The Haunter of the Threshold (40 page)

“Heer ya go, reddy-head, jess the way yew like it—straight up’n neat!” Shot Glass emptied the shot glass into her mouth; its contents slid out in a single, viscid lump.

Hazel’s throat clicked when she swallowed.

“Naow is thet a down’n dirty hoo-er or is it not?” someone shouted.

“Good job, missy,” Clonner rolled up. “Ya done took all these horny fellas without battin’ an eye. We’se proud’a ya.”

Hazel barely heard the snide babble. The pain at her sex and rectum throbbed right along with her heart.

Clonner announced to the room, “All right, folks, fun’s over fer now. You best all git home. It don’t look like the emissary’s comin’ tonight, so we’se’ll just all meet here tomorrow same time.”

The crowd murmured goodbyes, high-fiving, back-slapping, and began to depart. Was it her imagination, or was her attention focusing deliberately on the tiny sparkle of blood-red light that glimmered from the tiny stone on all of their fingers?

The ordeal, at least, seemed to be over, but...

Is it really?

Hazel’s limbs unfolded and flopped to the table when someone cut her bonds. She could sense the warm glob of Shot Glass’s sperm in her belly; it seemed to curdle there.

“‘Course, it could’a been worse, huh?” Clonner addressed her.

Hazel gaped at him. “You’re shitting me, right?”

Clonner shrugged bony shoulders. “It’s only Shot Glass’s cum we made ya eat. I mean, we could’a been real assholes and made you eat
everybody’s
cum, right?”

Hazel coddled her aching vagina with her hands. “Well, yeah, I guess that’s true.”

Clonner held up his stumps. “So, dang, girl, the least ya could do is thank me. Jiminy Christmas, gal’s’re so ungrateful these days, ain’t they, boys?”

Shot Glass and Clayton were the only ones who remained. They drank beers up at the bar. “Ee-yuh, they’se shuh are, Clonner,” Shot Glass agreed, then Clayton, “Ungrateful, ungrateful, ungrateful!” Both men hopped off their stools, Clayton bringing Clonner another beer.

Hazel sat up on the table’s edge and winced at the old man. “Let me get this right. You want me to
thank you
for not making me drink
everybody’s
cum?”

“Dang tootin’, and I’se a bit offended ya ain’t already.”

Hazel’s face lengthened in despair.
For God’s sake...
She knew she had no choice. “All right,” she sighed. “Thank you, Clonner, for not making me eat everybody’s cum.”

Clonner clapped his stumps together and guffawed. “Who’s ta say we didn’t?”

Clayton appeared, with his big fat shuck-and-jive uneducated redneck grin. He was holding an aluminum cake pan. When he declined it slightly Hazel saw a
slew
of semen in it.

“You didn’t!” she shouted.

“We ain’t a bunch’a dopes ‘round here, hon,” Clonner said.

“Afore we started fuckin’ yew,” Shot Glass informed, “we put this heer pan on the floor, so’s when all that nut fall aout yer pussy, it landed in the pan.”

“And guess who’s gonna drink it?” Clayton added.

Am I really going to let them do this to me?
Hazel wondered. She took the pan.
If I don’t, they kill me, and they kill Sonia. If I do...

She looked narrowly at the aggregate sperm of twenty-eight men. The pan lay covered with the pearlescent slime, and it all drooled down to the corner when she tipped it some more.
And some of those guys
came twice,
she dismally recalled.
That a LOT of sperm...

“Well?” Clonner urged.

Hazel’s head droned. She looked at the pan one more time, then sighed.

“Un-fuckin’-believable!” Clayton railed.

“This heer gal should win some kind’a award!” Shot Glass exclaimed.

“Hardest-core tramp I ever seed in my life!” Clonner added.

Hazel brought the pan’s corner to her lips, tipped it up, and let all that sperm slide into her mouth and down her throat.

“There.” She smacked her lips. “Happy now?”

“Yer one of a kind!” Clonner cracked. “Would’a bet everything I got you wouldn’t’a done it.” He winked. “The test’s almost over now, hon, and so far, you’se got straight-A’s.”

Hazel sneered, ignoring the snotty aftertaste. “Test?”

“Ain’t but one more thing you gotta do, and if’n ya do it...you can go.”

Hazel laughed. “What kind of an idiot do you think I am? You’re never gonna let me go.”

“Shuh we are,” Shot Glass said. “Durn’t need ya for nuthin’ reely.” He walked back to the bar with Clayton.

“Serious?” Hazel said to Clonner.

“Shore.”

“And Sonia, too, right?”

“Well”—Clonner shook his head—“ain’t gonna lie to ya, but yer knocked up friend ain’t here no more. I had a couple’a the boys drive her out the minute she got here.”

“Drive her out
where?
”

“Don’t matter none. See, she’s important. But you’re...
not.
So, if’n ya wanna walk out’a here, all’s ya gotta do is one more thing.”

Hazel was about to ask what but then heard muted chuckling behind her—plus a whizzing sound. She looked toward the bar and saw Shot Glass and Clayton simultaneously urinating into a beer pitcher.

Fuck,
she thought.
What else could I expect?
She said a brief, feeble prayer as she heard the pitcher filling.
God, please let it be so
that if I do this, I’ll walk out of here alive. Okay? Please?

“Help an old fella out, Clayton,” Clonner said next. Shot Glass brought over the pitcher, which looked about two-thirds full not including the foam. Clayton pulled down Clonner’s zipper, fished inside with his fingers, and withdrew—

Holy shit...

—a little corroded, fleshy nub.

“What happened to your
dick?
” Hazel had to ask.

