“That’s it! I’ve had enough of you!” Wells shouted, waving for the guard.
“Actually, you haven’t had any, which explains all your mancheesmo and the fetching teal tint I noticed on your balls earlier.”
Wells growled and backhanded the sauce rack, creamy ranch cups flying, squirting everywhere like a circle jerk finale caught in a tornado. “Take her to the hole!”
Spike sighed. “Ooops.” She hadn’t meant to push him that far.
The guard circled around the counter and grabbed her by the arm. Spike stiffened against him, but she didn’t resist. Just one more, she thought, repeating it until it became a mantra. Just one more. Just one more.
“Get her out of my face.” Wells went to storm off but caught his foot on a patch of ranch spew and slipped. Arms windmilling, he fell on his ass, a juicy squelch resounding.
Spike exploded into laughter as Wells raged against the cream, and the guard paused, torn between kissing his boss’s ass and rescuing him or doing what he’d been told, allowing Spike to enjoy the show.
“Go!” Wells cursed and howled, sliding around as if he were riding a semen Slip `N Slide. “Go! And make sure you take that fucking toy away from her.”
“White definitely brings out the shine of your lips,” she spit out before the guard dragged her off, pulling her through the service corridor that led to the back of the store.
As he unlocked the door and threw back the steel bolts, Spike groaned. As much fun as it had been to antagonize Wells, she knew the hell that awaited her about a half-dozen yards across the yard.
The hole.
Or, more aptly, the shed.
It wasn’t like Doomino’s had spent any real money on building a concrete holding cell for solitary confinement. Shit, she figured Mr. Doom didn’t even know the place existed. He wouldn’t approve, she didn’t think. The restaurant didn’t make money without its drivers, and locking them away in a place that sapped them of their will to live was counterproductive to his way of thinking. There was money to be made on the road, by the show.
Apocalyptic Pizza Delivery was the red-carpet carrot wiggling before the inmates’ noses. It kept them charging forward, the little dick-wranglers grabbing for the Americunt dream of one day being free, owning a business, and sticking it to the man, though some of the guys wanted that last bit a bit more literally than others. Still, Wells had figured out a way to make his drivers suffer regardless what old man Doom wanted. And that suffering was exactly what awaited Spike.
The guard pushed her hard against the corrugated wall of the shed as he unlocked it, the door creaking open a moment later. “You know the drill,” he told her.
“Bend over and cough?”
“Hand the contraband over.”
Spike sighed and pulled the leg of her jumpsuit up, revealing the giant pink dildo stuffed in her sock. She pulled it out and slapped it into his waiting palm. He flipped it over, catching it, and stuffing it in his pocket.
“You handled that nicely. You should go pro.”
The guard growled and grabbed her arm again, tossing her inside the tiny shed. A cold shudder ran down her spine as he slammed the door shut and engaged the locks, sealing her in darkness. His booted footsteps stomped away, leaving her in silence, only the sound of her breaths echoing in her ears. She dropped to the concrete floor, the cold nipping at her ass cheeks, reminding her of that one time she’d stuck an icicle on a snowman and fucked him until he was a puddle.
She skittered into the corner and did her best to hold onto that pleasant memory, Frosty blowing his icy load inside her, but she knew it wouldn’t last. And she was right.
Buckle up, bitch! You’re going for a ride.
Not a moment later, Wells Master’s Degree in Deviance fucked her like defaulted student loans.
The shed was bathed in brilliant, flickering light as the array of televisions mounted on every inch of the walls and ceiling came to life, each safely nestled behind unbreakable plastic guards. At the same time, hidden speakers erupted with a blast of noise, first a wash of static that made her nipples pop like turkey timers, then the real torture began.
Through the speakers, Dead or Alive’s “You Spin Me Round” assailed her at a volume that would have made Nigel Tufnel squirt a little. Her implant only made things worse, running the lyrics across the inside of her eye in flashing red, the font growing until it filled the screen, dancing out of sync to the music.
