Johnny Boogles and the Gap-Toothed Bitch

Cath lay there frustrated, exasperated, her diddling fingers doing jack shit as her deformed clit played hardball more than ever. Next to her, rolled onto his side with his tiny, flaccid dick resting on his inner thigh, was her husband—or Noodle Dick, as she’d caught some of her co-workers referring to him—fast asleep, farting, snoring and drooling.  

“Okay for some,” she muttered, slamming her fists into the duvet on either side of her. “Noodle Dick.” Cath giggled, but then recalled the cock someone had drawn into her mouth on the photo at the front of her store. Bastards. If I do ever find out who did that . . .

She unclenched her fists and balled them again, scrunching up handfuls of bedclothes. 

“Kinda looks like a rocket ship with sparks, not a squirting prick,” one of her customers had commented, passing her by in the shop foyer, where the offending article stood on a plinth.

The large, crudely sketched appendage had the words HUBBY’S COCK etched up its veiny centre, along with the words—which someone else had clearly added, as the handwriting was different—NOODLE DICK. 

“Take it down!” Cath scolded the morning cleaner. “Now!” she added, stamping her heeled foot. Fucking twit, she thought, giving the staff member a death glare. Her face burned scarlet as she gazed at the added words again. Fuck’s sake. “Get rid. Immediately,” she snapped, clicking her fingers. 

Breathe, Cath thought, relaxing her hands, looking again at her husband of over ten years. Pathetic. A three-pump wonder. 

However, she knew she was being harsh on him, as no man could make her come thanks to her warped clit, which had looked much like a miniature cauliflower ear since birth. Hell, she could only get herself off every now and then, and that was only because she had found that being a total bitch and cunt to her staff, friends and family got her hot. 

Some days, when Cath was a mega-twat, she could orgasm without touching herself; memory alone was enough. On the days and nights she had the urge to stroke her clitty cat, or was struggling to orgasm with hubby, she would think of times she’d embarrassed people. Stepped on them. Talked to them like they were utter shit, knowing they couldn’t do anything. She held the power. She was their God. She could fire them at any time, for anything, and nobody could stop her.

So what’s wrong tonight? she wondered, unable to climax even after slating her husband’s naff performance, thinking his humiliation would serve her purpose. But nope, nothing. Not even a twinge. 

Cath had even conjured some of her favourite berating recollections while hubby had plugged away, such as the dozy baker who worked for her. “The weirdo with a beardo,” she whispered, smiling. One day the big bastard had thought he could cow her down with his size and aggression, but she had soon put that puppy in its place, breaking him in two by wielding her power axe and threatening his job. Since that tussle, the baker bowed to her. Kept his nose clean. 

It’s beautiful, having such a beastly specimen under my power, she thought, thinking that would spark a bolt of pleasure through her pussy. But no, nothing. 

Cath lifted her head off her pillow to stare past her flabby pouch of a belly. “You little bald bastard. Why won’t you work for Mammy?”

Her FUPA flopped back into view and her face twisted into something ugly. She could feel it’s grotesqueness, knowing then that most of her colleagues had seen how obnoxious and horrid she was.

“Watch out, the gap-toothed bitch is coming,” she’d heard someone say once. 

“Seen her teeth? Could park a bike between them!” another had said. 

“A regular werebeaver,” a third mocked. 

“Tits like limes,” a fourth teased. “Itty-bitty, with a zingy-zangy taste.”

The past laughter of her staff echoed in her ears. 

Fuckwits. They’ll all pay soon enough, one at a time. They’re just fucking numbers. 

Well, not all of them. There was Motormouth Miguel, who shit-stirred, caused trouble, spread lies and triggered fear and panic among the ranks. A rat. A danger. MM would spy and go running to Cath with any scrap of news or gossip he could find. My pet, she thought.

Then there was her other general, that faggotty, long streak of piss and rent boy, Tomasino. He was a special case, and once she’d gone through his phone and found photos of him wearing women’s underwear and sticking various objects, like knitting needles, down his urethra, he quicklyforgot about his ambition to replace her as store manager. Watching him quiver and hearing him stutter in her presence set her little cauli-clit to tingling on many an occasion.   

