Doomino's_Apocalyptic Pizza Delivery_A Bizarro Grindhouse Tale

by Lucas Pederson

  Wells sneered and tossed the hose aside, storming into the shed to grab Spike under the arm. He yanked her to her feet and pulled her from the shed. The cool night air hit her and made diamonds of her nipples. If she hadn’t been so worn out, she’d have used them to slit Wells’s throat.

  He hauled her through the yard, the guards watching from on high through rifle scopes, and led her into the kitchen, slowing down and parading her before the staff like a highly prized PoW on state TV. Not willing to give Wells any satisfaction, she lifted her chin and grinned at her fellow employees. Bannon and Mike laughed and pointed, smirking like two yahoos ready to fling poo, but Spike only grinned wider, puffing out her chest.

  “You two only wish you could get a woman so wet,” she told them, shaking like a dog to spatter them with the shitty piss-water.

  “Ah fuck!” Bannon shouted, catching a whiff of the stuff, his nose scrunched so hard he looked like a hairless Shar Pei. With Wells there to pump up his nuts, he started toward her. “You fucking bitch!”

  “Leave her alone, Asshole.” Javi stepped in between, bumping into Spike and knocking her against the wall behind him as he did.

  “Hey! What the fuck, dude?” she said, but Javi had her pinned in, his hips pressed hard into hers.

  She felt him groping at her chest, thinking he was copping a feel as his hand ran across her tit, thumping over her nipple and making it twang like a doorstop. His fingers finally landed on the zipper of her jumpsuit. She stiffened as the zipper inched down a couple inches, then she felt him stuff something entirely un-fleshlike into her jumpsuit before fondling her again to get the zipper back up. Her eyes widened, realizing what he’d done.

  Spike growled and shoved Javi into Wells, knocking them into the counter, giving Javi’s tattooed ass cheek a quick squeeze of thanks before storming toward the hallway. “I’m not in the mood for this shit. I’m PMSing, and I’ll squirt clotty moon-juice in the eyes of the next motherfucker to touch me,” she said. “I can find my own way to my cell, Wells. Fuck you very much.”

  Before anyone could say anything else, she started off at a fast clip, navigating the narrow halls and racing into her cell. Wells stomped up behind her once she was inside and slammed the door shut, jamming the bolts home to keep her there, which was fine by Spike.

  “Better get comfortable, bitch!” he screamed through the door, not even bothering to open the viewing slot. “You’re gonna be in there a long fucking time. You ain’t making another delivery. Ever!”

  He foamed and frothed outside for a minute, sounding like he was pacing, then shuffled off once he realized she wasn’t going to engage him. After he was gone, she sighed and slumped onto the rancid straw mattress, unzipping her jumpsuit to take a look at what Javi had slipped her.

  She grinned as she pulled the phallic package out from between her tits and unrolled the mass of greasy napkins that hid her prize from her. A subtle whiff of old butter and garlic hit her nose right then, and she chuckled, revealing two stale breadsticks. She set them on the bed, spying a note written in a sloppy mess of pizza sauce on the napkin.

  “Figured you could use something to stuff in your hole,” she read in Javi’s voice, adding a chica to the end.

  She sighed. Now I’m definitely gonna have to suck him off.

  “It’s so worth it though,” she said, sniggering as she snatched up the less stiff of the breadsticks.

  Spike groaned as she took a bite despite the bread crunching against her teeth, the sound echoing through the tiny cell. The stick was easily three days past its sell-by date, she figured, but starving like she was, she didn’t give a damn if Indiana Jones had dug the thing out of Shia LaBeouf’s ass crack. She took another bite, cutting her gums on the jagged edges and tasting the sweet tang of copper. She ignored the pain and stuffed the last bite in her mouth as if auditioning for the remake of Deep Throat.

  After she’d finished chewing, the dry bread sticking to her throat, wishing for a mouthful of briny cum to wash it down with, she glanced at the second breadstick. Unlike the one she’d eaten, this one was an end piece, and it had been cut weird. Girthy, it was about as thick around as her wrist. She got wet just looking at it, running a finger down its length.

  “My, you’re a big one, aren’t you?” She picked it up and licked the salted tip. “I think I’ll save you for later. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge. Know what I mean?”

