Mrs. Porter cries, sniffling. I look at her buttocks in the streetlight and they bounce with the sniffs. I remember licking them once, shoving my tongue in her anus and making her come. I feel sick at the memory now. It was fun at the time.
The alley stinks of death and rotten vegetables.
"You have no use for me. You're expendable."
And with that, Mr. Porter pulls a gun from his pocket, turns and shoots his wife in the face. The back of her head explodes all over me; muscle, bone fragments and cerebrum splatter my face. I flinch, shocked by the act of violence. Her half-naked body collapses to the ground before me, like a puppet with the strings cut. As she comes to rest, Mr. Porter walks over. He passes the gun to his colleague. He replaces it with a bowie knife.
For the first time, I gulp.
The two unknown men hold me down and Mr. Porter leans in, staring at me. I notice a glint of menace in his eyes. He touches the tip of the blade with his finger.
No words pass between us.
He stabs me in the chin; the blade digs in a couple of inches. He moves the knife up, slicing my skin and muscle, grazes the steel across my cheek, slitting my eyeball in half and finishes on the forehead. I'm aware of my eye spewing orbital fluids and pus all over my outfit. Blood cascades down my face and I begin to go into shock.
After that, everything goes black.
***
As I look in the mirror, I touch my mutilated face. My left eye is no more, the socket filled with a blank hunk of flesh. I didn’t opt for a glass eye. I figured I've lived in loneliness for most of my life, what's a few more decades?
My finger touches the coarse skin there, fingers it, and rubs it. It itches constantly. Incurable. I trace the scar that begins just beside my mouth – the lips survived but no longer move as well – and run a single finger up my face and finish on my forehead. The white line reminds me of a snake. I remember the coolness of steel beneath my flesh, tearing into my face.
I feel my rage boiling. I've been nurturing this. I can now simmer it to the point where it drives me, propels me. I remove my wig, brown hair – just like my previous, real mullet – and look at the scorched skin there. Puckered, pink, scarred. My scalp is smothered in burned flesh.
The smell of gasoline still lingers in my nostrils.
I run a hand over my head and feel the pain there.
The memories force themselves into my frontal lobe with such force I have to sit down. I become faint and breathe heavily. After a moment, I calm myself.
I stand up. I know, if I don’t do this now, I never will. I unbuckle my jeans and drop them to the ground. I pull down my boxers, throw my shirt to the ground and stand there naked.
The scar on my forearm confirms my broken ulna. The arm is better now, mobile. I flex my arms, my muscles bulging. I've been working out constantly for the better part of a year. I have the body of a swimmer, all muscles and tone. My eyes lower and I see the same puckered, pink flesh that taints my head. There are patches on my stomach. I remember the shriveled skin splitting as I toned my body, preparing for this night. It has since healed. As I lower my gaze, my stomach twists but I retain composure. I look between my legs.
My manhood has been removed. I was unconscious when it happened but Mr. Porter apparently wasn’t finished with the bowie knife. All that remains is a circular nub of flesh, a faint memory of the eight inches and two sacks that once hung there, sweating with exertion of being a clown.
The cunt literally castrated me.
Whenever I fart or take a shit, I feel the skin seizing.
Have you ever been scared to go to the toilet?
I am. Every day. It rules my life. I also carry a catheter around with me everywhere. Can't take a piss without a cock to dispense it. I've struggled with this particular injury the most.
My manhood has been taken.
Now I get to claim it back.
Mr. Porter did this to me. All because I fucked his wife.
For the first time in a year, despite the circumstances, a smile creeps over my lips.
It's nearly time.
Showtime.
***
I'm standing outside Mr. Porter's room. I've walked the floor several times for checks and I can confirm he is alone. I was expecting security but then again, he thinks I'm dead and he's at the other end of the globe so the last thing he expects is a visitor. Looks like he gave the troops the night off. I saw his whore leave earlier too.
Everything is slotting into place.
I pat the bag by my side, which contains the equipment needed for the night ahead. I take a deep breath, place a knuckle on the peephole and knock loudly. "Room Service," I say in a mock British accent.