All these thoughts and images had rekindled her sex life over the past few years. But for the past fortnight or so, nothing, no matter how much she tried.

I’ll have to start being extra cunty on Monday, she thought, grinning. But it didn’t look like she was getting any satisfaction tonight.

She turned off the bedside lamp and settled down in the darkness, thinking about the odd, annoying occurrences from the past week. It had started with her coffee tasting slightly bitter and off from Monday, then the weird phone calls at all hours began, and she had got the shits after eating gone-off doughnuts from work, and finally her car had refused to start. Maybe that was why she was having problems coming? Stress?

Karma, a voice at the back of her mind suggested. 

Nah, that bitch knows better than to fuck with me! 

Cath’s mobile vibrated on the nightstand beside the bed and she jumped. A groan stuck in her throat. Not again, she thought, snatching up her phone and answering the call. “Yes?!”

“How about another dad joke?” the caller asked, laughing idiotically. “Or, why don’t I tell you why you were really sick after eating those doughnuts?”

Cath froze. The hair on her arms and at the back of her neck stood on end. Is this freak watching me? Cameras? Phone tap? “Who the fuck are you?”

“I squirted extra special cream into those doughnuts for you. Pew-pew-pew!,” he said, giggling. “You got my ickle, pearly white swimmers slithering around inside your guts, child. Hee-hee-hee!” 

Cath’s stomach flipped. “Is this Greg?” she blurted, thinking maybe it was a role-playing thing, and maybe this would be the catalyst to her finally achieving an orgasm.

“No, it’s not your hairy baker, who thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks.”

Cath sat bolt upright. “Then who are you, you little twat?!”

“Been struggling to come this week? Ha-ha-ha! That’ll teach you, being such a venomous cunt,” he said. “And to think, it was working out so well for you. Had you not pushed your cuntish ways so much the last couple of weeks, I, Johnny Boogles, would not be . . . haunting you.”

“Haunting?”

“Yes. You see, I’m the Cunt Demon, and, when someone has been too much of a cunt to innocent people, then I’m brought in.”

“For what? I’ll call the police!”

Johnny scoffed. “Best of luck with that one. And in answer to your question, well, that’s a simple one. I was brought in to annoy the living shit out of you, for all eternity. To out-cunt the cunt.”

He’s a fucking nutter!“I’ll have you arrested, and I also know people who will—” 

“Who will what, Catherine? Do me over? Scare me off? Again, good luck with that, as I’m a demon. I’m not of flesh and blood, you dumb cu—” 

Cath ended the call. She worked to control her breathing, then muttered, “Fucking fre—”

“You can cancel my calls,” the caller’s voice boomed, “or hang up on me, or not answer at all, but I will always be with you. Forever. Until the sun burns out.”

Cath screamed, her knickers dampening, a dribble of piss trickling down her leg. 

From the darkness came the thing of nightmares, stepping into a shaft of moonbeam that speared through the window and slightly parted curtains. 

A breath hitched in her throat. She pulled back, sinking into her pillows, pulling the duvet up to her chin. “W-what are you?”

“I’m Johnny Boogles, the thing that pissed in your morning coffee every day last week, who squirted hot jizz into your doughnuts, and who’s been constantly ringing you with prank calls and crap dad jokes.”

“You did something to my car too?”

Johnny smiled. “Yes. Sugar does awful things to an engine.” 

Cath looked at the black, floating thing hovering above the foot of her bed. Its body, cloaked in raggedy black clothes that flapped wild as though a tremendous wind howled through the room, looked squashed. Crushed. Ribs jutted out here and there, along with squished organs and flat hands and feet. Johnny’s face and head resembled a mangled pumpkin, his brains oozing out of a smashed skull. 

“Pretty, aren’t I? My beauty is the result of being an absolute tool. It got me killed, in the end, and the gods thought this image befitting of me in the afterlife as I come to do Karma’s work. She’s the real bitch, you know. You’ve got nothin’ on her.”

