Steve Lowe

KING OF THE PERVERTS

From Michele Lowe, the author’s wife: I would like to make it abundantly clear that none of the acts or situations contained herein are based on real-life scenarios, and that no spouse(s) were hurt, either physically, mentally, or emotionally in the writing of this “book”.

From the author: Well, almost none of them…

The Golden Shower

Hearing the words coming out of my own mouth confirms that I have slipped into some alternate reality.

Up is down. Black is white. Peter Venkman’s voice echoes in my head. Cats and dogs and mass hysteria, all that jazz.

Before me stands, quite possibly, the hottest chick I have ever been in the same room with. She is five-alarm. Tall, dark hair, voluptuously rounded, and best of all, wearing nothing but a sheer lace thong. You really can’t classify them as underwear, more like the rumor of underwear. Like the eerie outline left on the ground following a nuclear blast. Saran wrap covers more skin than these babies.

And I am asking this woman to pee on me.

Her head jerks back like I had connected with a right hook to her jaw. “You want me to do what?”

Fuck me. Do I really have to say it again? Somewhere in the bathroom, my Albanian cretin cohort Mongo has planted at least one camera and quite possibly two or three to get different angles of this big moment. I swear I can hear him in the next room, on the other side of the paper-thin wall of this shithole motel he has found, stifling his laughter. I say a quick prayer, asking that he might choke on that laughter and die, slowly, and in agonizing pain.

I lower my head and concentrate on the scarred, faded bathroom tile under my knees. I wonder how many such acts have taken place in this very spot before I came along. I also wonder how often it has been cleaned after such acts have concluded. By the looks of it, quite a few, and not very often. I say another quick prayer of thanks for the heady decision to keep my pants on.

“Um… I said I want you to… pee on me.”

I can’t bring myself to look up at her and instead fixate on her lovely navel, which is quite lovely indeed. She stumbles back a bit and wavers, trying to balance through the fog of four appletinis. I was hoping that would have been a sufficient number of appletinis to keep her from running, horrified and disgusted, out of the room the second I told her exactly what I was hoping she would do to me, but now I fear she isn’t drunk enough just yet. Curse you, shitty Applebee’s bartender and your watered down, suburban-housewife-strength mixing skills!

I’m about to lose my nerve for good. This is it for me. If this doesn’t go down right here and now, there is no way in hell I can start over. It’s a small miracle I’ve made it this far. At this point in my life, I can hardly ask any woman out on a date and never a woman this incredibly attractive. Yet here I am wasting a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to get it on with a bonafide hottie by asking her to shower me with urine.

Asking her to pee on me would go over better than asking if I could pee on her. As far as I understand the rules of the game, a golden shower is a golden shower, regardless of the recipient. So, better me than her.

But I can’t honestly claim chivalry here. There’s a performance anxiety element to this, like trying to piss at one of those cattle troughs in a football stadium, where you’re shoulder to shoulder with dozens of guys, staring at the wall in front of you, forcing your eyes to remain locked straight ahead and not wonder if you had the guy next to you beat in the meat packing department. Nothing was worse than holding up the shuffling, drunken queue behind you because you couldn’t make wee-wee when the moment of truth arrived. There was this one time –

“Well,” the girl slurs, snapping me out of my little daydream. “I guess so. If that’s what you want, baby.”

What I want?

No, this is not what I want.

But at the same time, it is.

Do I want a smoking hot babe to piss on my head? In the abstract, that answer is no, not at all. In relation to what I’m currently trying to accomplish, that answer is yes, that’s exactly what I desire.

I want to shout for joy and scream at her to stop all at the same time.

She tugs at her panties, fumbling to hook her thumbs into the dental floss-thin waistband. She wobbles again, falling sideways into the sink. I reach up to steady her and help guide the underwear down. She really is gorgeous, every inch of her, including her magnificently landscaped pussy. I can’t take my eyes off it. It’s like looking into the sun — glorious in its magnificence but dangerous to stare for too long, lest you go blind.

Which is exactly what happens. I fail to heed that sage piece of advice, and now I’m blind.

She does as I have requested. She pees on me.

It burns my eyes, shoots up into my nose. My mouth is slightly open, too. For a second , I’m drowning a little, coughing and spluttering on piss.

Waterboarded by a babe.

She had to wizz like crazy, too; it just doesn’t stop coming. It sprays like a fire hose and knocks me back on my ass. The stream goes down the front of my shirt, onto my pants, spatters a little on my shoes before slowing to a light trickle dripping from her short pubic hairs and running down her gorgeous, gnawable thighs.

I cough and blow urine from my sinuses, gagging on the bitter burning in the back of my throat. When I can see again, I look up at her. She’s dry heaving, holding her bucking guts with both hands, preparing to add an appletini chaser to my golden shower. I scramble, slipping on the soiled slick tile flooring, spinning my tires in the puddle of piss beneath me. I almost get away in time.

Almost.

There’s no sense in staying after that, so I don’t. In fact, I can’t get out of that room fast enough. And now I’m standing outside, here at this shitty roadside motel in Muncie, Indiana, still within view of the very Applebee’s from whence this awful experience began –my front saturated in some hot chick’s piss, my back coated in same hot chick’s vomit — waiting for my personal cameraman, a hulking beast from some backwards mountainous region in the Urals or some shit who I’ve nicknamed ‘Mongo’, to open the fucking door so I can dive into the shower and try to wash off the filth and shame of this evening.

I’m wet, soaked through with a beautiful stranger’s bodily fluids, stinking something awful, but I’m also strangely satisfied. I proved something to myself tonight. I proved that I could actually go through with this stupid game. I’m not the pussy I thought I was.

I can confidently debase myself as thoroughly as anyone else.

I am pervert, hear me roar.

This is a strangely good feeling and I’m sure I will properly reflect on it at some point in the evening — I’m in the game, baby! But that shall come later, perhaps over a cocktail. Right now, I have to get cleaned up before I go completely apeshit.

“Mongo, open the fucking door!”

I hear the faint sounds of retching from the room next door, number 26, and feel sad for my poor, drunk, sick, hot babe. I pound on the door to Room 27 again until the lock finally clicks. Mongo opens it only as far as the chain will allow.

“Goddammit, Mongo, I’m covered in piss and puke and if you don’t let me in right now, I’m going to kick this fucking door into your face.”

Mongo grins and says nothing. That’s all Mongo has done since I met him at the airport two days ago.

Grin. Mumble. Chuckle. Silence. Vacant stares. Creepy fucker.

I’m still not sure if he even speaks English because I haven’t heard him utter a sound classifiable as anything other than a grunt. He’s not cowed by my idle threats, either. He knows I won’t kick the door in and, even if I did, I would not be able to inflict any appreciable damage on him. Mainly because he outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds, all of which is almost certainly steroid-inflated muscle.

He closes the door, fiddles with the chain, and opens it again. I step forward to go in, but his meaty fist blocks my way, a bucket filled with water dangling from his hairy knuckles.

“You wash up outside,” he garbles in a deep, thick Russian-ish accent. Definitely Soviet Bloc in origin. “You are nasty motherfucker.”

He smiles at his little joke and closes the door. The lock clicks back in place and I can hear him laughing on the other side — a deep, guttural sound like a growling animal. As I peel off my sopping shirt and lift the bucket above my head, I make a silent vow to get even with that shithead at some point. But that will come after.

First, I have to win this contest.

Interlude 1

The Divorce

You may ask yourself, how am I in this situation?

Why am I holed up in a shitty motel with drunk college chicks, asking to them to pee on me? Sharing a squalid room with a cameraman who is borderline gorilla? Standing on the second floor walkway of a shitty motel, washing bodily fluids off myself with a bucket of water?

Am I some sort of sick fuck who gets off on weirdo sex shit like that?

I want to say no to that, but it’s really complicated. Like life is complicated. Like marriage is complicated. Nothing is cut and dry, black and white, even if I wish it to be so. Everything is shades of brown like a shit the morning after a drinking binge. It all depends on what you consumed the night before that determines what color of shit you’ll be cleaning up the next day.

So this really starts much earlier, as all stories like this tend to. Mine really begins about seven years ago, when I got married.

It goes like this:

Dennis was your pretty regular, average kind of guy. Not real tall, but not real short either. Decent looking, but in a somewhat non-descript way. He would actually have made a pretty good criminal because he was the kind of guy that, if witnesses were asked to describe him to the police sketch artist, they’d furrow their brow and chew their lower lip and struggle to describe him with any specificity. Dennis was just there, in a very non-threatening sort of way, like discount store corn chips. They weren’t Fritos, but they were sort of like Fritos, just lacking in things like, you know, flavor and texture. That was Dennis, the human equivalent of dollar store snack foods.

Mr. Average.

Dennis was not particularly smart, but he was smart enough. He graduated high school. He attempted college. He tried for a little while. He probably could have been something more if he ever applied himself like his dad had tried to convince him to do, whatever the fuck applying oneself really means. Dennis guessed the definition depended on the person uttering such a vague phrase. It wasn’t that Dennis didn’t want to learn, he just never really cared to do more than was absolutely necessary. He lacked ambition. He had no goals, aside from trying not to embarrass himself or his parents by flunking out or getting in trouble or standing apart from the crowd in any way whatsoever.

Once he got to college, he didn’t really know what he was going to do next. No surprise he didn’t last very long.

Enter Carrie. Dennis liked Carrie right away and it turned out she liked the hell out of him, too. They went from first date to moving in together pretty quickly, within a few months. Dennis stopped going to class and got a job because now, all of a sudden, he had things like bills. That sucked. Dennis hated bills. He never really had many of them until he moved in with Carrie.

But Dennis didn’t look at it that way. He was happy. He fell in love with her. He even admitted he had fallen in love with her from the first night they were together. He was never much for fairytale romance shit but I guess you could look at it like that. Carrie always did. That’s probably why it went so bad so fast.

Because, as Dennis liked to try and explain to his naïve bride, “real fucking life” was most definitely not a fairytale. He did his best not to term it in such a way. At least, not at first. Once the shit began rolling downhill, though, it changed.

Dennis supposed he was as much to blame for it going bad as Carrie was. He tried to tell himself that. But no matter the amount of self-loathing, regardless of how hard he tried to convince the reflection in the mirror that holding onto hate was not healthy, he simply couldn’t get past the facts:

Carrie changed, not him.

Carrie wasn’t living in reality, he was.

Carrie fucked him over, and good.

They didn’t just fall out of love, they plunged headlong into hate, with a capital fucking H.

Dennis had dropped out of college to support them. Carrie never even bothered to get a job.

Dennis worked a second part-time job to keep up with the mounting debts. Carrie excelled at adding to that mountain.

Sex became a thing of the past, which only added to Dennis’s spiraling attitude toward his wife and their relationship. The only thing he could be thankful for was they had managed to avoid conception.

That’s the short and dirty version of things. Maybe I’ll get into it a little more in-depth later, but really, that’s all you need to know leading up to D-Day.

D-Day hit seven months ago, and it went something like this:

“Dennis, we need to talk.”

“Wow, what’s the special occasion?”

“Shut up and sit down.”

“I’d rather stand.”

“Why do you have to be such an asshole?”

“What do you want to talk about? I’m going to be late for work.”

“Screw work, we have more important things to discuss.”

“Unfortunately, I don’t have the luxury to just say, ‘Screw work.’ Someone has to make sure the repo men don’t come for the car again like they did last month. At some point you might understand the concept of work leading to money, which you use to pay your bills, and the more you spend the money on things that aren’t bills, the more you have to work to make more money to cover what you pissed away on — ”

“I want a divorce.”

Silence.

Shouldn’t have been a surprise, but it still came as a slap in the face. I didn’t know why at first, but the more I thought about it later when I had nothing but the cold hand of loneliness to cuddle with on my brother’s couch, the more I figured it had to do with failure. I sure as hell didn’t want to be married anymore, but getting divorced made me feel like a failure. Quitting college didn’t because that was my choice. I controlled that decision. This, I had no control over. I should have brought it up first, but I didn’t. I was determined that at some point we would figure it out. We would get better at being adults and spouses. At being mature people. But we weren’t and we didn’t. We were just a couple of spoiled kids playing grown-ups. And now she was controlling what happened next and that just didn’t sit well with me.

“Fuck you, a divorce.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Fuck me? You better watch the words that come out of your mouth right now.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You bet your ass I am.”

“You can shove your threats up your ass. And we’re not getting divorced.”

Yes, I realize now how stupid that sounds. What can I say? I don’t handle change and upheaval well.

“You tell me to fuck off and shove it up my ass and then insist that we’re not getting a divorce? Are you shitting me?”

I didn’t respond only because I couldn’t think of anything to say that didn’t include words like fuck and shit and cunt. If I had responded, it would have been something equally stupid. But who speaks eloquently when their wife says she wants a divorce? I believe I deserve a little slack.

Unfortunately, we talked some more. As expected, I eventually said more dumb shit, but she was still in charge of the exchange, which just pissed me off even more. She had come ready, too. She slid the divorce papers across the table to me. Yes, I was still standing, and no, I did not take them. She even had little sticky arrows pointing to all the spots I was supposed to sign, like I couldn’t have figured it out myself.

I didn’t sign them. I left and went to work.

I got there late. I picked a bad day to show up late.

I got fired.

This was a bad time for me.

I didn’t see or talk to Carrie for a week. I went to stay at my brother’s house in Muncie, about two hours north of home. Changed my cell phone number. Hid from the world in a cocoon of self-pity. One day, my divorce papers showed up in my brother’s mailbox. I thought about burning them and then pissing on the ashes and sending them back to her, but I didn’t do that.

I signed them. I let them sit for almost a month, but eventually I did sign them. Once I had initialed the final spot and scribbled my autograph on the last line, I immediately wished I wouldn’t have waited so long. Putting pen to those papers and signing off on the failure of my marriage turned out to be the most liberating experience of my life. I instantly felt free. I felt like I could smile again. I didn’t smile, but at least I felt like I could, and that was big for me.

I also realized how childish and silly I was refusing to accept the reality of the situation and just get it over with, because it really was what both of us needed. I even felt better about her, thinking she was in the same bad situation as me, that she had been having the same feelings of depression and anxiety, feeling like an animal stuck in a cage. As soon as those papers were signed, I felt like I was on my way to becoming a new man, maybe the man I thought I would grow up to be. I had the opportunity to restart my life.

Then Carrie informed me that, oh by the way, in five months, she’d be giving birth to my baby.

The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 1

I’m dozing, the boredom of sitting in a motel in Muncie, Indiana, in the middle of a weekday with nothing but soap operas and talk shows to occupy my time finally winning the battle for my soul.

