by Jake Bible
Another Happy New Year In The Apocalypse…
A Quintrabble-500 words exactly
“Gentlemen!” Jestor The Pimp called out as three college boys walked past his corner, his territory of pleasure and pain. “You lookin’ for a good time? I got the best time you’ll ever find right through those doors!”
The three glanced past Jestor at the shabby double doors, once bright red, but now faded and so dirt encrusted they looked like someone had painted them with menstrual blood and smeared shit.
“No way!” Mitch said. “There ain’t enough antibiotics left in the Ward to get me in there!” He slapped Stu and Chip on the shoulders. “Right guys?”
Stu laughed and he and Mitch kept walking, but Chip lagged behind. After a couple of paces Mitch realized he was missing a comrade and turned to call back. “You coming, Chipster?”
Chip didn’t move. He just watched the doors.
“Hey! It’s New Year’s! Let’s go!” Stu called out.
Jestor looked Chip up and down and knew what he had in front of him. “You gentlemen carry on,” he said. “I think your boy here has other plans.”
“Suit yourself, you little freakin’ perv,” Mitch said, walking away with Stu right on his heels. “Don’t come crying to me when your pecker falls off.” Then they were gone around the corner leaving Chip to Jestor.
“So,” Jestor began. “What you looking for?”
Chip looked away from the doors and locked his eyes onto Jestor’s. “You know what I’m looking for.”
Jestor laughed. “Yeah, I guess I do. Follow me kid. I’m sure I got what you want.”
Inside the building was dank, dark and smelled of shit, piss and sex. But, there was another smell, a smell Jestor didn’t much care for, but tolerated because it fetched a certain price.
“Down here.” Jestor directed Chip to a small set of stairs at the end of the hallway and past the curtained doorways.
By the time they were at the bottom of the stairs, Jestor had placed a perfumed handkerchief to his mouth and nose. Chip, on the other hand, breathed deep the putrid odor. The odor of the Rotted.
“What’s your kink?” Jestor asked, his voice muffled.
“Redheads,” Chip answered. “Real.”
Jestor stepped to the third door on the right. “She’s, um, all yours. And all real,” he said, his hand extended. Chip automatically reached for his wallet and pulled out three crisp bills. Jestor laughed. “You know the price. Guess this isn’t your first rodeo.”
Chip opened the door and looked down upon the writhing form chained to the floor. Jestor had to fight his gorge. “You’ll want to wear a couple extra rubbers. She’s a little worse for wear.”
Chip fixed Jestor with a hard stare. “I don’t need condoms.” He licked his lips, his tongue tracing the skin and then his teeth. “It’s all about the head with these things.”
Jestor tried to smile, and then closed the door after the kid. He shivered as he walked back upstairs, pocketing the bills. “Another Happy New Year in the Apocalypse…”
The Scatological Reincarnation of Luke Bloomberg
“Lickspittle Blabberfatz!” Coach yelled. “Get your fat ass over here!’
Lickspittle Blabberfatz pried his 6 foot, 450 pound bulk off the gymnasium bench and shuffled over to Coach. His long, stringy blonde hair hung over his eyes; eyes that were cast down at his duct tape wrapped sneakers, refusing to look up. His tattered sweat shorts slipped from the top off his buttocks, revealing torn, tighty-not-so-whiteys and a plumbers crack that was less than clean. He pitifully picked his nose, wiped the offending treasure on his Balmouth Sound High School t-shirt and stopped five feet from Coach, still looking at his Upchuck Taylors.
“Boy, I said get your fat ass over here!” Coach bellowed, pointing to a spot directly in front of his manly, clean, freshly-pressed, gym-shorted personage.
Lickspittle shuffled closer, but stopped just shy of the Coach’s intended destination.
“God Damnit! Do I have to teach you how to freaking walk? Do I? Look at me when I talk to you boy!”
Without looking up at Coach, or any warning from himself, Lickspittle Blabberfatz crapped his shorts. Right then, right there. In front of the entire third period gym class. And horrifyingly, in front of Jasmine Von Skoopen, who Lickspittle thought was the smartest, prettiest, most popular girl at Balmouth Sound High School.