Cath’s stomach cramped, her eyes lowering to Johnny’s horse-sized cock, which hung from out of a hole in his shredded trousers. It was warty and oozing pus. 

“Oh my fucking God,” she said, turning her head and throwing up on her husband. He didn’t stir. When she was done heaving, she wiped warm bile and chunks from her lips, scowling at him. “How can you sleep though this, you dickhead?”

“Because he’s dead,” Johnny said. 

“Dead?” She turned to look at Johnny, his pendulous dick setting her off again.

“Yep. Karma sent me for him too.” Johnny licked his lips and grinned. “I know you like to dish it out, but I hope you can take it too. Because you’re in for a world of hurt, you gap-toothed bitch,” he said, cackling.

To Reference That Joy Division Song Again

I keep my curtains drawn, lights low, paranoia level high. Those fucking nosy neighbors called the cops on me while I was washing the dishes with the kitchen window open, not yet owning drapes or blinds. They told the cops they saw me break out a “butcher knife” and actually carve my arms into bloody ribbons while giving them “death grins” and other weirdo shit that the cops agreed, after arriving to check things out, seemed ludicrous. I mean, I was wearing a perfectly clean white button-down, home from work. If I’d been using “a butcher knife to carve my arms into bloody ribbons,” like my drugged-out neighbors asserted, my perfect white shirt would look kind of different, you know? Maybe with some reddish stains, maybe actively dripping (or worse) blood staining it or literally soaking through the cloth, confirming their indictment of me rather than showing the cops they were weirdo troublemakers. Obviously.

Except.

Except the cops never asked to look at my actual arms, torso or anywhere else, nor to roll up my sleeves or disrobe so they could ascertain for themselves the truth of what seemed obvious – clean white shirt, no blood, no harm, no foul, right?

Except things were momentarily interesting when the younger cop saw a raised white scar on my left hand and asked about it. We all laughed when I admitted that I’d done some stupid things in college and this had been one of them, that when going through Hell Week near the end of pledging my fraternity, I’d drunkenly lost a stupid dare/bet and was forced to endure two seniors carving the fraternity’s Greek letter symbols into my hand with a knife. Hurt like hell and no one had thought I’d basically be branded for life, but there you are – crazy, officers, right? 

Right.

Though if you actually looked hard at that scar, it’d be tough to make out which Greek letters, which fraternity. Some might look and conclude it was more likely the work of Freddy Kreuger, not drunk frat boys eager to score points. Honestly, I sure couldn’t guess what could be seen in that scar. It was an angry mish mash of cuts, slices and etchings amounting to chaos theory, not really what the power of suggestion would lead others to believe they saw. What and which realities are ever right anyway? I doubt anyone really knows.

I wanted to be left alone and finally was. First, one clueless cop admitted he’d always wondered what kind of weird shit those frat kids did. Laughed when I replied, “Obviously not just those drunken orgies you always see in the movies.

I was glad to see them go when they did because I was kind of surprised and relieved they hadn’t asked me to remove my shirt. If I had, I’d have a whole lot of explaining to do about all of the scars decorating my body – my arms, chest, inner thighs. The tic tac toe game carved into my chest over time with many beautiful tools, most especially my Cold Steel 15” serrated tanto I loved so much, nor the bloody serrated loving courtesy my Benchmade, SOG, Gerber, K-BAR, Kershaw and other beloved blades in my collection.

Yes, hard to explain but harder still, I imagine, the arms wrapped into rapidly dampening rust-colored Ace bandages, and I noticed, with some leakage that would be hard to explain. I mean, WTH, right?

As I ripped the bandages from my arms, you could see scars, scabs, open red and soaking wet cuts oozing blood, leaking blood, in a new development, even gushing blood, but it was the scars, those precious scars that were key to my identity, my very existence, that weren’t tats, weren’t Greek letters, weren’t pentagrams, but just like me, WEREN’T SHIT AND NEVER WERE SUPPOSED TO BE, because chaos theory can rule the mind and body just as legitimately as it seeks to explain other concepts more theoretical than the very real and tangible, if in a micro way, my personal needs, fears, beliefs, coping skills.

