Poor Bastards and Rich Fucks

by John Bruni

  And then she remembered what came after. Nutsack, his momentary cunt unfolding back into a cock, had walked outside to drive her home for the night. Someone had been waiting for them, and they’d shot—

  Skank edged around the Nutmobile, knowing exactly what she’d see, hoping more than ever to be wrong.

  Nutsack. Dead. A hole in his head, a halo of blood around him. He stared at the sky, and flies crawled all over his viscous bits. Their fellow punks had not been kind to his body; they’d painted his face up to look like a clown’s. His shirt had been ripped open, and his pierced nipples had been pulled out. His pants were down to his ankles, and his penis had been forked and spread open. Someone had written on his lower belly, “I have a small dick.”

  Skank wondered if she’d have done the same thing, if she’d found a body in the parking lot after a show. Would she have laughed about it with . . . ?

  “Oh God, Nutsack.” Her voice trembled. Nutsack had been shot when his seed had still been drying on Skank’s face.

  She touched herself where Nutsack had last laid his fingers, and tears poured out of her eyes in body-shaking sobs. She knelt next to him and grabbed his hand. It wouldn’t yield to her attempt at bringing it up to her lips; his death-hardened skin wouldn’t let her.

  Despite the ghoulish feeling that crept beneath her skin much like the insects in Nutsack’s bullet hole, she couldn’t let go of him. Black tears carved their way down her cheeks, easing over her chin line and down her throat.

  “God, Nutsack. I’m so sorry. I love you so much.”

  She eased her head down to his hand and pressed her lips against his rigor mortis flesh. She felt every hardened blood vessel like cords with her kiss.

  “I’m going to make those pigfuckers pay,” she whispered. “I’m gonna’ track them all down and kill their stupid asses.”

  She glanced over her shoulder to the Nutmobile. “Fuck, I’m sorry. But I’m going to need your car. Please forgive me.”

  Skank always carried a knife, and she slid it out of her pocket know. The Nutmobile was an old model, so she needed Nutsack’s hand to open the car and start the ignition, but as the blade hovered over his wrist, she knew she couldn’t do it. She gritted her teeth and tried to push the metal through his flesh, but something in her kept her from doing it. She roared and stabbed the knife back into her pocket. Instead, she dragged the corpse over to the driver’s side and put his thumbprint on the plate. As soon as the door opened on its automatic hinge, she pulled Nutsack up with all of her might, pushing him into the front seat and then over the console. Finally, when she’d gotten him all the way over, she climbed in after him.

  She pressed his thumb into the ignition, and the car juddered to life. The radio blared with the Two-Fisted Nunfuckers:

  Leave me alone!

  Gay sex with my clone!

  Throw him a bone as soon as he’s grown!

  Sit in my throne!

  Getting blown!

  By my clone!

  She turned them down almost all the way. Then, she tore out of the parking lot with her first destination in mind: the nearest grocery store.

  2

  Skank didn’t have much money left in her account, so she knew she’d have to be sneaky. As she walked past rows of aspirin bottles, boxes of Alka Seltzer and gauze bandages, she found what she needed: an eye patch. Without thinking twice, she opened the box and stuffed the eye patch down the front of her pants.

  Then, she headed over to swim wear, and among the snorkels, goggles and suntan lotion, she found a package of ear plugs. She ripped one open and took a single ear plug, putting it into her panties with the eye patch.

  Now she needed to find one thing in this place that she could afford to buy. She only had five bucks left to her name, and finding something that cheap didn’t come easy. Personally, she didn’t believe anyone would prosecute over the things she intended to shoplift, but one could never be too careful.

  She found a candy bar and put it down on the checkout belt. A robot picked it up and scanned it for her. “Will this complete your purchase?” it asked.

  “Yep.” Skank hadn’t locked the door to the Nutmobile, in case she needed to run, just to be on the safe side.

  “One-oh-five.”

