It smashed through the door, bits of wood flying through the air like wartime shrapnel. Bursting through the makeshift condom, it barreled toward Jenny with the speed of, well, of a determined sperm.
Ducking under the lashing flagella, Jenny stabbed at Spermzilla with King Dong. Its sticky hide sizzled at the spermicide’s touch. The beast mewled in rage. Jenny jumped over a slash of its tail and drove the Rotator into the sperm’s head, aiming where she imagined a brain would reside if sperm had such things.
Already weakened from the condom’s lube, the Queen Sperm sagged beneath Jenny’s relentless blows. The toys struck again and again, pausing only to knock aside any babies fortunate enough to have survived the condom wall. Battle lust overtook her as she wailed at the monster. She was Joan of Arc gone wrong; she was the Womb Raider. She lashed and hammered, the plot of every videogame junkie’s wet dream, the speed in every lonely old man’s hands, until, finally, the beast sagged to the floor and lay still. Its exterior melted upon its death, millions of sperm slushing across the floor like hundreds of gallons of spilled coconut oil.
Jenny collapsed against the wall, careful to cover her womanness against unwelcome visitors. Her rage satiated, she now only wanted to sleep.
A cry, tiny and trembling, prevented any rest, however. Rising, Jenny walked toward the sound, senses keen, dildos cocked and loaded.
The sound came from the corner, from Traci. Her belly had split open in a torrent of blood and amniotic fluid. Strands of placenta snaked from her abdomen, dirty-Duncan side up.
From behind the lump of flesh that used to be her friend, a tiny, bloodied hand arose. It grasped the remnants of Traci’s belly and started pulling itself up, babbling and wheezing. The crown of head emerged into view, lumpy, misshapen, purple, then a single eye peered over the corpse and locked on to Jenny. Sinful glee coated that eye, and Jenny froze before its gaze.
Something wet and bulbous slammed into Jenny’s crotch and wiggled into her canal. She grasped at the tail, but it disappeared into her sweetness before she caught hold. Too late, so goddamn late, she realized she had never accounted for the fate of one last sperm.
Fucking Jeremy, she thought.
She fell to the floor, her head landing inches from Traci’s newly-birthed spawn. A tiny wet hand caressed her face, and she smiled, dreaming of the glorious sibling she would make for this child.
I’m a Mommy now.
The Texas Inbred Mutant Massacre
by Shane McKenzie
“But that girl said not to come this way, remember?” Courtney said as she tugged on the back of George’s thinning Jimmy Hendrix t-shirt.
“That bitch was whacko, man. Looked like she ain’t never seen a bath. Ain’t that right, Lamar?” George pulled the tail of his shirt from Courtney’s grasp. He’d been sick of hearing her voice ever since their trip started, nagging about this and that. Then she gets all worked up about the girl they found wandering down the side of the road, looking all lost and covered in filth and dried blood. George figured just a crazy-ass, hillbilly local.
“You know it. Light up that doobie, man,” Lamar said as he ran a comb through his small afro and stuck it there for holding.
“Can you guys stop smoking pot for one second and think about this?” Courtney stomped her foot and crossed her arms. “That girl back there told us there was a house in these woods, said she barely escaped alive, was covered in blood, and you don’t think any of that is strange?”
George rolled his eyes, pulled the joint from his shirt pocket, lit it, inhaled deeply, blew the smoke toward Courtney’s scrunched up face. “We’re in the sticks, girl. Everybody’s got a house in the woods out here. We’re lost, maybe these folks can point us in the right direction.”
“Say, man, pass that shit this way.”
George passed the joint, reached down and slapped Courtney on the ass. She yelped and scowled at him.
“I’m not going in there. I’m gonna go wait by the car.” And she stalked back into the woods and disappeared.
George smirked and he and Lamar shared a laugh. “Sometimes that bitch can make me crazy, you know?”
Lamar puffed on the joint and stared at the house that stood about fifty yards away from them. “You think folks in Texas racist against blacks?”