I hear noise from within and light footsteps pad their way to the door. I hear a pause. He's looking through the peephole. I think he's about to say something but then the door opens. Mr. Porter isn't paying attention as the door swings inwards. Surprisingly, he's on the phone, chatting away. He turns to face me and recognition isn't instant.
I see his eyes look me up and down.
"Give me a call sometime; I'll make you a star."
I flick his white business card at him and swing a punch, which shatters his cellphone against his smug face. He drops like a sack of shit. I step into the room and punt him in the head. He lies still. I close the door behind me, drag the body to the bed and look around.
Yes, yes, this will do nicely.
***
I smear the last of my face paint on, rubbing it into the slab of skin where my eye used to be. I lower my hand and look at myself.
Bobollocks is back.
Apart from a few missing body parts, everything is the same. Red wig, red nose, baggy clothing. I left my shoes at home as, let's face it; I'm not out and about.
My first ever show in a hotel room. Excellent.
Funded by my victim's deceased wife.
A smile splits my lips, tugging at the scar on my face. I look at the business card on the dresser before me and turn around. I adjust the red nose, making sure it's snug.
I've tied Mr. Porter to the bed, naked. He's not aroused, in fact, as I turn, urine starts to seep from the end of his penis. It sprays his thighs and his penis drops between his legs, soaking the bed. I shake my head. "Dear, dear, it seems you pissed yourself. What a mess."
Mr. Porter doesn’t take his eyes off me. I try to imagine how he is feeling, seeing Bobollocks back here, in total control after he set me on fire, mutilated me and cut my balls off. I try to imagine and laugh.
I realize I don’t give a shit how he feels.
I'd be shitting myself as well. Maybe. I think I had a modicum of control when I was attacked. It seems, when the shoe is on the other foot, that it isn't the case. As if on cue, he shits himself, I hear the sound of his sphincter relaxing and the smell of shit fills the room. His eyes are wide, not removing themselves from my face. I point to my missing eye and he flinches. I smile. "You did this to me. Like the handiwork?"
He nods, then shakes his head and then stops altogether.
I realize I must look a fright.
I crack a window, letting the stench out. I'm tempted to look at the mess but refrain.
Picture this ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. A clown is a scary proposition anyway. Fair enough, some of us are cute and cuddly, I mean, we entertain kids. However, there are the spooky ones amongst us, the ones who give you nightmares.
So here I stand, fully made up. Red lips, black crosses on my eye(s), blue stars on my cheeks, one bobbled because of the scar, a red wig and a baggy, striped costume. I have a flower on my chest that squirts and a bucket of confetti—normally, I left that at home on this occasion. However, I have cut off the trouser legs from my jumpsuit. I'm naked from the waist down. I jiggle my legs about a bit. Mr. Porter hasn’t noticed yet. I see his mind working, remembering what he did and he looks down.
Vomit flies from his mouth, soaking his shaved chest. He heaves a few times and tries to wipe his lips
on his shoulder. He fails. I simply laugh at him. The laugh is taut with menace and built up pain and anger. "More of your handiwork. Proof that you shouldn’t take your junk for granted."
Mr. Porter shakes his head. Sweat is beading on his forehead. "What do you want?"
I was expecting this; he wants to negotiate. It's in his nature. His job.
"I don’t want anything." I lower my voice, lending it a hint of menace. Bobollocks is a pissed-off clown, so he's going to come across as vengeful. "I want nothing."
"Why are you here then?" I can see him shaking.
"You really have to ask that?" I reach over to his face and he flinches, pulls away. He isn't going anywhere. I chuckle. "You really think I wouldn’t find you and hunt you down?"
"I thought you were dead, Scott confirmed it."
"You thought wrong. And Scott is a cunt."
I stick a finger up his nose and laugh. He freaks out, shaking on the bed. His eyes are wide, feverish. I jostle around the bed, playing up my persona.
"I'll pay you. Anything. Name it. I'll make you rich beyond your dreams."
"You can't pay me enough to stop doing this. I've waited a whole year to find you and say hello. Hello!"