  Skank ran her left hand over the scanner, and one minute later, she sat back in the Nutmobile. Since social media relied on a user’s right eye for video and right ear for audio, she put her ill-gotten gains to their proper use. Just before she put the eye patch on, she gave herself the middle finger, knowing who would see it.

  ~

  “Huh,” Edward said. “That’s actually pretty clever. I wish I’d have thought of that.”

  “Please,” Charles said. “There’s one every year. It stifles the entertainment. It’s not clever, it’s annoying.”

  ~

  Skank peeled out, aiming the Nutmobile for her next destination.

  3

  Cars lined the sidewalk. A good sign. From above her, Skank could hear music pounding at closed windows. It sounded like Spotty Pope’s version of Ledbelly’s “Yellow Gal.”

  She parked a block away before walking back down to the flat where Necro Cock lived. Necro Cock was a close friend of Nutsack’s, and he was also the drummer for FUCK, a band in which each member named themselves after a letter in their name. Necro Cock called himself K on stage, while the singer got F, the guitarist U and the bassist C. Every time a big punk band came to town, Necro Cock threw a party afterward.

  Skank hoped there would be a lot of people there. She would need all of them.

  Once in the foyer, Skank looked at the various door bells. She found Necro Cock’s real name, Orville Anguson, and pressed the button next to it.

  “This better be fucking good,” the speaker said. She could hear Spotty Pope behind the voice.

  “Open up, Necro. It’s me, Skank.”

  She heard a click, followed by a buzz. Skank opened the door and walked up the flight of stairs to Necro Cock’s second floor flat. Necro waited for her at the door, stick thin with bulging blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. His red hair stood out in all directions except for the white stripe down the middle. Tattoos and piercings covered his body, barely concealed by torn jeans and a fishnet shirt. A tattoo of a headbanging Grim Reaper showed through on his chest, moving to the beat of Spotty Pope in the room behind him. His pants bulged with all three of his cocks and their respective piercings..

  “Holy shit, Skank. I was wondering where you guys were. Where’s Nutsack? And what’s with the eye patch?”

  “I need to talk to you,” she said. “In private.”

  “Sure. Nutsack didn’t dump you, did he?”

  “I’ll explain everything.”

  In Necro Cock’s bedroom, Skank told him her story, from Nutsack getting shot to her being kidnapped, to the contest and to why she now wore an eye patch. She also explained her plan.

  As soon as she finished Necro Cock whistled. “Damn, that’s heavy. A lot of us are going to get killed, you know.”

  “I know,” she said, “but we need to do it for Nutsack. For all of us.”

  “You know I’m in. Nutsack was my best friend, man. Hell, he was my bro. But these others?” He hooked his thumb at the door. “These others, they’re not like us. They’re mostly punks because they think it’s cool. They only like violence when it’s directed toward someone else. They’d probably chicken out at the thought of getting killed, themselves.”

  “Are you kidding? They think they’re invincible. The thought of getting killed probably hasn’t even entered their own thoughts, except for when they’re publicly mulling over their phony suicides.”

  Necro laughed. “Well, there is that, I suppose.” He paused. “You think they’ll go for it?”

  “They’d better. Just you and me doing this wouldn’t be impressive.”

  “All right. I’ll make some calls, get some more people down here, and we’ll see what we can manage. I have a few favors I can pull in fo
r this one.”

  “Fuckin’ awesome. Thanks, Necro.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  4

  When they were at maximum capacity, Necro Cock turned off the music. He heard a few groans and threats throughout the room, but Skank shushed them all with a hiss. Now, only two people made sounds, and they couldn’t help it. The two had dosed on O and were still experiencing the throes of their chemically induced orgasms. Their moans of pleasure served as the backbeat to Necro Cock as he began. He explained everything that Skank had told him earlier, emphasizing her plan.

  When he finished, everyone looked up at him, their faces blank, as if they hadn’t understood a word of it. Finally, C—the bassist from FUCK—said, “That’s fucking crazy. More than crazy, it’s fuckin’ stupid. Do all that shit for Nutsack? No offense, but I couldn’t stand the little dick-licker.”