“They’re probably too stupid to even know what racist means, man. Just stay with me, you’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, really. You know what they say about black folks and horror movies, jack. And right now, this sho feels like one.”
Right on cue, a violent grinding sound exploded from the distance and Lamar flinched, grabbed George’s arm, dropped the joint from his lips.
“What the fuck was that?”
It sounded like a saw of some kind revving, and George held his ear to the air, then laughed, shrugging away Lamar’s grip.
“Probably someone cutting firewood, you ol’ pussy ass. Now let’s get inside and ask for directions to the highway, all right?”
Lamar stretched his neck in every direction, his eyes wide enough to tear at the corners. “Just hurry yo honky ass up, man.”
“You boys lost?”
This time, George jumped too, nearly threw him and Lamar to the ground. A shrunken, wrinkly man stood in the doorway, shoving the screen door outward as he stepped into the sunlight. His face was a roadmap of cracks and lines, his bottom lip sticking out and covered in black spots. He spit on his own porch and studied George and Lamar with one eye, the other squinted shut.
“Scared the shit outta me, man,” George said, walking toward the man with an outstretched hand. “We are lost, actually. Wondering if maybe you could tell us where the highway is from here?”
The man spit again, ignored George’s hand.
The sound of the saw echoed in the air again, this time closer.
“Say, George, man. Let’s just go.” Lamar had his hand on George’s arm again, his eyes searching the distance.
“You boys hungry?” The man held up a fork and knife, which George hadn’t noticed he’d been carrying. A dark tongue, decorated in more black spots, wiggled out from his concrete lips and tasted them.
“Nah, man. Not hungry, just need directions. Can you help us out?”
“George...man...let’s go!” Lamar tugged on George’s arm. He pointed toward the open field. “A big ass muthafucka comin’ at us! And he’s got something...”
“That’s just Jethro, boy. He’s hungry too.”
George craned his neck to see where Lamar pointed, and saw the big fellow dashing across the field toward them. He still had a good football field length to go, holding something long over his head with both hands, waving it around menacingly. It roared and choked as the behemoth swung it. Then the big bastard looked like he got winded, stopped running and put his hands on his knees, sucking in air. Then he stood back up and kept coming. His face was...different. From that distance, George couldn’t tell what he was seeing, but it looked like an ass on the guy’s face.
Then George screamed when something stabbed into his neck, and by the time he realized it was the fork, the old man was already swinging the knife. It stabbed into the soft flesh of his throat and out the back. George’s eyes fluttered shut and his body went limp.
***
Lamar wanted to run, but his legs kept him rooted to his spot as the old man sliced the flesh away from around the fork, then pulled it to his mouth. He chewed happily, blood dribbling down his wrinkled, jiggly chin.
“Oooo Eeee, that’s good eatin’. You sure you ain’t hungry, boy?”
Lamar felt how stoned he was for the first time and shook his head to try and clear it. He had something clever and witty to say in return, really let the old honky tonk motherfucker have it, but he didn’t have a chance.
“Jethro loves him some dark meat, don’t you, Jethro?”
Lamar turned just in time to see Jethro, a big fucker, like a house with arms and legs, square and strong-looking, and a...butt face. From that close up, Lamar
could see it was strapped to his head: an ass mask. The skin was dried up and shiny, shriveled and crispy-looking with a jagged eyehole on each side. A tattoo of Tweety Bird was on the right cheek; the crack of the ass ran right down the middle of his face, his nose peeking out beneath it. His mouth was a shit stain with teeth.
He lifted his weapon over his head and revved it. It roared and coughed white smoke into the hot Texas air. A weed whacker, its neon orange strings spinning.
“You boys quit messin’ around and bring our dinner inside.” An elderly woman in a wheelchair rolled into view from inside of the dark house. She had both breasts out, two babies suckling on one each. As she rolled outside, Lamar saw that there weren’t two babies, but one with two heads. The wet, sucking sound killed his high.
“Yes, Mama,” the man and Jethro said together. Then the weed whacker descended on Lamar’s face and he hit the ground.
