the fuck was the money? And how was he going to make it?

Women.

They took him in.

They fondled him, metaphorically and metaphysically and economically and all of the above. There was something about a beautiful woman in a goose-stepping world that made him want to live again.

The look in the eyes. The fever of love. The muse. The art. The longing for something better at the end of a rainbow shooting out of his eyes and gonads.

Somewhere, somebody was waiting for him. Well, not him, per se.

But his words.

Yeah. That truly meant something.

Fast forward about a decade or so. And there he was.

“Your words are so warm,” she said on Google Translate. She didn’t even speak English, far away in a romantic foreign country.

“Yeah, baby. You’re one of the most beautiful women in the world.”

Yeah.

Will, the writer.

He drank another beer and then got the fuck outta there.

If only to live another day.

Bangkok Gunfighter Without Pointless Huck Finn

Of all the trifling and useless monikers fobbed on Larry Dumpkins in the past, “Bangkok Gunfighter” was perhaps the most serviceable. After all, he had been to Bangkok–once, on vacation, where he narrowly escaped evisceration by Buddhist demons and adjacents–and although his gunfighting days proper were over, his steady hand remained fit to squeeze off a shot or six, should such a thing be called for. Larry’s life in retirement might have been perfect, managing a comic book store in the hip downtown area of Bone City known as SoNoe (pronounced “So No Way”), had he not been saddled with Pointless Huck Finn.

Pointless announced his presence one slow Friday afternoon…the store air was saturated with strawberry flavored bubble gum incense, and Larry was about to close the shop, fire up his dragon bong and curate his collection of circus punks featuring characters from Vampirella and Tank Girl.

Larry loved to set the circus punks on top of his broken black and white TV set–it had belonged to a favorite female cousin with enormous breasts who died in a bizarre club fire, and he saved it to savor her memory in what he hoped was not but knew was an unspeakably morbid and necrophiliac manner. Then he’d topple the figurines with a slingshot–he hated especially Vampie herself, and could imagine her screams and hisses of outrage when she flew off the TV…over and over.

Larry was checking the day’s take against cash register receipts when Pointless Huck Finn charged through the door, demanding to see Larry’s infamous trove of “Dirty Little Eight Pagers,” early porno comics from the Depression era.

“Seriously?” said Larry, taking his time with the receipts.

Pointless Huck Finn poked him in the chest with a yellowish, nicotine-stained forefinger. “Do you have them or not, muh dude? My buddy Today’s Tom Sawyer tells me you’ve got a choice stash in the back room and I’m not leaving until I see them. Your sign says ‘Open till 10:00 pm.’ I hope you’re not thinking of closing early.”

“Wow,” said Larry. “Just wow. Okay, I can show you the books, but lighten up…it is my store after all.” Salve to his irritation at Pointless’ manners, the certain and sure knowledge that should his customer grow tiresome, he could easily blow the man-child’s brains out of the back of his head straight into the promised land…he felt the police .357 warm in its shoulder holster, where he kept it for just such an occasion.

“Follow me,” said Larry. He led Pointless through a door marked “Private” to a storeroom crammed floor to ceiling with boxes, neatly labeled with a pink felt tip pen by genre, age and price range. 

“Third from the bottom.” He pointed to a stack mashed against the west-facing wall. “Knock yourself out. I’ve even got some prime Betty Boops in there.”

Ah, Betty.

Pointless Huck Finn with an incredulous air: “I’ve got a bad back.”

“And?”

“And those boxes look heavy, man.”

“I’ve got some nugs of Blueberry waiting for my dragon bong, I showed you the box, I’m literally keeping the store open just for you, and now you want me to pull out my back dragging your 30s porno comics for you?”

“Okay fine. Today’s Tom Sawyer said you were kind of a dick.”

“Wait…who the fuck is Today’s Tom Sawyer…isn’t that a Rush song…and how do I know him again?”

“Well he knows you.” 

Pointless fished a cell phone out of his pocket, punched redial. “Yeah, hi, it’s me. Pointless. You were right about the Eight Pagers, and you were also right about the manager…dick!!! Can you come down and help a white man out? Oh now come on, you’re still stuck on that little prick-tease Becky Thatcher? Dude, we have got to get you over that ass and into some new…oh, all right. You had me worried there for a second. Uh-huh, yeah, I need some, uh, assistance with the merchandise.”