She clamped her hands to her ears and shouted the lyrics to GG Allin’s “Ass Fuckin' Butt Suckin' Cunt Lickin' Masturbation” in hopes of drowning out the tuneless pop barrage. Though the complicated lyrics were sometimes hard to remember, she soldiered on.
Knowing there was more to come, she squeezed her eyes shut, but not before the Clockwork Orange-inspired montage of sitcoms bitchslapped her in submission. The Charles in Charge theme slithered serpentine through her brain alongside Fran Drescher’s nasally laugh, the combination raping her eardrums like a quadriplegic war orgy, monstrous black strap-ons loaded for bear on every stump. Then came Joanie Loves Chachi, a sadistically cruel double dose of Scott Baio, and all the defiance in the world oozed from her like last night’s microwave enchiladas after a Boone’s Farm bender.
Spike shrieked and sunk lower, praying for the floor to peel away and Pinhead to show up, offering her a pleasant vacation in the bowels of Hell. She’d have skipped off with him in an instant, happily spit polishing his nails to get the fuck out of the hole before some Right Said Fred bullshit came on.
Still, she fought the urge to surrender, spitting out MDC’s “Multi Death Corporation” like a shield, her vocal cords tearing and filling her throat with bloody spew. She held out hope she could stay strong.
Right up until Wells Rick-rolled her. The strains of “Never Gonna Give You Up” seeped into her skull as Perfect Strangers fluttered across the TVs, Bronson Pinchot's Balki laugh the final straw, booting her over the edge.
Spike screamed until she passed out, then crumpled to the floor, drool spilling from her mouth, making a shiny puddle that bubbled every time she exhaled.
But unconsciousness was no escape.
She dreamt of Webster, wearing a Tupac bandana and forcing her to go down on him while he sang the Geto Boy’s “Size Ain’t Shit” in a piss-poor Jamaican accent.
Still, it wasn’t all bad.
At least he was bigger than Wells.
Eight
Wells straightened his tie, threatening to strangle it like it was him. He hated the fucking things, but while Mr. Doom let Wells slide at work, the cameras all pointed outside for the deliveries, he would brook no defiance of the dress code when the managers met with the multi-billionaire.
The newly pressed slacks swished as Wells walked, and his shoes squeaked like tormented mice on the tile floor of the Doomino’s main office. He paced back and forth in front of the secretary, waiting to be called into Doom’s office. Wells growled low under his breath, his bowels backing up on him with a deep rumble. He fucking hated meeting with the boss.
It’s not that Doom was an asshole or anything. Just the opposite, the man was so pleasant he could toss your cat in a blender and puree it right in front of you and you’d want to hand him one of your kids to go next. He just had a way about him, but that was what bothered Wells the most. Doom’s way.
It was always Doom’s way.
Right, wrong, a total clusterfuck of poodles screwin’ great whites, Doom got his way, the almighty dollar his own personal army, ready and willing to go to war for the old man. And it had, more times than Wells could recollect, and he sure couldn’t see it happening any other way.
And exactly that was what had crawled up Wells’s colon like a tapeworm dictator on parade. He’d come to talk to Doom about Spike, about her last delivery and what was gonna happen when she made that run. Hell on earth is what’s gonna happen. Or at least store 666 was gonna end up being Hell, for him and the rest of the staff loyal to Wells. That was the last thing he wanted.
Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. The last thing he really wanted was to be sucked up an elephant’s asshole like he’d seen on a YouTube video once. Spike as his boss was second to that. But not by much, he had to admit.
“Mr. Doom will see you now, Jackson,” the secretary said. He grunted and forced a smile. Always with the first name, that bitch, thinking they were such good pals she could dispense with the same civility she showed the old man, thinking she was better than him.
“Thank ya, Patsy,” he answered, following the wave of her arm toward the door, like there was any other fucking way he could go or hadn’t been there a thousand times already. He shook his head as he set his hand on the doorknob. When the old fucker Doom finally stiffened up and died, Wells was gonna come back and teach Patsy some manners, south Texas-like.
He drew in a deep, cleansing breath like his therapist told him he needed to do every time he was feeling stressed, which was shot all to shit when he received the bitch’s bill, and twisted the knob, opening the door.