  The breadstick knew. Oh, it knew.

  She slid it under the edge of her mattress and laid back, imagining the garlic-buttery gush that awaited her when she had more energy. Javi probably hadn’t meant the same hole she was thinking of, but all the same. She could still eat it when she was done. It’d be a hell of a lot softer then, with a nice creamy Spike sauce to add some flavor.

  Fornication with Doomino’s food-prep items is a health code violation!

  She grinned at the display and thought of all the violations she’d racked up already, not that she or the kitchen implements were keeping track, but she was too tired to think about that for long. With Vanilla Ice’s “Ice, Ice, Baby” running relentlessly through her skull thanks to Wells’s torture chamber, she gathered a handful of straw and wadded it under her head so she had a pillow. Her cheek sank into it and, if only for that moment, she forgot about the rat shit and roaches that infested her bedding, and started to drift off.

  Not more than a few minutes later, she snored and dreamed of eviscerating that little robot bitch from Small Wonder.

  Ten

  A sullen creak stabbed Spike in the ear, dragging her out of her dreams of violating Justin Bieber’s ass with a giant, knobby purple dildo in the shape of Barney the dinosaur. He cried out for help, Bieber, not Barney, but Mr. T, jacking off in the corner, Hannibal chewing on a cigar and cheering the plan on, wasn’t having any of it.

  “Shut up and take it, Fool!”

  Eyes filled with the gleam of T’s bling, Spike forced her lids open and shook away the happy haze of seeing Bieber split in twain by a singing dino. “I fuck you, you fuck me, give up that ass or I’ll fuck your whole family!”

  Her vision slowly cleared to realize the brightness wasn’t coming from her dreams, but from the crack of her cell door, opened just an inch. A shadow moved past the crack.

  Spike’s stomach tightened and adrenaline shot through her like pharmaceutical grade amphetamines. She bolted upright in the bed as the shadow lunged at her, smelling of cooking oil and spicy buffalo sauce. A hand grabbed her by the throat and slammed her against the bed. A pizza slicer gleamed above, catching the sliver of light as it slashed toward her.

  She threw her forearm in the way and steel met flesh. Spike bit back a scream as pain seared up her arm, the slicer yanked away, giving off a metallic whirrrrrrr and flinging her blood around like a murderous Ferris wheel. Bueller? Bueller?

  “You better have washed that thing first,” she said with a growl, spotting what looked like old onions and pizza crust on the wheel.

  The shadow loomed, ready to strike again, his Doomino’s cook outfit coming into focus as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She recognized Wilton’s fucked up front grill, the ruin of his teeth better than the FX of half-dozen zombie movies, only his came with a scent. The rot wafted into her face and curled her nose hairs, her eyes watering like a Catholic in confession, clearing the decks for a wild weekend.

  “You should have just died on that last run, Whore,” he said, but Spike barely heard him, her focus on dodging the rancid spittle that showered her. “Would have saved us a lot of trouble.”

  Treat your fellow employees the way you would want to be treated.

  “Yeah,” she said, gasping for breath around his tightening fingers. “It definitely would have.”

  She twisted her leg up under him, setting her shin against the inside of his hip. He slashed at her again, but Spike juked to the side, the blade slicing into her mattress. The roaches shrieked and scattered, Gregor Samsa bitching about missing his train. Spike wrapped her arm around Wil
ton’s, locking it in place. It took him a second to realize it, though. Spike grinned and slid her other shin under him. She shifted her legs, thighs flexing in a way that would make the ghost of Suzanne Somers proud, and lifted him off the floor, his feet dangling.

  “Hey!” he shouted. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “The proper term for it is Jiu Jitsu,” she answered, turning her hips and dragging him to the ground by his arm, spinning as she did so she landed on top, sitting on his stomach. “The more accurate term would be kicking your fucking Nazi ass back into Hitler’s blitzkrieging cunt.”

  Spike slammed an elbow into his nose, shattering the bone with a brittle crunch. Wilton shrieked, forgetting all about his pizza slicer, dropping it to clasp his nose. Blood bubbled between his fingers. He wasn’t getting off the hook that easily, though. She hit him again and again, the impacts reverberating so deeply she was afraid the vibrations running through her would cause her to cum. She clenched her legs together tighter, chasing off the feeling, and hunkered down next to Wilton’s ear.