Larry fingered the grip on his .357 and imagined fingering the clit on Becky.  “What was that all about?”

Without answering, Pointless sank to the floor and began listlessly thumbing through a copy of The Hulk which had oozed through a rip in a nearby box. Five minutes passed in uncomfortable silence. Then the doorbell rang.

“You should probably get that.”

“Ya think?” said Larry. he returned to the front of the store and opened the door, visions of hits from the dragon dancing in his head. A tall, gangly man in his early 20’s flew past him, trailing the odor of burnt corn silk.

“Whoa, not so fast there pal.” But Today’s Tom Sawyer had already joined Pointless in the storeroom where, with many grunts and sighs, he commenced removing the boxes that sagged over “1930s–eight pagers, one handers.” 

“If it’s not too much to ask, do you think you might re-stack those boxes once you’ve finished?”

The two ignored him. Finally, Today’s Tom Sawyer lugged the box with the Depression-era porn comics across the floor, and he and Pointless began rooting through it, tossing books until they came to “Betty Boop, Ming the Merciless and the Strap-On Kid.”

“Sweet!” said Huck, whistling through his teeth. “Oh Betty, you naughty, dirty minx you…” He pressed the book to his lips. “And your tiny, tiny friend…”

“You going to buy that?” hissed Larry. “Fifty bucks. And I’m taking a loss here.”

Today’s Tom Sawyer suddenly rose from the floor, pulled Larry to his chest and began relentlessly sniffing him. “Huck has his pleasures,” said Tom. “I have mine. Oh yeah, that’s tha primo bio-snuff.”

“Get a good hit?”

“Muh dude…” Tom relinquished his death-grip on Larry, who fell to the floor, vitiated. He felt as though his life essence had been sucked like someone had taken an assembly of mechanized soda straws to his arteries…

“What the fuck did you just do to me?” He could barely articulate the question. The ceiling swam before his eyes. Betty Boop lowered her panties and he sniffed comic book pooner.

“Today’s Tom Sawyer, he gets high on you,” said Pointless. “Ok, I’ll take the book.” He pulled a wad of cash from his jeans pocket, placed it in Larry’s limp, twitching paws.

Pointless exited the store, whistling. Today’s Tom Sawyer slid to the floor beside him, a blissful grin blooming on his face. “Since I started doing bio-snuff, my sex drive has been commuted…” he said. “I cum internally.” And then…

“Listen, I’m really sorry about Pointless. Huck hasn’t been the same since he tried to light out for the territories and instead lit up some killer kush that turned out to be laced with angel dust or some shit…when he returned, he had this faraway look and all he could talk about was vintage comics featuring strap-ons worn by miniature folx…me, I’ve been a happy camper ever since I learned how to get hoi af on people…it’s better than sex, better than any fucking cock in the world, mate. Hey, you look a little green in the onions…don’t you worry though, you recharge fully. I’m not a vampire or nothing. At least…”

“It’s all good.” Thoroughly drained, Larry was long past caring. “You know what? You’re all right. Fuck yeah. Definitely all right.”

“Thanks! And here you are, my new friend…The Bangkok Gunfighter without Pointless Huck Finn. You want a hit off me now, man?”

“Why the fuck not…why fucking not?”

The Night is Friendly

Tommy Keys pulled the black knit sailor’s cap over his ears and eyebrows, checking himself in the mirror. Frigid glacier blue eyes stared stonily from above a neatly trimmed mustache. Lucy was in bed in a lacy bra and panties, painting her toenails with toilet paper stuck between each toe. Her chosen color matched her barely concealed cherry red nipples. Tommy checked her out and whistled, she was a well-constructed woman. Except when she got a case of the ass, then it was like pissing on a wasp’s nest.

“Did Joey get a hold of you?” she asked.

“Yea,” he replied, checking his toolkit. Tempered surgical steel lockpicks, shims, a prybar, alligator clipped wires, a miniature electronic circuit interrupter, minuscule listening devises, and all the gadgets of a master thief. Everything fit on his belt, that could be gotten rid at the touch of a quick release button.