  “Cocksucker!” Skank howled. She leapt at C, her hands outstretched like eagle’s talons, her lips curled up into a hideous, pierced snarl.

  Necro grabbed her around the waist. “Wait!”

  “Son of a fuck! Son of a fucking fuck!”

  C backed up slightly, although Skank could never reach him.

  “Skank, hold on,” Necro said.

  She turned on him. “You want me to stop?! Didn’t you hear what he said?!”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Skank stopped and looked into Necro Cock’s eyes. There, she saw that he wanted her to cut C’s fucking nuts off, but she also saw they needed C. They needed them all. Skank nodded and looked away from everyone else.

  Necro Cock turned back to C. “This is about more than Nutsack. This is about those rich fucks and what they do to people like us. We’d be doing the world a service.”

  “Fuck the world,” C said. “Anarchy, remember?”

  “Do you even know what that means?” Necro Cock asked. When he didn’t get an answer, he said, “If you don’t want in, then get out, okay? We don’t want anyone here with a smooth spot where a giant set of balls should be.”

  C looked down at his feet, but he didn’t move.

  “So come on, guys,” Necro Cock said. “Are you cool with this? You wanna’ tear some shit up?”

  “YES!” everyone cried out.

  He looked at Skank and grinned as everyone around him screamed their assent.

  “Looks like we’re in business, then,” he said. “Everyone, go home and find some weapons. We’ll meet up here in an hour. Then, it’s time to fuck some shit up.”

  Chapter 7

  1

  “Hey.”

  The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Moreover, he didn’t care to. He just wanted to go on, sleeping.

  “Wake up, Randall.”

  “Fugoff,” he muttered.

  “Goddammit, Randall. Get your faggot ass off the sidewalk.”

  When he heard the slur, his eyes opened, and he felt ready to kick someone’s ass. When he saw a pair of stilettos and the giant feet they encased, he knew offense hadn’t been meant. His eyes continued up the stout legs, the fake tits, the adam’s apple and the make-up until he saw Susie, peering down at him through shaded glasses. The thick lenses made his eyes look larger, lashes and all.

  “Sorry, man,” Randall said. He forced himself up to his feet. “Didn’t know it was you.”

  “That’s okay, hon,” Susie said. “Have a little too much to drink?”

  Randall rubbed the back of his aching neck, and when he felt a barely perceptible lump there, he remembered everything. Fury suddenly shot through his veins, and he brought his fist down on the building next to him. “Goddammit!”

  Susie flinched, and he automatically touched his throat. “What? What’d I do?”

  Randall looked at his knuckles, at the blood oozing from them. He felt no pain. He sighed. “Sorry. It’s not you. It’s my fucking father.”

  Susie relaxed a little, although he still breathed a little too hard. “I’ve never seen you so pissed before. What’s up with your father?”

  Randall mentally debated telling Susie about everything, in particular his father, but he knew he had to handle this alone. Susie would not only get in the way, he might also get hurt. Randall wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he got Susie killed. “Nothing. Nothing’s up.”

  “Bullshit. You should have heard yourself yell.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m pretty pissed off right now. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “You should. You’ll feel better.”

  He shook his head, pulling himself up to his feet. “I doubt it. Besides, I have some shit I have to do.”

  Susie nodded. “My door is always open.”

  “See you around.”

  “Ta.” Susie sashayed down the block, where he lived in a studio apartment.

  Randall walked to his own apartment two blocks away. He made quite a bit more money on the streets than Susie did, so he had a much better place. Bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and living room, all pretty spacious. As soon as he walked in, he stripped out of his clothes and placed them in a hamper. He could still smell his last client on him, from before he’d been kidnapped, so he got into the shower and washed him away.

  Just the thought of his last customer added a dash of rage to what he already felt. The guy had been a soft businessman who didn’t want anyone thinking he was gay. He had no problem sticking his dick in Randall’s ass, but after he’d blown his load, he changed his tune. Called Randall a faggot. Had even pushed Randall down. Randall, who had been at this game a long time, let him. Just so long as he’d been paid—and he always demanded cash up front—he could live with a little degradation. Just so long as he lived with as little physical damage as possible.

