Razor Wire Pubic Hair (7 page)

            There is nothing left outside. 

            When looking out of the window, there is only blank darkness like someone painted the outside of the windows black.  And it is not because the night is without a moon, it is because there is nothing left outside of this fortress.  Only a colorless blank.  Everything that once was the rest of the world is now collapsed from our perception.

            I go out the front and it is blank, empty of textures and colors.  Only the sound of an angry breeze smacking against the outside of the fortress.  I do not dare take a step outside of the fortress, I fear that I too will become a part of the blankness, where all of my senses go numb.

            Staring out of the window, I do not even see my reflection in the glass.

            I am guessing time has stopped.

            Since there is no longer such a thing as a sun or earth, we have no idea how to calculate time, no real use for clocks.  And it seems to take so long going from one side of the fortress to the other.  The Rapists throwing me down and fucking me whenever they get the chance.  I don’t find her for maybe a day, a week.  She is on the feathery side of the fortress where all the long blankets hang, all the rapists infecting this area are all too exhausted to rape, lying on the floor with moans and fizzle-cries.

            I find Celsia right in the center of the half-dazed rapists. She is missing her arms and legs.  And looking around, many of the laze-rapists are without limbs as well, arms and legs scattered throughout the dim flyingsnake-light. 

            What has happened? I ask Her.

            Her voice crooked and distant, face moving to my direction, head balancing on its neck to speak to me, I took the halfroff.

            "The halfroff," Celsia explains, "is a sexually transmitted poison.  Those inflicted with it fall apart limb from limb.  It is fatal once the head falls from the neck."

            My confused look does not fall from my face.

            "I want them all to die," Celsia tells me.

            My face cocked at her, leaning over her cunt to warm my cheek.

            "And I want you to kill them, I’ll give you the poison and you will act as a carrier, it will not slant you as quickly because you are not natural, you will fuck them apart, fuck their arms and legs off.  Fuck them to show them I am stronger than they are.  I am so strong."

            She wants to fuck me one last time, fuck me for fun and give me the poison, but she has no arms or legs.  She tries crawling on top of me, shifting her waist from side to side, but she just rolls off onto the floor.  Her head bangs against itself and orange-emotions break into paper-machete-emotions.

            And she says:  Rape me.

            What are those words?  They came out of her so weakly and soft.

            Make love to me, she says.

            Yet again, there are her words, such pathetic words that make her so less attractive to me.  Women are supposed to be aggressive and domineering, not delicate and tender like a fuck toy.

            "I will fuck you to death," I tell her, the words awkward from my mouth, but Celsia smiles as if they are what she wanted to hear.

            I don’t know how to overpower-fuck someone, but I have little time to learn.  I know how to fuck, I have been a spectator of fucking, I have watched others fuck me in this way.

            I bring my shank to her opening, my only penis left, curl the head near her razor wire pubic hair, looking into her old dog eyes, so sad, pathetic.

            Please-please-please, she says to me between whines, and I spit blood between her tits.

            My penis rock hard into her before she knows what to think, rip through her razor wire pubic hair like weeds, rip them out of their roots with my cock, plow them down, my cock a warrior she cannot keep up with, hammer-ramming through her with sharp teeth screaming at her, my cunt sealed up sewn lips shut, ignoring my tits as the bounce with my barreling body, fucking and howling, fucking, crying, in tears when I fuck her head off rolling from her neck into a pile of arms and legs, still fucking her torso, just stare at her tits, those tits and this cunt are all I need to cum, I need to cum, I need to cum inside her.

            It’s not difficult to spread the poison to all of them, draping myself over the darkness, over the table, over the baby-making machine, over parts of zombies, and all the rapists within view just hop on top of my cock and tits, their gnatty twisted cunts bee-swarming all around me, biting my skin with rusty pubic hair.  Machine-animal-spit-groans from their vicious cunt mouths. 

            It took so many fucks to get them all in, not sure how many I did, enough to spread the poison to those who fuck the most the ones who will transfer it to everyone else. 

            There is a leader of rapists, the horniest of them, they made her their leader because she fucked like a train, fucked more than any of them.  She was the one with the wide nipples whiter than any other flesh on her body, the one with the red crunchy hair tangle-knotted into strips, she’s naturally blonde you can tell by the roots, but somebody made her fire red somebody sat on her head and let menstrual blood flow down her forehead her neck, dying her hair with life.

            She is taking a liking to me, this leader of rapists, she comes to me more than all the others, fucks and fucks, I make sure to come inside of her, make sure she gets the poison deep in her blood so she can spread it to all her sisters all the sticky bodies that clutter our tomb, tomb of fucking.

            "Our tomb is so erotic," the blood-haired rapist says to me, lying next to me in the crab-calm darkness.  Because she is a rapist, her words come out rat-twisty and curled.

            She has me wrapped up in her sisters, mud and cum sticking us together, melting us cocooned. 

            "We are trapped inside a giant cunt or giant testicle maybe," the blood-haired rapist says. "Nothing to do but feed our desires, pile into a big sticky ball and fuck each other to death."

            We go for a walk in the darkness, the dried scum building between our tits, holding my ass.  Most of the rapists around us have fallen apart, lying half-dead in piles.  No blood escapes their severed limbs as if they were born armless legless like the limbs were just plastic attachments which have happened to melt away.

            "Moans echoing from them all," says the blood-haired rapist. "They are helpless, perfect for raping."