I place my gloved hands on each side of my face and wave at him. His eyes narrow, annoyed that I can do such a thing to him. I can tell he isn't used to being submissive, not in control.
"Name your price, seriously."
He's starting to grate on me now. I move my face in close, making sure my mutilated face, the scars and missing eye are straight in his vision. "For a business man, you aren’t so smart. And, if I remember correctly, you bragged about being smart. It's what made you rich. So, I will repeat this. Only once, mind. I want n-o-t-h-i-n-g. Nothing!" I spell it for him to rub it in, drive the point home. His face doesn’t change. I see his brain working, considering a lawyer or a bargaining chip, stalling tactics or some shit.
Then he laughs.
For some reason, I wasn’t expecting that. It nearly catches me off guard.
He continues laughing. I have to ask. "What's so funny?"
He doesn’t answer at first, he just laughs. Then he speaks. "This is some kind of joke, right? I'm being punked, set up. Where are the cameras?"
"Do you see me laughing? I'm a clown and I'm normally jolly but do you see me laughing?" This stops him in his tracks and he quiets down. I see him observe the room, take in his surroundings, look at me again. His eyes remain on me for a while. He knows this isn't a joke and no one is coming to help him.
"Besides, you just shit and piss the bed. If you were on TV, your stocks would be, pardon the pun, in the toilet."
"Fuck you."
"Yes, your wife certainly did. She said I tore her. That’s bad form, Mr. Porter, not having a dick big enough to damage a woman's genitals. Every woman should experience the pleasure of a vagina tearing at least once. Mrs. Porter loved it when I fucked her."
"I'm going to fucking kill you."
"What, again? Really? Because you did such a great job the first time. In all fairness, I've looked better, had better bathroom breaks." I lean in close and spit in his face. The sputum rolls down his forehead and drops onto his nose. He doesn’t flinch with me in such close proximity. I see him wanting to. My eye bores a hole into him. "Do you know what it's like to piss without a cock? HUH! It's difficult. I need a pipe lodged in my bladder permanently just to ensure I don’t piss all over the floor. You did that to me. You, no one else. Not Scott and not Mrs. Porter, but you. I would blame God but hey, who has the fucking time?"
Mr. Porter stares at me, scared. I hear the familiar sound of urine pattering on the soaked bedspread. He must have a huge bladder. I step away from him, fearing for his hydration levels. I step over to my bag and take out a knife. Suddenly, Mr. Porter thrashes against the bed, petrified.
I smile.
Without turning around, I mock him. "You're not much of a badass without your mates, are you?" I look at his business card. "Are you, Timothy?"
His thrashing ceases for a moment. I don’t turn, but I swear he's offended by me calling him by his first name. For someone with his ego, it's like a slap in the face.
Call me Mr. Porter!
Well, not anymore. He's not a client and he's less than shit on my shoe.
The expected response doesn’t come.
"How is the new wife? What's her name…Janine?"
He says nothing. I continue. "Janine is a hot number. I wonder if I can tear her cunt too?"
"You leave her alone."
"I will, just like you do. You've always preferred the filth of a whore to your wife's safe pussy. Shame on you."
I place the knife on the bed before him. He cowers away from it; his legs cross, squeezing his flaccid penis between them. A few drops of urine seep out. I shake my head. "You know, if your urine is yellow, you need more water." I press a bulb in my pocket and squirt him in the face with my lapel flower. The water hits him in the eye and he squints and moans, flicking his head from side to side. I laugh.
Cliché clown trick. I thought it was damn funny though. I pick up the knife and tap the point. I mimic his actions from a year ago.
"Now, about that cock."
"Oh God, no, no no no no no, please no. I'll do anything, ANYTHING! Please!"
"Will you now?" I place the knife on his thigh, pricking the skin. A small blob of blood emerges from the cut. He yelps in pain. "Well, I'm not interested. You see, I picked this knife up a few weeks back. It's called a Bollock Dagger, or it was once upon a time. It's so named because it has teste-shaped bulbs above the handle. I thought it was highly appropriate for this occasion and our…re-acquaintance."