Then I’m suddenly not dozing. Mongo punches me in the shoulder. It’s a light pop to him, I’m sure, but the guy doesn’t seem to know his canned ham of a fist weighs roughly the equivalent of a cinder block when hurled through the air into my tender arm.

“Shit, dude, what the fuck?”

He shoves a laptop into my hands. “Message time.”

“OK, but maybe just gently tap me, or even just simply tell me. You don’t have to break my arm in the process.”

Mongo smiles his creepy Mongo smile. “Pussy.”

“Whatever.” I turn my attention to the laptop and click the Play button on the video player window open and waiting for me. It takes a minute to load and I rub my shoulder in time with the spinning circle on the video player showing me  it’s chugging away. When it’s ready, Peter Oh’Tool’s large, chiseled face fills up the screen.

“Congratulations, contestant, you’ve done it! You’ve achieved your first goal, the golden shower! Now you’re ready to move on and tackle your next challenge.”

Peter Oh’Tool makes stupid air quotes with his fingers when he says, ‘tackle’. I wonder why he does that but figure he’ll go on to explain, which he does.

“Your next challenge is…”

A pause, for dramatic effect, I suppose, then large block letters flash on the screen at the same time Peter Oh’Tool yells, “The alligator fuckhouse!”

The canned sound of studio audience applause crackles, overwhelming the laptop’s shitty little speakers. Once it finally dies down, Mr. Oh’Tool continues.

“This is one of my favorites. The alligator fuckhouse goes like this: while fucking your woman from behind, you bite her neck, flip onto your back in an alligator ‘death roll’ and continue to pleasure her while she flails and struggles to break free. Sounds simple enough, right? Maybe so, but in reality, this maneuver is much more complicated if you plan on doing it correctly. Let’s refer to this clip from my 2001 classic, Creature from Slut Lagoon, for a proper demonstration.”

The screen fades out and is replaced by a poor quality shot of Peter Oh’Tool, looking much younger and covered in weird, green body paint, perched astride some blond chick, plump with silicone and probably cocaine by the looks of her weathered face and dilated pupils. She’s screaming and feigning distress, and doing so quite poorly. I’m instantly embarrassed for both of them and start to sweat. This is really bad shit, even for low budget porn from a decade ago.

The camera zooms in on Oh’Tool, who is pumping said blond chick from behind, and we see just how truly awful his makeup is. I guess it’s supposed to make him look like some kind of swamp creature, come up from a Louisiana bog to fuck all the backwoods whores who wile away their days running around in cutoff shorts, cooking meth, and sucking random dicks. But he looks more like a geek at a comic convention dressed as Green Lantern than he does a monster.

The girl is giving it her best (read: worst) fake moan, and says in a screeching, abrasive attempt at a Southern accent, “Oh mah, you really are a monstah!”

Yeah, it’s that bad.

The camera tightens on Peter again and his upper lip curls in a snarl. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, bitch.”

With animal quickness, Peter bares white teeth encased in cheesy prop fangs, which look like they belong in a straight-to-VHS vampire flick from the ’80s rather than a swamp monster, and plunges into the babe’s neck.

This time, the girl’s scream sounds real, just like the look of surprise on her face. We get a tight shot of both of them and it’s pretty clear Peter Oh’Tool is not faking it here — he’s really biting this chick on the neck. The shot pulls back again and then we see Peter really go to work — he wraps his arms around the girl’s chest, pinning her arms to her sides. At the same time, he kicks his legs out and in front of her thighs and, in an impressive show of balance and dexterity, flips over on his back. His ankles are on top of her thighs, clamping down, and his muscular forearms pinch the girl’s midsection, pushing her wobbling, gravity-defying tits up toward her face.

The girl seriously looks scared for a second and begins to struggle, but she’s not going anywhere, and Peter Oh’Tool begins to thrust. Somehow, he’s managed to flip this girl over in one move and maintain their special connection, if you follow me. And now he’s hammering the hell out of her like a piston in an engine block. He’s moving so fast his dick becomes a blur. Her face changes from fear to ecstasy and it’s clear she’s still not acting. Peter Oh’Tool gnaws away at her neck, pounds away at her pussy and, within minutes, she begins to scream, no longer struggling like prey in the clutches of a predator. She writhes and undulates with Peter, bucking her hips in time with his, and comes hard and long. If she faked that orgasm, then she deserves an Oscar. Based on her previous display of acting, I can only deduce that it was real.

I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the video pauses and Peter Oh’Tool appears in front of the screen again like a weatherman in front of a map. Mongo reaches out and pushes my chin up and my teeth clunk together.

Peter Oh’Tool smiles and says with a cocky, raised eyebrow, “This performance earned me my first ‘Fuck of the Year’ Woody at the AVNs. You can see why it’s called the alligator fuckhouse.”

The film rewinds and Peter turns to the side to show the action again, pointing out several key elements to the technique.

“First, it’s important not to give away your intentions. The key here is the element of surprise. When you bite her, try not to break the skin, but do it hard enough to scare the shit out of her. That sudden fear releases endorphins that will come in handy once you’ve flipped her over.”

The video plays in slow motion as the on-screen Oh’Tool moves into position. “Notice how I wrap my arms around her and don’t let her move. You can’t have her squirming out of position if you want to make this happen. Lock that shit up tight. Then, when you’ve got control of her, throw a leg in front of her thigh. That’s the key to executing the death roll without flopping out of her. If you think you can get both legs over and still keep your dick inside her pussy, go for it, but I wouldn’t recommend it for amateurs. Remember, I’m a trained professional.”

Cue a ‘trained professional’ wink and greasy smile. I fight back nausea as Peter plunges ahead. “When you got her on her back, she’ll buck around like a fish on dry land, so hold tight and plant your heels on her thighs. Once you’re there, it’s go time, baby.”

The video picks up again and we relive the magic of ‘Harlot O’Hara’s’ magical orgasm once more. Peter Oh’Tool begins to bump his hips in time with his on-screen self, clearly enjoying it all over again. Once it ends, he turns back to the camera and smiles.

“And there you have it. Now, go get ’em, gator!”

Interlude 2

The Baby

Some important information about me:

I’m part ginger. I’m not talking full-blooded. I don’t have a shock of orange on my head (it’s more of a ruddy brown). I’m not transparently white and prone to sunburn (I can get a tan, but it’s touch-and-go; tan becomes burn very quickly). And I’m not covered with freckles (they do come out when I burn, though). My dad passed his gingerly genes along to me. He’s your prototypical redhead. The guy would practically burst into flames whenever we went to the beach, which was not very often. My mom was dark-haired and Italian all the way through — her great grandparents came from Sicily to Ellis Island and were purported to bleed olive oil if cut. Sicilians tended to stick together, so my grandparents were pretty hardcore, but my mom broke from tradition in a big way by finding someone about as far from her end of the gene pool as possible. I fell somewhere in between them. My grandpa (never a big fan of my dad, whom he referred to as ‘The Carrot’) liked to call me V-8.

So, I’m about as white, round-eyed, and pale-skinned as they come. This is important to know.

After my divorce from Carrie, I hung around pretty close. I had to, because she was going to have my child. And because she was threatening all sorts of legal maneuvers designed to milk me for every dime I had, which wasn’t much. I still hadn’t found full-time work since the warehouse fired me, and since I got fired by a fucking warehouse, it seemed I wasn’t very desirable as a potential employee. Because I never finished college. Because I quit to become a husband and support my wife. Because she spent all our money but refused to GET A FUCKING JOB HERSELF.

You see where I’m going with this. Huge resentment issues.

So, fast forward approximately nine months. I’ve still got my part-time job — a fabulous, budding career in the food services industry. The only thing keeping me from either blowing my brains out or driving as far west as the $285 in my savings account would carry me was this baby on the horizon. Carrie didn’t let me come to the doctor appointments, but I still found out when they were and how things were progressing. I told her she owed me at least that if she was planning on getting any more money from me. She begrudgingly gave me copies of the ultrasound picture and eventually let me come to a checkup in the last trimester. I got to feel the baby kick. It was an amazing, transformative moment. I cried.

As I looked at my ex-wife, with my hand on her large belly, my daughter kicking my palm, with tears in my eyes, I could feel the ice begin to melt. That wall that had built up between us over the last few years seemed to be slowly dissolving. Neither of us said anything, but I could sense the difference. We had a new connection. This little life inside her, this ‘product of our love’ as the saying goes, proved to me there really had been love there between us at some point. I thought a lot about the beginning, how it was when we first got married. I stopped obsessing over the end when it got bitter and nasty. I threw that out. I was done with holding a grudge. I thought maybe this could work, maybe we should make it work for the sake of our daughter.

I started coming over to the house regularly to check on Carrie, make sure she was OK and had everything she needed. I would do stuff for her so she could rest. I made dinner and did the dishes. I washed laundry. I read stories and sang to our little angel in the womb. I even crashed on the couch a few nights. The closer we got to the due date, the more it felt like things might work out. Carrie felt it, too, and even said so. We didn’t talk about re-marrying just yet, but I was definitely thinking about it. I had hope for the future for the first time since we were still newlyweds.

Then the baby came.

For whatever reason, Carrie didn’t want me in the delivery room with her. I protested at first, but she was in labor and not in the mood to discuss things. She gave me a look. I knew what that look meant. I stayed in the waiting room. I was in there for nine fucking hours. I sat in every single seat. I read every magazine from cover to cover, four times. I nearly got kicked out at one point. I was a wreck.

Finally, Carrie’s mother came out to tell me the baby had arrived. She was not smiling.

“You shouldn’t go in there,” she told me.

“Why the hell not? I’m the freakin’ father. I want to see my daughter.” I was pretty slap happy from sleep deprivation and nervous stress at this point.

Carrie’s mom just shook her head. She couldn’t look me in the eye. “Wait here for a little longer.”

I wasn’t pleased about it, but I did. Twenty minutes later, a nurse came out and said, “Mr. Porter? Follow me and we can go and see the baby in the nursery.”

Not your baby. The baby.

She pointed her out for me, lying in a bassinet amid half a dozen other squalling newborns.

“Which one is she?” I looked where the nurse was pointing, tried to follow her finger. “Is that her, next to the little Chinese baby?”

The nurse just said, “Um.”

I read the name on the tag at the end of the bassinet.

PORTER, AMELIA

She wasn’t next to the little Chinese baby. She was the little Chinese baby.

The wisps of red hair I was expecting were in reality short, straight, and black. The light, pale skin that should have resulted was more olive in color. The eyes were of a shape typical to the Asian world and not the creamy, large, round eyes of my sun-sensitive forbearers.

This was not my child.

“Are you sure that’s the right one?” I asked the nurse.

She still couldn’t meet my gaze. She just nodded. “I’m afraid so, Mr. Porter.”

Everything inside me broke right there. I walked out of the hospital without another word. Carrie didn’t even bother to try and call me.

I haven’t spoken to the bitch since.

The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 2

Picking out my gator bait did not go very smoothly. It was getting late and the choices were running slim. I was too picky at first. I was looking for a certain body type to make sure I could pull this move off. I’m a relatively fit kind of guy, but I’m certainly no bodybuilder, so I can’t have a chick that’s too thick to flip. I also don’t have the same equipment as my tutor in the Ways of the Fuck, Mr. Peter Oh’Tool.

Long story short (literally), I was getting down to the witching hour and I still didn’t have my prey. Mongo was getting twitchy and kept walking by, mumbling in my ear, “Pick out bitch and let’s go.” And, “I don’t wish to be here all fucking night.” And, “Shit or get off pot, pidoras.” I’m not sure what that last word meant, but I had a feeling I was cussed out in Slovakian or Siberian or whatever the fuck country Mongo is from.

So that’s why I’m here at the motel room with Danielle, wondering if she can smell the faint, lingering odor of urine in the air. She’s nice looking, no major issues with her hair or her skin, no odd birthmarks or growths anywhere on her body, which is a plus. I look for those things first. Paranoia, I guess.

In fact, Danielle looks pretty damn good without her clothes on. She’s got a very nice body and seems to know how to use it. I can tell by the way she’s advancing on me as we make for the bed. In a normal situation, this would be fantastic.

But this is not a normal situation. The problem with Danielle in relation to this week’s challenge is that she’s about six or seven inches taller than me, and I’m guessing probably equal or close to me in weight. She’s not fat or anything, not by a long shot. She’s just big. Bigger than me. Probably stronger than me, too. Turns out she’s a college volleyball player.

On the other side of the bar, sitting down, throwing back shots with some of her teammates, Danielle looked pretty normal in the stature department. And I was working on a few beers and two shots of whiskey myself, so my perception inside the dimly lit bar was not where it should have been. Add the fact that she was hanging around with other volleyball players, all of whom were much taller than your average co-ed, and you can see why my perception was way out of whack.

Danielle looks down at me with a boozy, eyes-half-closed air of sexiness bordering on drunk. This is going to be a problem. There’s no way I’m going to pull this off, not with this girl, but what the hell have I got to lose at this point? According to Mongo, I’m already falling behind in the game. Seems the guy in Baton Rouge, Louisiana — Bob something I think — has lucked into a hive of LSU sorority whores who are convinced he’s Les Miles’s nephew. The dude has already completed five challenges. I’m still stuck on number two and my unwitting partner looks like she could very easily spike me into the floor.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, little man.” She grabs me under the arms. It tickles a little, and I’m nervous as hell, so I can’t stifle a giggle. Then I remember the cameras and mics strategically hidden around the room and I make a wish to the Dark Lords of Perversion that it gets edited out, that this whole part hits the cutting room floor, because Danielle next picks me up and tosses me back onto the bed.

She rips my pants off without undoing my button or belt, which snags a few loops of pubic hair along the way. The pain is sharp and real. I scream. The scream is more embarrassing than the giggle just a second ago. This is not going very well.

Danielle laughs, a much deeper, more masculine sound than I’ve emitted thus far, and jumps on me. It takes a minute for the pain to pass but, once I catch my breath again, it’s on. Danielle is into it and it doesn’t take me long to get there with her. She starts on top and rides me with gusto. She even makes little whoop sounds, like we’re at a rodeo. We get into a groove, find our rhythm, get used to each other’s body and pace. We fit well together on this plane and she takes notice.

“Yeah baby, work those hips,” she says.

We keep at it a few more minutes and she starts to moan. She sounds like she’s going to come soon, but if she starts, so will I and I’ll miss my chance for the alligator fuckhouse. I reach up and pull her close and roll her onto her back. She makes an excited “Oh!” noise and tries to keep going, but I take one of her legs and try to throw it around my front. I need to get in behind her to do this move right.