“Come on in, Jackson!” Doom shouted from across the room. “Come on in.”
Wells did just that, shutting the door behind him and sauntering over to the massive oak desk that dwarfed the old man sitting behind it. The room smelled like money and old books, everything Wells’s shitty little apartment on the lower east side would never smell like. His place smelled closer to busted sewer lines and the relentless cloud of skunk weed his hippy, hetero-lifemate neighbors smoked all day long. Got a fucking prescription for it, they told him, some idiot quack apparently believing their bullshit story about having PTSD because their beloved Volkswagen bus had been shit on by Grace Slick at Woodstock. They even had the turd to prove it. It had been stuffed in a trophy box and set on their mantel for the world to see.
Hell, Wells could use a script too, but he couldn’t afford a doctor with loose enough morals to write him one, and he didn’t have no fancy story about a celebrity poopcident to tell neither.
“Have a seat, Jackson. Care for a drink?”
“No, sir. Thank you,” Wells shuffled over to the pair of huge leather chairs and eased down in one, wishing he could take the old man up on the booze, knowing Doom had the best of shit in stock, but Wells knew he wouldn’t stop once he started. He needed to be sober or he’d fuck up and say something stupid. “I’m fine, sir.”
Doom nodded and lifted his glasses, placing them on top of his balding head, his eyes gleaming beneath the crystal chandelier that hung from the rafters. “Don’t see you around much these days, Jackson, but I figured you’d pop in soon enough seeing what’s going down tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. I mean, it is an important day.”
“It is indeed,” Doom said, nodding. “But judging by the look on your face, I’m thinking you might be having some reservations.”
Wells swallowed hard and straightened in his seat. “I am actually. It’s Spike, sir. Uh, I mean Penelope.” Doom brightened at her name, and Wells nearly stood up right then and walked out. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say the old man was smitten with the bitch. But Wells did know better. He knew the old man was smitten with the money she brought in as the star of Apocalyptic Pizza Delivery. She’d been his very first driver, paid a bundle to get her out of her sentence, and earned that back and so much more.
“Go on, Jackson. Speak your piece, son.”
“Well, sir,” he started, wondering just how much he should say given what might happen tomorrow. “You know I understand what you’re doing with her and all, what you hope to accomplish, but are you sure you want to go through with this, sir? I mean, despite the early press and all, you’d be putting a convicted criminal in charge of your store.” Wells swallowed again, pushing at the knot there, feeling like John Holmes was jabbing his dick inside. “And not just any convict, sir, a mass murderer. This woman killed thirty-two teenagers, at a Christian gathering, no less, all because they were taking selfies. That, even with all I seen, seems a bit extreme.”
Mr. Doom eased back into his seat, rubbing at his chin. “I see what you’re saying, Jackson…”
But, Wells thought.
“But we’ve got an opportunity here, son. A chance to make ratings history and show the courts we can rehabilitate wayward folks just as well as we can employ them and keep them off the streets. Well, off the streets for the most part,” he said with a chuckle.
His smooth, soft voice reminded Wells of a preacher, one of them mega church fucks who make everyone believe they’re buying peace when all they’re getting is a dirt plot in the pauper’s yard while the preacher snuggled in virgin silk sheets every night, thanking Jesus for getting nailed.
“If we can show the world that Penelope is rehabilitated because of us, because of the Apocalyptic Pizza Delivery program, we can parlay that into a half-dozen other franchises, son.”
“I hate to be so blunt, but that girl’s beyond rehabilitation. She killed two drivers from rival pizza companies last night, going out of her way to hop out her car to off one of the drivers. That’s just sadistic, sir, and it skirts the law, no matter how you look at it.”
Doom sighed. “I heard about that.”
“You heard?”
“Of course, son. While I trust you to take care of business at the store, a man’s gotta have some eyes around if he wants to stay ahead of the competition.”
Wells groaned under his breath and sank into his chair just a tiny bit. Just what all did the old man know?
