Genital Grinder (3 page)

Is it just rigor mortis? Could that happen so soon, and would it feel anything like this? I don’t know anything about it; I’m not an old hand at this kind of thing.

Oh, there’s no way . . . No, I don’t buy it for a minute. If she’d been pregnant, the kid would have died with her, wouldn’t it? It wouldn’t be kicking me now like this was my fault. Besides, I’d have noticed her pregnancy was really starting to show. Drunkenness is imperfect in explaining away
all
discrepancies.

The noise wasn’t the kicking, though, because you wouldn’t have been able to hear even Pele in the womb. This was more . . . wet, like food slipping through a soggy paper plate and clumping on the floor. Something else, too, though . . . a tearing sound. Not paper, though. It’s also something wet.

No, this isn’t rigor mortis. I can’t think of a single detached and perfectly rational scientific term for whatever the hell this could be. I know she’s dead, but I feel at least part of her quivering against me. I’ve joked with friends about gnawing my own arm off to get away from cuddling with a woman; this almost seems like a preferable option to the mystery alternative.

I need the light right now. Something like this doesn’t happen when sunlight is bleeding through the drapes, it’s an unwritten rule. I can feel the shape of bedside lamp, but the switch is beyond reach. There doesn’t seem to be anything but the lamp and her clock, which is only a clock. No radio. I’d turn that on just to drown out the noise, but all I’ve managed to do is set the alarm to go off at 9:48. If I’m still here when it goes off, I’m certain I won’t be alive to hear it.

The wet noises have gotten louder, more intense. Why the hell was a pregnant woman haunting a singles bar? She’d have a better chance of me paying her rent than committing to a long-term relationship the father wouldn’t give her.

Something wet just dotted my stomach. A pool of it is spreading on me, and it’s really pouring out now. It’s escaping her, and I’m sure it is blood.

A lot of blood.

I’m thrashing under her again, this time to really get out from beneath. There is definitely a hole in her stomach. Its slick edges are being ground against me like a new sexual orifice, and more of its contents are sluicing out. This, along with the still-present nausea of too much drink, just caused me to vomit. Depending on the trajectory, most probably ended up in her hair and down her back. The slickness of her blood and . .
. tissue
, I’m guessing . . . has formed a rivulet that is streaking to my groin. Despite the lubrication of all this leakage, I’m making no progress in freeing myself. My left arm still hasn’t regained all its feeling; it is dead weight of pins and needles. The circulation has been stemmed the arm won’t move
I can’t move it.

Another sound, but I recognize it as me screaming as loud as I can given the weight on me. I’m not even loud enough to be heard in her surely well-stocked kitchen, much less the next house over. It occurs to me that maybe this is all just a vivid hallucination from a lack of oxygen, but the relief of this feels too false to be of any comfort.

Between these cries is the sloshing of the juices as I weakly try to capsize her.

Sloshing, then the dripping and pouring as they rush out. The tearing sounds have probably continued throughout all of this, but at some point I became more aware of my panic than its cause.

Something new—an indentation on my stomach, something probing the area with very slippery digits. I’m feeling faint. All my blood is collecting in my head. Unconsciousness now would be nothing short of a blessing. I’m almost there.

I hear and
feel
the hole in her stomach suddenly tear across, like an artist angrily ripping a page from his sketchbook. More things are pushing on me, inquisitive, moist. Tiny fingers? And something else—bigger, but softer, like cartilage. I think it’s a nose. There is a sharper prodding sliding just below that.

The chin.

Between the nose and the chin, a warm absence opening wider.

That would be the mouth.

The last impossibility of this ridiculous night—it already has teeth, and very good teeth at that.

The tearing has momentarily ceased, and I hope when it starts again in about two seconds I’m not awake to tell you what happens ne—

“I’m telling you,” Greg said to Von, “it’s Sarah Pensie.”