I miscalculate how long her really long leg is and she miscalculates how far it needs to go to clear my face before she brings it down. I catch a heel under my left eye and am momentarily stunned. Stars and whatnot. I shake my head and squint against the pain and by the time I get my bearings back, Danielle is up on her knees, backing into me hard, saying things like, “Oh yeah,” and “Come on.”

OK, here it is. Moment of truth.

I have to press on her ass cheeks to bring her down a bit before I start my run. The first step is gaining my balance. I throw my feet over her legs, positioned in front of her thighs, and I do so without too much difficulty. She continues to bang away against me with her ass, seemingly unaware of anything abnormal going on behind her. I’m barely even noticing what’s happening because I’m concentrating on being technically correct. We seem to be having some pretty great sex at the moment, but I can’t let that distract me.

Next, I lean forward and place my hands on her arms, careful not to be too firm yet. Don’t want to tip her off that something is about to go down. I drop my head down, reaching for her neck. I don’t quite make it. My lips are bouncing against the top of her spine, and that’s as far as I can get. I’m considering just biting her back and going for it anyway, but the last thing I want is to get this far and have it not count due to a technicality. According to Peter Oh’Tool’s specific instructions, I must bite her neck before I pin down her arms and go into the death roll.

“Are you OK back there?” She’s still bumping away against me, but her pace has slowed and she’s looking back over her shoulder. “You’re not, like, having a heart attack or something, are you?”

I perk back up and resume returning her thrusts. “No, I’m good. I was just trying to… kiss your neck.”

“Oh.” She tilts her head back and I nuzzle closer, about as far as I dare go lest I ‘lose contact with the mother ship’. I place my lips on the base of her neck. Technically, you could probably call it upper shoulder, but whatever. Close enough for rock and roll. I take a deep breath… and hesitate.

Goddammit, I hate it when I hesitate. I always hesitate. I don’t know why I do that. Some psychological hang up I have.

“You sure you’re OK?”

Shit, we’re slowing down. Losing momentum. The air coming out of the proverbial balloon. If I don’t do this now, I never will. Fuck it, just lean forward and bite this girl.

You’re not a man, you’re a fucking alligator!

COME ON, DO IT! BE THE ALLIGATOR!

I do it. In one swift motion, I wrap my arms over her, locking my hands just under her breasts, and sink my teeth into her lower neck (upper shoulder, what-the-fuck-ever). I plant my feet in the bed and try to stand, with every intention of lifting her up and rolling to the right, onto my back, maintaining my hold on her arms, and achieving continued insertion in the Promised Land so I might then press on and give Danielle the screw of her young (but definitely LEGAL) life. But I have one problem: I can’t roll her.

In fact, I can’t do anything. My feet are no longer making contact with the bed. And she’s screaming. She’s raised up high on her knees, high enough to get me airborne.

“OW HEY WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING STOP BITING ME LET ME GO”

I don’t stop biting her. I probably should, but I don’t. Instead, I kick my legs, desperate to find purchase. That doesn’t happen either.

And then we’re standing.

Correction: She’s standing. I’m holding on for dear life, my arms wrapped around hers, my legs clamped on top of her thighs.

We spin.

She screams.

“GODDAMMIT WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING YOU PSYCHO LET ME FUCKING GO OH MY GOD”

I’m getting dizzy. The spinning ends when she slams me against the wall, rattling the cheap paint-by-numbers picture that passes for roach motel art. This is the point where I stop breathing.

Danielle lets out a surprised, “OH!” and freezes there, breathing hard. I think a rib may have cracked and is now lodged in my lung. I’m still clamped to her like a barnacle on the hull of a ship. She jolts forward, trying to shake me loose, then falls back against the wall again, rattling my ribcage and stressing the thin drywall.

Breathing is overrated.

Oooo, look at the pretty stars.

Danielle says, “OH!” again and pauses, panting.

She leans forward and slams me back.

Again.

“OH!”

She finds a rhythm. Rock forward. Lean back. SLAM! “OH!”

Rock forward.

Lean back.

SLAM!

“OH!”

Rock.

Lean.

SLAM!

“OH!”

Rock lean slam OH! Rock lean slam OH! Rock lean slam OH!

I’ve nearly passed out from oxygen deprivation when she comes.

It’s loud, it’s long, and it results in much pain to my person. But even amid all this chaos, it’s magical. I realize that, not only did we maintain our connection, we did it standing up. And against the wall. And fair Danielle is currently coming her brains out loud enough for half of Muncie to hear her. That’s enough for me and, despite the hot pain in my chest and the gathering darkness of unconsciousness, I join her.

It’s an alligator fuckhouse for the history books.

Take that, Baton Rouge Bob.

Interlude 3

The Gameshow

I did what anyone whose wife just gave birth to someone else’s baby might do. I drank, a lot.

It’s actually a good thing. I have a very low tolerance for alcohol in all forms and iterations. Hard liquor, beer, mixed drinks, wine spritzers. I drank it all. I went on raging benders that lasted for days. I got into fights, got kicked out of bars, had random sex with strange women. Possibly a man who looked like a woman, but I honestly can’t remember.

That was a bad week.

But that’s all it took was a week. I hit bottom, saw the light, made my choice to stop drinking. Moved on. Actually, the first morning I woke up puking and hurting from a hangover, I was pretty much done. Like I said, I’m just not much of a drinker.

This wasn’t a vow to never drink again so much as it was a realization that making myself sick was not only stupid but going to get boring really fast. And I was always better at quitting things anyway.

I tried to move on with my life, what little there was left of it. I no longer had a wife, no longer had a job, no longer had a future. I didn’t know what I was going to do next. The only thing I knew for sure was that I would wake up on my brother’s living room couch, but there wasn’t much of a future in that, either. His wife wasn’t going to stand for it much longer, having me camped out in her living room all day, watching soap operas and talk shows and doing absolutely nothing but moping and feeling sorry for himself. I couldn’t blame her. I wouldn’t want a loser like that sleeping on my couch for very long, either. I knew I had to get off my ass and try to find something. A new direction for my life.

Or at the very least, a new venue from which to do my searching. Before I figured out my future, I had to do something with my present. That’s why I answered the ad in the newspaper. It was something to do. I had nothing else going on, anyway.

It was a vaguely worded want ad calling for extras to work in the entertainment industry. It promised a chance to possibly ‘EARN BIG $$$$!’ Despite the rapey stripper connotations of the ad, it was good enough for me. I called the number in the paper and got a gruff sounding guy who had no idea what I was talking about at first. The phone was handed off to another guy who told me when and where to show up and then hung up on me. A little strange, but I didn’t really pay attention.

Two days later, I showed up at the when and the where and found about two dozen other guys milling about in a dingy waiting room. They all looked pretty much just like me — average, quiet, with a look of desperation in their eyes. I waited for an hour and a half before they finally called me back. We were in a bank of offices located in a warehouse-like building that until then I had always assumed was just an abandoned structure. Taped to the cracked window in the door to the back office where I was led was a piece of paper on which someone had written in craggy, black Sharpie, CASTING.

The guy inside looked like the guy I had imagined when I called two days earlier. He was short and round, oily-looking with thin hair. The office smelled like cheese. Mr. Oily sat behind a battered metal desk that appeared to have been salvaged years ago from a public school. The walls of the office were lined with more wrecked furniture. Mr. Oily motioned for me to sit in a rickety wood swivel chair in front of the desk. I did.

He didn’t introduce himself, just waited for me to get settled in the chair and said, “Why are you here?”

“Uh, because this is where the person on the phone said I should come.”

He shook his head. “No, I mean why are you here in a general sense, not a literal sense. Why did you answer the ad?”

I wasn’t following him. “Because I’m looking for work.”

“Have you ever acted before?”

My turn to shake my head. “No, never have.”

“In high school? Drama club? College Shakespeare theatre?”

“I didn’t finish college.”

“You didn’t answer my question, either.”

“No, nothing.”

“But you still responded to the ad calling for extras, even though you have no experience in the entertainment industry.”

This was discouraging. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

I stood, but he waved his hand. “No, sit. That’s actually perfect.”

“It is?”

“For the project we’re casting, yes.”

“What exactly is this project?”

The guy watched me for a minute without answering. He seemed to be sizing me up, tilting his head to the side, looking me over. “You’re not a bad-looking guy,” he said in a fairly nonsexual way, putting the emphasis on bad as if to say I’m not exactly a good-looking guy either.

An internal homo-rape siren began to clang in my head and I stood up. “You know what, I think I made a mistake.”

“No, sit. Stay. Don’t worry, no homo here.”

I wasn’t convinced. The homo part didn’t worry me so much as the dingy office, greasy creep, and instinct that I was about to get involved with something I would regret.

I really wish I would’ve listened to that instinct.

•

After I talked to the ‘casting director’ (and said a prayer of thanks that his office hadn’t contained a couch) I was ushered into another room. There were a few other guys in there. I recognized a couple from the waiting room. We all milled around in silence for about twenty minutes before Mr. Greaseball came in and pointed at me.

“Mr. Porter, follow me. The rest of you, thanks for coming in.”

The dejected walked out without a word and I followed Greasy. He talked while we walked. “Congratulations, you made it.”

“Cool. Can you tell me what it is?”

“I’ll let the boss give you all the nitty-gritties, but you’ve been cast in a new reality game show.”

“What the hell is a ‘reality game show’?”

“Boss will tell you when you meet him in person.”

“Are we going to meet him now?”

“Yep. You get airsick at all?”

“We’re flying somewhere?”

Greasy turned and smiled for the first time. “Ever been to Vegas before?”

•

I’d never been to Vegas before. I have to admit I was a little star struck. The plane ride out, sitting in first class, a limo from the airport to the Strip. A room at the Rio. A personal assistant to guide me where I needed to go. All my meals paid for. All that I wanted to drink, which wasn’t much, but I couldn’t resist a few. I knew I shouldn’t, but I broke down and had a glass of champagne and some wine with dinner at Buzios, which was the best seafood I’ve ever had. It was such a whirlwind I didn’t think to ask any questions until the next day when we went to meet the boss.

My first impression of Peter Garnier was a good one. He was well dressed in an expensive-looking suit, had a very nice office modestly appointed with artwork and modern furniture. Nothing at all like the dingy warehouse offices back in Muncie. He explained to me those were just temporary spaces rented out during the casting process.

“Not the prettiest space available,” Mr. Garnier admitted, “but sufficient for our purposes.”

I took that to mean cheap. I was brought a glass of mineral water, which I sipped while I listened to Mr. Garnier.

“I trust your trip out has gone well.”

“Oh, yeah. Thank you for that. Everything has been amazing.”

“Now that you’re settled, it’s time to get to it. What do you know about the show so far?”

“Not much, really. All I’ve been told is that I’m going to be part of a reality game show of some sort.”

“That’s right. It will be the first of its kind. We’re broadcasting it exclusively online through our website, and we expect it to be very well received. It’s a homerun of an idea.”

I nodded and sipped, excited to hear more.

Mr. Garnier smiled as he said, “Dixar Studios is proud to present the first Sexcathlon. The show is called King of the Perverts.”

I choked on my water. He laughed. Then he explained, talking for twenty minutes straight. My head was spinning by the end. He stood and offered his hand and said, “And now, it’s time to get ready. We’ll film the opening segment tonight. See you there.”

•

The rest of the afternoon was a mad dash from wardrobe to makeup to the studio where we would be filming. I was herded into a waiting area, a green room I guess is the correct industry parlance, with nine other guys. They were all very familiar-looking. I felt like I was surrounded by clones. We were all similar — average height and weight, appearance, dressed well in new clothes that looked nothing at all like the kind of threads we wore on a daily basis. We cleaned up well enough, but everyone had the same edge of desperation behind their smiles, the same look in their eyes. Confusion, maybe a little fear, a hint of sadness akin to what I still carried with me following my divorce. Despite the new clothes and pampering, we still had the reek of recent failure on us. Desperation was a scent you couldn’t wash away that easily.

None of us said anything and before long a dumpy woman with short hair and men’s slacks fetched us from the green room and guided us to the studio. There were two rows of seats off to the side of a stage set up on risers, and we were herded there. We sat and waited, a curtain separating us from what sounded like an audience filing into a theater on the other side. A murmur of anticipation penetrated the curtain and I started to sweat. I was getting more nervous the longer we sat there and waited.

Finally the studio began to brighten as more lights came on. The curtain raised and we all squinted against the lights shining in our faces. My nervousness jumped by a factor of ten when I saw the audience and the cameras. Producers just behind the cameras flashed hand signals to each other. I wondered if this was what it felt like to face a firing squad.

Somewhere offstage, an announcer jumped into the show’s intro spiel, his deep voice reverberating through the soundstage.

“From the publishers of the very finest cliterature in the land, the purveyors of only the best in cinematic and online fapfests, the most popular entertainment company in the world, Dixar Studios presents the new game show that’s taking the country by storm! Ladies and gentlemen, freaks and sluts, connoisseurs of smut from around the world, you are about to witness the first ever Sexcathlon! Where the contestants must complete ten sexy challenges of increasing difficulty for the chance to win ONE MILLION DOLLARS! Please welcome your hosts, four-time AVN award winner, the man with the industry’s Golden Rod of Love, Peter Oh’Tool, and the hottest young female talent on the planet, Miss Juicy Cumdumpster, as we get set to play…”

On cue, the studio audience, which appeared to be about 99 percent pasty, white, unshowered males of all ages, took their cue from one of the off-camera producers and shouted in unison, “KING OF THE PERVERTS!”

Mr. Garnier strolled onto the stage in a pair of skin-tight leather pants and no shirt. The sausage-heavy crowd booed him, save for a couple very effete, high-pitched squeals of delight. Behind the scenes, he was the boss man, Mr. Garnier, but in front of the camera, Mr. Garnier assumed the role of Peter Oh’Tool. The difference in his demeanor was striking. So was the thing in his pants.

Peter Oh’Tool smiled right through the crowd reaction and stood in the middle of the stage with his hands on his hips. The boos instantly morphed into murmurs of surprise and eventually reverent respect. You couldn’t help noticing the tubular bulge in Peter’s pants, snaking halfway down to his knee. If I hadn’t just learned he was a porn star, I would have thought he had some awful tumor growing out of his thigh. It seemed to pulse beneath the bright studio lights, transfixing the sweaty-palmed crowd of jerkoffs.

“Hello folks, I’m Peter Oh’Tool, and this is King of the Perverts. Please give a warm welcome to my co-host, the immensely talented Juicy Cumdumpster.”