“Them boys had it coming, chasing her down the way they did. Despite what she did, you can’t put that charge all on Penelope, though. Might seem like road rage to you, but I see it as self-defense. She might well have gotten a little carried away, stomping that boy’s skull and all, but it’s hard not to take an attempt on your life personal, don’t you think? Besides, you gotta figure someone set them onto her, seeing how it was a last minute delivery there weren’t any cameras running last night, everyone having gone home by then. Seems…poorly coordinated, if you know what I’m getting at.”
Wells went to defend himself, cheeks burning, tongue swelling in his mouth as if it’d been gnawed on by ants, but Doom cut him off with a raised finger.
“Whatever the circumstances, Jackson, whatever the reason for last night’s fiasco, that stuff is behind us, you hear? You’re gonna go back to the store and clean it up, get the place ship shape and make them cars shine for the cameras that’ll be showing up first thing tomorrow.”
He raised a wispy eyebrow as if daring Wells to defy him. Wells, of course, didn’t dare, and he adjusted to sit on his balls to keep them nice and out of the way.
“All the news networks are gonna be there, the world watching the first of our drivers to serve out her sentence and make something of herself. And you’re gonna make sure it happens without a hitch or there will be dire consequences, you understand?”
Well muttered his agreement and got to his feet. Like always, Doom wanted what Doom wanted, and it didn’t matter a squirt of piss what Wells or anyone else wanted.
“Thank you, sir,” Wells said, shuffling toward the door.
“See you tomorrow, Jackson. We’re gonna make history, son. You just make sure Penelope is ready to do her part.”
Wells nodded and left the room, marching out past Patsy, ignoring the pretend pleasantries she hurled at his back as he left. Fuck her. He didn’t have time for it. In less than twelve hours, that bitch Spike would be his boss, and he could already feel her foot wiggling its bony way up his rectum and tickling his ribs.
Wells drew in a deep breath and headed for his car. Things were dire, but he wasn’t beat just yet. Spike was in the hole until morning, and that gave him a little breathing room. He’d find another card to play.
“Go fish, bitch!”
Nine
After what seemed like an eternity in the hole, Spike having been there long enough to dream that Nichelle Nichols had become the latest Doctor Who, William Shatner her sidekick, the TVs flickered and died, dropping
the room into darkness. Crackling static spilled through the speakers with a closeted gasp like David Carradine breathing his satisfied last and shooting a dusty load into his swinging palm.
She lay in the corner, curled fetal, floating in a warm soup of piss and vomit, topped with a heaping layer of tarry green-black feces that could be pressed into vinyl to make the best Kanye song ever produced.
She heard the bolts of the door being drawn and clambered to her feet, clutching to the wall to hold herself upright, legs trembling like an Alabama tween at a family reunion. Goo dripped from her every orifice, Swamp Thing crawling out of her cooch with his hands raised, eager to surrender just to escape the stench.
The door was flung open, and a grinning Wells stood there with a fire hose dangling near his crotch. “Got something for ya, bitch. Open wide!” He turned the hose on and a stream of high-pressure frigidness that rivaled Posh Spice’s stare gushed out.
Spike was slammed into the wall, the stream pushing so hard she could hear the corrugated metal squealing, or maybe it was her bones. She couldn’t be sure. Her face was forced against the aluminum, and she growled as Wells upped the pressure and turned the hose on her ass, driving a rush of water into her pussy as if it were some sort of super douche. It made her ass cheeks flap like an Olympic gold medal twerkist. A little harder and she could have farted thunder.
Not one to miss out on an opportunity, she leaned into the blast so it hit her clit and rode the wave, shuddering and thrashing against the wall until she came. “Yeah, Daddy, just like that,” she screamed.
Wells growled and killed the hose, dropping Spike to the floor. She rolled around to face him, biting her lower lip, chin dripping, her hand cupping and squeezing her crotch.
“Now that was worth every minute in here, Wells,” she said, practicing her kegels and squirting out a jet of foamy water from her pussy, the spray going wild like a drunken sprinkler, filtered through her jumpsuit. “We should do that more often.”
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