  “Who the fuck sent you?” she asked, knowing damn well who it was, but she wanted a confession.

  “I ain’t telling you nothing, bitch!” He sneered, and the funk roiling from his mouth damn near blinded her. She blinked and reached up to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand, and that was when Wilton exploded.

  He slammed his palms into her chest and sent her flying. She crashed into the door, knocking it shut at her back, the hard steel sending spasms up her spine. Black dots danced in her vision as Wilton got to his feet and stomped over to her. She scrambled, trying to stand, but he drove his boot into her tit. A scream spilled through clenched teeth, and her collided with the wall again. A planetarium erupted in front of her, stars and planets and moons all whirling around her anus. Then an asteroid smashed into her face, Bruce Willis nowhere to be found to blow the fucker up.

  She rolled with the punch as best she could, grunting at the impact, then lashed out and kicked him in the knee, the bone giving way with a pop. Wilton shouted and stumbled into the bed, crashing into a heap in front of it, his jaw resting against the steel frame.

  “You ain’t fighting Ronda Rousey, Motherfucker!” she screamed as she crawled to her feet. “Tell me Wells sent you!”

  “Fuck you!” he muttered.

  “Fuck me? No, fuck you!” She lifted her foot and slammed him in the face. Bone met steel, and Wilton’s jaw shattered, blackened nubs that had once been teeth went flying like someone had set off a firecracker in a package of licorice Tic Tacs. He shrieked and collapsed the rest of the way to the ground, clawing at his face, but Spike wasn’t done yet. She grabbed his heels and rolled him over, yanking down his jumpsuit and leaving his bare ass hanging out, pinning him to the floor with her foot.

  “Wub yub dubing?” he mumbled.

  She stuffed a hand under the mattress and snatched up her breadstick boyfriend, cradling him in her fist, feeling the salty roughness against her palm. Spike sighed. “Sorry, Buddy. I was gonna so gonna fuck the dough out of you, but things have changed.” She raised the breadstick up and brought the end down on the bed frame. The breadstick snapped like a twig in a hurricane, leaving a jagged edge jutting white from the toasty brown exterior.

  “Last chance to tell me who sent you,” she told Wilton.

  “I’b ainb nob rab,” he told her. Well, he tried to tell her, his tongue wiggling in his busted mouth like a fat grub. “Youb ainb gettib shib.”

  “I ain’t getting shit, huh?”

  She grinned and stepped back, moving to stand between his thighs, sliding her feet outward to spread his legs. Wilton shouted and tried to move, but a hand on the back of his neck held him prone. She pulled the breadstick back and shoved it up Wilton’s ass.

  “Oh, I’m definitely getting shit.”

  He squealed like a cat getting buttfucked by a herd of bulls, and then stiffened. A warm jet of feces and blood gushed from his rectum like a jet sprayer, splattering the floor and painting it an ugly shade of mauve. Wilton thrashed and bucked, screaming into the cold concrete floor, and then went still, his asshole twitching for a few moments, then going slack.

  Murder is sin and illegal, too!

  Spike groaned and rolled to the side, sitting next to Wilton’s body as his bowels continued to evacuate with little spurts of blood and ass-juice leaking around the breadstick. She sat there huffing, wanting to catch her breath, but Wells had other plans. She heard his familiar footsteps stomping down the hall toward her cell. Spike growled and pulled herself to her feet. Then she dug her hands beneath Wilton’s poo-oozing body and flipped him over, once, twice, three times, until his corpse of Nazis past slammed against the door, blocking it from opening. Then she scrambled back to the bed and dropped to seat, doing her best to ignore the moist squish of Wilton’s spew beneath her ass. The slat of the door slid open with a clang, and Wells’s face loomed in the slot.

  “You finish that bit—?” he started, his eyes going wide and cheeks turning a perfect shade of Casper when he saw her sitting there, grinning at him.

  “Oh, I finished the bitch, all right,” she answered, shaking her hand so blood and feces splattered the floor, sending ripples across the lake of Wilton’s bodily fluids. “You didn’t think it was going to be that easy, did you?”

