Baby's First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit

by Robert Devereaux

  Baby's First Book of Seriously Fucked-Up Shit

  Robert Devereaux

  From an orgy between God, Satan, Adam and Eve to beauty pageants for fetuses. From a giant human-absorbing tongue to a place where God is in the eyes of the psychopathic. This is a party at the furthest limits of human decency and cruelty. Robert Devereaux is your host but watch out, he’s spiked the punch with drugs, sex, and dismemberment.

  Deadite Press is proud to present ten stories of the strange, the gross, and the just plain fucked up from one of the most original voices in horror — Robert Devereaux.

  Robert Devereaux

  BABY’S FIRST BOOK OF SERIOUSLY FUCKED-UP SHIT

  To the creative spirit in us all.

  Our damnation if we ignore it,

  Our salvation if we embrace, nurture,

  And set it free to dance

  Beneath sun and stars.

  Away with all bushel baskets!

  SHOWDOWN AT STINKING SPRINGS

  Tiffany knocked. She heard someone—her subject, she guessed, though the step seemed too spry—approach the door and snap open the locks. The ornate brass doorknob eased about.

  Kyle Hardwick’s weather-beaten face caught Tiffany by surprise, it glowed so with life. More like a horny teenager’s, those eyes of his, than a man about to celebrate his hundred and twentieth year. His skin was cracked and scored like old parchment. Some boyhood disfigurement had marked the flesh from his nose to the shell-curve of his ears, as if a shockwave of some sort had blasted it.

  “By my reckoning, you’d be the lovely Miss Walker, oral historian extraordinaire,” he said in tones rich with the sounds of sagebrush and rawhide.

  His eyes danced like campfires, his voice as thick and downhome as hickory smoke. Kyle’s face, she thought, might even be considered handsome in a perverse geriatric way. A thrill coursed through her. If his memories and the telling of them lived up to this preamble, she might come away with not just something for her archives but an honest-to-God spoken-word recording. She might even spark the interest of a documentarian, a pro like Chip Kendall, whom she had met and bedded in Waco at a conference the summer before.

  “I like your apartment, Mr. Hardwick.”

  He dismissed it with a gesture. “It serves. Live long enough, one apartment’s like the next. Won’t you kindly take a seat here by the window? Gives you a choice view of the traffic down below. You can set your player on this footstool.

  Outlet’s over yonder.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Hardwick.”

  “Welcome. And call me Kyle. All my woman friends do.

  Got lots of ’em, I do, sweet Tiffany, but there’s always room for another. Particularly one with a saucy rump like yours, thighs just made for a man’s caress, and a bosom anyone’d be proud to tongue to two stiff blushing points.”

  Tiffany, taken aback, was more amused than shocked. She put on mock-anger. “Why, sir, you’d best mind your manners.”

  “Sense of humor. I like that.” His eyes twinkled. “Us old codgers, we’re as cute and cuddly as snug buttons. Don’t go denying it. It lets us get away with talking like that, ‘cause we don’t have time to waste skirting around the truth. The truth is, I want you Tiffany Walker, and I mean to have you.”

  She laughed at the audacity of it. Even so, she felt a rush overwhelm her womanhood, moisten it, make it swell in a way she thought absurd. “Well, Kyle, let’s get to the business at hand, shall we? You promised”—(here she pressed Record)—“as the sole survivor of the fire that destroyed the town of Stinking Springs, New Mexico, summer of 1882, to relate exactly what happened that day.”

  “That I did.”

  He gave Tiffany a wry wink, leaned forward on the sofa, gnarled hands knuckled between his knees, and launched into his narrative.

  Everyone, began Kyle, has heard of Paul Bunyan, who scooped out the Great Lakes to quench the thirst of Babe, his big blue ox. And they’ve heard of Pecos Bill, raised by coyotes, a fellow they say threw fistfuls of fishhooks into his liquor to give it that extra zing.

  But few know anything about Hefty Jake Gentry, the hardest-humping, biggest-balled, thickest-dicked darling of all of Western womanhood at the time whereof I speak.