From a black case, Tommy took out his nine-millimeter semi-automatic. He took it apart, cleaned and reassembled it, slipping it into a holster. He pushed the red button to safety, showing the cannon to Lucy.

“You never work with guns.”

“It’s for you, baby. Just in case something heavy goes down,” Tommy replied. “I’ve got some cash for you to take care of.” He slid open the bottom two drawers of his dresser. Hundred-dollar bundles filled both drawers to the top.

Tommy covered the pistol with a towel. “Just push the red button and start blasting. But only if you feel threatened. You are worth much more than any amount of money.”

“You’re scaring me Tommy. Where did you get all the money? Why are you talking crazy, about something maybe going wrong?”

“Remember that call from Joey?”

“Yes.”

“Well, we had this caper going down that went sweet then sour. You know I usually work alone, but I felt sorry for him. Joey, being almost family and all. He hasn’t been able to put anything together since doing that nickel in Folsom. Hell, Joey didn’t even get to enjoy the fruits of his labor. The cops were on him, like stink on shit.”

“Since when is the ex-old man of your wayward slut cousin, family? Besides anyone dumb enough to hijack a semi-truck of disposable diapers, with no one lined up to buy them, deserves jail. Just because all babies shit, does not mean, sales are immediate and guaranteed. Then he stops off at a café for a plate of spaghetti, with cops on his trail. Then he stiffs the waiter on the bill and tries to trade him diapers for his food and tip, as the cops surround him in the parking lot.”

“Anybody can have a run of bad luck. Babies deserve clean bottoms. What goes in, must come out.”

“So what’s happening now?” Lucy asked.

“Something I heard Apache Nick and some dudes at the snooker hall discussing. You know I usually go for jobs with finesse and I rely only on myself. I needed a partner on the job I heard about. Even Joey can handle this job and he’ll get a fat slice of the pie. There isn’t much risk, we had to steal a big sedan and a truck with a hydraulic lift gate and stash it until the gig. We mounted police scanners in both vehicles. Then we followed armored cars to get their routes and times, when they filled ATM machines. We figured twenty thousand in each.”

“The night of the job everything seemed quiet. I sat in a Buick at the edge of a parking lot, monitoring all the police frequencies. I give Joey the signal and he put the truck in reverse with the tailgate lowered to just above ground level. You should’ve seen it, it worked beautifully. Plate glass flying all over. The tailgate slices the ATM’s foor bolts and shears all the wires clean. Joey jumps from the truck cab, wearing a ski mask and gloves. He has the entire machine on the gate, raises it into the truck, latches the gate hook, and is driving out, all in forty-two seconds. Smoother than vanilla ice cream.”

“That’s when the shit hit the fan. Up drives Apache Nick with two cronies in a truck almost identical to ours and it has an ATM machine loaded in the back. It seems we grabbed the cheese right out of the rat’s mouth. I gunned the Buick and speared and bent their right front wheel out of commission. Apache pulls a hog leg and starts blasting. Shotgun pellets peppering the back of the sedan. Joey is long gone in the clear. Sirens are screaming big time, as I dodge bullets and cops and burn rubber out of there. I lost Joey. I headed to our garage hideout. I waited for a few hours, getting more worried by the minute. I finally decided to call you and blow town. Guess what happened?”

“You know I hate guessing games, Tommy.”

“Joey decided the frst caper went so easy and as long as he had the truck, he’d knock over a few more machines. Joey listened to the police radio, about the big bust of Apache Nick. He fgured most of the heat was on them.”

“Damn, it seems we underestimated Joey,” Lucy said.

“Yes, he could tell where the cops were and where they were not. Luckily it paid off big. I cracked open all fve ATM’s like Houdini with dime store handcuffs. Joey and I under calculated the payout on each machine. We scored almost eight hundred thousand.”

“Let’s take that vacation, we always talked about Tommy. Head south of the border, drink lots of tequila, and smoke sticky buds, and watch dudes dive off high cliffs into the ocean. Why are you wearing your work clothes? With a score that big, why tempt fate? Let’s go now, please.”