***
Courtney sat in the driver’s seat of the Camaro and tossed pebbles into the distance as she waited. George was in one of those moods, the kind where she can’t seem to do or say nothing right. The kind when he made her feel like a child. And with his buddy around, he was trying extra hard to treat her like shit, look all macho in front of Lamar. But Courtney knew he’d be back to his sweet self once there was nobody around to see him do it. Those were the days she held on to, those were the days that kept her around.
She stopped tossing pebbles, her hand turning into a fist around the remaining rocks in her palm.
What the hell was that noise?
It sounded like some kind of power tool, a chainsaw maybe. It was hard to tell, but it sounded far enough away, so she shrugged her shoulders, tossed away the rest of the rocks. She wished she would have grabbed the keys from George before retreating back to the car—at least she could have listened to some tunes while she waited for Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass to finish up with whatever they thought they were doing. But considering they were both high as the moon, she figured they’d be taking their sweet time. She rested her forehead on the steering wheel and sighed.
“Howdy, ma’am.”
Courtney flinched and honked the horn with her head. She knew from the tone and politeness of the voice that it was nobody she knew. She turned to face him.
“Didn’t mean to startle you, ma’am. You need some kind o’ help or sumptin?”
A tall, tan, broad-shouldered man in a black cowboy hat and skin-tight jeans stood a few yards away. A smoldering cigarette hung from his lip, bouncing when he spoke. A gold and silver belt buckle the size of a fist, the shape of Texas outlined in chainsaw teeth, reflected the sun into her face, and she squinted as she continued drinking in the southern God before her. He was nothing less than a honky tonk hunk, and Courtney felt her cheeks glowing. She had to peel her eyes away from the massive bulge in his jeans, which seemed to pulse slightly, as if breathing, but she demanded her eyes to move back to the man’s’ face and stay there. He smiled and tipped his hat.
“I...uh...I’m just waiting for my boy...my friend to get back. He went to ask for directions at the house just inside these woods.”
“Probably not a good idea to go knockin’ on doors round these parts, ma’am. Some people real sensitive bout their property.”
Her eyes tried to disobey her, tried to take the elevator down to the bulge, but she kept them trained on the man’s piercing eyes, sparkles shining at her from the shadow under the hat. “I tried to tell them that, but they won’t listen.”
“They?”
“Yeah, George and Lamar. We’re headin’ to the Doobie Brothers concert in Waco, got lost along the way. Man at the gas station told us about this shortcut, said it’d save us three hours minimum.” Courtney wiped the sweat from her face. “I Told George we shouldn’t be taking dirt roads in an area we’re not familiar with.”
“Smart girl. Your friend don’t sound too bright, if you don’t mind me sayin’. If he woulda listened to you, there’s a good chance you’d all still be alive.”
“Wait...what?”
He lifted his hat and spun it on his hand. Three eyes stared back at Courtney, one on his forehead just below the hairline. It was pink and yellow, blinking rapidly like something was caught in it. Thick, gray chunks of mucus filled the corners, and as the man took a long drag from his cigarette, the eye closed in ecstasy. He tossed the butt and stomped his snakeskin boot over it. Then he went for his zipper.
Courtney had one hand behind her, blindly searching for something to defend herself with. Her body tingled, her stomach churned.
“Not too often we get purty girls round here, ma’am. I might hafta get Mama to let me keep you fer awhile. Would you like that? Would you like to spend some time with me, ma’am?” He had the buckle off and the zipper down. The bulge inflated and deflated, giving off heat that dwarfed the Texas sun.
Her hand found something, sticking up from behind the passenger seat, hard and tubular. She wrapped her shaking fingers around it.
“You and me gonna have a good ‘ol time. Names Bo. But you gonna call me Pappy.” He reached into his pants and pulled out his junk.
Courtney vomited into her mouth, choking on it and stinging her nostrils with it before finally swallowing it back down. What he pulled out of his pants was nothing her worst nightmare could have conjured. The testicles were swollen, red and purple, pulsating and giving off a slight squeak. The penis thrashed like an unmanned firehose, the head warped and discolored. The slit at the tip opened and closed like a fish gill with two long, curved rat-teeth that clicked together. The man cupped his balls and moaned, took a step toward the Camaro.