The crowd exploded as Juicy wobbled onto the stage. She was all sorts of strange angles and unnatural proportions and I thought she looked sort of like an alien not used to walking erect had donned a human skin suit to try and pass for a person rather than a horrific space spider. It was either that or the enhancements Miss Cumdumpster had undergone had stretched her skin so tight one wrong move might cause her to split wide open. I was relatively repulsed, but the crowd of spankmasters were practically jizzing their pants.

Juicy waved and smiled and put her microphone to her balloonish lips. “Hi, y’all.”

The crowd went nuts again. Once they settled down, Peter plowed ahead.

“So, this is how it works.” He turned toward the ten of us with a grand sweep of his hand. “Ten contestants, chosen from thousands of applicants in dozens of cities across the country, have been assembled to compete against each other in this great sexual race to be crowned the first King of the Perverts. Over the course of this show, they will have to use their instinct, their guile, their charm, and their sexual prowess, if they have any, to complete ten challenges. Each time they complete a challenge, they’ll receive instructions on the next challenge. These challenges will not be revealed to them until their current test is completed. Each contestant will have a cameraperson, but they will only be along to capture their journey. They will receive no outside help. They will not be allowed to reveal to the women they are courting, or men if they swing that way, any information about the contest. They must not let anyone know about the game, or they will be disqualified. The losers, and there will be nine of them, get nothing. But the winner…”

Peter Oh’Tool turned and motioned off stage and another woman wearing just a thong and pasties covering her nipples entered pushing a clear plastic box on wheels. The box was filled with cash. “The winner,” Peter Oh’Tool continued, “gets a million dollars!”

I doubted the box actually contained all of the million dollars, but it was still impressive to see. The crowd of dorks whistled and shouted the name of the girl, apparently another recognizable porn star. I didn’t pay much mind to Ivana Stroikya, though. My attention was all on that cash.

Peter Oh’Tool thanked Ivana and turned back to the crowd. He said, “Before we start to play the game, let’s meet the contestants, shall we?”

I barely paid attention to the other contestants. They really didn’t matter. As far as I was concerned, this was not a head-to-head competition. It was all about competing against oneself. It was about overcoming the fear of being on camera, of getting naked when you knew thousands of eyes would see you in all your awkward glory, of having sex with strangers that would be broadcast to more strangers. This was what consumed my thoughts. This was my focus and my main concern. One thought kept rolling through my head, even as the spotlight glared on me and words fell out of my mouth:

Can I do this?

Am I man enough to do this?

Once they finished the introductions, and I stumbled pretty badly through mine, it was time to reveal the first challenge.

“This is the only time our contestants will be in the same room together until the final coronation ceremony,” Peter Oh’Tool said. “That’s because, as soon as we reveal the first challenge, they’ll be whisked back home and the game will begin!”

The crowd cheered on cue and Peter Oh’Tool smiled through it. Once they quieted down, he said, “And just what will that first test be?”

A marquee with flashing strobes along its edges dropped down from the ceiling on cables and everyone watched its dark display, waiting with great anticipation. Just when the crowd was starting to get restless, shouting out garbled guesses I couldn’t  make out, the marquee lit up with the answer, in large, yellow letters:

GOLDEN SHOWER

The crowd went wild.

The Abe Lincoln

That first challenge seems like a distant memory, even though it just happened two days ago. Reflecting on it now, it really wasn’t that bad, especially considering how well Challenge No. 2 went. Did I mention how great the standing fuckhouse was? Well, I’ll say it again. Danielle and I were asleep within minutes, both of us completely spent. I was still a little lightheaded from the pain in my ribs and under my eye, but it was totally worth it. I’m lying on the side that doesn’t hurt and she has a long, muscular arm wrapped around me in a very tight but tender cuddle. I feel like a teddy bear.

I drift off to a happy place. I think it’s a meadow. Danielle and I are there together. She’s skipping through the tall grasses and wheat stalks. I’m riding on her back, nibbling on her neck and making her laugh. She kicks at the wheat and sends chaff into the air and it swirls around us in slow motion through the amber light. This would make a perfect douche commercial.

But the sun moves behind a cloud. The warmth drains out of the air and we’re standing there in the middle of the meadow, both beginning to shiver. The golden wheat stalks are gray and dying now, their stems breaking off. The sound of merry, chirping birds disappears, all the tiny forest animals enjoying our presence were now gone.

But we’re not alone.

I slide off Danielle’s back and turn and I’m face-to-face with a massive bear. It’s right behind us, looming, casting a black shadow over us as it raises its huge paws. I’m a statue of fear. The bear places its terrible paw on my shoulder and bends over, huffing awful, rotted meat breath into my face as it opens its mouth.

“Dennis! Wake the fuck up!”

I open my eyes and see Mongo. His head is turned sideways so it’s parallel with mine and he’s shaking my shoulder with his huge paw and whisper-yelling at me, “Hey! Wake up homo! Have golden opportunity!”

I freak a little. I jump up and think I scream again. I’ll have to wait for this episode to air later to find out for sure. It won’t be the first time I screamed this evening. I’m guessing this will be the “Dennis Screams then Creams” episode. Maybe I can get an endorsement deal from a primal therapy salon after this is over.

I know I’m screaming for sure now, because the bear has me. His paw is clamped over my mouth and he’s hauling me across the room, and doing so without much trouble, I note. He carries me out of the room, whispering in my ear to shut the fuck up before I wake up tall, gangly whore. The bear says we still need gangly whore to complete next challenge.

He lets me go when we get outside the room and gently shuts the door. He presses a fat finger to his lips and points to room 27, our base of operations. I’m still trying to make certain he really isn’t a bear. In this light, I still can’t tell.

Mongo gets impatient and grabs me behind the neck and guides me into the room.

“Ow, OK, OK, OK, I’m going.”

He lets go and points to the laptop on the dresser opposite the room’s two beds.

“Watch video,” he says.

“Already? Jesus, don’t you think we can wait until tomorrow for the next challenge? I’m tired, I’m sore, and in case you hadn’t noticed, I’ve still got a girl in the room. You expect me to just wake her up, shove her out the door and go –”

“Shut mouth. Watch video.”

Mongo looms over me just like the bear in my dream. I’m scared. I do my best not to make pee-pee and turn my attention to the laptop. The video player is cued up so I mouse over and click play.

Peter Oh’Tool’s smiling face appears and he says, “Congratulations on completing the alligator fuckhouse! Nice going, champ! Now that you’ve taken care of that one, you’re ready to move on to the next challenge. Like the previous one, this test will require stealth and the element of surprise, but also something more. You’ll be required to move in silence and attempt daring feats without being caught to pull off one of the greatest sexual pranks in history…”

He pauses for dramatic effect and poorly rendered graphics spin onto the screen at the same time as Peter Oh’Tool shouts out the next challenge: “The Abe Lincoln!”

I say, “What the fuck is an Abe Lincoln?”

Mongo says, “Shut up and watch.”

I do what Mongo says.

I watch as Peter Oh’Tool explains the procedures involved with the Abe Lincoln. There’s also a short video recap, just like the previous challenges. Once it’s over, I stand there staring at the quiet screen, pondering this latest trial.

“I don’t know if I can do this one.”

Mongo says, “Why the hell not?”

I shrug and back away from him a bit. “I don’t know. It just seems… mean.”

Mongo laughs and closes the computer lid. “What kind of contest you think this is? This is not ‘Mr. Nice Man’ contest. This is conquest contest! This is King of Perverts! And these just bitches. What is to worry?”

“Well, you can start by not calling them bitches. I have yet to meet a single woman whom I truly wish to do any of this to, especially this thing to this girl in particular. She’s nice, she doesn’t deserve to have me do this to her.”

“I am still not seeing problem. Is no harm done to her. You go in, you snip-snip, you jerk-jerk, and then is like putting on makeup. No harms come to her.”

He’s right, but that still doesn’t make me feel better. “I know, but it’s just so mean-spirited.”

Mongo’s getting pissed now. “Enough with mean. Is not mean, you are just pussy. When contest is over, you can return to being homosexual have butt sex with other man. For now, you do this and we win contest.”

I was poking the bear too much here, but something suddenly dawns on me. “Wait, you said ‘we win contest’. Are you saying that if I win, you get a prize, too?”

That creepy, child-eating grin swarms Mongo’s face. “Is something like that, yes.”

We stand there in silence, him grinning, me fretting. Finally, he reaches out a paw and yanks me toward the door. “Time to get moving before gangly whore wakes up.”

“Right, OK, let’s do this.” There’s not much conviction in my voice. I guess I’m doing it whether I want to or not.

The lights are still out, so Mongo must have some kind of night vision cameras in here. Danielle is snoring, clearly wiped out from her monumental orgasm. All I want to do is climb back into bed with her and return to our warm little meadow, maybe ride piggyback on her again. That was nice.

This is not.

I pull back the covers very slowly, exposing her bare skin a few inches at a time. If she wakes up, we’re sunk, and at this point, I just want to get this stupid challenge over with. And then I’ll pray I never see Danielle again because she’ll probably beat the snot out of me.

I get the blanket pulled down to just above her knees, far enough for the small amount of moonlight coming through the window to give me light to work. Danielle rolls onto her back and I freeze, terrified, hovering over her with a pair of scissors in my hand. I don’t move again for several very long beats, not until her mouth falls open and she starts to snore again. It’s a loud, rattling noise like a machine gun firing in short bursts.

I remember why this challenge with this girl might be a problem. She’s bald downstairs. Perfectly shorn. Handsomely landscaped. My Abe Lincoln has quickly turned into a Telly Savalas. I must have been so focused on performing the fuckhouse correctly I didn’t even notice.

I do the only thing I can think of — I turn tail and run out of the room. Mongo’s waiting for me on the balcony outside.

“Get back in there,” he says.

“Uh, we have a problem, meathead. She’s got no pubes.”

Mongo doesn’t even hesitate, like he had this already figured out. “You already put dick in slit. How you not know this? No matter. Is not problem. You have pubes, yes? Use them.”

I think about it for a second. “I guess that could work. But is it legal? Peter Oh’Tool specifically demonstrated cutting off the girl’s pubes.”

“Yes, yes, is fine. Pubes is pubes. Go back in now and finish. I want to go for pancakes soon. Getting very hungry. You will not like me when I am hungry.”

Oh, well, I’m sorry my moral ambiguity is putting a dent in your breakfast plans. I think that, but I don’t say it. He’s right, of course. I don’t like him much now, I can only imagine how he’ll be when he’s grumpy. Fuck it. Let’s do this.

I take a few quick breaths and place my hand on the doorknob. Gotta psych myself up for this.

I go back in, quietly shutting the door behind me. Danielle hasn’t moved and is still snoring. I sneak over to the room’s tiny bathroom and shut the door behind me. I pull down my boxers and stand in front of the mirror, staring at my pale form. Another deep breath before I start to cut, trimming away as much of my reddish-brown man growth as possible. The more hair the better to make this as effective as possible.

Once I have a sufficient mound sitting on the sink, I set aside the scissors and grab my dick. This is going to take some coaxing. I am most definitely not in the mood to masturbate right now, which for me is saying something. But as Peter Oh’Tool said, “You can’t apply the disguise without first applying the foundation.”

I push Peter from my mind and try to think of other things. I think of earlier in the evening. I close my eyes and try to find the same rhythm Danielle and I had before.

That doesn’t work too well. All I can think of is the pain in my ribs, the burning in my lungs, trying not to pass out. I dig deeper, trying hard to conjure up an image that will provide sufficient rigidity down south. After a while, a face pops into my head. She’s familiar, but I can’t place her at first. Not until I imagine kneeling in front of her. She’s wearing nothing but those tiny panties, dark hair swirling around her head as she looks down at me. The girl from the first challenge. Shit, what was her name? Chris? Swish? Dish? It was some kind of –ish name.

Tricia! That was it, Tricia. Man, what a babe. And just like that, I’m in the game. It takes a minute to get up to speed, but once I’m in the zone, we’re ready. I’m getting fairly close and remember I’m not doing this for my own pleasure, that I actually have a job to do here. I gather up my trimmings and head for the bedroom, weapon still in hand, still priming, nearing blast off.

Danielle is rolled onto her other side now, facing the window. This is actually perfect. I move around the bed and bend my knees, adjusting my aim. I again feel the twinge of guilt, of how wrong what I’m about to do really is, but I push it from my mind. Can’t deal with that now. Must soldier forward. I can’t afford to miss this opportunity. I’m behind in the game and I’ve got a huge Russian animal with as much (probably more at this point) desire as me to win this thing.

I try to expel the mental image of Mongo and focus on the mental image of Tricia while I line up the shot.

We’re getting closer. Almost time.

Danielle lets out a little snort-snore. She’s stirring. I’m still coaxing. I realize how loud my stroking sounds in the quiet room. I cinch my eyes closed and concentrate. Can’t lose it now. We’re so close.

Danielle clears her throat. She moves a bit. She’s waking up. Fuck.

Almost there. COME ON. HOLD! HOLD!

“Dennis?”

Danielle starts to sit up, propping on her elbow. All is about to be lost.

But at the last moment, it happens. We have lift off.

My aim isn’t great considering this is the first time I’ve done something like this. I’ve never used a woman’s face as a target for firing my spooge. The first stream is a little high and hits her in the nose. I quickly adjust and aim lower, shooting a rope of semen across her chin. That’s all I get. She puts her hands up and splutters, gagging. Some must have gotten in her nostrils. I feel really bad about that.

“Shit, I’m sorry, Danielle.”

She pushes her feet over the side of the bed and coughs. She drops her hands down for a second and I can see it, glistening in the moonlight on her upper lip and chin: the glue for my fake beard. I look down at the mound of hair in my hand. So much for stealth and the element of surprise. Might as well go for broke now.

“I really, truly am sorry,” I say, and I mean it.

She opens her mouth just as I toss the handful of pubic hair into her face. Some of it sticks. It clings to her lip and nose. A large tuft affixes to her chin. A lot of it gets in her mouth. If you want to be technical about it, she looks nothing like Abraham Lincoln. But the point of the challenge is not about mimicry, it’s more the spirit of the thing, I guess. She’s got a beard of crotch hair held in place by my baby batter, and that’s all that matters.

It also appears that quite a bit of my pubic hair is now coating her tongue. Shit, I definitely did not mean to do that.

Danielle gags and spits and stands. She’s even tall like Abe Lincoln and I wonder if we’ll get bonus points for that. She meets my gaze and I can see the fury in her face. The vengeance burning in her pupils, balls of fiery hatred glowing through the darkness, glittering in the moonlight. She’s transformed in that moment into a towering personification of danger. A spouting volcano of death.

