X S E X


SEX AND SPLATTERPUNK by Gregory Purvis
September 2, 2009, 8:41 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Okay, okay! This ain’t exactly the type of stuff XSEX was created for…is it? Uhm, well…yes. After listening to a few horror stories a gay friend shared with me, I decided to write him his very own sexual revenge piece. And what better genre to do this in than splatterpunk? David Schow, eat your heart out.

Death By Crowbar

 

By Gregory Purvis

© 2009

                                                                                      “..And in the master’s chambers,

They gathered for the feast

They stab it with their steely knives,

But they just can’t kill the beast..”

The Eagles (“Hotel California”)

 

QUEER

(Etymology)

From Scottish, perhaps from Low German queer “oblique, off-center”

related to German quer = “oblique, perverse, odd”, from Old High German twerh = “oblique,”

Adjective  (somewhat old-fashioned) weird, odd or different.

(somewhat old-fashioned) slightly unwell (mainly in to feel queer).

(slang) homosexual.

(slang) having to do with homosexuality, bisexuality, transgenderism etc.

Synonyms: See also those of strange.

 

 

Is that his b-bray–?”

“His fuckin faggot brains? Yeah. What’d you think was inside his skull? Pink butterflies and Barbie dust? Jeesh—yer as bad as the fag!”

Somebody laughed, high-pitched, a little too loud.

            There were four of them: Jayson, Pauley, Maggot and Wrex. Wrex had gotten his name from his daddy—Big Rex—who was buried under a cactus somewhere south of Vegas. Uncle Jerry said it was because he hadn’t bothered to pay back money he borrowed to square his losses as a piece-of-shit gambling junky. Jerry and Big Rex had run wreckers for the highway patrol before Rex wound up under his cactus. Uncle Jerry looked after his brother’s son, and he’d started calling his nephew ‘Rex the Wreck’ after he totaled his fourth car before he turned 17. The tally was two blown engines (one with a tits-up tranny to boot), and two more (both of them Z-28’s) that he had smashed into unmovable junk while shitfaced. So Uncle Jerry, wise old bastard that he was, had hired his nephew to drive one of his wreckers—a big ’56 International mated with the ass-end of a blown-out tow truck.

            The fag’s name was Randy James Prestwood. Maggot pulled his wallet out of his jeans, pocketed the two twenties and four one’s he found inside, and read the name off the Missouri driver’s license.

            “Prestwood?” Pauley asked, giggling like a sixth-grader over a fart joke. “He likes to press a lotta wood, I bet!”

            “Sucks a lot of long wooden cocks, too!” Maggot added.

            “Not no more, he don’t,” Wrex reminded them. “Now get the shovels and let’s scrape this dick-smoker off the road.”

            The tow truck was stopped in the middle of a two-lane black-top, with the brights illuminating the empty, flat stretch of highway ahead. A pair of halogen work lights mounted on a crossbar welded to the back of the cab were on as well: blinding bright light bathing the carnage in front of a Lexus sedan. Its brakes had stopped the car barely a foot from the back of the tow-truck. The fag hadn’t even thought about what had just happened and why—he’d been pissed and scared, and he couldn’t see with the halogens filling up his windshield. He had jumped out of the Lexus, left the keys in the ignition, and was halfway to the tow truck when the four of them had come piling out, drunk and grinning.

            “What the fuh—? I almost hit you guys!”

            “Hit? You hittin on me?” Pauley asked him, pretending to be shocked. “Look, sweet cheeks, I just ain’t that into you. But he is…” he jerked a thumb at the tow truck driver. Wrex smiled, decaying teeth stained with Copenhagen. He was wearing a motorcycle jacket, and one of the arms seemed stiff, like he had something hidden up the sleeve.

            Whatever it was, it slid out of the jacket like a magic trick, dropping suddenly into his hand.            A crowbar.

           

            Maybe Randy James Prestwood had recognized them—one of them, at least. He had hit on the short, blonde kid…Jayson? Well, sort of. He had been in the bathroom at Ruby’s the night before, slumped against a urinal. When Randy had come in, the kid had stirred, pulled himself upright. He had set his Budweiser down on top of the urinal, and tried to grab it, missed; the bottle dropped, bounced off the front of the urinal, splashing piss onto his Levi’s, then hit the tiled floor and shattered.