  Wells stared, unable, or unwilling, to speak. Then he slammed the slot closed, and Spike heard the bolts of her cell slide into place, echoing down the hall. Wells’s heavy steps sounded right after, leaving her in silence after a moment.

  Well, not exactly silence.

  Wilton squeaked out bubbly farts around the breadstick. The stench was an improvement over the nastiness that crawled from his mouth, but not by much. Spike went over to the body and reached down, grabbing the end of the breadstick and tugging it out of Wilton’s asshole. A glob of congealed shit came free with it, splatting to the floor. She stared at the jagged breadstick a moment, feeling it squish in her palm.

  “I had such wonderful plans for you,” she told it, letting out a long sigh, her shoulders slumping. “But waste not, want not, right?”

  Clean your plate!

  Spike nodded. Who was she to disagree with the machine? Besides, she was starving.

  She stuffed the softening breadstick into her mouth and bit down and chewed, the flavors mixing in a noxious stew.

  “I’ve had worse.” She shrugged and flopped onto her mattress, taking another bite.

  Eleven

  Spike sat in her Chevy Hearse, staring out at the crowd amassed just outside the gates, engine rumbling beneath her, making her thong soggy. If she sat any longer, she’d be making dough. She sunk lower in the seat in frustration and glared out the windshield. Her implant blinked.

  {1}. {1}. {1}. Last delivery!

  Despite the already bright daylight, the cameras nearly cooked her with their brilliance. Flashbulbs popped like exploding stars reflected off the hood while banners waved, cheering her on. Smiling faces pressed against the fence, making the razor wire dance as they yanked and tugged on it. It seemed like everyone in town had come to see her finish out her sentence and be reintroduced into society like some kind of rare bird. A murder eagle, or maybe the duck-lipped bitch killer.

  Even Mr. Doom was on hand for the momentous occasion. He looked dapper as he stood off to the side of the parking lot. Like a funeral director who’d just sold a family the deluxe package, he wore a black ensemble from neck to toe, only the pale gleam of his hands and blading skull offsetting the darkness. His eyes shone, and Doom smiled like rich white men always did. Menacing.

  His entourage of sycophants swirled around him in some sort of frenzied ass-kissing ritual, but they knew better than to encroach upon his screen time. None dared to step in front of him and ruin the view of the cameras.

  To her surprise, Wells stayed inside the store, not joining the festivities despite his lord and master being in attendance. She figured he’d be the first in line to lick the brown ring. He gla
red at her through the store window, Javi’s dangling ass only partially obscuring the Frankensteinian stare. She grinned back at him, knowing he could see her, and flipped him off in the rearview mirror. Wells sneered but held his ground. Looking like Pennywise in a suit two sizes too small for his gut, Spike knew he had to be there to witness history being made.

  Just one more. Just one more. Just one more, she chanted in her mind. The long ride had come to an end. She grinned and revved the engine, letting the sound roll out like a wave over the audience. They cheered in response.

  “You’re fixing to be a star, Chica,” Javi told her, leaning in from his post.

  “I’m already a star,” she said with a chuckle. “But today…today, I make an impact, Baby. Boom!” She clapped her hands together, the sound echoing through the hearse.

  Javi grinned, his teeth shining in the mirror, painted like the Mexican flag. “Damn straight. You gonna own these motherfuckers.”

  “Just one more,” she answered, clasping the steering wheel and hearing the leather of her gloves creaking. Just one more.

  Today’s your day to shine!

  Last night’s attempt on her life had sharpened her mind, focused her. It had brought a clarity she’d sorely needed, allowing her to imagine her future and what she wanted out of it. Today was all about her, and she was gonna make the most of it.

  Mr. Doom stepped toward the small podium that had been set in the parking lot. The cameras zoomed in, mic booms hovering as the old man coughed and cleared his throat. The crowd went silent with anticipation.

  “I want to thank everyone for being here on this historic day. Just five years ago, I’d had the idea to combine two of our nations favorite things, pizza and murder, and you loved it!”

  The throng cheered, only quieting when the guards atop the watch towers leaned over the rails, pointing their rifles at the mass of people.