She roars.

I run for my life.

We’re in the parking lot. I’m clutching my pants, trying to pull them on. She’s stark naked. Tall and languid, muscular and athletic. And fast. Somewhere behind us, I hear the loud clomps of another set of feet. I chance a look back over my shoulder and see Mongo behind us, camera in hand. He’s laughing, struggling to keep up with us. Danielle is closing fast.

We cover six blocks before I can finally shake her.

Interlude 4

Jack Mehoff

I wait a long time before I return to the motel. I’m walking around in my bare feet, without a shirt on, praying I don’t get mugged or picked up by the cops. Maybe Danielle has already called them and they’re out looking for a shirtless, shoeless guy right now. I’m guessing she could very easily have me arrested for assault. Be easy to pin the crime on me, too, considering all the DNA evidence on her face.

I feel awful for her. And more than that, I’m disgusted with myself. I can’t believe I did that to someone. I also realize I’m not cut out for this. I like sex as much as the next guy, don’t mind getting a little kinky at all, but not if it’s one-sided. I just crossed a line.

Part of me wants to be picked up by the cops. I certainly deserve it.

Eventually, I make it back to the room, very careful to be quiet as I pass the adjoining room Danielle and I had been in. I don’t hear anything and assume she’s probably gotten her things and cleared out by now. Still, I very gently tap on the door to room 27.

Mongo opens the door a crack and I’m greeted by his scary rape smile. “Hello, lover boy.”

“Hilarious. Please open the door now. I would like to go to sleep.”

It’s nearly four in the morning and I’ve been walking the streets of Muncie for the past two hours. I’m dead on my feet.

Mongo opens the door and says, “Am proud of you, little trooper. Did not think you had guts to complete challengean.”

“Whatever. I wouldn’t call it guts. More like stupidity.”

“Is only getting harder from here. Becoming King is not simple task. Sooner you understand this, easier it will be rest of the way.”

I plop down on my bed and crawl under the covers. “If there is a rest of the way. I’m not comfortable with what I just did tonight, Mongo. Asking a chick to pee on me or rolling her on her back while we’re fucking is one thing, but this shit tonight crosses the line.”

Mongo doesn’t say anything. He just watches me. His rapey grin is gone, but I almost prefer that to the look he’s giving me now. After I’m completely creeped out, he finally speaks. “Game is not about what you are comfortable with. Is about how far you go to win money.”

“Well, I’m not willing to go much farther. I’m not cool with this anymore. Money be damned.”

Mongo is in my face before I realize he’s moving. It’s scary how fast he’s there, looming over me.

“You don’t get picture, homo man. You don’t have option to quit. According to updated scoreboard, you are now in third place behind Baton Rouge and Athens, Georgia. Not quitting now. Got it?”

I can’t answer, just nod.

Mongo stands straight and reaches behind his back. He pulls out a long, black, comically large hunting knife, which he uses to pick dirt from beneath his fingernails. He says, “Oh, almost forgot to mention. After you win, you will be splitting money with me. Fifty-fifty. I think is only fair considering how hard I work to help you win game. Don’t you agree?”

I nod again. He flips the knife over, catches it by the blade and rears back. I don’t even see the thing move through the air. It seems to just transfer from his hand to the mattress a few inches from my nose, buried to the hilt. This time, I can’t help but make a little pee-pee in my pants. Mongo leans over and removes the blade from the bed, hovering close enough that I can smell his breath, an odd mixture of vodka and pancake syrup.

“Good. Glad to know we see eye to eye. Is very important for us to be on same team. Very important.”

•

It takes a while, but I finally sleep. When I wake up, the sun is getting low in the sky.

“Time to rise, Sleeping Beauty.” Mongo stands at the end of my bed, holding the laptop. “Time to learn about next challenge. It is doozy.”

We watch the video.

This keeps getting worse.

Peter Oh’Tool demonstrates the proper way to execute something called a donkey punch. The girl in the video is wearing a fake smile, pretending to enjoy and even get off on this particular example of what I suppose you could term as sadism, but I can see the pain in her face.

Fuck. I’m going to have to be drunk to pull this off.

•

After a meal, we hit the local bars, as we’ve done the past five nights. I recognize several of the college-age women from previous excursions, and they seem to recognize me, which really spooks me. What if Danielle or one of her friends sees me? What if they’ve gotten the word out about me?

The bartenders are starting to recognize us as well, which spooks Mongo. We’ve tried to stay close to the motel room since all of the equipment is already set up there and it’s easier to convince a chick to walk across the street to my room rather than take a cab or hop in our rented Festiva and drive across town. But we seem to have hit a saturation point.

“We need new place,” Mongo says. I have to agree with him.

We head a few miles down the road, away from the Ball State hotspots, and find a dive filled with older, more pathetic folks. The music is slower and not as loud, the lounge lizards deliberately making their way around the room in the languid motions of the drunk and the hopeless and the tragically out of touch with today’s popular culture. Mongo finds a quiet spot in the back of the bar, leaving me to my task of procuring a victim for the donkey punch.

I sit at the bar and nurse a beer. I have no desire whatsoever to go forward. Mongo has kept his distance so far, but that won’t last long. He’ll be on my ass soon and then I’ll have to figure something out. But I have every intention of waiting until the last minute, hoping I can think of a way out of this challenge. I have no motivation, and it shows in the few poor interactions I have with women that come and go. I can’t help it. They all seem too nice to consider doing to them what I’m required by this goddamn challenge.

By ten, the bar is packed with a slightly more diverse cross-section of society, probably aided by an influx of wannabes who couldn’t get into a more hip spot. People are streaming all over, talking, smoking, laughing, arguing, and all of them completely ignoring me. The bartender would probably have kicked my pathetic ass from my spot at the bar by now for driving away business, but he seems too busy at the moment to notice, either. I’m like a black hole on a barstool, and he’ll eventually get back to me and tell me to piss off.

Despite my presumed invisibility, I notice a guy down the bar watching me. I realize he’s been there for quite some time, I just hadn’t really caught on that he was staring at me until just now. When he sees me watching him back, he raises his glass and nods in my direction. I look down at my glass. This would be just my luck. The only person in the entire place interested in getting naked with me is going to be this squirrelly-looking middle-aged weirdo with huge, tinted pedophile glasses. I steal a quick glance to see if he’s still watching me, but he’s not. He’s gone.

And then he’s there again, right next to me. I look around for an escape but I’m boxed in. People are crowding the bar to place their orders or retrieve their drinks. There are five people positioned behind me in a semi-circle, their backs to me, jabbering away with each other, oblivious of the fact they’ve hemmed me in. Somehow, Mr. Pedo angles around them and squeezes right next to me.

“Hi,” he says.

I consider ignoring him, but that will probably just anger him. He’s got the look of your typical suburban serial killer, just waiting for someone to rudely snub him and set him off. I don’t really want to end up in pieces, stuffed in this guy’s chest freezer, so I respond with a very stiff-sounding, “Hey.”

“My name is Jack Mehoff.”

Shit. Of course it is. “Hi, Jack.”

“I’m your biggest fan.”

I turn to look at the guy. “What?”

He repeats, in the exact same tone, like his response is a prerecorded message, “I’m your biggest fan.”

I’m not sure how to respond. That’s not a problem because he doesn’t bother to wait for one anyway.

“I picked you from the beginning. I think you have the perfect blend of charm, desperation, and compromised morals to be the King.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Jack looks around, but no one is listening to us. “The show.”

How the hell can he know about that? The show won’t even begin to air for weeks, well after the game is over. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. King of the Perverts? A reality-based game show built around the idea of a sexcathlon pitting ten contestants against each other in increasingly difficult –”

I cut him off. “Yeah, OK, just stop.” I eyeball the guy a little closer. He talks with a strange inflection and I’m reminded of a robot. There’s no emotion in his words, very monotone. “How do you know about that?”

“I was in the audience for the taping of the show’s first episode. But it’s not really a secret at this point. The Dixar website has begun posting short teaser trailers. Just brief bytes pumping a new game show. You’re prominently featured in the latest one. Nice alligator fuckhouse, by the way.”

“I am?”

“Yeah, though you can’t really see your face. They made sure not to reveal what any of the contestants look like. But I knew it was you.”

I look around for Mongo but he’s lost in a sea of drinkers. “You realize the game isn’t over yet, right? I’m not supposed to talk to anyone about it.”

“I know. But I couldn’t help myself. I want to see you win.”

“Well, thanks for the support, but –”

“You look like you could use a little assistance tonight.”

“Thanks, but I’m doing just fine on my own.”

“No you’re not. At this rate, you’ll never get the donkey punch in.”

I can’t help it and gape at the guy. “How the hell do you know about that?”

“It’s my hobby.” He pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose and takes a deep breath. “You can probably tell by my voice that I’m different. I have something called Asperger’s. It’s a form of high-functioning autism. I tend to get very focused on things and obsess over them. It can seem to be weird to other people.”

Again, he sounds like he’s reading a cue card, or reciting something he’s memorized and uttered many times before. I feel bad for thinking he was a weirdo now. “No, I didn’t notice anything.”

“It’s OK. I’m used to it. And it’s pretty much true. To most people, the way I act seems very much out of the ordinary, but I rarely realize it until it’s too late. The hard part is not being weird. The hard part is the realization that you are weird and there really isn’t much you can do about it.”

I don’t feel bad anymore. Now I’m feeling uncomfortable. “Yeah…” What the hell do I say next?

“And now you’re probably uncomfortable with how open and candid I’m being because until five minutes ago you didn’t know me, but now you know me more than some people you’ve known for five years, and that’s pretty strange as well, having a complete stranger come up to you and unload all of their deficiencies on you, though I don’t look at my Asperger’s as a deficiency. It’s more of a quirk, and sometimes it’s a gift because of my ability to hyper-focus on problems and ideas and figure out complex issues rapidly. I think it has something to do with the fact that I use about forty-three percent more of my brain than most people do.”

OK, fuck, now I’m scared again. It’s creepy the way this dude is reading my mind.

“And now you’re probably getting freaked out because I can tell exactly what you’re thinking like I can read your mind, but really it comes down to prior experience with similar social situations, as well as my uncanny ability to predict what people will do in –”

“OK, fuck, just stop doing that!”

Jack Mehoff pushes his glasses up his nose. It’s such a cliché nerd thing to do. I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose just to fuck with me. He opens his mouth to speak again and I cut him off quick before he can repeat my thoughts back to me one more time.

“Look, I’m sorry for yelling at you. I didn’t mean to do it because I was mad, you were just starting to … well, you were starting to creep me out a little bit.”

“I know. I have that effect on people. I’ll try to stop doing that, but I won’t notice when you’re getting uncomfortable so you’ll have to tell me. Don’t worry about offending me. I actually prefer when people tell me things like that, because I can’t process it on my own.”

“OK, Jack. I will make sure to tell you from now on when you’re creeping me the fuck out. Jack? Right now, you’re sort of creeping me the fuck out.”

“OK.” Jack faces the bar and sips his drink. It looks like a glass of Coke. I have a feeling there’s nothing other than that in the glass. He says, “I’ll leave you alone now, but I actually came over here to point out the lady at the far end of the bar.”

I look, searching the far end and I spot her right away. Forty-ish looking cougar with bad hair, worse skin, and a scowl pointed in my direction. She’s sipping her drinks through a black straw, drawing hard enough that her cheeks collapse. She looks like she could suck a golf ball through a garden hose and find such a thing enjoyable. She releases her straw and licks her upper lip, all the while boring a hole right through me with her stare.

“Oh, yeah. I see her.”

Jack says, “She’s probably your best bet at this point. I even dropped your name to her. That’s probably why she’s watching you and doing odd things with her straw that she evidently thinks are attractive to the opposite sex. She’s been married four times, had three abortions and a miscarriage, been to jail, and suffers from an acute addiction to methamphetamines in its gaseous form.”

“Damn, you learned all that about her already?”

“Yes. It’s not hard to get desperate women talking, as long as it’s about themselves. It’s part of their self-destructive nature to try to transfer their problems onto those around them.”

“OK, understood, Jack. I don’t need the psych lesson here.”

“Ten-four. Like I said, she has your name, likes your appearance, and would make a very viable candidate for receiving the donkey punch. There’s even a decent chance she might enjoy such rough handling. But I would strongly suggest using a very reliable form of protection from sexually transmitted diseases, because there is a high probability that her vagina is teeming with them.”

I turn away from the walking spirochete at the end of the bar to look at Jack. Once you get past the pedophile spectacles and the unsettling cadence of his voice, he’s really not a bad guy. I extend my hand and say, “Good thinking. Thanks Jack, it was a pleasure meeting you and I appreciate the assist.”

Jack turns away from my hand. He says, “Sorry, but I don’t do well with physical contact. And you’re welcome. Go get her, Your Highness.”

The Donkey Punch

“Hi sugar, I’m Pauline.”

I didn’t even have to move. She came to me. I had just drained my glass and was working myself up for a trip to the pisser before stumbling over to her spot at the bar, but I guess as soon as Jack left, she zeroed in.

I stick out a hand and say, “Hi Pauline, name’s Dennis.” Then I sit there and wonder why the fuck I’m talking like Roy Rogers all of a sudden.

She grabs my hand and I immediately regret having offered it. She sits next to me in a grand display of clanging, over-sized jewelry, and I resist the urge to wipe her hepatitis handshake on my pants. Pauline smells of cheap drugstore perfume, a lot of it, and she doesn’t look too healthy up close. From the other end of the bar she didn’t exactly appear to be fit as a fiddle, but sitting right next to me, my skin is crawling. Poor girl has clearly seen some rough times over the years, as evidenced by the half-moon shaped scar under her right eye.

“So, I heard a rumor about you.”

Uh-oh.

“Oh yeah? What kind of rumor.”

Pauline leans closer and says in a cigarette-and-gin infused fog, “Word is you’re a TV star.”

I laugh and look around for Jack Mehoff, but he seems to have disappeared. “Well, I’m not sure what people have been saying, but that’s not entirely accurate.”

Pauline sidles right up next to me and places her lips against my left ear. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “I won’t say nothing about the show. I know it will get you disqualified.”

I pull back and look at her. She’s got a wild, excited look in her eyes. I don’t know what all Jack told her, but it must have been enough.

She pulls me close again and says, “I want on the show. And you don’t have to worry about a thing. I like the rough stuff.”

So much for small talk. Ten minutes later, we’re in her pickup truck, heading for the motel.

•

Life is filled with many questions.

Why is the sky blue?

Is there an afterlife?

Why am I here?