“Aw, no big deal. That swami doc gave me what they call a
penectomy.
Cut my willy right off, he did, on account it was goin’ ta rot, juss like my hands. Gangrene, he said, from the blammed dye-ur-beet-iss. All’s he left were that little nub. But I cain’t complain, had plenty’a nuts in my time,” and then Clayton hoisted him up from behind, while Shot Glass positioned the pitcher. “Ahhhhhhh,” the old man sighed as he let it all come out. The stream frothed, whipping up more foam. But Hazel was wincing...

“What’s wrong with your piss? It looks—looks...
pink.
”

“Aw, some glommerus shit’re some such—you’d have to ask the swami. Somethin’ out’a whack with my kidneys, so’s my piss always got a little blood in it.”

It looked like pink lemonade whizzing from the nub of flesh. Hazel’s stomach was already roiling. When the old man’s bladder was drained, the pitcher was almost full, and tinged with the faintest pink. Being coerced to drink piss was bad enough—as the past several days could attest—but, somehow, the idea of
blood
being in it made the prospect infinitely worse.

Hazel sat sullen on the table edge. Her eyes dimmed when Shot Glass, uttering, “Heh, heh, heh,” placed the pitcher into her hands.

“Come on, reddy!” Clayton hooted.

“Shows us what yer made of,” Clonner added.

“Durn’t disappoint us,” Shot Glass finished. “Heh, heh, heh...”

Hazel raised the pitcher and began to drink. She tried to pace each swallow, to get as much into her as quickly as possible:
Chug...Chug...Chug...,
like that. The taste, of course, was unmentionable, and worse was the foam and the heat. The process seemed to
pump
the heat into her belly in fast, even measures.
Chug...Chug...Chug...
With each swallow, her toes involuntarily flexed, and her pectorals clenched, causing her breasts to jerk. Her mind reeled by the time she’d drained the level only by half.

Chug...Chug...Chug...

“She’s shuh gonna dew it!” Shot Glass yelled.

“Shore is!” came Clayton.

Clonner: “I ain’t had me this much fun since my first Hock Party!”

Chug...Chug...Chug...
,
and then the remnant foam spilled into her mouth and she was done.

The men clapped heartily, well, at least Shot Glass and Clayton did, but Clonner clapped his stumps as well. The plastic pitcher clattered to the floor, and Hazel fell back on the table. She held her belly through the most dispiriting moan.

“You wasn’t kiddin’, Shot Glass! She shore chugs piss like a champ.”

“Tolt yew.”

“And all that nut ta boot!” Clayton chimed in.

Hazel grunted when she sat back up. “Now. Let me guess,” she said. “I ask if I can leave, then you rednecks all cluck laughter and say no, right?”

The three men all looked at each other. “What’choo talkin’ ‘bout?” Clonner piped. “We done said if ya drunk up all that piss, ya could scoot. So...scoot.”

Hazel did not, could not believe it. Belly pushed out, she slowly slid herself off the table.
No,
she felt sure.
They’re bullshitting. I
KNOW they are...
She took several careful steps toward the door, then glanced over her shoulder.

“Thinks weer jivin’ her,” Shot Glass laughed.

Clonner laughed harder. “Go on, git! Ain’t no reason fer us to keep ya here!”

Clayton grinned, “So ya best leave...‘fore we change our mind...”

“And we’se know blammed well ya ain’t stupid enough to go to the cops.”

Hazel eyed them.

“‘Cos we got thirty-some witnesses—includin’ the
sheriff
—who’ll
swear
you come in here all drunk’n disorderly, tryin’ to hustle guys for tricks, and actin’ all crazy,” Clonner added. “You don’t count fer shit, so git’cher dirty ass out’a here’n go back where ya come from.”

Shot Glass nodded, squinty-eyed. “Forget abaout that preggered friend’a yours, forget abaout this taown’n forget yew evuh came heer.”

The old man traversed his chair and rolled toward the bar. “Clayton, git that TV on and see’s if ya can find a sports ticker.”

“Ee-yuh,” Shot Glass said, grabbing more beers. “Dyin’ ta see haow the Sox done against the Yankees.”

Hazel’s mouth fell open.
Could it...really be true?
She still didn’t believe it. She tiptoed toward the door, took one last glance behind to see them all looking up at the television. Then she ran out of the bar.

No one stood in wait outside. Crickets throbbed, and the parking lot lights blared. Piss sloshed in her belly when she jumped in the car, started it, and slammed it into gear. She’d need to turn left to take the road out of town, but this idea made no conscious presence in her mind. She cut the wheel hard-right.

Then floored the gas.

The Prius plowed right through the front door into the bar, begetting a sound like a wrecking ball. The deafening crash made her grin. The vehicle’s penetration crossed the tavern’s front section, exploding windows, flinging tables and chairs aside, and then it collided with the long bar itself, where Shot Glass and Clayton sat. Shot Glass was jettisoned ten feet to the right, while Clayton and his bulk was thrown left, right into a very surprised Clonner, whose chair toppled onto its side. Clonner’s stumps flailed when he tumbled across the floor.

Planks fell on the car’s roof, while more clattered here and there. The television squawked something about someone named Wang throwing a “perfect game” and the Red Sox losing twenty-six to nothing, but Hazel didn’t know anything about hockey. She got out with a great grin, walked about the wreckage, then poured herself a draft beer.

NOW it’s Miller Time...

She traipsed around, looking at her handiwork.
Oh, goodie!
she thought.
I think they’re still alive.
Each of the men lay in some state of serious disarray, but it was Clayton she approached first: face bloodied, nose smashed, one foot twisted all the way around. He blubbered, shuddering on the floor.

Hazel prodded his big belly with her foot. “Hey! Clayton! Don’t die! Don’t pass out!”

Puffy eyes and a ballooned face looked up at her. “Ya crazy tramp! Look what’choo done ta me!”