Everyone started laughing, thirty seniors, the two assistant coaches and the entire varsity cheerleading squad that was practicing at the far end of the gym. They all laughed and pointed and shouted and said horrible, horrible things to young Mr. Blabberfatz. All except Jasmine Von Skoopen, who, for some reason, had always been kind to Lickspittle. She did not laugh, but stepped away from the cheer squad, her hand to her heart, nor did she turn away when the smell hit her. The others all turned away, though, holding their noses, mouths covered, gag reflexes being fought. Some rushed to the locker rooms, knowing they would lose the gag fight.
“My God, boy! What the hell did you do?” Coach screamed, a vocal, baritone version of his Coach’s whistle. “Did you crap yourself? Are you a freaking baby, Blabberfatz?”
Lickspittle answered rectally with another voiding of his bowels. The smell! The smell was incredible! Six-month-old tofu shoved up a dying camel’s ass after being given a rancid goat yogurt enema was the first layer of stench. The pickled smegma of a thousand nursing home ex-whores was the second layer of olfactory blasphemy. The third layer could not be put into words, the reek so consciousness-shredding, so mind-bendingly putrid. The fourth and last layer was bacon. Crispy brown bacon, not the soggy still-see-through-the-fat kind. Lickspittle Blabberfatz sniffed at the air and frowned deeper than his usual ‘I am so fat and hated’ frown.
“Excuse me,” Lickspittle croaked.
“Excuse me? Excuse me? Are you God Damn kidding me? You just shat yourself! That wasn’t some squeaker you poofed out your enormous butt! You dumped in your drawers! Twice, for God’s sake!” bellowed Coach, his overgrown, 1977 moustache trying desperately to crawl up his nostrils to get away from the evil emanating from Lickspittle Blabberfatz’s posterior. “You are a disgusting blob, Blabberfatz!”
Lickspittle stood there, feces streaming down his corpulent thighs and calves, onto his shoes, the gym floor. He sniffled lightly, but said nothing as the uncharacteristically liquid excrement pooled around his sorry excuse for shoes, seeping between the cracks in the duct tape, canvas and rubber. He could hear the jeers and guffaws; the whip crack of pointing fingers; the thought balloons of disgust. Lickspittle sniffed again and reached back to scratch his ass.
“Oh my God, you freaking retard! You now have crap all over your hand! What in God’s name are you thinking? What could possibly be going through that Twinkie-addled brain of yours?” Coach hollered, jabbing his right middle finger into the air space between Lickspittle and himself. “Go get yourself cleaned up! I don’t want to see your fat face again today! Do you hear me Blabberfatz?”
“Sorry,” Lickspittle Blabberfatz said, turning away from Coach as he shit-slipped and shit-slid his way to the locker room, leaving a slug trail of liquid scat in his wake. All the while he tried to keep his soiled sweat shorts from falling off his offending ass. Behind him he could hear Coach screaming for someone to get the janitor and “Clean this freaking mess up!”
The laughter exploded bigger, meaner and nastier and filled the gymnasium as soon as the locker room door latched shut. Lickspittle found his locker and stripped his soiled clothes from his body, peeling his shorts and underwear from between the shit-glued fat rolls of his thighs. He tossed them into the trash can at the end of the locker row.
Before he could make it to the showers, more excrement poured from his now stinging butt. It splashed onto the institutional tile, splattering back up his legs. He looked down, terrified now. He couldn’t understand what was happening. Except for the expansion/contraction of his anus, there was no feeling coming from down below. No tight warning from his insi
des telling him to go squeeze one off. No crampy, near-pain to say that breakfast was making room for lunch. It was like the on/off switch to his colon was shorted out. One second, no crap; the next second, crap. And oh so very runny crap it was. Lickspittle lumbered into the showers, feeling truly empty inside and turned on a nozzle, hoping to rinse his shame away.
He knew they were coming for him as he turned the water on. His Weird Kid radar could sense them; could hear their barely contained malevolent whispers. It was part of his daily cycle, and he only wondered what it would be this time. The answer came in a painful smack to the backside of his head. He had learned over time that attacks were less likely in the showers if he kept his butt aimed at the shower entrance. His massive ass cheeks seemed to repel and repulse the bullies. No one wanted to be seen approaching those gigantic buns, for high schoolers that would push too many homophobic buttons. But, today his elephantine tush seemed to have lost the usual kryptonitic effect as another blow struck his head.