“Remember the saying, there’s no honor among thieves? It’s not true. I have to help Apache Nick and his crew with an early release. I might be the only thief to break in instead of out of jail. Get us all packed up, pretty woman.”

“As soon as my nails dry, my love.”

Tommy winked and said, “The night is friendly.” He opened the door and melted into the darkness.

***

From Double Scorpion Mezcalito

I am Your Back Door Man

“I have the most amazing restaurant for us.” Sheila bit her lower lip. I could barely understand her, my face buried deep in her lush pubic hair, my tongue seeking out her inner lips. I slid my gaze off her glistening wetness. Sheila’s dilated pupils stared back at me.

“Just that you’re eating … hmm … made me hungry.” She ran her fingers through my hair and pushed my face back into her pubes, crushing me against her softness. “Baby needs sustenance after she cums.” Her voice ragged now. “And baby needs to cum.”

“I do my best work on my knees.”

“You better.” She flinched as I flicked my tongue across her clit. “Damn. You better.”

No more talking. Not if I expected to enjoy the rest of the evening. Sheila could be quite the taskmaster if she was not pleased. She spread her thighs wider, allowing me to delve deeper into her hot cunt.

I slid my tongue deep into her wetness, my nose flush into her pubic hair. Her juices ran down my cheeks onto my neck. Pushing up for a second, I worked my index finger deep into her. The juices coating it, lubricating me. Finger fucking her deep deep, my middle finger joining the index to thrust further into her – my tongue still doing its best to please her clit as she thrashed her thighs back and forth.

Slowly, I rested my left hand under her soft intoxicating ass cheeks, massaging them as I continued to slide deep into her with my right, my knuckled ring finger and pinky slapping against her taint as I fingered her. She pushed up off the bed slightly, purchase, my left hand squeezing in, thumb pressing gently against her tight ass, slowly sliding into her hole, she gasping, moaning – hips thrusting towards me. I’m drowned in twat juice and the smell of her sex, the scrape of her pubic hair, the quickening pace of her pulse against my cheek, my fingers, my every fiber of being.

Bearing down with my tongue, her thighs splayed open, my tongue darted, flicked, Sheila’s hand tore into my hair, pulling it into knots, pushing my face forward. One hand loosened and scratched at my neck, pulling at the skin. I sink into her and lose myself entirely.

And she was cumming. All over my face. Drenching me. To die in her succulence.

It was a few minutes before I could raise the energy to roll up onto the bed. As I lay there, Sheila stroked my nipple. My eyes took in the beauty next to me. Where had she appeared from? Sheila reminded me of Hyapatia Lee, with her luxurious pubic hair and long straight black hair. Especially as she reclined on the bed, post-orgasm. “Baby needs sustenance. Yum Cimil. The new Cajun place over in Claremont. In the old village. By the college campus.”

I sighed as she pinched my nipple harder, ran her hand across my inner thigh. “Doesn’t sound Cajun. Salvadorean? Peruvian?”

“The chef took over from old ownership. They’re still rebranding. The original owners had been there simply forever.” She grabbed her phone from the nightstand and scrolled through their Instagram – hardwood floors, open ceiling, glittering bar, jazz combo, beignets, and an exquisitely shot gumbo. “If you’re good, I’ll give you a special treat at the end of the night.” She wrapped her fingers around my shaft and stroked.

Sheila knew me too well. I moaned. A few moments of her erotic machinations and she loosened her grip. I tried to concentrate.

“Didn’t I read about missing college kids in the area lately?” An ex had texted me about it last week. They were worried about going out. Maybe I could assuage their fears? I ghosted them.

“What’s the matter? Scared of a little rumor? It’s SoCal, nothing is safe. Nothing is real.” She laughed. “Maybe you’re scared of spicy Cajun on your delicate palate?” She bit the base of my neck. “Scared of more spicy me on your delicate dick?”

Sold.

Sheila was correct. Yum Cimil served a succulent whole fried catfish with an equally succulent etouffee. As succulent as Sheila.

And yes, as succulent as their staff. Luther, with a little bit of blue dye in his hair. Eyeliner. Paper skinny, barely filling out his uniform, white button down and a vest. When he brought waters to the table, my hand brushed his. I could see he was blushing, even behind his mask. Safety first. His eyes were black and melty.