            The women clutter the floor screaming to be fucked, raising their cunts in our direction, begging us to lick them fondle them love them quickly before their eyeballs fall out of their heads, when they can’t even rape us with their eyes.

            "Fuck them," the rapist pushing at me her vicious screams her old cunt-smell sweeping across my body.  "Fuck them!"

            All their bodies in pieces on the ground, all of them without limbs, awaiting my cock or cunt, their leader crying, snatching my member to grow it hard my sex tools are not working right.  She sticks a finger in my ass and squirms it hard, but it breaks off inside before it causes any erection, cupping her mouth on the hole to suck it out but it is too deep.  I feel it digging through my intestines trying to make its way up my throat.

            She screams, gets on her knees, fucks one of her limbless sisters with a strapped-on knife, cock-shaped blade, yelling at me, "Fuck them, fuck them, fuck them."

            And the crowd of halfed rapists scream in harmony with her, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

            And the blood-haired woman shrieks as she fucks the rapist with her knife, the knife handle digging inside her own fuckhole, rubbing agony in the tender places.  And when her victim dies, she does not stop knife-fucking.

            "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

            And as the rapist goes faster on the handle of her knife, stabbing her dead sister, an arm breaks off to the floor.  She doesn’t stop.  Fucking with her eyes looking at her brain. And the other falls, plops on the ground.  She slows, close to orgasm, whining, blood pooling around her knees.

            And then her legs give away, breaking off at the thigh, throwing her onto a pile of dead rapists, jerking her head back against the wall, against the giant cunt still part of the wall.  The jerk so powerful it knocks her head off her neck, rolling it into the giant vagina lips, sinking, sinking it deep into its dark blank hole.

            And with that, the rapists go silent.  They lie there, letting their eyes drop out of their sockets, letting their brains go loose from their skulls, letting their tits drift off their chests.

            Their cunts sliding out of their crotches.

            I’m all alone now.  In the tomb.  Even the glowing snakes have been infected with the poison, falling to the floor to fade away.

            I have to light the hair of a dead rapist on fire to see my way, light their hair with the stove and use their dissembled heads as my lanterns, light the hair in their mouths and their entire head lights up like jack-o-lantern, glowing orange skin.  Searching to accomplish something before my limbs detach from me.

            There are moans ahead, up over there beyond eyesight.  Rapists who must still be half-alive and losing their limbs. 

            No, wait.  Not them.  The rapists have all died.  This moaning is not coming from them, they are coming from the attic, from the people in the attic.  The sad ones who live in the shadows.

            "Who are you?" I call to the people in the attic, bold cockroach-air against my buttocks, red noises vibrating, listening.

            The attic is up a rope ladder in the dungeon.  You have to go to the lowest level of the fortress to get to the uppermost level, take a rope ladder up a chimney/tunnel to get there.

            I climb it with splinter-itches against my greased palms, my lantern/head dangling over my shoulder.  But even with the lantern, the darkness is so strong, blackness all over you, I can feel its weight on my skin, a hand packaged firmly around me.

            They are silent of moaning when I arrive to them, but I can sense old echoes of their moans still resonating in the corners.  I direct the lantern to them, to see their faces.  I want to speak to find out why they cry so much.

            However, the light reveals nothing alive, the floor mostly bare besides sawdust and old nails.

            But:

            "There you are . . ." I say to them once I see the walls.

            The walls: covered in human-sized photographs of men.  Naked men, strong and smiling, a whole crowd of them plastered in all directions of the room, all of them staring at me with their square heads. 

            In the center of the room there is a single object. 

            A penis.

            A penis as large as my arm, lying on the floor, dried and stuffed.

            The frozen images of masculinity just continue their stares/smiles, staring at my breasts or are they trying to glance secretly at the giant member at their feet?  Wishing somebody, some woman or vagina-like thing, will come along, pick it up, give it a good caress and worship it like a god.  Or maybe they want me to worship them as well as the penis, their chiseled bodies, factories for muscles.  Are you envious of my muscles?  You must bow down and worship these muscles.  I am everything you wish you could be.

            "This is all that’s left of them," says the Sister from behind, still metal-scaled and snake-like, an arm dangling out of her crotch. 

            She holds me by the hand and takes me away from them.  Leave them with their muscles that no one can see in the dark.  Out of the attic.

            "It is all that the men left behind before they went away.  Something for us to remember them by."

            "No," I tell her.  "They still continue through me.  I am like a man."

            "You have the parts of a man as well as a woman," says the Sister.  "But you are far from masculine."

            "Now what do we do?" I ask the Sister, standing there in the blank spaces.

            The Sister, her blood cold under the skin look off-off into the empty black like it is something to look at, and she says, "You act as though there is something important we can do."

            "There has to be something . . ." I tell her.

            "There has never been anything important for us to do," she says to me.  "We were created to fuck."

            The Sister goes into the darkness to embrace the nothing that is there waiting for her, sitting down to bathe into it, to hug her knees inside of it.

            "Your limbs have not fallen from you," I question the Sister.  "Aren’t you poisoned like the others?"

            "Yes," she says.  "I was one of the first to fuck Celsia."

            "Then why are your arms still attached?"

            The Sister rests her head into her lap, curling eyelids down and up.

            "Things will be better once we die," I tell the Sister.  "Our souls will find peace, find something even better than even fucking."

            And the Sister bursts into laughter, tearing laughs, crying with centipede patterns. 

            "Fuck toys don’t have souls," she tells me, laughing and laughing, and crying.