Von shook his head, not believing it for a second. Sarah Pensie—who graduated two years ahead of Von and three years before Greg dropped out— had moved to Hollywood to become a star and wound up discovering her true calling in life: the go-to girl for “butt stuff” in the adult film industry, known as “Lolita Ream.” It was rumored that she did specialty porn in addition to the mainstream stuff Von had actually seen, and supposedly her biggest underground hit was called
Anal Halfpipe
, wherein she gave a burly truck-driver an enema. The ejected suds were then used to wash out her slut-filthy mouth.

Therefore, it was rather unlikely that the corpse prone on tarp in Von’s basement—an eleven hour drive from the P.O. box for her fan club—was Sarah Pensie. They hadn’t stripped her just yet, probably because they couldn’t believe she was there (whoever
she
was).

It had been an otherwise routine night for them. They’d spent the usual ninety minutes rooting through the dumpster outside the gynecological clinic searching for discarded latex gloves and sanitary napkins. Homeward bound and playing a game of their own creation—“I Wonder Whose Cooze?”—they’d found the woman splattered on Sherman Avenue (and a few pieces here and there on Bowling Boulevard).

A hit-and-run, probably. Figuring that police probably hadn’t been notified yet, Von and Greg quickly loaded her up into the truck-bed and peeled out for home. They now examined her on blue canvas under the fluorescent lights of Von’s basement.

Her left eyeball dangled precariously on a cheekbone peeking through her skin, a stringy optic nerve straining to hold on. Her nose hooked unnaturally to the right, which made Von think she could advertise for that breakfast cereal with the dumbass bird—
Toucan Sam,
he remembered—if the dried cluster of blood and snot was wiped away. The right eye was completely gone, probably still on Bowling Boulevard. A few brain fragments dangled from the socket. Her limbs were contorted in a fashion more suitable for broken toothpicks than arms or legs. Her white novelty shirt reading BUILT TO LAST was all but obscured by smears of blood, and the story with her jeans wasn’t all that different. She’d either vomited just before or right at the moment of impact, undigested debris and bile testifying to a Mexican dinner. She probably should have been slamming a Slim-Fast shake, because the bitch was well on her the way to maximum density. They had broken a mean sweat lugging her to the truck bed on Sherman, so Von sure hoped she thought about the plight of her pallbearers when she made out her will.

Von now let himself dare to believe this was all for real. He couldn’t begin to fathom what altruistic gesture he might have made for the universe to reward him with a gift like this—free
puss,
for the love of God, left out for any takers like a suave leather couch at curbside trash pick up . . . a suave leather couch you could
cornhole—
but he’d gladly accept it with his warmest regards. Short of Ed McMahon dropping by to hand him a check for a million bucks, he realized this might be the luckiest day of his life. Fixing on the ruined body, he savored the moment a few beats longer, even while melancholy at the possibility that after tonight
nothing
may ever compare to this. It even seemed almost
wrong
on some strange metaphysical level to get down to the business of actually
defiling
her, but he recognized this for the craziness it was. He wasn’t delusional . . . this dead woman was getting shot full of his ball sauce, thank you very much.

They stripped her down. Their hands were soon sticky not only from the blood but from pushing in a few lengths of small intestine and miscellaneous vital organs spilling through a tear in her belly like detritus through a burst trash bag. Von was more than happy to let Greg single-handedly remove her underwear. About every excretion and fluid possible had turned her panties into multiple Rorschach tests. He winced a little when Greg held them up, the perineal area carrying some added weight. What Von didn’t know was that Greg hadn’t lost his janitorial job at Bartok General Hospital due to downsizing, like he’d said. No, security had filmed him creeping into the coma ward and consuming whatever he found in colostomy bags. Lightning struck twice soon after, Greg once more “downsized” for lapping up reproductive fluid from the rubber sheets of mental patients. If Von had seen
Busted on the Job 7
and
8
on Fox, he would have known the sickening truth.

Von’s eyes jumped a little. “Whoa . . . Houston, we have a problem.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Take a look.”

Greg set the underwear down for future inspection and indulgence beside her purse

(Liz Claiborne, as were the high heels twenty yards further down Sherman) and turned. It didn’t take him long to see what had spooked Von. Genital warts stared back at him, an algae of shame which had burst open in a few places due to one or another of the night’s mishaps. If for some reason he hadn’t seen them, his nose would have notified him quickly enough. The reek of the mucus-like fluid raped his olfactory senses right up the ass.