            Randy shrugged. No problem.  “I think maybe you’re a little bit tipsy,” he said, smiling. “But you’re kinda cute, so I guess its okay. What’s your name?”

            The kid seemed confused, like he wasn’t sure what to say. He looked around, nervously.

            “Uhm..Jayson.”

            He’s straight, and wondering who might’ve heard me call him cute, Randy realized. And he’s not here because he’s wondering how straight he is, either. Ruby’s was a gay bar—but not exclusively. The kid looked down at his broken beer bottle, hemorrhaging foam. He mumbled something, then pushed past Randy and out of the bathroom.

            Ruby’s dance floor was huge; it was surrounded by mirrors and speakers, and it always seemed dark, even when bathed on all sides by lasers and disco lights. Randy didn’t see the kid the rest of the night. He seldom drank, so he never noticed the four guys sitting at the bar staring at him. They all had beers, and dark, bright eyes. Bird eyes.

Crow-eyes.

 

— —

 

            Randy was on the ground before he knew he’d been hit.

There were four men standing over him. The big guy in the leather jacket was saying something, but the only sound Randy heard was a slow hiss like gas leaking from a ruptured hose. He tried to move his arm, and pain shot up into his shoulder. He screamed, but the noise echoed around in his head soundlessly for a moment before he could hear more-or-less clearly, again.

            “Hi there, faggot!” one of the men said cheerfully. He was a skinny guy about 35, holding a beer. He wore a t-shirt showing a clown in a Shriner’s fez with both middle fingers stuck out. “You call triple-A?  Car problems, huh? Maybe we’ll just tow you, instead of your pretty car. How’d that be, fruit loop?”

            “Let’s drag him like that nigger in Miss’sipee,” suggested another. “Use the tow chain…”

            “No, we ain’t doin that shit,” said the big guy. “Uncle Jerry would kick my ass, and he’d prolly just kill all you assholes.”

            Randy could see the kid from Ruby’s hanging back, close to the tow truck. He wouldn’t meet Randy’s eyes. No help there.

The skinny guy with the clown shirt saw him looking.

            “Damn, you fags’re persistent, ain’tcha? Jayson don’t want you to suck his dick. Well…at least, I don’t think he does. Do ya, J?”

            “Shut up, Maggot,” the kid muttered. 

            Maggot grinned. “Now, Pauley here, he ain’t got much of a pecker to speak of. But, hell, don’t let me get in the way of a queer and his lunch. Suck away.”

            The man he called Pauley was short and squat, with a pushed-in face and a nose that looked like it had been broken repeatedly so it would lay flat against his cheeks. His hair was long and stringy, gathered into a ponytail with a rubber band.

            “I bet you’d like to eat this,” he giggled, grabbing his crotch.

            Randy tried to smile. “Eat what, sweetie? I don’t see anything.”

            Pauley’s face darkened, the red splotches made his nose seem swollen, infected. He unzipped his Wranglers, faded almost yellow, pulled his cock out and shook it wildly. It was flaccid, a pathetic little thing as bruised-red as his nose. Maggot laughed, pointed.

            Randy’s half-smile widened, pulling his lips tight against teeth that seemed overly-large and too-perfectly square. Pauley took a step backwards, but shook his penis again. He smiled, a little uncertainly, then spit into his hand and tried to jerk himself hard.

Maggot laughed harder, choking on his beer, coughing.

            “Paah—aaul…,“ he gasped. “P-pauley’s Puny Pansy Poker!”

            Randy held up a thumb. “I’m just not that into you, sweetie,” he said. “I like ‘em at least as long as my thumb.”

            He could feel someone behind him. He shrugged, gave them another strange, wide grin, his over-large teeth glistening.

            The crowbar came down like a collapsing building. This time it landed on his head.

                                   

— — —

 

            They scraped up a shovelful of brain tissue and splinters of bone and tossed it into the tall switch grass beside the road. Maggot looked through the rest of the fag’s pockets while Jayson and Pauley went through the Lexus. When they were done, they had a fifty-dollar bill that had been in an envelope over the driver’s side visor, three dollars in quarters, an MP3 player, cell phone, box of Lucky Strikes and a few CD’s. Wrex picked up the car with the tow winch and drug it off the road, over a culvert and into the underbrush. Then the four of them dragged the queer a hundred yards further into some pine trees. Jayson turned away and vomited into the grass. Wrex shook his head in disgust.