  And fewer still have heard of Lily Mae Dalton, captured while yet a virgin by a band of Mimbres Apache warriors gone dishonorable, compelled thereafter into a savage love of manflesh, but freed by her own burgeoning appetites. Those braves could break the wildest mustang that bucked and weaved beneath them, but they were no match for Lily Mae when she threw off the shackles of civilized behavior and let free the fire in her belly. To speak plain, she fucked those boys to death she did. When the dust had cleared and Lily gentled her sweat-soaked body down from the heights of orgasm, she was amazed and dismayed to find dead red corpses sprawled everywhere, young and muscular and grinning to beat the band, but dead as dead could be. What was worse to Lily, not yet quite fulfilled, was that their dark dicks hung limp between their thighs, never to stiffen nor thrust again.

  From the latter part of the ’70s up to their demise on the main street of Stinking Springs in ’82, Hefty Jake Gentry and Lily Mae Dalton proved the bane of tiny towns struggling to poke their heads above soil and sprout into bigger ones.

  Hefty Jake would ride into town, his pecker as proud and tall as a flagpole behind his saddlehorn, and all the womenfolk’d swarm into the streets, their fingers flying this way and that, tearing off dresses and underthings and flinging themselves down, open and ready, onto billows of muslin and calico. A great keening would fly up into the sky from scores of needy mouths. White arms were flung wide to welcome him in, and whiter thighs as well. The menfolk? They just stood by drained and helpless while virile Jake strode and poked, stroked and sucked, tilled and plowed and Johnny-Appleseeded his way up and down the street. The foolhardy soul who dared go for his gun took one bullet betwixt the eyes and another through the groin for his pains, but Hefty Jake never missed a stroke as he gunned those crazy cockwielders down. Trouble was, the ladies ended up being sated a lifetime’s worth. And the men?

  They were unable to get their dicks up thereafter no matter what the temptation, so demoralizing had it been to watch Jake please their women.

  Lily Mae had much the same effect. She went through lovers like a thresher through wheat. And when Lily Mae spent a man, his balls shriveled up tight as two sun-dried peas and stayed that way. His dicktip—though he had to lift the limp thing to see it—wore a thin smile, but it was a smile that said,

  “I am finished. Wiped out. Done. Fucked and richly paid,” not

  “That was heavenly. Now find me some other woman, cause I’m stiff and ready to slide on home again.”

  It’s a fact of life: Towns die if folks don’t fuck new babies into the world.

  Towns died then. Lots of them.

  Men lost their oomph. Homesteads went undefended, cattle roamed unherded, women were carried off or got fed up at the cockless ways of the demoralized scruffbuckets around them and left. The men sat in saloons listening to off-key piano music and staring at beer. Their minds did nothing but replay memories of Lily Mae straddling them, her wild-honey sex hair swirling up and whipping about like a rage of flame betwixt their belly and hers.

  “Seems to be a sheen of perspiration on your brow, Tiffany darling,” came Kyle’s leathery voice, full of kindness and caring. “Highly becoming of course. Makes your lovely face glow. But maybe you could do with some iced tea or a cool sip of cream soda.”

  Tiffany blinked in confusion, then pulled herself together.

  “Um… iced tea sounds good.” She reached out, hit Pause, and swept a strand of
hair into place. Her hands wandered to her lapels. “Do you mind if I—”

  “Remove your suit-jacket? Be my guest. You’ll be cooler.

  More comfortable. Besides, it’ll give old Kyle a better view of those lovely breasts of yours.”

  Before Tiffany could reply, he was gone. The bounce in his step astounded her, a man his age. And she could scarcely believe how moist she had grown. It felt good, very good.

  But ridiculous too. She never went for old men, even ones that came on to her. But Kyle wasn’t like them. He was kind and sweet and gentle, despite the frank language of his recollections. His voice was rich and vigorous and, she had to admit it, downright seductive. His hands moved as he spoke, molding his tale as a potter molds clay. The sight of them thrilled her. Those hands had been places, secret places on a woman’s body, and they knew how to make those places sing.

  Kyle returned from the kitchen with a tall tumbler, swirling and clinking with ice. He set it down beside Tiffany’s tape recorder and gazed in admiration at the fullness of her breasts.

  “Beautiful,” he said, smiling into her eyes.

  She struggled for breath. “Nature’s bounty,” she joked.

