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SHAME HAS LONG LEGS
Hertzan Chimera interviews John for Terror Tales
The Meat strolled down the boulevard. She was the embodiment of Protean destiny. Her swaying hips left an inky trail of lust that could only be recognized by those of Experience: the dread purveyors of morphological depravity, lurkers in the world of black market anatomical fetishism. Android hunters.
Generals on the battlefield of Arse Mastery.
Spotted her then, have you?
Yes. Lawson’s convulsive patch of scalp was signal enough for Chimera. Across the grime and smoke and corpse-infested thoroughfare from each other they donned the hands that etiquette demanded of them. Dancing at the end of their arms the leather tendrils sniffed lecherously at the air.
The meat stole a quick glance behind her. The green flash of her eyes in the darkness of midday smog hour revealed her luminous overconfidence, the sick bastard hubris swelling in her belly. The mating game was on.
Chimera lapped up the ink of lust straight from the air the Meat had walked through. By that time it had mingled with the chemical tumors infesting the air. Tasty. He would save it for private cancer sessions at a later date. Fuck the wedding ritual when you could just cut straight to the masochism of chemobondagetherapy on your own. Lawson, for his part, eviscerated the fumes emanating from between her legs. For those of Experience the scent was more potent than a kilo of rubella, melting away all other physical concerns.
I’m gonna slap me that arse.
Get up in there my son!
Lawson began to lose control. Those leather tendrils he’d donned ensnared a passer by, consuming them in the process. Enough of that and they’d have the Consulate coming after their hides.
Forced to abandon his inky feast Chimera initiated the sequence. Within the blink of an eye the arse-hunting duo were transported to the Den of Iniquity along with the Meat. The arses of days past swung from the honeycombed ceiling of the spankitorium, were riveted to the walls. The structure was composed of petrified bodily secretions, a fact which did not perturb the Meat in the least.
She is different, isn’t she?
Stow that shite, Lawson. We’re here to commit grand spankery. Stick to business.
The Meat backed away from them, pressing herself against the far wall. Her smirk told them everything. Others had sought after those two robust mounds of gluteus maximus. Others had sought a glimpse of perfection only to have their eyes burned from their skulls in a holocaust of ecstasy.
CHIMERA: I think this may be an easy kill, eh Lawson old buddy?
LAWSON: They’re all easy kills. Maybe I shouldn’t. Not with the horrors I’ve seen. Should one atrocity really be piled on top of another? I remember the pyres, the censorious living dead. You think it was easy for me, do you? Excommunicated from my extended family, living in broken-down tenements, disease festering in my parents and striking down my siblings? Sound like a fine holiday to you? And what comforts were to be had in the peers who hounded me mercilessly? I was different…physically marked…damn their eyes…thinking about this could derail my entire creative process, destroy me as a writer. But I’ll never return to the wretched poverty of my youth! Perhaps I’m cursed to recreate the misery again and again until the end of my days.
CHIMERA: You want this, don’t you? The hate is swelling in you now. Take your weapon. Use it. She is unarmed. Strike her down. Give in to your anger. With each passing moment, you make yourself more my servant.
The meat watches Lawson in his agony, waiting for him to pounce. Prepared to defend her life.
LAWSON: (sensing something strange in the meat) No!
CHIMERA: It is unavoidable. It is your destiny. You, like your followers, are now mine! The hate is so strong in you, strike her down. And we will become even stronger.
LAWSON: (groping bulge of swelling hate) Stronger? Stronger than the festering rage bred by oppression, the wage-slave acids still burning within?! I already have plenty of retribution to dole out, my friend. I used to think there was such a thing as hitting bottom, but there is no physical boundary to the mind–to the pits of depravity it can be cast into. Every barrier I crash through is another springboard to propel me further into the halls of literary infamy. If I keep pushing myself onward, even if it’s a downward spiral, maybe I can outrun my past…
CHIMERA: There is no escape, my young apprentice. Do it now, or our Alliance will die…as will your fanbase.
Lawson’s eyes are full of rage. The meat watches him waiting to pounce. Her claws retract and unsheath in pervert sinusiodals.
CHIMERA: Good. I can feel your anger. She is defenseless. Take out your weapon! Strike her down with all your hatred, and your journey towards literary infamy will be complete.
LAWSON: (can delay no longer, makes a move for the arse of unearthly delights, the sweat visible on his upper lip) For all the fans I share my rage…..for every ankle-biting word butcher in this elaborate suicide known as publishing! I make this arse offering to the Brotherhood of the Rat!
CHIMERA: Oh, I forget to tell you, her name is Infamy.
Infamy takes hold of the throat of John Lawson and tears it out with its teeth. Blood spills down his sun-starved hairless chest and she pulls off shirt buttons following the flow to his groin where a black spillage hides his past. With one quick flick of her fingertips, John Lawson’s history unzips. Infamy licks her lips. Though Lawson’s ripped throat can’t tell his tale, his cock leaps out like the great orator, spilling his rhyme and reason, his literary guiding light, his raison d’etre.
LAWSON: (the one-eye opens and closes and milky words spill out) I grew up in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area. I was tall, always–before I learned how to talk children years older attacked me because they thought I was being snobby or something. When I was swabbing pus from the giant incision in my mother’s side, I didn’t question whether normal kids had to do that sort of thing. Growing up I was painfully optimistic about everything. How repulsive. I was the picture of repression, a total introvert who grew more terrified of human contact the older I got. Once, I went so far as to throw myself down a flight of metal stairs just to avoid giving an oral report. Surface was everything; the need for external validation was a cruel taskmaster, and I its plaything.
Infamy goes down on Lawson and he lies back, pissing down her ungrateful throat. She gags at first but soon is gulping back gallons of his golden inspiration. She can’t get enough of it and her thin white belly is filling up like a camel’s hump. The skin stretching to bursting point.
CHIMERA: But you became a writer. Lawson, use that one-eye to scour my brain like a cheese grater – regale me with tales of your literary output over the years and I shall forever be your biggest suckboy.
LAWSON: Then open wide: this cheese grater is rusty but sharp. Of my six hundred completed works two hundred have been published over the years. My most substantial works–the screenplays and novellas–drew some interest but ultimately went nowhere. Still, I’ve got four e-books and two chapbooks under my belt. My appearance in the massive hardcover anthology Cemetery Poets: Graves Offerings is certainly the highest profile release my work has received. I’ve managed to infect another fourteen anthologies, so hopefully my syllable syphilis will spread the Lawson name far and wide. I can admit it now, I’m no longer afraid! That’s what I live for–the fear in readers’ eyes when the see my name on the table of contents, the smell radiating from editors’ armpits when they receive my work. If I’m not the Jim Jones of the literary world in ten years I’ll kill myself and take the Lawsonian apostles with me. Right now I’ve mostly sullied webzines of horror, absurdism, erotica, and poetry, but the militants running loose in the my muse’s panties are ready to raid the towers of every literary institution, every genre. Fuck modesty–I’ll not wear a fig leaf over the cock of my creations!
Chimera tires of the foreplay and demands that Infamy eat out Lawson’s heart. She dives in, her stupidly calloused fists clawing great gulps of manmeat out of the soon to be legendary literary genius. Chimera stands back. Watching the slaughter. A soft shine in his eyes. Then a grin. Then he swan dives into the slaughter help lick up da mess!
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