A Mixed Bag of Blood (11 page)

* * *

Peter seethed with hatred, the toilet water beginning to boil. He hated his mother and detested what she had turned him into, but at least he was no longer helpless. He had learned not to give up or put up with anything. Normal mother’s spanked their children, or grounded them, or put soap in their mouths for swearing. Those were reasonable punishments.

Peter remained still, listening to her drone on and on about how disappointed she was in him. Blah, blah, blah. It was her fault he was like this. What did she expect would happen when she turned him into a toilet? He had no choice but to kill, to fight back and make the people fear him.

Peter began pondering killing his mother. Within a few seconds he could have her between his jaws and chew her flesh, or hold her down and drown her. But if he killed her, what would happen to him? Would he become himself again in a year or did she have to perform a spell? He couldn’t risk it and decided to let her live. But he wouldn’t let her go unscathed.

“. . . and I’m still very unhappy with how you’ve behaved,” Marla said, finishing up. As she began to rise from her seated position, the toilet lid flipped up, sending Marla flying off the seat and crashing onto the cold tile floor. She screamed in anger, pushing herself up on all fours. A loud groaning noise erupted from below like a small earthquake. Getting to her feet, she straightened her blouse, spun around, and began hollering at Peter.

The groaning, like a giant’s empty stomach, grew louder, almost drowning out Marla’s voice. She began backing away, a feeling of trepidation falling over her.

Like a geyser at Yellow Stone, a thick stream of raw sewage shot from the toilet. Chunks of excrement, used toilet paper and urine sailed toward Marla. Arms up defensively, mouth open, she screamed. Shit and piss-saturated toilet water entered her wide open mouth.

When Peter’s upchucking had finished, Marla stood before him looking like a female mud-wrestler, and began throwing up. When she was done, she stared at him as raw sewage leaked from her body.

“You like sewage?” she asked, a wicked grin creeping over her face. “I’ll give you sewage, you bastard!” With those last remarks, so uncharacteristic of her, Marla quickly turned and departed from the lavatory.

* * *

Peter was pleased with himself. To see his bitch of a mother, the overly clean and pretentious woman, covered in human slop was worth the year of punishment. If only he’d had a camera.

* * *

Two weeks later, during the early morning hours, his mother returned. She burst into the stall, and before Peter could react, she threw a powdery substance, like chimney soot, on him.

Pain, like a thousand stinging wasps, exploded over Peter’s body. He cried out in his mind. No longer caring if his mother lived or died, he attempted to spring at her. Nothing happened. He tried lunging repeatedly, wanting to clamp his plastic teeth down on her flesh like a hungry crocodile, but he couldn’t move. The bitch was clever. She’d done something to him, rendering him useless.

“Don’t even think about moving, Peter,” she said, a hint of glee in her voice. “I’ve paralyzed you.”

Next, she performed—without the use of a spell—the most horrifying act Peter had ever witnessed. He wished with all his heart that he could close his eyes and sever his tongue, but neither happened.

His mother spun around, yanked down her dress, then panties and planted her bottom on the seat. "I ate something special for you my dear.”

Peter’s mind swirled, his soul begging to be released from this prison. But he could only watch in horror. He now knew that if he had indeed lost it, he was still in no way as far gone as his mother.

He heard her grunting with exertion as her by-product plopped into his mouth. His mind gagged, the retching as real as his mind could muster. He tasted her, her excrement as well as her being. What made her who she was. The mind-gagging continued and then he saw the stream. A golden, salty liquid streaming into his gullet. His mind and soul exploded. Madness enveloped him like a python, squeezing tight.

Luckily for him, she was a fast shitter, not one to sit and linger while reading a magazine. She wiped her bottom, pulled up her panties and dress, and then turned around to face him.

“Take that you little shit,” she told him, then reached into the bowl and plucked out her turd. She held it before her, and with her free, cleaner hand, withdrew a small glass bottle with a blue liquid inside. She popped the lid and poured the liquid over the turd.

Peter felt his mind begin to stretch like a long rubber band. His insides were being pulled and before he knew it, he was flying through the air in the form of mist toward his mother’s feces.