And of course: Is it possible to wear three condoms at once?

I don’t know the answers to any of those yet, but I’ll be fucked if I leave this bathroom before I come to a definitive conclusion on that last one.

•

I’m thankful for many things. You might not think it based on what you’ve read so far, but I promise, I am truly appreciative for certain little things.

Viagra is one of those things. Vodka is another.

Without those two beauties, I would not be where I am right now. And where I am right now is coupled to the anus of a very bony, very loose, very frightening woman who I have come to learn quite a bit about.

The following is true of fair Pauline:

– She has been to prison. More than once. And not as a visitor.

– She has quite probably committed murder, or at the very least a form of extremely aggravated manslaughter. I gather this is the reason she was in prison, and I very much hope it’s not the reason she was in prison more than once.

– She actually prefers anal sex to vaginal sex. Says it feels better, she does. While she talks about the difference between her rectum and her vagina, I can’t stop imagining a long, wide, cold, dusty hallway.

– The last man to lay a fist on her is now collecting disability checks from the government and goes by the new nickname of “Lefty”. And he might also be her uncle.

These are things Pauline has related to me while I’ve spent the past twenty minutes pounding her bottom with what she calls my ‘flesh hammer’. It confuses me to learn that the woman who claims to enjoy the rough stuff, in her words, is also the same woman who allegedly severed the hand of a relative after he struck her.

And I have to donkey punch this woman in the kidney.

What will she do? Get pissed and cut off my dick? Or will she like it? Will the punch be considered the ‘rough stuff’ and lead to a positive response? Why did she hack off her uncle’s hand? Was it because he punched her outside the sexual arena? Has she ever had sex with her uncle? OK, probably a dumb question. More like, how often did she have sex with her uncle? From what I’ve learned of her so far, that seems to be the more apt query.

She’s still talking. I’m having sex with her butt and she’s talking like we’re sitting at breakfast having a cup of coffee and trying to decide if we want to go to Home Depot or Menards to pick up wallpaper. Only in this case, Home Depot is more like ‘my cocksucker of a second husband’ and picking up wallpaper is ‘impaled his ball sac with a Phillip’s head screwdriver’. The matter-of-fact tone she uses when discussing things I’ve only ever heard about on an episode of Dateline  is rather disconcerting.

And in the back of my mind, I can hear Mongo. He’s certainly getting antsy in the other room, spitting Slovakian cuss words at me to hurry the hell up and get this over with. And I have to agree with him here. I need to just grow some balls and take care of business. I don’t know how much more of Pauline I can take, and even Viagra wears off at some point.

But I can’t pull the trigger just yet. I have doubts. Fears about the well being of my appendages. She already told me she likes it rough, right? Isn’t that basically a free pass to attempt a simple donkey punch?

Good God, is this how rapists rationalize their actions?

Goddammit, stop this shit! Just give her a quick thump and get the fuck out of here!

Right. Just do that and it will be all over.

Pauline is still talking, and I think maybe she’s doing it for the cameras. She knows she’s being filmed. She wants to be a TV star. She’s expecting something to happen. She’s waiting for me to do it. She already knows it’s coming, she said so herself. So what the fuck is my problem?

Probably, I don’t have any fucking desire to punch a woman, that’s what. Shit. I need another drink.

No, this is it. Just punch this chick already.

OK. Here goes. This time for sure.

I raise my right fist. I try not to think about Uncle Lefty and his missing hand. I close my eyes and swing.

“Ah, there you are,” Pauline says. “I was wondering if you fell asleep back there.”

Nothing happens. Did I not hit her hard enough?

“Come on, I thought you were a tough guy,” she says. “That all you got?”

She’s looking back over her shoulder with a mocking smirk. Apparently my rough stuff is not very rough at all. I swing again, a little harder, and with my eyes open this time. I connect just below her ribcage, which is quite visible through her skin, like I’m fucking a skeleton covered in a sheet. This time I feel something, a tightening of her asshole. It sends a tiny electric shock through me.

“Yeah, now we’re talking,” she says. “Come on hardass, hit me.”

So I do. She squeezes me tighter.

“Yeah! Again!”

And I do, again, harder.

And again. She’s backing into me in earnest now and I wonder if she has any nerve endings at all in her rectum, or if perhaps she’d had a pneumatic tube installed back there at some point. Each blow results in a tighter squeeze and it actually starts to feel pretty incredible, even with three rubbers on.

I hit her three more times, a quick boxing combo of left-right-left and her body shudders and her asshole clamps down hard on my shaft.

“Come on, motherfucker!” She sounds angry now, but she continues to ram her sharp pelvic bones into my hips. “Let’s go, bitch!”

I’m getting close now. Time to finish this shit like Mortal Kombat. I raise both fists and bring the pain. Two perfectly placed shots to the kidneys. The Double Hammer Fist. Game over, motherfucker.

Pauline chokes on a scream and falls forward. At the same instant, her asshole collapses around my dick like a submarine reaching hull-crush depth. Total rectal implosion. As she pitches away from me, I discover why three condoms at one time was not actually a good idea. Pauline’s rectal muscles have clearly been worked out often over the years and developed impressively. Not only does her clamp-down and roll-out maneuver result in an explosion from me, she takes all three of my rubbers with her. My cock looks like a sausage being pulled from its casing.

Pauline turns on me fast and I realize that, oops, maybe that last shot was a bit too much. She’s got the eye of the tiger when she turns around and comes for me, anger etched on her worn face. But that’s not all that’s on her face.

Once the floodgates are open, it’s a bit hard to stop them. Pauline comes for me, but I come for her first. It’s a magnificent arc, a money shot worthy of one of Peter Oh’Tool’s Woodys for Best Facial of the Year. The timing is amazing.

Poor Pauline is blind. She jerks her head back, squinting against the shot she just took right between the eyes. She reaches for me, but I’m already off the bed and backpedaling for the door.

“Aw, you mother…”

She scrambles off the bed and lunges blindly forward, right into the dresser.

Ouch, that had to hurt. The sound of knee against cheap Sauder furniture is like a rifle report.

“OW! FUCK!”

Pauline grabs her right leg and pulls it toward her chest, hopping in place. Her free hand wipes at my semen in her eyes. My triple stack of rubbers dangles from her butt cheeks. She turns and hops toward me, waving her sticky hand in the air, grasping for something to pummel.

“ARRRR! You sorry motherfucker,” she says. “If you’re still here, you’re a dead man!”

And that’s my cue to scram.

The Angry Pirate

I listen at the door. In the neighboring room, Pauline continues to hop and stumble and throw things. I crack the door open and take a peek just as she comes hobbling out onto the balcony.

“Shit, she’s coming.” I step back from the door.

Mongo hops up from the edge of his bed where he’s been laughing and rubbing his hands together. He grabs a small handheld camera and hurries to the door. “Bonus footage,” he says gleefully.

I want no part of it and jump behind my bed. Mongo opens the door just as Pauline hobbles by, her eyes still squinted shut, my triple-stacker of rubbers hanging from her like a latex tail. Mongo quietly falls in behind her, grinning madly as he films away.

By the time he returns to the room, I’ve showered, dressed, and laid my suitcase out on the bed. I haven’t begun packing my stuff yet, but that was my intention. I can’t explain what stopped me from slipping out before he got back. I wanted to. Planned on it the second I got away from fair Pauline. But I can’t bring myself to do it.

Mongo is a bundle of excited energy. “Should have seen disgusting cougar whore,” he says as he hooks the camera up to the laptop on the work desk across from his bed. “Got amazing closeup of condoms in her buttcheeks bouncing around. Is like we script it this way.”

He looks from me to the suitcase on the bed and his rapey grin dissolves. “What is this we are having here?”

I’m not sure how to answer him so I shrug my shoulders. “I don’t know, Mongo.”

“What is not to be known?”

“I’m not sure if I can do this anymore.”

Mongo just laughs, but it’s a mirthless sound. “Of course you can. Watch footage from tonight. Will perk you back up for next challenge.”

“That’s the thing, I don’t want to watch the footage. I’d rather we burn it so it never sees the light of day. Christ, I just punched a woman as hard as I could so she would clench up her asshole to get me off. And then I blew my load right in her face.”

“Yes, was genius!”

“Genius? That was nasty!”

Mongo waves dismissively at me. “Nonsense. Nasty is relative term. Compared to other things in this world, money shot is not nasty. Is beautiful, even. You’ll see when you watch performance. Will make you next great star of porn after contest is finished. And on top of all, I have good news.”

I can’t imagine any good news coming from him at that moment, but I look at him with morbid curiosity.

His smile comes back and he rubs his hands together like he was doing earlier when I hightailed it into the room. “Good news is you are now in first place!”

•

Peter Oh’Tool’s face is waiting for me on the computer screen and he breaks out in a huge, cheesy smile when he sees me sit down in front of the webcam.

“Hey, Dennis! Congratulations!”

“Um, hi, Mr. Oh’Tool. Thanks, I guess.”

“I just finished watching the raw footage your cameraman sent over and I have to say, your performance so far has been tremendous. It’s everything that I had hoped for when we came up with the concept for this show. Regular Joes like yourself, sexual simpletons, if you will, rising to the occasion to perform like professionals when the pressure’s on.”

“Ah. Yeah. Cool.” Fuck, I don’t know what else to say. How do you respond to comments like that?

“And after tonight’s two-for, you’re in the lead, my friend.”

“Awesome. Wait… what do you mean, ‘two-for’?”

Peter’s voice kicks up an octave with excitement as he explains. “We had to tweak the order of the challenges a little bit, but you managed to pull off two of them tonight in one spectacular performance.”

“I did?”

“Yes, you did! First, you hung in like a trooper and went the distance to finish off that donkey punch but then you went the extra mile and snuck in an angry pirate!”

“An angry wha-wha?”

“Technically, there were a couple things not quite right with your angry pirate. You nailed the cumshot to the eyes to produce a squint, but for a proper AP, you were supposed to follow with a kick to the shin to get her hopping around like she has a ‘peg leg’.” He makes air quotes when he says peg leg.

“Your little bunny did that to herself tonight by running into the dresser, but the result ended up being the same — one pissed off bunny hopping around on one leg while squinting. The angry pirate! After careful consideration by our panel of judges, which consists of me, myself, and I, by the way, it was decided that the result is what really counted. The chick even shouted, ‘ARRR’ at one point. It was perfect! More importantly, it was also hilarious, and if I might say so, darn good television. Let’s see HBO’s Real Sex pull off some shit like that!”

I still don’t know what to say. Mongo claps his paw on my shoulder and smiles at me like a proud father. These two are happy as pigs in shit, but all I can think about is the ex-con running around outside somewhere wiping my DNA from her eyes and deciding which part of my body she was going to remove first.

“So, this puts me in first place then?”

“You got it! You’re one challenge ahead of the pack with five completed. You have five more to go. Halfway there!”

Which is about twice as far as I actually expected to get about four days ago. Shit, I just might be able win this thing.

Peter Oh’Tool says, “I gotta run now, but we’re sending over information on the next challenge. With the hot streak you’re on, I can’t wait to see what you do with this one. Ciao, compadre.”

I get up and walk to the other side of the room while Mongo takes my seat and bangs away at the keys. I stand at the foot of my bed, looking at my empty suitcase. I know the reason why I didn’t start packing now. It’s the reason why I ever agreed to do this show in the first place. Why I talked myself into getting butt-ass naked in front of a bunch of hidden cameras and letting some Armenian mongoloid film me in weird sexual situations with random barflies. The only reason all along.

I want to win that million dollars.

And maybe I need to win it. To buy my way out of this fucked up life I’m stuck in.

To get away from this shithole of a town in this armpit of a state.

To forget about my disgusting tramp of an ex-wife.

To start new, in a new place, with a new life. That’s what I really want. All I have to do is endure a little longer.

I bend down and close my empty suitcase. As I set it back on the floor next to the bed, Mongo turns in his chair and claps his paws excitedly.

“We have next challenge,” he says. “Dirty sanchez!”

Interlude 5

The Phone Call

It’s late in the afternoon and I’ve only gotten a few hours of sleep. Too much on my mind, I guess. I’ve got so many conflicting emotions going on right now.

Am I doing the right thing here? Am I doing anything considered right or good?

Just because Pauline told me to hit her, does that make it right that I did it?

She’s a grown woman, after all. There are people out there into much more depraved shit than what Mongo and I are doing here. Sadists and masochists out there strapping up in leather and whipping and beating each other, autoeroticism and all that weird basement shit. And those people like it. They want to do it. Consenting adults.

We’ve been consenting so far, right?

Yes and no, I guess.

Danielle didn’t ask to have a cum-and-pubes beard smeared on her face. And Pauline didn’t ask for a money shot to the eye or to be caught on camera hobbling around and ridiculed, at least not in so many words.

That’s the real problem with this whole thing. It’s not so much about what I did with these women, but rather the way they’re going to be portrayed once the show airs. After what has happened thus far, I can’t imagine any of them will agree to allow the show to go on. Unless maybe they obscure their faces and don’t use their names. Didn’t they have to sign release forms or something? Dixar can’t just put these videos online without getting consent from all the subjects. Shit, I had to sign dozens of releases and insurance papers and agreements not to sue if I hurt myself or got an STD or got some girl pregnant, which was weird because I also had to sign a legal document stating that I would use condoms the entire show and would not ‘be intimate’ without wearing a rubber. But what about the girls?

I consider asking Mongo about this, but he’s snoring loudly on the other bed, and he hasn’t exactly been very forthcoming about anything so far. The last thing I want to do is poke the hibernating Russian bear. I’m starting to get the feeling he not only doesn’t like me at all, but has other plans above and beyond just trying to get a cut of the prize money. Like maybe something else is going on here I’m not being let in on. This whole thing just feels… off.

I’m lying on my bed trying to piece things together when my cellphone buzzes. I pull it out and check the number. It’s a local Muncie area code, but I don’t know who the hell would be trying to call me. I sneak out of the room as quietly as possible and head out to the balcony to answer it. Mongo never stops snoring.

“Hello?”

Silence for a beat. Then, a girl says, “Um… hi, is this Dennis?”

“Yes it is. Who’s this?”

“This is… jeez, I can’t believe I’m calling you. You probably don’t want to ever have anything to do with me again.”

That scares the shit out of me and I try to place the voice. Is this Danielle or Pauline trying to track me down? Did I give them my phone number? I don’t think I did. The only girl I remember giving my number to was the first one, the lovely Golden Shower Goddess. What the fuck was her name again?

“Dennis, it’s Tricia. Do you remember me?”

Fuck, that’s it, Tricia! You bet your sweet, gorgeous ass I remember you!