  He resisted the urge to punch the tiles of his shower. His hand hurt enough from hitting the brick wall earlier. Water made it sting, but he no longer bled.

  After he dried off, he dressed in looser, more comfortable clothes and went to the shoebox he kept under his bed. From it, he pulled out an old .44 revolver. He’d bought it after being on the receiving end of a nasty beating. One of his johns had followed him home and had beaten him with a baseball bat. More self-loathing from a man who couldn’t accept that he loved cock.

  Randall had sworn that would never happen again. He’d never fired a handgun before, and for the longest time, he hoped he’d never have to. He’d chosen a .44 not because of the damage it could do, but because it looked like a scary motherfucker. Now, though, he couldn’t wait to use it.

  He cracked open the cylinder and saw six copper shell-backs returning his gaze. Good.

  There had been a time he actually liked his father, and there were still times he wished his father had been a more accepting man. His childhood had been remarkably fun. He’d really enjoyed hunting with his old man, using rifles to track down not the usual targets, like deer or squirrels, but dangerous animals like bears and wild cats. He’d been well on his way to becoming Samuel with just one exception. Randall thought it should have been inconsequential to his father, but the good old days were gone. Forever.

  Before tonight, he thought he might have enjoyed being in the warm embrace of his father, but that would never happen now. The last time had been in junior high, when Samuel had hugged his son for beating the shit out of a bully. Randall thought about that moment many times over the years. Now, it made him sick to think that he wanted anything more to do with his father.

  Randall closed the gun and donned his leather jacket. The .44 went in his pocket, where it weighed down that side of his jacket. If only he had a car, he could easily take care of business.

  He thought about calling a cab, but then he remembered how the kidnappers had gotten him in the first place. They’d paid him for a night of sex, and they’d paid top dollar. He had a lot of money in his account. Why not hire a limo for the night? It would only be fitting, considering what he had planned.

  He rolled his eyes up and saw that while he didn’t have complete access to his apps,
he could at least use a search engine. He found a limo company and accessed his mobile account. He heard the ring in his ear, and he waited for them to pick up.

  2

  Forty-five minutes later, the limo pulled up in front of his apartment building, and the driver honked twice. Randall rushed down, and when he saw the driver, he couldn’t help but think, Yum. He wore a nice suit, and he stood at five-seven, all of him pure muscle. He wore a bad pencil-line mustache that had to go, but otherwise, very cute.

  “Mr. Marsh? I’m Roberto. I’ll be your driver tonight. How are you?”

  “Hello, Roberto. Thanks for coming out.”

  “No problem.” Roberto opened the door for him. “Where to, sir?”

  Randall got in. “Find me a cheap liquor store that’s still open.”

  “That’s going to be a bit difficult. Most close around midnight.”

  “Not on the Sleaze Strip. They’re open all night.”

  “Yes sir.” He closed the door and went around to the front. Through the divider, Randall could see Roberto using the dash computer to plot their course. He could tell the driver didn’t want to go to the Sleaze Strip this late, but he’d do it anyway. Randall thought it might be the average client’s favorite place to stop. Randall couldn’t count the number of times he’d been solicited by men—and the occasional woman—in limos.

  Randall saw liquor in the back and considered taking a drink. But no, he’d need his wits about him for what lay ahead. He would have to enjoy his first self-financed limo trip without a pleasant buzz. Too bad.

  3

  Henry’s Likkker stood at the very end of the Sleaze Strip, where no cop in the city dared to tread. Only the most extravagantly desperate human beings walked—or more likely, crawled—here. Anyone who didn’t meet this criterion tended to be shot on principle, even if the person in question wore a uniform. Most ordinary corpses were left where they lay, but everyone knew if a dead cop were to be found here, there would be hell to pay. So dead cops tended to go missing. More often than not, they wound up being fed to the homeless who lived on the streets here.