Marla dropped the turd, and Peter felt himself falling. He belly-flopped into the water. Looking up, he saw his mother standing over the toilet. Her left hand was smeared with pieces of what he now was. What had she done? He watched her reach over the toilet as if to throw up, but instead pushed the toilet’s handle. The outside world spun, his mother's wicked face becoming a blur, and then he was gone.

* * *

Marla turned around and patted her stomach where her unborn child lay. “I hope you treat me better than that one, Little Billy. I can’t have another potty mouth in the family.

And with that, Marla went home.

STD

Brian awoke in a stranger’s bed, his bladder ready to burst. Glancing to his right, he saw the sleeping form of a female. He wasn’t sure who she was or where he was, but after a moment, he remembered.

Her name was Jackie. They’d met at a bar and did a lot of drinking. She was a flight attendant in town on a three day layover and staying at a friend’s place who was on vacation. They had a night of crazy, drunken sex, the woman a veteran in the sack.

Creeping out of bed, he tip-toed to the bathroom. Barely able to get his boxers off, he released himself, but the relief was short-lived when the stream shot sideways, covering the side of the sink in piss. He tried to stop urinating, but it was no use. So he turned sideways and peed into the bowl. He had no idea what was causing the blockage, but figured his hole was partially clogged with dried body secretions or a piece of fabric from the bed. It wasn’t like he hadn’t had mornings when his stream went in two directions before, but this time it was extreme. And didn’t it always correct itself after a few moments?

Looking down as he finished up, making sure to get the last few drops out, his eyes bulged from their sockets. A bulbous white-headed growth was at the tip of his penis. It hadn’t been there before this morning, at least that he could remember. The thing was huge—the size of a small pebble. It had to be something stuck to him, that’s all. A piece of food or debris that fell onto the bed. He finished jiggling, then went to pull the thing off, but lightning pain shot down his member. Nervous, confused, wanting it off, he pulled again, but the thing wouldn’t budge. Panic took hold. He went rigid with fear. What the hell was on his dick?

He thought about last night, his time with Jackie. There was no way it was there when they did it, for she would have surely felt it in her mouth and said something. And he would have definitely felt it rubbing against her vaginal wall. They didn’t use a condom either. Maybe she gave him something? Anger swelled within him. What had that bitch given him? Wait—what kind of STD shows up that fast, just hours after intercourse? None that he knew of, not that he was an expert.

Shit, maybe it was a tumor and had been microscopic, but somehow the sex had irritated it and made it swell up. It wasn’t often that he inspected his penis. In fact, he never did. If the ladies didn’t complain, why bother? There was no way it was there last night. A penis was smooth and soft. A huge lump like the one he had would’ve been felt for sure, and he remembered her spending some quality time on him. Maybe she did feel it and was being nice. No. No way. In today’s day and age if something was wrong sexually, someone would say something. Fear was too great. Why would she feel it in her mouth, then allow him to put it inside her. She wouldn’t.

Lowering the toilet’s lid, Brian sat down. Hunching over, while pulling his penis as close to his face as possible, he studied the growth. He felt it. It was firm, but squishy, like a miniscule water balloon. The whitehead was gross, the thing reminding him of a giant zit.

He sat back, relief flooding over him. He had a fucking pimple on his dick.

Should he pop it or leave it be? Wanting the unpleasant thing gone, he pinched low on the zit and squeezed. An electric-like pain ran down the length of his penis. Ignoring the pain, he pinched harder, hoping that once it popped, the pain would lessen and the swelling would go down.

Nicotine colored pus exploded from the lump. He continued to compress the skin, making sure to get out all the infected material. With the pus out, blood began to trickle.

Reaching for the toilet paper with his clean hand, he grabbed a few pieces and dabbed at the head of his bloodied penis. Finished, he tossed the paper into the waste basket. The area burned, as if someone had put out a cigarette on it, but the growth was gone, deflated like a bad tire and was nothing more than a flap of skin.

He stood, pulling up his shorts. Finding a spray cleaner and roll of paper towels under the sink, he sprayed the floor where the pus landed, as well as the side of the sink still glistening with his urine, and cleaned up the areas. Replacing the cleaner and tossing the paper towels into the toilet—a no-no, but how would he explain using so much—he washed his hands with soap and hot water, then returned to the bedroom to catch a few more hours of sleep.