I mean no one would believe this shit, right? Who ever heard of a middle-aged man who cuts because foreplay sucks in comparison and he’s addicted to creating and maintaining scars of beauty and significance on his most loved and hated canvas?

Would never happen, right? I mean they’d lock anyone like that up, call him Hannibal or something like that because we’re not dealing with geniuses here, or creatives or artists. Pencil pushing, braindead cogs in the machine who pack heat, who will kill in a heartbeat but would call ME the sick one. My scars bear out my philosophy and my loves and fears. The other peoples’ lack of visible scars doesn’t hide their internal cancerous decay nor their fear of anyone not like them.

I call bullshit on them!

I like it better alone.

I always preferred Dessau’s cover of Joy Division’s “Isolation” to the original. Its industrial aggression that comes screaming out at you more accurately reflects my sense of personal isolation and my feelings than Ian Curtis’s distinctive voice sharing those same lyrics, but for me, the band’s near-synth pop sound that tries to drearily bounce along with the listener in an existential despair really undercuts the rage and bitterness I feel that few are more qualified to express on my behalf than Ministry’s Al Jourgensen, who apparently and fittingly produced the Dessau version. 

Maybe it’s really this simple. Joy Division’s version stood for a very real suicidal ideation as we would all find out. But Dessau’s “Isolation” could be just scar tissue layered on more scar tissue yet though the flesh decays and body weakens, the only suicide to be found is more likely invented by some pervy author seeking a harmony between control and chaos they’ll never attain – but it won’t kill them, their characters or the readers either. Just more scarring in a world of art for art’s sake. And maybe that’s good enough.

Something Wet This Way Cums

The peddler always sold lightning rods on Mondays. He waited till Tuesdays to sell books. Yet, here he was with a big trunk full of them. The curator didn’t appreciate the break in the routine. 

“You know the rules of The New Ways. No hats indoors,” the curator reminded him as she sat behind her desk.

“My apologies.” He grinned and doffed his porkpie hat. He was sweating. Ill-at-ease. A little too eager to get to business. 

“So, what do you have for the Museum of The Old Ways today?” the curator asked.

“Books,” the peddler said. 

“But today is Monday,” the curator said. “Why the deviation from our standard schedule?”

“Well… They’re… um… They’re different than my usual inventory, and I knew you’d want to see them right away,” the peddler said.

“Well. No need to stand on formality then. Show me,” the curator said.

Still unnerved, the peddler opened his large case and set a paperback book on the desk before her. 

All Horny on the Western Front, the cover read. 

Now, the curator didn’t read the books of The Old Ways, but she was familiar with their titles, and there was something off about this one. 

“I have more. Lots more,” the peddler said and spread three additional books across the desk.

The curator read the titles carefully, critically. From left to right, they were Frankenshaft, The Catcher and The Pitcher in the Rye, and Dr. Jackoff and Missus Thighs. 

“What… um… What exactly are you trying to peddle here, book peddler?” the curator asked.

“Well, you see, the publisher had a vandal in their employ. And, this vandal, he was able to… um… alter some of the covers before they went to print,” the peddler said. “But, as the curator of the Museum of The Old Ways, you are obligated to accept many things that no longer reflect the values of our New Ways. After all, book banning is poor form and altogether a social faux pas.” 

“We ban nothing from the Museum of The Old Ways,” the curator said. “But we do curate what is in our collection. And these…”

“I have others,” the peddler said. 

On top of the growing pile, he added Brave New Whore, One Spunked Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and Naked Lunch. 

“This one,” he tapped on the cover of the last book, “is actually unaltered. I guess the vandal couldn’t figure out how to make this one any more lurid than it already is.” 

“Or, rest assured, peddler. We are quite aware of that book,” the curator said. “And inside the covers?”

“Unaltered. The words are just as they were originally published. This one here?” He pointed at a copy of Moby Thicc. “It’s Moby Dick. Word for word, just as Melville wrote it.” 

“And, dare I ask, Little Philipino Ladyboys?”

“Little Women,” the peddler answered. “Some of these are pretty obvious. Wurthing Dikes is actually Wurthing Heights. The Lion The Bitch and The Dominatrix is, of course, The Lion The Witch and The Wardrobe…”

 “And you want me to purchase these for the museum?” the curator said.

