by Martin Mundt
“No,” shouted the Mad Gluer, “no! You’re not supposed to like this!” His right hand plungered, and his jacket slipped off his lap. He stood, stooped and shaky-legged, and his right hand kicked into fast-forward itch-scratching. He was skinny-white naked from the waist down, and he shook his hairy, dangling man-dice like he was shaking up the bones for the biggest throw of his life, his hand helpless in the grip of slapping, naked, rock-hard, hardrock rhythms of uncontrollable, raving, speedfreak Onanism.
The itch robbed his muscles of all free will, of all functions but the basest and most sinful, of all purpose higher than their own self-gratification. He was nothing but a hand that clutched, hips that thrust and testicles that surged out like Dizzy Gillespie’s cheeks ready to blow some hot, hot jizz… er, jazz in the wailing, lonely key of being all alone and blue-balled, until finally he collapsed in a masturbatory puddle of sweat and whimpers and high, arcing spurts of milky-white shame.
“The Lord is coming!” he shouted, like a hideous exhibitionist banging a shameless orangutan gong. “The Lord is Coming!” He shivered on the floor, spilling his precious seed on the barren, sterile, antiseptic, secular, emergency-room tiles. If it had been possible to impregnate tile through sheer perseverance and volume, the Gluer would have had a ceramic child on the way for sure.
And then I couldn’t see him anymore, and I didn’t care. I couldn’t see anything anymore, except Lola. The itch just kept itching more, and more, and more. I felt like I was experiencing her orgasm simultaneously with my own.
“Harder, harder, faster, faster,” I said, or she said. I didn’t know. It was as if my entire brain was hanging between my legs, or between her legs, or between our legs. Through the fog of endorphins rolling into my head, I could no longer see where she ended and I began, and I no longer cared.
The itching lasted seven hours.
“I have to go to the bathroom,” Lola finally said when we had no energy left. She pushed herself to all-fours, stood up, and opened her mouth to say something, when we both realized it. We were detached. Disconnected. Separate.
Everybody else in the emergency room had come apart at their intimate seams as well. The glue, apparently, had no staying power.
Lola and I stared at each other.
“So,” she said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“Yeah, right,” said Lola, nodding her head.
I stood up. I wrapped the bedsheet around us.
“Let’s go home,” said Lola. “I need my pants.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Home.” We headed for the doors. I heard a couple of the gay guys start up again in the corner. I looked over my shoulder. Everyone was de-coupled, but their own personal itches hadn’t yet subsided. “You know,” I said to Lola as we walked out of the emergency room. “That condom we used?”
“Yeah,” Lola sighed.
I held up two fingers. “I bought two,” I said. I smiled.
“Tee-hee,” she giggled, and we ran all the way home.
About The Author
artin Mundt is simply nowhere to be found. He was on his way to his Suzuki-method theremin lesson when he disappeared, ominously on a Thursday the Twelfth, his personal unlucky day.
Two weeks later, stories began to appear: “Maniac Worm” written in the medium of expiring life, thousands of drying earthworms pinned to sheets of cardboard to make squirming vermiform letters; “The Worst Clown in the World” contained in a bucketful of multicolored confetti, a single word written in teeny-tiny letters on each individual piece of confet; “Nightfighter” written in microscopic script on the insides of a pair of red-eyed contact lenses, which were then sutured directly onto the eyes of an eccentric English author, who now performs raving soliloquies of dragons and Nazis day and night, though in a very charming, if slightly deranged, BBC accent; “Kevin Bacon Killed My Girlfriend” tattooed onto the shaved unconscious heads of the contestants in a Pamela Anderson Celebrity Lookalike Pageant. And two stories (may God have mercy on the editor’s immortal soul) published in Twilight Tales chapbooks.
Each story ended with three horrifying words, three Mephistophelean words written in fake magician’s blood (Mr. Mundt is, after all, not crazy), three hideous horrific, leprous, nauseating words: MORE TO COME.
Think of those words the next time you walk through the portals of your house of worship, or as you watch the sunrise some beautiful summer morning and imagine that all is right with the world, and that it really is a very fine thing to be alive. MORE TO COME. Then shudder, and think to yourself, “Why can’t this Mundt guy just drink beer and watch ESPN like a normal person?” and remember, MORE TO COME. MORE TO COME.