  “They are indeed,” he said. His voice, close now, no more than three feet away, rode like a caring lover’s tongue up along Tiffany’s swollen pussy-lips, pulsing at her clit. She gasped for breath, struggling to hide his effect on her. “Now then,” he said, releasing the Pause button and resuming his seat on the sofa, “where did I leave off? Ah, yes.”

  Right around the time El Paso’s famed marshall Dallas Stoudenmire got himself killed on the streets of that fair city, Lily Mae Dalton and Hefty Jake Gentry converged—from opposite ways and unbeknownst to one another—on the unsuspecting town of Stinking Springs, New Mexico.

  Town? Hell, it was more like two bricks and a board, a few bent nails, some windows, and a whole heap of prayer and pretending. But back then I called it home, me all of eighteen and knowing no better.

  I knew one thing though: My dick was dying to jilt my fist, to wrap itself snug and warm in some gal’s wet hot pussy.

  My friends’ dicks too. We pooled our meager funds and drew straws. I won the draw. Went right over to Hank Plowright’s smithy, two doors down from the saloon, where he was stoking the fires, preparatory to shoeing a horse. I held out my coins and a grimace broke over his big beefy face. “She’s up those stairs, boy,” he said. “This buys you fifteen minutes.

  No more. If your skinny little pecker ain’t disengaged from my daughter’s twat in fifteen minutes, I’ll double-brand your balls, so help me God. Now git!”

  I got.

  Not two minutes later, Annie and me were free of all fetter and jouncing the fuck out of her springs (they’d suffered a load of jouncing) right there on her mung-stenched bed by a wide-open window that let out onto the main street. Many’s the time me and my friends’d loiter beneath that window, listening to some cowpoke grunt his wages into good old Annie Plowright, blazing a trail to heaven. Now ’twas me that clambered up her cumulus flesh, hand over fist, approaching the pearly gates of here-I-come-Jesus.

  But over the noise of our jouncing, I heard Stinking Springs leap suddenly to life. Doors slammed, dogs took to howling like coyotes, boots pounded on the planking down below, and voices rose up in holler and shout. Couldn’t say at first whether ’twas anger, or joy, or fear, or something else that provoked it.

  Annie heard it too. She slowed her hips and hove her eyes toward the window. “What the heck’s goin’ on out there?” she asked.

  I told her I didn’t know. Didn’t much care one way or the other. Not where I was situated at the moment.

  “Can the crap, Kyle,” she said. “I care what’s raising such a ruckus. Pull out and let me up.”

  I did and damned if she didn’t lean on the sill, poke her head out the window, reach behind her, and shove my stiffness back up inside her like she was a bitch and I was her spry old hound dog. Felt good to ease into her again and lean down along her back, gathering those big balloony bazooms into my hands. Her hair, which was the color and consistency of straw, smelled like a hayloft, but I nuzzled her neck anyway and found a pleasing rhythm below.

  I could see just about the whole stretch of street and most of the buildings over yonder. Folks were lined up three-deep in front of the bank and off in either direction. Faces filled the windows. I thought to pull back for modesty’s sake, but no one was taking any notice of Annie and me. They had their sights trained in one direction or the other. What struck me as odd though was that, without exception, the women were staring off to our left and the men sharp right.

  The doorbell rang.

  Kyle looked up, smiled at Tiffany, and hit the Pause button.

  “Must be Dawn and Felicity,” said Kyle. “Always forgetting their keys. ’Scuse me a second, lovely lady.” He rose and went to the door.

  Tiffany took the opportunity to kick off her shoes and undo the top buttons of her blouse. She found the old man’s voice surprisingly seductive, and its effect seemed to be cumulative: He looked better with each passing moment. She couldn’t remember being so horny.

  The door burst open under Kyle’s hand and two women loaded down with bags of groceries rode the explosion in. They planted wide-mouthed burrowing kisses on his cheeks, kisses that left bright crimson smears. Then they breezed by him, chattering nonstop, into the kitchen. The brunette (Felicity she guessed), tall, lithe, and taut-muscled, sizzled with spring-loaded zest. Her companion, Dawn, was a billowy blonde, as buxom and luscious as a peach tree plumped up and brimming with sun-blushed fruit.