            “Get the push-broom,” he told Maggot. “And don’t leave no pieces, neither. I don’t wanna be the star episode of fuckin Forensics Files.”

            Wrex pointed to Pauley, then Jayson. “When you two fucks get done leaving yer DNA all over the place, go help Maggot. I’m gonna siphon some gas outta that Lexus and we’re gonna have us a little barbecue.”

            Jayson spit out the sour taste of vomit. He wished—and not for the first time—that he hadn’t said anything about the come-on in the restroom the night before. He turned back toward the body, and saw what Pauley was doing.

He was knelt down over the corpse, his pants unzipped. He had the crowbar Wrex had beat the gay guy with leaned against him; his other hand was busy between his legs.

            “What the f-fuck are you doing, Pauley?” he spat. He could see the clots of blood and brain on the steel bar. Pauley was stroking it, his hands dark and wet in the moonlight. When he heard his name he turned, distracted. Pauley mumbled something, turned back.

            “What are you doing, you sick fucker,” Jayson demanded, louder this time.

            Without turning his head, Pauley answered: “Yeah, you fag…you gonna see how much I got now.” His voice was low-pitched, tight. “I’ll fuck your brains out, you little fairy. Look at me! Look at…at all this…the blood.”

            Jayson felt like puking again, but there was nothing left to come up.

            In the distance he heard someone call out…Wrex coming with the gas.

            Pauley jerked at his crotch one more time, and whimpered. He dropped the crowbar next to the body. A slight breeze blew through the tall scrub and skeletal pine trees, and the moon fell more fully on the dead guy’s face. Jayson could see his sharp features, and the wound that—in the pale light—made it seem though he were wearing some kind of cloth skullcap. But as the tree limbs shifted again, he could see it was no cap or trick of the light. Just bone-colored bone and brain-colored brain. And blood. Lots of that.

            Then the dead man’s eyes opened.

It happened so quickly, so naturally, that Jayson wasn’t sure they hadn’t been open the whole time. He noticed a smear of thick, milky fluid on the dead guy’s lips. A bruise-colored finger of flesh reached out from the closed mouth: his tongue. It licked the white smear off the pale, cadaverous lips, then retreated into the mouth like a snake slithering under a rocky crevice.

The rest of it seemed to speed up and slow down with an almost tidal rhythm.

Before Jayson could open his mouth to form any coherent sound or scream, the fag had the crowbar in his long, white hands. He pushed it into Pauley’s open mouth, where it did its second magic trick of the evening. To Jayson, it seemed to go in, and in, and in…and just when he thought it had disappeared forever into the black cavern of Pauley’s head, there was a sharp crack of bone, a spray of fluids…and the crowbar came out the other side of Pauley’s skull like a long, skinny locomotive.

Jayson felt his bladder let go, but it was a distant feeling, and not unpleasant. He thought he heard Wrex yelling at Maggot…

The fag wasn’t a fag. He saw that now…or thought he saw it. It looked like a tall, impossibly skinny, black…bird? He could still see the ruin of the guy’s head, the wounds the crowbar had made. But it was hard to look at…fuzzy around the edges, like black feathers, almost.

The thing smiled. Its smile was the same weird, wide smile as before. But those too-square teeth opened, folded up or out to reveal a hundred smaller one’s behind them. Sharp and small and not square at all.

Then Maggot was beside him. He had a .38 in his hand, his eyes wide and unfocused.

They heard a horrible scream, and ripping sounds. The trees shifted again: dark. Shadows, impossibly tall and angular. And more than one of them, now…or was that just Wrex, trying to beat the faggot back down into death with his crowbar?

No…the crowbar is in Pauley’s head…

            They could hear the sounds of fluttering wings, more shadows.

            Jayson turned, his heart pounding, trying to find the wrecker…

How did it get so dark?  Wrex!

The dead guy smiled: his mouth was only inches from Jayson’s.

            “The seed of man brings bitter life,” it said, conversationally. “It’s enough, I suppose. But the main course…well, that’s always so much sweeter. Don’t you agree?”

            But he wasn’t talking to Jayson. There were more of the…things… in the darkness.

            “You…you…”

            “My, you are cute!”

            “You…QUEER!

            The thing sighed; something dark and heavy, like a blanket, settled around it.

            Wings..?

            “Hardly, dear. I’ll eat a woman just as fast.”

            And it snapped his head off with its beak.

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