His eyes are wide, so wide I fear his eyes will drop out of his skull. That would be hilarious, but ill-timed. I want him for a little longer before he starts to lose body parts. Preferably at my hand too.
I throw the knife on the ground. I had no intention of using it. Well, that’s a lie. I did, before I discovered something else. Something more painful.
"You know, Tim, there is something you can do for me."
He breathes a sigh of relief. I feel his body relax, his entire aura changes based on those words. I almost feel bad for giving him false hope.
"Name it, anything."
"Well, I want you to lie still and relax."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"Yes, but…how? I'm tied up. How am I supposed to relax?"
I step to the side of the bed. I flex my hands beneath my gloves. They've become sweaty in the cramped room. "You know, Tim. We've been here a while now. About twenty minutes or so. And you haven’t apologized for what you did to me. Not once."
Mr. Porter, Tim, says nothing. Even now, he doesn’t apologize.
What a cunt.
"Now, lie still and relax."
I punch him in the face, smashing his jaw. He flops on the bed, semi-conscious. I punch him repeatedly until he's no longer moving. His nose is broken, blood seeps down his face. His eye is starting to swell. For the first time, I noticed an imprint of a cellphone on the side of his head. I have a solid punch on me.
I chuckle, proud of myself.
I turn to my bag. In the background, Mr. Porter moans. I take a clear, plastic straw from within and a small, metal tin. I place the tin gently on the dresser.
I step over to the bed and grab Mr. Porter's penis. I cup it in my gloved hand, shaking the urine from it. His wife was right; it's below average. I'm no expert, but it nearly disappears in my palm. I smile, happy to one up him.
I pull back the foreskin and slide the straw into the urethra. He squirms and moans. The straw slides in slowly, meeting resistance at first. I keep pushing, embedding it deep until half of it disappears. He writhes a little and groans. He's on the verge of waking up.
Excellent.
I turn around and grab a sound horn from my bag. I push the button and the loud, invasive noise fills the room, waking Mr. Porter from his induced slum
ber. He sits up, pulls the shackles taut and collapses back down to the bed. He moans again, spitting blood.
"So glad you could join us."
"Wha…what…huh?"
"Hello, Tim. Welcome back."
"Where…you. Let me go."
"I simply can't do that. You have to pay for what you did. You took my eye and my manhood. However, you did it quick and whilst I was unconscious. I will have my revenge. However, you'll be awake for the entire thing."
"Fuck you. People know I'm here, they'll find me and catch you. And then I can finish you off." He licks his lips, believing his own lies.
A business man. Lying for a living.
"No, they won't. You see, I know your whore won't be back until tomorrow evening. And you have the room for several nights, a DO NOT DISTURB sign on the door. I have about sixteen hours minimum before anyone comes along. You'll be found when your body starts to rot. By then, I'll be long gone. And so will you."
I pick up the tin from the dresser. I turn to him. "Did you notice you have a new appendage?" I point to the straw and his eyes widen. On reflex, he moans and yells in pain. I've heard of that condition, you don’t notice you've lost an arm until you see it. The body works in amazing ways. It's hilarious.
I tap the tin. "Know what's in here?"
Mr. Porter spits blood onto the bed. He says nothing. Defiant? I'll take it.
"Ever heard of fire ants?"
I can see by the reaction on his face that he has. His face drops, forlorn.
Scared.
"Well, I managed to acquire a small collection of fire ants. You know they sting. It can cause a man to go into shock. Nasty bites, horrible reactions." A smile crosses my face, tugging at my scar. I grab a bottle of Pepsi from my bag and open it. I spill the contents on his penis. The fizzy drink bubbles as it hits his skin. A small amount slides down the interior of the straw. Timothy reacts, "What the fuck, that's cold…"
"I'll soon warm that up for you."
I take the tin of ants, slide the lid off and place the tin by the straw. Immediately, several ants slide down the straw, following the Pepsi. Others spill out and crawl all over his genitals, chasing the sticky soda. Within seconds, some of the ants disappear into his penis, inside him.
Whispers - Volume 1: A Collection Page 16