“Oh, yeah, of course. How are you doing, Tricia?” Nice and easy. Smooth. Not too excited. That’s the ticket.

“Oh, I’m fine. I just wanted to call and apologize to you for… you know. The other night. I can’t believe what happened.”

“Hey, that’s alright, you don’t need to apologize for that.”

“No, I really do. I had to call you and let you know that that’s not normally me. I don’t know what came over me. I never drink like that. You must think I’m a boozing bimbo or something.”

“No, I don’t think that at all.”

“Are you serious?”

Hmmm… Am I serious? I think I’m serious. I don’t think the pee girl was a drunk or a bimbo. Maybe just an overzealous Ball State sorority girl who couldn’t handle her appletinis, but not a drunken whore by any stretch.

“Yeah, I mean it. I had fun the other night. The ending just wasn’t expected.”

I can feel her blushing through the phone and immediately regret saying that.

“Yeah, I know that was bad,” she says. “But maybe I could make it up to you.”

Holy shit. Is she asking me out?

“I’m not asking you out on a date or anything, I just thought we could maybe get together for a cup of coffee or something, you know, to have a normal adult conversation and all.”

Wow. Totally unexpected. My fingers are tingling. What the hell is that about?

“Um, yeah, that sounds great. I’d love to.”

“Well, I have to get to work right now, but I’ll text you tomorrow and maybe we can meet up.”

“I can’t wait.”

“OK, talk to you tomorrow.”

We say goodbye and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming like an idiot. I’m almost too stunned for words. I asked this girl to urinate on my head. And here she is calling me to go out again. Not a date, but still, just the fact she wants to ever see me again is incredible.

What does that mean?

Did she like peeing on me? Or did she just like me pre-pee-pee? Maybe it was both?

I slip back into the room and find Mongo sitting on the edge of his bed. He’s wearing his rapey grin.

“What is happening outside?”

I shrug and try to act natural. “Nothing. Just went out for a second to get some fresh air is all. Couldn’t stand being stuck in here much longer. You fart in your sleep.”

Mongo doesn’t say anything. He just sits there staring at me with his serial killer smirk. It’s seriously unnerving as fuck but I try to act cool and stroll over to the desk. I sit in front of the laptop and pull up the video for the next challenge.

I watch it twice, but the dirty sanchez is not at all what’s on my mind.

The Dirty Sanchez

We hit a new bar, something even dirtier than the night before. I’m praying Pauline likes her regular haunt and doesn’t barhop. If I see her, my ass is running. That’s all there is to that. Chick just flat scares me.

No Pauline in sight, which is good, but to be honest, I’m hardly even here myself. I keep getting lost in my thoughts, which are dominated by Tricia. I don’t even know who I’m talking to right now. She’s right across from me at a standup table in the middle of this country and western themed dump we’re in. The place still has a mechanical bull, but it’s in a dark corner and covered in layers of dust. The Russian bull is in the other corner sitting at a booth with a clear line of sight, looking out the corner of his eye every few minutes. He seems much more twitchy and irritated than normal tonight.

“Hello? Earth to Dennis.” The girl in front of me snaps her fingers in my face and waves to get my attention. When I focus back on her, she brightens with a slightly gap-toothed smile and says, “There you are. Thought I’d lost you for a second.”

“Sorry…” Shit, I forgot her name already. “… Uh, kiddo. Went a little spacey there for a second.”

“Yeah, I could see the stars in your eyes, alright.” She winks at me real conspicuous, like she’s letting me in on a joke. I, of course, have no fucking clue what she’s hinting at. I’m not even sure how many vodka tonics I’ve had, and that’s never a good sign. When I start losing track of the V&Ts, crazy shit tends to happen.

But do I let that stop me?

Fuck no. I motion for our waitress and point at my near empty glass. “Hey, keep these coming, would ya?” I turn and point at Mongo over in the corner. “And put them on my comrade’s tab over there.”

The waitress looks at Mongo, who waits for a second before nodding his ascension. The waitress just shrugs and grabs my empty glass. I turn my attention back to what’s-her-face Gloria something-or-other. She’s been going on about something in my ear, but I haven’t heard a word.

I say to her, “So, Glenda, what do you like?”

She smiles and says, “It’s Misty, and I like lots of things. I like muscle shirts. I like sleeve tattoos. I like chocolate sauce. I like full frontal nudity. I like my German Shepherd.”

“Wow, that’s a lot of stuff you like, Missy.” The waitress returns with a fresh V&T and I take a long pull from my glass.

“What about Mexico? Do you like Mexico?”

Interlude 6

The Hospital

The hospital?

Why the fuck am I in the hospital?

I try to sit up and a blinding pain knifes through the center of my brain. I feel nauseous and panic for somewhere to puke. Someone in the room plunks a plastic tray in my hand and I fill it up with vodka, tonic water, and what looks and smells like recently consumed summer sausage. Where the fuck did I get summer sausage?

And why the fuck are the little puke trays in the hospital so goddamn little? Why would you give an upchucking patient a narrow, shallow plastic tray shaped like a smile? How about a big fucking bucket that I can bury my head in so I’m not sloshing vom all over everything? This stupid thing looks like you should be serving hotdogs in it, not catching ralph.

I lie back on the bed and close my eyes, but the room just spins worse that way so I open them up and try to figure out what’s going on.

I appear to be in an emergency room. I’m on a movable gurney bed thing in a very tight room with a drape for a door. My head hurts like hell, but it goes beyond the normal hangover headache. I touch the right side and feel a bandage there and massive pain when I poke it. Note to self: don’t poke your head bandage. It’s there for a reason, most likely to cover up a wound of some sort.

So how the hell did I end up in the hospital with a head wound? And where the fuck is Mongo? And there was someone else from last night, too. What was her name? Mary, I think. Or Sissy? Mimi? Fuck, I don’t know.

I sit up again, much slower this time to keep down the heave. A faint smell of ass in the air does not help. A nurse-type lady walks in as I’m swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

“Morning, sunshine!” she says way too fucking loud and cheery. “How’s our favorite drunk ass patient doing?”

“Ugh.”

She laughs and flips through a chart. I look at her nametag and then ask Sarah, “How long have I been in here?”

She flips to the first page of her stack and says, “Let’s see… you were a dump-and-run at four thirty-nine this morning.” She looks at her watch. “Which means you’ve been here for almost four hours.”

“Dump-and-run?”

Sarah sets my chart on the small desktop tucked in the corner of the room and looks me over. “Yeah, that’s what we call the drunks who get dropped outside the door by their friends who obviously don’t want to get in trouble, so they just dump ’em and then run off. Front desk security didn’t get a good look at your buddy, but a paramedic said she heard a stream of what sounded like angry Russian, and then there you were with a nasty cut on your head.”

Shit, what the hell happened? I can’t remember a thing since the bar. I don’t remember leaving anywhere. Was there a bar fight? Did I get hit with a bottle? That doesn’t seem familiar at all.

I can see stairs.

Did I fall down stairs?

And why do I still smell ass? Something in here definitely smells like a butt. I wonder if another patient in the ER has shit themselves, but Sarah sees me sniffing the air like I’m tracking foxes on a morning hunt. She solves the mystery for me by pointing at the tiny sink set in the wall next to the tiny desk.

“That smell is you,” she says. “Wash your hands and face really well with that antibacterial soap. Wouldn’t want anybody getting E. coli because of you, Senior.”

•

About an hour later, a really young doctor named Singh gives me a final check, waving his pen back and forth and up and down and holding it in my peripheral vision. He has me do a few simple balance tests, which I guess I pass because he signs my chart and tells me I don’t appear to have a concussion. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and that malnourished look of a resident nearing the end of a twenty-hour shift, which might explain why I’m being sent out the door so quickly. I don’t think Dr. Singh knows if he’s coming or going.

So now I’m standing in the lobby of the ER, wondering exactly where I am, where I’m going, where Mongo is, if he’s skipped town after dumping me in front of the hospital, what happened to last night’s challenge. Though by the smell of me, I have a feeling something went down, and that it got a little messy. Fuck, I don’t even want to think about it.

I’m about to head outside and find a bus stop when I hear, “Dennis?”

I look around but don’t see her until she’s standing right in front of me. Even then I don’t recognize her at first. The last time I saw her, she was wearing nothing but a thong and her hair was done up different. Right now her hair is pulled back in a ponytail, she’s wearing scrubs, and her face looks to be pretty much clear of any makeup at all. I’m struck by how naturally beautiful she is.

“Wow, Tricia?”

“Yeah, hi!” She turns and tells her other scrub-clad companions she’ll catch up with them in a little bit.

“What are you doing here?” she says to me.

“Um, I’m not sure.”

She looks at the bandage on my head. “Oh my gosh, are you OK? What happened?”

“Again, not really sure. I guess I took a tumble and hit my head last night. I honestly can’t really remember.”

“Jesus, do you have a concussion or anything?”

“Not according to the sleep-deprived kid who just released me.”

She shakes her head and pulls at my arm. “You have to watch out for those residents sometimes.”

“What are you doing here?” I look her up and down. “Are you a nurse or something?”

She shakes her head again. “No, I’m a radiology tech.”

“Oh. I thought you were still in school.”

“I graduated last May. This is my first job.” She pulls me toward a café on the far side of the hospital lobby. “You look like you could use some coffee, and I have a few minutes before my shift begins. Come on.”

•

After ten minutes of talking to Tricia, I’ve forgotten about my head. I’ve pretty much forgotten about everything. I’m kind of lost in her right now. I love hearing her talk. Her voice soothes my aching body and mind. Hearing about her life takes me away from what mine has become.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I haven’t stopped talking since we sat down.”

I smile and wave a hand at her. “No, I don’t want you to stop. It makes my head feel better.”

She looks concerned, her eyebrows knitting together in the cutest way when she looks at my bandaged noggin. “Are you sure you’re going to be OK?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.” I don’t sound very convincing. I suck at lying.

Tricia sets her cup down and looks at her phone. “Shit, my shift starts in two minutes.” She stands and shoulders her purse. She looks me over again, her concern turning to consternation. “Is there something going on with you that I should know?”

There’s not enough time in the day to answer that question properly. And I don’t have the energy to try and lie. “Maybe we can get together again to talk some time when you don’t have to go into work and I’m not recovering from a recent head injury.”

That brings out a smile, but it’s a small one, like my suggestion is not enough to ease her mind. “I think we should. There’s a lot about you that I don’t know yet.”

“And you want to actually find it out?”

She pauses as though truly contemplating that question and I think I fall a little bit in love with her right there. “Yes,” she says. “I think I do want to find out. There’s something about you that I find … intriguing. Something in your eyes that’s compelling, like you have a really long and interesting story to tell and you’re dying to unload it. When will you call me?”

I don’t know what to say. I can’t exactly be going out on dates with this girl while I’m trying to lure bar tramps back to the rape cave to pull stupid stunts on them in bed. But I also have no clue how much longer this fucking show is going to go on. At last check I was halfway to the end, but it seems I’ve only gotten this far on my own dumb luck. How much longer would that luck last? And why am I even still in this thing anyway?

Stupid question. There’s a million reasons why. So far my moral debasement has not been enough to top that pile of cash waiting for me if I win. But what about now? What about this girl across from me? She’s clearly interested, and she gives me that magic bubbles feeling in the pit of my stomach. I really want to get to know her. But if I make her wait for a week, three weeks, two months, what will happen?

Is she enough to make me walk away from a million dollars?

I tell her, “Soon. I’ll call you real soon.”

She seems to accept this, but the worry is still etched in her face. She knows something is up. I stand and step around the table and she leans in for a quick, unexpected hug. God, she smells so good.

She pulls back and touches my face just below the bandage, mindful not to hurt me. “Please be careful,” she says. “I’ll talk to you soon.”

Before I can respond, Tricia turns and walks out of the café. I watch her go, mesmerized by the movement of her body even underneath those modest scrub pants. I wonder if she’s wearing that thong again. I wonder if she’s wearing anything at all under those scrubs. My mind reels at the possibilities. I stand there watching until she’s out of sight. Then I slowly return to the world around me.

That’s when I finally notice Mongo, sitting two tables away.

Something snaps in me when I see him. A sea of boiling anger, at him, at myself for what I’m doing, at everything about what is happening in my life right now, it just explodes. I stomp over to his table and stand much closer to him than I probably should, but I don’t care because I’ve already decided that if he makes one move at me, I’m smashing in his stupid, fat, Slovakian face.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I’m hovering over him, trying my best to be menacing, which basically consists of clenched fists and a snarl. I realize the bandage on my head and the hospital bracelet around my wrist don’t make me look very tough. Probably more like I’ve just escaped from a mental facility.

Mongo looks over his shoulder, in the direction that Tricia went, and returns my snarl with his trademark molester smile. “Is lovely little lady you are talking to. She looks very familiar to me.”

It takes everything I have in me not to kick his teeth in. “Fuck you, Mongo. You stay the hell away from her.”

Mongo points at the seat opposite him. “Why not have seat and talk like civilized person.” It’s not a suggestion. I hesitate before sliding into the chair, never taking my eyes off him.

“How is superstar?” he says. “Head is feeling better, yes?”

“I repeat, fuck you, Mongo. Why did you dump me off and split? What the hell happened last night?”

“You are not remembering Misty girl and the sanchez?”

“What happened to my head, dude?”

“Ah, well, you took tumble down steps outside. Was a wonderful session, was very funny. Your dirty sanchez was perfect. Finger insertion was deep in anus, lip swipe was perfectly placed, shit mustache came out beautifully. But you were very drunk and stumbled out of room and down steps to ground. Not a pretty sight. I think you are dead, so I take you to hospital. I don’t stay and hold your hand because I can’t have police asking me questions, especially if you end up as corpse. That, and you smell like shit.”

The anger swells in me at the thought of the dirty sanchez, of me wiping that poor, unsuspecting Misty girl’s own feces across her upper lip. The fury kicks up stomach bile which lingers in the back of my throat and I feel like I’m going to puke again. “That’s it, Mongo. This is over.”

Mongo’s smile dissolves. “What are you talking about?”

“This, you dickhead. Everything. The show, the girls, these stupid fucking challenges. I’m done with it all and I’m going home.”

Mongo’s voice drops to just above a whisper and there’s acid in his words. “Nothing is over, little homosexual asshole. We are winning contest, and you are giving me half of money. Be grateful I don’t make you give me all.”

I guess the head injury has given me some unknown fount of courage because I lean over the table and hiss right back at the Russian bear. “Fuck you, Commie. I’m not giving you shit. You can take this contest and that money and shove it all up your ass.”