When he turned around to face his attackers he got an eyeful of flying bright pink. The impact rocked his head back and sent him sprawling onto his filth covered haunches. Haunches that now seemed to spew forth an even greater volume of not so solid waste. Lickspittle grabbed at his eye as soon as the pain registered. He looked down at the shower floor and saw three urinal cakes lying in the drain, excrement swirling about them in a psychedelic sewage ballet. The fourth urinal cake broke his concentration when it skipped off his forehead. He followed the trajectory and saw them standing there, the popular, the not so popular, the formerly persecuted, their hands full of urinal cakes. As one the bullying horde lifted their throwing arms and attacked without remorse. Lickspittle Blabberfatz desperately tried to ward off the fluorescent blitzkrieg with flailing arms and head dodges, all the while his insides continued to void themselves.
Soon he was huddled in the corner of the showers surrounded by pink projectiles and brown colored municipal water. The barrage stopped as the mob ran out of ammo. They began the taunts and insults in earnest, hoping that words would hurt enough while they waited to be re-supplied.
Lickspittle Blabberfatz slowly forced himself to stand, sending one final, awesome deluge of crap out and down. When he was fully on his feet the locker room went quiet. The sudden silence made Lickspittle dare to look directly at his attackers. All of them stared at him, jaws dropped, mouths agape, stunned.
Puzzled, Lickspittle glanced behind him, wondering if someone else was in the shower. No one was. He looked back at his enemies as they continued to stare with their well-built, social life-having, success-bound eyes. They were looking at his body. For the first time since he could remember, eyes were not averted from his obese form. He looked down at himself and his knees buckled and gave way.
Patting his body with his hands, he struggled to find the fat that defined him. Instead of rolls of lard, his hands encountered sagging, empty flesh, as if the fat had been sucked out with a straw. The loose skin flopped in his hands. If not for his nervous system registering the feelings, he would not have believed he was holding mounds of his own inelastic skin. He grabbed at it, smacked it, flipped it about, still not quite comprehending what had happened.
Looking up once more, Lickspittle would have crapped himself out of fear, if he had any crap left. Instead of urinal cakes, the crazed bunch of testosterone fueled, hate junkies were holding baseball bats, hockey sticks, tennis rackets and even a couple ping pong paddles. Lickspittle Blabberfatz gulped and scooched his back up against the antique avocado-colored tile that lined the showers. Tears welled in his eyes.
“Freak,” one of the better-thans said. The others nodded their agreement and as a single homicidal unit they converged on Lickspittle, bats smacking palms, sticks raised, rackets swinging side to side, paddles fanning the air. Then they were on him. Lickspittle tried to curl into a tight ball, but his limbs became tangled in his flesh flaps and he cried out defenseless and exposed.
When they were done, Lickspittle Blabberfatz was left broken and bleeding, sprawled on the shower floor, semi-conscious. Piss rained down on his head as one of them decided a final indignity was necessary for the survival of the human race. Closing his eyes to the acrid stream, Lickspittle waited for them all to leave.
When he heard the locker room door slam shut and empty silence fill the torture chamber, he tried to get to his feet. Several attempts proved unsuccessful, as a broken arm betrayed him, cracked ribs defied him and an alarming amount of his own blood mocked him and kept him from gaining purchase. Lickspittle Blabberfatz closed his eyes and sobbed, emptying his soul of self-pity and loathing, leaving his psyche bunched and deflated like his implausible new form.
“Here, let me help,” the Angel’s voice said.
Through swollen lids, he could see the Holy School Spirit standing before him. Dressed in her specially embroidered BSHS half- shirt, matching pleated cheer skirt and always white sneakers, Jasmine Von Skoopen held out her hand…and a towel. She didn’t seem shocked or repulsed by his beaten, fatless, skin-hanging body. He stared at her hand, wary and gun shy.
“Come on, Luke, it’s okay. Take my hand.”