Sometime later Brian was awakened by Jackie, the woman rocking him and calling his name.

“What . . . what’s the matter?” he asked, one eye opening. He saw Jackie standing over him, still in her half-shirt and purple panties.

“You’re bleeding,” she said.

He sat up. Rubbing his eyes, he asked what she was talking about.

“You’re bleeding . . . down there.” She pointed to where his crotch was beneath the sheet.

Looking down, he saw a crimson-colored, Frisbee-sized stain.

“What the hell?”

Lifting the cover, he saw his pants were soaked in blood, his thighs sticky with the red stuff. Then he remembered the huge zit he had popped.

“What happened?” Jackie asked, covering her mouth.

He thought about telling her about his pimple, but didn’t want to gross her out. “Do you
have
anything?” he asked.

“What?” She had a confused look on her face.

“Any STD’s I need to worry about?”

Jackie’s face reddened as her eyes became slits. “Are you kidding me? What the fuck? Of course not. Do you?” She backed away as if he was contagious.

“I’m clean. Don’t worry.”

“Why would you ask me that and why the hell are you bleeding?”

“It’s nothing,” he said softly, not really believing his own words. He had a hard time believing a pimple would bleed so much, although he’d also never seen one so large. Not wanting her to freak out, he decided to come clean.

“I had a . . . pimple on my . . .” he motioned toward his crotch.

Jackie’s eyes went wide. “I had that thing in my . . . you put it
in
me.” She shivered. “Gross.”

“It wasn’t there last night,” he told her. “Don’t you think you would’ve felt it?”

“I can’t believe you fucked me with that thing on your dick,” she went on as if she hadn’t heard him. “What if it exploded inside me?” She shivered again. “In my mouth?” She leaned over, gagging. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” he asked, climbing from the bed. “It wasn’t there last night. I swear.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. It was . . . huge. You would’ve, hell, I would’ve felt it.”

“I guess.” She was looking better, then smiled evilly. “Your dick was smooth. Smoother than most by the way. You treat that thing with something?”

He laughed. “No.”

“Yeah. I think you’re right. I would’ve felt it.”

“It was right at the tip—”

“Okay. Enough,” she said, holding out her arms. “I don’t need a fucking visual; especially if you plan on putting that thing inside me again.”

Brian got dressed and offered to wash the sheets, or at least pay for them, but Jackie declined, telling him she was going to throw them out. She wasn’t about to try and explain what had happened, to her friend, and would just have to hope the woman didn’t notice a couple of sheets were missing.

He went home and told her he would call her during the week.

The next morning, Brian woke in his own bed, relieved to see that his boxers weren’t soaked with blood. His bladder was full and needed to be emptied. Hopping out of bed, he headed into the bathroom and went to do his business when he looked down at his thing and nearly screamed.

The pimple, growth, whatever it was, was back and bigger than before. It was now the size of a golf ball. The thing was scarlet in color and the white head was back too, looking like a mound of whipped butter that had been left out too long. Letting go of his member, the thing plummeted, weighed down by the growth. He had to pee badly, but feared the urethra’s exit was blocked completely.

Sweat lined his forehead as he began to panic.

Lifting his penis, he felt the growth. It was harder than yesterday. He gently squeezed it and cringed. The thing was full of more pus, almost solid, like one of those rubber balls he purchased from the quarter machines at the grocery store when he was a kid.

The disturbing thing had come back with more determination than ever. He shook his head thinking he should’ve just left it alone. Due to his highly agitated nervous system his need to pee was even greater now.

Unsure of how to stand, wanting to get his piss into the bowl, he stood sideways, like he did at Jackie’s friend’s, and tried to release his bladder, but nothing came out. He nudged the growth to the side, hoping to create enough space for his liquid waste to come through, like when a cartoon character rolls a boulder off of an oil well and the black sludge shoots into the air. He felt a pinch, but the technique worked as his urine spewed out in a messy torrent akin to a partially closed water main. The upraised toilet seat took the brunt of the waste and was soon streaked with tears of pee.