“You stay your podunk ass back!” She swung the object, yet unidentified, over her head. The bong smashed against the bulging testicles, and shards of glass stuck into them, protruding out like porcupine quills. Yellow fluid leaked out, throwing a thick, sickly scent into the air.
Bo fell to his knees, wincing and groaning. The pink and yellow eye quivered and blinked. The diseased penis roiled in the dirt like an injured worm.
Courtney stood up, still holding the jagged, broken stem of the bong. She stepped to Bo who looked up at her like a child in timeout.
“P-please, ma’am. I only wanted to play.”
“Play time’s over, Bo.” She jabbed with the glass and punctured the third eye. Gray fluid as thick as oatmeal ran down his face, and Bo hollered and fell to his side. The snakeskin boots kicked in the dirt.
Twigs snapped behind her.
She spun to face it, saw the thing staring at her from the tree line, backed away. She kept her eyes on him as she blindly back-stepped. He raised the weed whacker over his head and made it roar, spinning its twine to cut the air. Black, curly hair hung over a butt that seemed to be strapped to his face. Drool oozed from the snarling mouth beneath it.
A hand snapped shut over her ankle.
“Get her, Jethro! She hurt me, she hurt me!”
Courtney tried to tug her leg away, but the grip was too tight. She stomped her free foot on the shuddering, ruined eye, and the hand released her with a scream from Bo. But Jethro came for her then. He grunted, his weapon still held high, and shuffled after her.
Courtney took off. She weaved through the trees, refusing to look over her shoulder, though she could hear the whacker loud and clear. Jethro growled as he chased, revving the whacker every chance he got.
Then she tripped. A fucking tree root. Her face bounced off the dirt and her ears rang. Bo whooped and hollered in the distance, cheering on Jethro.
Courtney pushed off the ground, but was kicked back down. She rolled over and stared directly into the eyeholes of the ass face, then felt the grubby hands seize her. Jethro giggled like a special ed student playing with himself, then she fainted as he tossed her over his shoulder.
***
She woke up strapped to a chair at the head of a table. The ropes around her arms, legs, and stomach bit into her skin with every movement. An old man sat on the other side of the table
, leaning forward and staring at her. His face was kind and gentle, his eyes regarding her with a hint of regret.
“Help me,” she said.
“It’s too late, child. How did you get yourself mixed up in all this? A pretty little thing like you?”
The old man had ropes around his mid-section. He looked down as if he’d just discovered them.
“Who are they?” she said.
“Hungry, my dear girl. And only one thing will sustain them. The stomachs of abominations are difficult to fill.”
“I wanna go home.”
“You cannot. You are here now, as food or mate, and there is no escape.”
“Awe, shut up you old coot.” A woman’s voice mixed with a mechanical whir. “Don’t listen to Grandpa, he can’t talk so good.”
“I can talk fine, you miserable harpy. Undo these straps so I can relieve myself!”
“You see? Can’t understand a word, can you?” The woman rolled into the room on a motorized cart, a sleeping baby in her lap...two sleeping babies...a two-headed mutant. She came until the cart slammed against Courtney’s chair then smiled with blackened teeth.
“Let me go. You gotta let me go.”
“But honey, you know I can’t do that. Yer part of the family now. Gonna give us plenty a strong little ones, right?”
Courtney’s head became heavy and drooped over her chest. A string of drool stretched from her lip and dangled, swaying as she choked up.
“Now now, honey, it ain’t all so bad. My boys are sweet boys.” Her finger lifted Courtney’s chin. “Such a pretty thing. Wanna hold my darlings?”
The two-headed toddler was tossed into her lap like a football. One head still slept, but the other blinked and made a sucking sound. It turned to face its brother, leaned over and bit his face. Now they were both awake, one crying, the other looking for a teat on Courtney’s lap. The smell wafting up was like sharp cheddar.
It Was a Dark and Stormy Night... Page 11