  Kyle shrugged happily. “My live-in lovers,” he said, resuming his seat. “They may wander in and out. Pay them no mind. They’ve been told not to bother us.”

  “Your live-in what?”

  Dawn poked her head around the kitchen door. “Kyle honey… oh, hi… um, sorry, Miss—”

  “Tiffany,” she said. “Tiffany Walker.”

  “Oh sure, now I remember. Like Tiffany lamps. You look swell. Soft as a peach. Kyle sure can pick ’em, can’t he?”

  Then to Kyle: “You want something to eat, baby?”

  “You and Felicity,” said Kyle, “I want your sweet tangy nectar oozing all over my face and delighting this old man’s tongue.”

  Dawn beamed a smile that could melt diamonds. “Ooh Kyle honey, you’re making me flush and pucker all over.” She blew him a kiss and was gone.

  “Now where were we?” Kyle asked. “Tiffany?”

  She was feeling light-headed. “Um?”

  “Undo one more button, will you? For my sake.”

  She did as he asked.

  Kyle smiled and fingered Pause again.

  * * *

  With my rod tucked snug inside Annie and my palms to either side of her elbows on the window sill, I could see Hefty Jake riding into town off to our left, his jet-black stallion snorting like a raging bull. Jake’s manhood rode before him, standing up stiff as a knight’s lance. Its tip glistened like red brass in the sunlight and its shaft was as hard and empurpled as dark amethyst.

  At the peal of a high whinny to my right, I swung my head about and took in, not far distant, Lily Mae astride a milk-white filly, its chestnut mane flowing free. Jesus God I just about let fly with Old Faithful then and there. Annie was dull meat beside this vision. Lily Mae rode in without a stitch, high-breasted, full-hipped, with a face that begged to be fucked and loved, and hair that tumbled long and blond down her back. Her black leather saddle, studded all over with silver, glistened where her pussy-lips kissed it. Lily Mae dismounted. The sight of her shapely legs and the gape of her golden-haired gash made my heart clamor and half the town gasp. She dropped to the street like a gymnast coming off the parallel bars.

  Touching boot to ground, Hefty Jake slapped his steed smack on its ebony rump to give himself room. Then he tore off his clothes and flung them aside. I saw Sadie Flynn the preacher’s wife faint and fall in front of the bank. No one not
iced her but me, they were all so busy goggling their eyes. You could tell Jake was riled and upset. Put off his stride. He wasn’t used to streets that stayed empty of womenfolk this long.

  My cock was suddenly awash in whorish cunt-fluid.

  “Glory be, what a man!” gushed Annie.

  “Lily Mae Dalton,” shouted Jake. “You plant your pert little butt right back on that filly and ride out the way you came. This town belongs to me.”

  Her voice shot back smooth as silk, filling the air like the aroma of angel-pussy. “Tell you what, Hefty Jake. I’ll hump you for it. First one what makes their offering to the God o’

  Love skedaddles on out of here and leaves Stinking Springs to the other.”

  “You’re on, gal,” he replied. “Bring that gilded twat of yours over here. Let’s see what you got.”

  “Meet you halfway,” she said, and the face-off began.

  You could feel the air compress and ripple between them as they drew closer—Hefty Jake tanned and muscled, his pecker swaying like an ancient oak in a high wind as he walked; Lily Mae with breasts that jutted and hung, a tight flat plane of belly, hips that flared like nasty tempers, and a pussy that was pure invitation. A water trough began to bubble as Jake strode past it. Then it broke into a full boil, steam rising up from its troubled surface. Two tumbleweeds skittered into one another just behind where Lily Mae’s heel detonated a puff of dust.

  They burst into flame, flared and crackled, and hissed out.

  When Jake grabbed hold of Lily Mae’s right hip and her fingers closed about his shaft, a whipped-up gust of wind dusted the citizenry. It shoved them back against buildings, brought their hands to their mouths. The wind hit me and Annie as well, gale force. It made it hard to breathe. Hard to keep my eyes open. Behind us, combs and bottles clattered off Annie’s dresser to the floor. But I kept stoking her hole, and both of us let our fears fuel our fucking. It was sweet, I’ll tell you. Sweet as it gets.