“Well, see, the publisher is struggling financially, reading not really en vogue at the moment, and well, if I can’t move these books…”

“The financial well-being of a publisher incapable of controlling their employees is no business of mine, peddler,” the curator said.

“Don’t say no. Not yet. I haven’t even shown you Missionary on the Orient Express. The cover art, I have to say, is done very tastefully,” the peddler said. “And here’s A Tale of Two Titties. You can hardly notice the difference.”

“And I suppose you’d have me pass Weiner-in-the-Pooh as the classic children’s storybook?”

“Never mind that one. It’s a picture book, and well, this vandal was a bit of an artist,” the peddler said. “And Charlie in the Scat Factory. And Incest Family Robinson.”

“Sir. The Museum of The Old Ways will not be purchasing any of these books,” the curator said firmly.

“My good lady. I didn’t want to bring you these titles,” the peddler said. “I know the high standards by which we hold ourselves in The New Ways. I know this is unbecoming of both me as a book dealer–”

“Peddler,” the curator corrected.

“–and you as a curator. But some of these books, the unaltered content is just as vile as these titles. You already have The Left Hand of Darkness on display. Is it such a breach of decorum to shelve The Left Handjob of Darkness next to it?”

“Peddler. Just because we have books on our shelves does not mean individuals should pick them up and read them,” the curator said. 

“Atlas Subbed then? The original work is–”

“Sir. This entire conversation is wholly absurd. Do you have any excuse for this behavior? Has someone put you up to this?”

“Actually, if I may be truthful…” The peddler leaned over the array of vulgar titles spread across the desk and whispered, “There are entities watching this very interaction. They’ve always been watching. Since the dawn of human existence, they’ve been watching. And yes, they sent me here, with these books, in hopes of getting them into circulation.”

“So the vandal–”

“I lied. There is no vandal. These books didn’t come from my usual publisher,” the peddler said.

“And these Watchers…?”

“They’ve grown bored with us as of late,” the peddler said. “The New Ways don’t satisfy their rather decadent tastes, and this is their way of injecting some of The Old Ways back into our modern, more civil society.”

“Well, you can understand my objections. I will have no part in soiling our New Ways with this… with this smut,” the curator said.

“Just one? If I walk out of this museum having not moved a single copy–”

“Your dealings with these Watchers is not my business,” the curator said. “How you got involved with such people–”

“They are not people. And believe me when I tell you that I leave here with all of these books, they will liquify me into a puddle the moment I step back into the daylight,” the peddler said.

The curator searched his eyes for signs of deceit, of tomfoolery, of a misplaced sense of humor. She found none. Nevertheless, “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. There is simply no place for Lord of the Cock Rings or To Cuck a Mockingbird or The Money Shot of Dorian Gray in our collection. And now, sir, I will have to ask you to leave.”

“Please. Just one. I’m telling you, if I leave here with all these books, a laser beam will come down from the sky and melt me into goo before I can cross the parking lot. Just… Just…” 

He shuffled through the mound of books, searching for perhaps the least objectionable of them all. His hands came up clasping a copy of Fahrenheit 469.

“Please,” he begged.

“If I take that book from you, will you leave? And take the rest of this filth with you?” 

“I doubt one book will be enough to appease them,” the peddler said.

“One book is already far too many by my count,” the curator said. “But if it will make you go away.”

***

For the rest of the day, the curator did her best to forget all about the exchange. And she was fairly successful. It wasn’t until the end of the workday that she returned to her office and saw the copy of Fahrenheit 469 resting on her desk. As she gathered her things, she picked up the book, determined to bring it home and throw it in the incinerator. 

On her way out, she cracked the cover. The first line intrigued her, so she read the next. By the time she pushed through the front doors of The Museum of The Old Ways and stepped into the sunlight, she was so engrossed, she almost slipped and fell on a wet spot. Luckily, she caught her balance. 

Unbecoming, being so distracted, she decided. The curator tucked the book away for further examination and study after she got home.