The use of his real name, not the evil nickname he had been saddled with since 4th grade, seemed to jar him out of his disbelief. Slowly he reached up and took her perfect, blessedly smooth-skinned hand and Jasmine Von Skoopen brought Luke Bloomberg to his feet.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“Of course,” she smiled. “Do you remember when I came to this school sophomore year?” She assisted Luke in draping a towel around his nakedness, his ribs and arm not allowing him to perform the simple task himself. When her bare arms touched him he shivered and cringed. “It’s okay, you’ll be sensitive for a bit. But, you’ll adjust, trust me. Do you remember when I started at BSHS?”
“Yes, very much,” Luke answered, his eyes locked onto his 5’4” savior’s cherubic face.
“There was a reason I left my last school,” she said. They stopped in front of Luke’s locker and she helped him slowly dress in what had always been tight, ill-fitting clothes. They were now hopelessly baggy and hung off him likle an empty tent on a single pole. “I think you are the only person that can understand that reason now. It happened to me, Luke and others out there, too. I had a feeling about you when we first met in Geometry.” She smiled sweetly and tenderly stroked Luke’s beaten face. “I was looking for you.”
“Looking for me?” Luke looked deep into Jasmine’s eyes and fought to keep the tears from spilling. He reached up and took her hand from his face, her perfect brown eyes saying everything he needed to hear.
“Are you hungry?” Luke asked carefully.
“Yes, Luke, yes I am hungry,” Jasmine responded, grinning widely, never breaking eye contact. She squeezed his hand and grabbed his school bag for him. He put his arm around her shoulders and she helped walk him to the locker room exit. “I think first we’ll go to the ER, though. And we may need to find you some new clothes.”
“Okay,” Luke grinned painfully. “Will you help me pick them out?”
“I’d love nothing more. Oh, and don’t worry about all the skin, it’ll snap back,” she said, patting her own belly.
“It doesn’t matter if it does,” sighed the new Luke Bloomberg. “So how do we find the others? The others like us?”
“Oh, you’ll know. Trust me. You just have to look in their eyes,” Jasmine smiled as the locker room door swung shut behind them.
Let Old Friends be Forgot…
Wednesday, December 15th- Daybreak
I can see out the window this morning. The fog has finally lifted, leaving a clear view of everything beyond the fence line. The mountains are glorious; the dawn light glints off the snow sending a pink radiance glittering across the landscape. Makes the world look like it was decorated by a six-year-old girl. The air is clear and crisp. Wish there weren’t a couple hundred Reamers scraping at the fence. Sorta ruins the moment.
Wednesday, Dec
ember 15th- Lunchtime
I am eating the last of the cat food for lunch. I may have to eat the cat tomorrow. He’s pretty much skin and bones though. I am not sure if I’d even get any nourishment. I may do it out of self-preservation though. I think he may kill me in my sleep tonight and eat me. I swear he killed and stashed Leon last week. I still can’t find the body and I know he never left the compound.
Wednesday, December 15th- Midnight
Well today thoroughly sucked. There were two fence breaches. I took out 18 Reamers before I could fix the first one. A couple nearly touched me, but I was able to fend them off. By the time I had that one taken care of, another section gave way. It took me two hours to corral the jerks and another two to fix the fence then I still had to execute the horny bastards and burn their bodies. I try to keep a couple Reamer corpses on hand to light on fire when I see they are bunching up in one spot. It doesn’t make them go away completely, but they will disperse and wander around for awhile. It kinda pisses them off though. God, I am exhausted.
Thursday, December 16th – Pre-dawn
Woke up to a horrible howling. Turns out the dog ate the cat. Don’t blame him; you have to do what you have to do. Looks like I may have to eat the dog. I’ll scrounge as much as possible. I think there are still some roots out in the garden. The ground is so frozen though. I’m not sure I have the energy to dig. I’d probably burn more calories trying to get at the roots than they are worth. I hate being hungry. I don’t mind the ever present terror and knowing that some day I could be one of them. I can take care of myself when the time comes. I have zero plans of being gang raped by those fuckers out there and I sure as shit won’t become one of them. I am going to try to get some more sleep before the day starts. They’ve been slowing down due to the cold, so at least my days are easier lately. We need a good hard freeze to kill a few off so I can get a decent night’s sleep and be able to rest. I’m burning too many calories each day.