“Damn, Von . . . that’s almost enough to make a man reconsider.”

“You speak the gospel, Greg; it really is
almost
enough. But given we’re a couple of resourceful bad-asses, help me flip over Orca here and we’ll try plan B.”

Plan B wasn’t much better. Von felt like pointing out the obvious, so he said, “She’s got a bunch of black beetles crawling out of her asshole.”

“You see!” Greg shouted. “I
told
you it was Sarah Pensie!”

Von decided he didn’t want to know exactly why this observation legitimized Greg’s theory, and didn’t ask. He grabbed a can of Raid off a nearby workbench and sprayed about half of it into the infested orifice. Insecticide and vaginal befoulment battled for olfactory prevalence in the confines of the basement.

This couldn’t be very sanitary, but you only live once.

Von didn’t want to look a gift horse in the mouth, and he was still ever most thankful for this apparently sexually adventurous bounty bestowed upon them, but this particular gem had admittedly lost a little luster beneath the jeweler’s magnifying glass. He decided he could afford to savor a bit longer, maybe give his senses a bit longer to acclimate to the godforsaken reek.

Von clapped Greg on the shoulder. “Suit up and go to war, soldier.”

Greg gave him a thumb-up, obviously trying not to breathe in. “Lock and load.”

He started unbuckling his pants. Von didn’t necessarily want to be around to witness what was going to happen, but he didn’t trust her alone with Greg.

He was going to at least busy himself with other pursuits when something caught his eye: Greg’s asshole looked incredibly chafed and swollen. Von tried not to let his gaze linger, but the image haunted. It solved many a mystery—why Greg had been squirming in his seat all night and the probable truth behind why he’d curiously asked to borrow Von’s toilet brush a couple days ago.

I keep pretty sick company,
Von thought, opening the woman’s purse
. Look at him
. Sodomizing himself with household utensils was just the tip of the iceberg. The crazy bastard wasn’t even wearing a condom.

Von opened her wallet, trying to ignore the grunts and Greg’s awkward breathing, apparently searching for the air of least resistance. Triumph soared in Von’s breast. “Hey, Greg, I told you it wasn’t Sarah Pensie! It’s just some whore named Claire Perkins.”

Greg finished his tenure in Claire’s ass, then pulled out so quickly that he lost equilibrium and slid backwards on the floor. “Claire Perkins!” he yelled. “Man, it’s a good thing I chose the backdoor—this bitch is my cousin! I wouldn’t have felt right about sticking her box.”

Von snorted. “
Well
. Let a real man show you what it’s all about. Help me get her face-up again.”

They rolled her again. Von took a grease rag off a work bench and tried to clear the runway. Her chancres gave way and burst beneath the cloth, soaking through to his fingers. It felt like popping the bubblewrap cushioning a package. A mantra ran through his mind each time another sore exploded:
“It’s okay, I have a condom . . . It’s okay, I have a condom . . . It’s okay, I have a condom …”

The prize he uncovered admittedly wasn’t worth the effort. He’d seen raw hamburger at McDonald’s more fetching than this. Beggars can’t be choosers, he thought. He slipped on the condom and eased into her—
carefully
putting his weight down, lest he incite more chancres to revolt. It occurred to him that wading into a kiddie pool full of cottage cheese wouldn’t be very different from this.

No, damn it, NO!

It was too much, as he feared it would be. He flashed on a hundred grotesque images to try to hold off the combustion, but they only seemed to rally the dam-bursting sensation in his scrotum. His condom was instantly filled to the brim.

Von took a razor and carved out Claire’s asshole five minutes later, amidst many wet sounds like a kid goose-stepping on slushy snow. With a little effort he slid the excised anus around his member. “You weren’t kidding, Greg,” he proclaimed. “Fits like a glove!”

It cheered him up instantly. Now it was just a matter of waiting to get hard again.

“I’m gonna fix me a sandwich,” he said. “You want one?”