I knew there was a smile hidden there.

And I felt myself bulging in my jeans. I realized the restrooms were near the kitchen. I timed a trip to when we would be circling out of the bustling kitchen with a tray of beignets and banana pudding. Such luxuriant cream.

As I went by, I whispered, “when you off?” and winked. He turned red again. 

“At closing, 10.” Fifteen minutes. 

As I slid back into my seat, Sheila gave my thigh a little squeeze “Do you like your special treat?” And she winked.

“Hmmm?”

“You think I found this place by luck? I know the new owner … and his staff. They’re very special. You’ve been a good boy. Baby likes to treat her good boys well.” She flicker her tongue into my ear. Her words penetrated my nipples. “And I believe Luther knows how to treat you well.” Her fingers dug into my thigh. She blew a kiss to Luther.

Sheila and I walked hand in hand out of Yum Cimil. Her nails dug into my palm, inflaming me. I could feel heat radiating from her body. The coiling taut sex in her. She tickled her tongue across her lips as we reached the corner. “You should go that way.” She pointed. “Enjoy. I’ll be waiting for you later.”

Yum Cimil took up the corner. I went down the side street and found the cook’s entrance in the back. I shivered, suddenly cool in the SoCal night.

And then, Luther slid out, no mask on, his lips as soft and full as I’d hoped. He smiled. I kissed him quickly, hard. His mouth opening, our tongues intertwining. I pulled him close. The taste of Sheila’s juices mingled with the waft of the blackened flesh of the catfish, and then the sweaty musk of Luther, such a sweet bouquet of sex and feast and … anticipation.

My bulge was bursting my jeans, tight on his thigh. 

He smiled.

“What do you want?”

Hmmm. What did I want? Sheila knew me too well.

Luther shoved me back into a doorway a bit off the back of Yum Cimil, in the dark. Just hidden enough, so no one passing on the street would see. He sunk to his knees. His hands undid my belt. My cock leaped out as soon as he unzipped it. I wasn’t wearing briefs, just cock. It slapped teasingly at his face. He leaned back and laughed, then took the head in between his soft soft lips. So good. I moaned as soon as his tongue encircled the head, licking at the soft spot on the bottom. I put my hand into his blue-tinged hair, stroking it as he began to bob up and down my shaft, taking more and more in, wetting the entire length. 

He took long slow strokes, prolonging my agony. The head barely in his mouth and then down down until his lips were touching my balls. Slowly up and down, up and down. My passion was burning. A few minutes, and I was so inflamed. I dug my fingers into his hair and started stroking faster into his mouth, my hand holding his head steady. Hmmm. His lips loosened. He moaned on my shaft as I thrust. Faster. Harder. Deeper. Lee fucking Majors. My balls slapping his chin.

He felt my passion before I did. His lips suddenly tightening, grasping my cock harder, so hard, so soft, so intense. I pulled back one more stroke … and came deep deep into his throat, spasm after spasm of cum. My knees buckled. I dug deeper into his hair as the last few shots splurted between into his lips…slipping my cock out into the cool night air. Finally leaning back against the door behind me…

Which gave way, yawning open behind me. I started to fall, grasping the frame for purchase. Luther pushed me, his hands into my hip bones, thrusting lewdly. Cum dripped from his lips… and blood, a whisper of blood where his incisor bit into his lip. The floor came fast up on me.

I pulled my jeans up as I struggled to my feet. The back kitchen was not a kitchen. Not really. My mind tried to take it all in. The space was cavernous, much much too big to be the tiny space I had glimpsed Luther come out of only a short time ago. It was a kitchen, perhaps. But more primal and more technologically advanced then should exist. It was though cave dwellers, those who rent their meat with canines and flint and open flame, had been thrust directly into a twenty-third century of laser knives and three-dimensional holograms of the innards of any and all manner of creature – so that though could grind all the juices out. Epicurean barbarism. Neolithic modernism. A cave, a cavern, dimly lit, darkened, and yet punctuated, lit large, by fluorescents and freons that bathed it all in a cold sharp glow. My mind couldn’t grasp it. Like someone flicking the light switch on and off, on and off, off and on – stupendous darkness and unbearable light. All of it populated with … with decadence. So light headed, I swooned.

A hand caught me. I turned, Luther was grinning at me. He licked his fingers sensuously, his eyes locked on mine. “What do you want?”

What did I want?

My eyes accustomed themselves to the vision in front of me. It focused into, not normalcy, but a kind of coherence. It made sense. No. it made no sense. But I could see. Luther led me by the arm. Further into the … kitchen? Operating theater? The alien non-Euclidian amphitheater? We stopped in front of a hulking smoking monstrosity.

It was a living breathing vision of the milking machine from A Boy and His Dog. I remembered being horrified and aroused by the film in the middle of the night, stumbling into it – the dark mechanical succubus pulling the sperm and cum out of Don Johnson. But this monstrosity, this mechanical not mechanical thing sucked at every orifice of the men and women attached to it – cocks, vulvas, assholes, lips, nostrils. Ears! My god, it was penetrating their ears.

“I knew you’d be perfect and ripe. Even before I tasted you.” Luther’s lips curled back, his tongue flailing out. I could see dancing shadows in the back of his throat, hissing like medusa’s tresses. I was getting hard again, despite my fear.

Luther laughed. “You see. You want it. You desire it. No one who tastes the kisses of Yum Cimil can resist.”

“What? What do you mean?” My breath, I could barely catch my breath. I was sweating profusely. Burning up. And throbbing. My brain wanted to run, run, run … but my hardon wanted to press itself deep into the silent pumping machine. To fuck the machine. The complete Yum Cimil.

“Don’t resist.” Luther drew closer. His tongue flickered out and licked my ear. “It’s better than any threesome you’ve ever been in..”

“How do you…?”

“I’ve tasted you. Before you even set foot in here. Yum Cimil has tasted you.” His hand found my belt again, unhooking it. My cock rising free into the cool air. Yum Cimil throbbed, a tentacled extension weaving its way towards me across the floor. I became aware at last of the rest of Yum Cimil’s domain. Not just the succubus, the incubus. No too, the skinning machine. Flayed bodies hanging on racks, what little fluids left to them draining out. The abattoir. The fluids rolling down the troughs into spigots just down the way. Just down the way. Luther smiled. Other waitstaff moved about, collecting heaping dishes to be served. Served where? Who were Yum Cimil’s nocturnal customers? The foods, the succulent foods. But what, what sweetmeats were they? The cock-like feeler slid onto my shoe, poking my jeans.

I stepped back, banging into one of the … one of the cooks. Shapeless, formless, human, not human, all part of the Yum Cimil. The probe slid between them, ignored. The creatures were committed to slicing away at the desiccated bodies on their counter. The catfish. The beautiful whole fried catfish, bubbling in oil – oil extracted from the bodies by Yum Cimil. And the dried slices, garnishing the dishes. The etouffee!

“This is what you wanted. This is your destiny.” Luther continued to whisper into my ear as he guided me to the glittering tentacle, lifted it, caressing it lovingly as he brought it towards me. “All you have ever wanted is the pleasures of the flesh.”

Yes. Sheila. Luther. Those moments of swipe right. Naked in the back of a car. In a hotel room with the curtains closed waiting my turn, stroking it, one more in line. With the husband tied up in the corner as I took his wife. With the wife tied up in the corner as I took her husband. That first time, in a movie theatre, not knowing who was watching. Knowing now, who had been watching, who had always been watching. Yum Cimil. It had always been watching. Always been waiting. Always wanting my pleasures.

I fell to my knees. I do my best work on my knees. Luther brought the tentacle close. It wrapped hard grasping around my cock. Into my cock. Another slid across the floor, cold deep penetrating my ass. I moaned. Another tentacle erupted off the floor through my lips at that moment. Crushing the sound.

Briefly, my eyes focused. Sheila stood there. She smiled, blood dripped from her lips, a whisper where her incisor bit into her lip. “I’m so glad I tasted you. Hmmm. Baby needs sustenance.”

And Yum Cimil devoured me.

It was glorious.