Mongo’s upper lip quivers ever so slightly and his eyes burn with murder. Then he smiles and leans back and looks like we’re having just the most pleasant conversation. He pulls his cell phone from his coat pocket and sets it on the table.

“I knew you were pussy,” he says. “This was anticipated. I try to think of motivation for you when you get to this point. Honestly, I am surprise you make it this far. Did not have much faith in you. At first, I think great re-motivator would be threaten to sell you to sadist friends of mine to use in next snuff film if you try to back out.”

I have no doubt this bastard not only knows the kind of people that make such films, but he also wouldn’t hesitate to do it. I lick my lips nervously and fight to maintain my fading defiance. “Try it, asshole. This hospital is full of people. Try getting past the cops at the front door with me yelling my head off. You can’t do shit to me right now. This is over.”

Mongo nods and says, “True, you could scream like girl and cause big scene, but you still have to leave here and go home. You will never be able to relax again, don’t you see? You would not even know who to watch for. Is not me who would come for you. Could be short, fat man, could be tall, bald black woman. Point is you never know.”

He lets me think about that a minute before continuing. “But then I think is messy plan and can be expensive pain in ass to do it this way. So I have better idea.”

Mongo picks up his phone and holds it out to me and I notice the display is lit up, that it’s already connected to another line.

“What’s this shit?”

He pushes it closer to me. “You have important phone call. Someone wishing to speak with you.”

I don’t know what to do. I’m suddenly very scared, struck with an awful realization. He sat there the whole time watching Tricia and I, and he must know it was her I talked to on the phone the day before. Is it possible Mongo could pull this off so quickly? I just saw Tricia walk out of here and head for the bank of elevators at the other end of the lobby. How the hell could this big bastard and his Soviet goon buddies have gotten to her so fast? Were they waiting in the elevator for her? I’m filled with such a sense of dread looking at the phone, knowing that I’ll hear Tricia’s frightened, tearful voice on the other end and it will be all my fault. What the hell have I gotten us into here?

I reach a shaky hand out and grab the phone. I place it by my ear and listen for a second before saying, “Hello?”

A familiar voice replies, “Dennis?”

It’s definitely not the voice I was expecting. Not at all.

“Dennis, what the hell are you doing?”

What the fuck?

“Carrie? Is that you?”

A World of Shit:

The Final Sequence

“Take pill and drink this.”

In the rental car, Mongo hands me a blue pill and a cup. “What the fuck is this?”

“Is Daddy’s Little Helper. Down it and empty cup now or I get back on phone and bad things will happen to ex-wife.”

I’m tempted to toss it out the window but I take it. As much as I hated Carrie, it’s not like I really want her to get hurt. Especially because of me. I imagine her sitting on Mongo’s bed back at the motel, handcuffed to the railing, her eyes red and her cheeks streaked with mascara from crying. I can’t get the image out of my head and the gravity of this situation hits me full-on.

The hospital is a ten minute drive away from our base of operations at the motel, Pervert Central, and I watch Mongo the whole way. He’s folded into the driver seat of the little rented economy car, looking completely incongruous. Here’s this hulk of a brute from some far off corner of Chechnya or wherever, a place I imagined was always cold, gray, and in the throes of one revolution or another, a man who seemed to have no compassion for other people, particularly if they happened to be of the female persuasion, simply a horrid example of humanity, stuffed behind the wheel of a Ford Festiva. And he made sure to buckle his seat belt and check his blind spot before changing lanes.

How can someone appear so normal and so evil at the same time? How does that person reconcile one side of his personality with the other? Mongo’s very existence is a contradiction of epic proportions, both physically and in the abstract. I don’t know how to compute this in my head. Is it because I’m too black-and-white? Am I too rigid in my thinking, that a person is either one thing or the other? Was Carrie right about me this whole time? I can’t seem to come to terms with a person’s ability to be so genial and banal at one moment and so depraved and unconscionable in the next.

I don’t want to think about this right now. I can try to figure out the why later, but first I have to make sure there is a later for me, and for Carrie and Tricia and anyone else who might get caught up with this bastard. Now is the time to survive and avoid becoming the unwilling masochistic star of an underground rape film.

We pull into a parking space near our room and I move to get out but Mongo grabs my arm and says, “You go slowly, yes? We are not drawing attention to ourselves.”

I nod and force myself to casually walk to the stairs leading up to the second level where the room is located. I notice a dark, blackened spot at the bottom of the stairs, soaked into the cheap Astroturf carpeting covering the steps. Jesus, I think that’s my blood. I still don’t remember anything about Muffy-Mandy-Misty whatever-her-name-is and the sanchez.

We get to the room and Mongo unlocks it. Despite his warning to act nonchalant, I push past him and rush into the room. “Carrie? Are you here, Carrie?”

“Where the hell else would I be?”

She’s sitting on the edge of Mongo’s bed, wearing nothing but a short silk robe that hardly goes past her waist. I’m momentarily stunned by the soft curve of her uncovered ass. “Uh… Are you, you know, are you alright?”

She looks nothing like the damsel in distress I had pictured when I heard her over the phone. She’s not crying and pulling at handcuffs anchored to the bedpost. Instead, she’s sitting demurely on top of the bedspread with her legs crossed, wearing little more than a very familiar look of impatience. She completely ignores my question and looks to Mongo. “Are we ready to start, or what?”

Mongo busily moves around the room, checking the numerous cameras I’m just now noticing. At least five are set up in the room at different angles, all pointing at the two beds. I’m trying to understand what’s going on here, but as usual, I feel slower than everyone else.

“You… You mean you’re not hurt?”

Carrie looks back at me and says, “Well, duh.”

Mongo finishes fiddling with the cameras and claps his hands together. He looks very excited and he’s talking quickly. “OK, time to get show on road. Dennis, sit on bed next to whore and we begin film.”

“Hey,” Carrie says as she edges her robe down her shoulders. “Watch who you’re calling a whore, you Commie douchebag.”

I can’t move. I think I know what’s happening but, at the same time, I can’t rationalize it.

“Well, come on,” Carrie tells me. “Take off your fucking clothes and get over here.”

“What the hell are you doing, Carrie?”

She’s completely naked now, leaning back on her hands. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

Mongo stands next to me, much closer than I’m comfortable with. He smells like garlic and oily medicine. “Lovely ex-wife has agreed to help us. Isn’t that good news, homo?”

I’m speechless.

Mongo sees that some explanation is necessary and starts filling in the blanks. “We are finishing contest today, OK. You only need last four challenges, and just so happens I know what last four challenges are.”

“You do? How?”

“Last night at bar. Strange little sickly man with thick glasses sits in booth with me. He tells me many interesting things. He tells me he wants you to win contest and can give me final challenges. Says he knows all about dirty sanchez and finds girl for you. Even sends her over to speak to you. And when I look, there you are, with Misty whore.”

Jack Mehoff. The weirdo that sicced Pauline on me.

“Little man was funny,” Mongo continues. “He asks to be cut in on prize money. Can you believe balls of that guy? Good news is we do not have to worry about him turning up again. And now that we know final challenges, is time to end this game and get paid!”

I turn to Carrie and say, “And you agreed to this?”

“Fuck yes, I did. Because when you win, half of that money is mine.”

“The fuck you say.”

She laughs at me. “Alimony, dumb ass. I’m a single mother and my ex-husband just won a huge pile of cash. Who do you think the court will side with?”

Mongo shoves me toward the bed. “Enough with blah, blah, blah,” he says. “Time to take off clothes and prove you are King Pervert. First challenge is rusty trombone.”

Mongo turns to the laptop behind him on the desk. “Here is instruction video for how to do proper trombone. Is very simple, you just –”

Carrie cuts him off and she gets on her knees. “Yeah, yeah, I know how to do a goddamn rusty trombone, jeez.”

I shouldn’t be shocked considering all the things I know now about my ex-wife, and continue to learn about her, but I can’t help myself. “You do?”

She rolls her eyes at me. “Jesus, Dennis, you’re so fucking naïve sometimes. Maybe if you would’ve tried some of this shit you’re doing for this stupid show with me instead, we’d still be married. I might have even been able to pretend that I was happy.”

“You seriously wish I would’ve glued my pubic hair to your chin with my cum?”

“I guess you’ll never know, now, will you?”

I feel like I’m sleepwalking as I take off my shirt and unbuckle my belt. It’s like I’ve woken up in a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

“Why didn’t you say something to me about this instead of running off to screw other guys? How the hell was I supposed to know what you wanted if you never bothered to tell me?”

“I shouldn’t have to tell you. It’s a husband’s job to learn these things about his wife. God, you’re dumb.”

“Can you even hear yourself talk? Do you have any clue how ridiculous you sound? A good marriage is built on a foundation of communication and trust. Not mind reading, you stupid tramp.”

Mongo impatiently snaps his fingers in my face. “Save marital spat for some other time. Right now, shut stupid trap and get on hands and knees.”

I do what he tells me, but I’m giving Carrie my best stink-eye. “You’re right about one thing, my dear. I was naïve. I can’t believe I didn’t know what a nasty whore you were until it was too late.”

She flips me off and slides in behind me. She grabs my dick, which I just now realize is hard as a rock. Just before she slides her tongue between my ass cheeks, I tell her, “One last thing, Carrie… Eat my shit.”

She responds by biting my scrotum.

•

Ten minutes later, she’s still going at it. My dick is beginning to get raw from Carrie’s stroking and my asshole is numb to the point that I can barely feel her tongue, which is not necessarily a bad thing. The way I feel toward her right now, I’m more than a little repulsed by what we’re doing, so much so that my guts are beginning to roll.

And what we’re doing is the rusty trombone, which apparently is a chick licking and blowing in a dude’s ass while stroking his member, thus creating the effect of playing a trombone. I’ll let your own imagination guess why it’s called ‘rusty’. I suppose in a perfect world of two consenting adults performing acts of love and sensuality for each other, this would be perfectly acceptable. Far be it for me to judge a person based on what I myself have done over the past week. But when you’re partaking in such activities without being a consenting party, well...

It makes me think of Danielle. And Pauline, maybe to a lesser degree, but still. And the sanchez chick. And then I feel even more guilty over the fact I performed a dirty sanchez on a girl whose name I can’t for the life of me remember.

“You about done back there,” I say over my shoulder.

Carrie pauses and says, “Waiting on you, fuckhead.” Then she resumes.

As soon as she dives back in, I feel pressure. It’s not external, but something deep inside. A rumble from within, like the demons I’ve been carrying with me have decided to wake up and make some noise. What I first thought was guilt and anxiety has turned to something more.

“Um…”

No one says a thing but Mongo grabs one of the cameras off a tripod. He moves to the wall like he’s getting out of the way. This should strike me as strange but I’m more concerned with the build up of pressure very quickly making its way from my innards toward my outards. Is that a word, outards? Fuck it, I don’t know and I don’t care. Something big is about to go down.

“Uh… Carrie?”

She halts her trombone playing and says, “What, are you finally going to cum so I can stop this?”

“Well, I’m not sure how to put this, but something’s coming, alright.”

Despite how much I hate this woman right now, there are still some things I would not consider doing to her, out of anger or spite or revenge or whatever. Things I would not do to any human being, because they’re just not right. Like farting in someone’s face. I would not do that on purpose because it’s just not kosher. And yes, I realize how hypocritical that sounds considering my recent history. I’m complicated, what can I say?

But I’m being completely truthful when I say I don’t fart in Carrie’s face on purpose. It really is an accident. She doesn’t see it that way.

“OH, YOU DICK!”

She jumps off the bed and wipes at her face, but I’m already past her and headed for the bathroom. Something dire is happening to me at this moment and I have very little time left. I race for the toilet and jump on the seat, ready to expel whatever it is that’s trying to blast forth from me, but Mongo is there, waiting in the bathroom.

“Dude, get the fuck out of here! I’m about to explode.”

“No, hold it in,” he says. “Bitch, get in here!”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? My colon is about to burst here. Get the fuck out before I –”

I don’t get further than that. Mongo smacks me in the chin with the back of his hand and I nearly careen off the stool. When I right myself, he’s in my face, pressing the blade of his huge hunting knife against my cheek.

“You are homosexual, show me ass control. Hold it in or I will make you wish you had.”

He turns to the door and yells, incredibly loud and right in my ear, “BITCH, GET THE FUCK IN HERE!”

Carrie appears in the doorway with a look of repulsion on her face.

“You prick, you splattered me.”

She’s wiping at her chin and I notice, amid the remaining stars in my field of vision from Mongo’s blow, three brownish dots on her forehead. I’m a little dazed and trying real hard to keep from shitting my brains out lest Mongo gut me like a fish, but I realize what those brown dots are. I don’t know what else to say other than a weak, “Sorry.”

Mongo points at me and says to Carrie, “Back on knees, whore. Time for blumpkin.”

•

A few minutes later, I’ve regained my bearings. During the time in between, Carrie assumed the position, took me into her mouth, and we both waited for Mongo to get the camera ready. When he pointed at us, Carrie began sucking and I let the floodgates open.

This is the blumpkin. Who the fuck comes up with this shit?

Like I said, it takes me a couple minutes, but I feel a little better, especially after I’ve filled the toilet with some of the most noxious stuff that’s ever come out of me. I wonder if I’m coming down with the stomach flu or something, then it hits me.

“Hey, Mongo, what was that pill you gave me back in the car?”

Mongo pushes a button on the camera, I’m assuming the pause button, and says, “Pill was Viagra. Drink was fast-acting laxative.” He punctuates this tidbit of information with a pleasant smile.

That would explain the raging torrent flowing from my ass, as well as the raging boner I’ve maintained through all this despite my revulsion. I look down at Carrie, who’s sucking away. She stops every few seconds to turn her head aside and gag, but she dives right back in again. I’m surprised at her conviction in seeing this through.

“Damn, Carrie, if you would have worked as hard at being married as you do at giving a blumpkin, we might have made it, you know?”

She looks up at me. Her face is a little green. She says, “When this is over and you pay me my share, I’m going to spend it on hiring Mongo here to torture you.”

Mongo says, “Shut up and finish.”

“I got news for you, Mongo, she could do this for days and I don’t think I’ll ever get off on it.”

“Only need one money shot,” he says. “Rest of this will be edited before sent. Just need enough footage and best shots we can get. Hollywood is tough business, you know?”

Carrie stops and looks up, but she’s kind of staring off into space, not at anything in particular. We all hold our breath for several seconds, listening, before a resonant rumble breaks the silence. But it’s not coming from my spent gastrointestinal tract this time.

Carrie says, “Dammit, Mongo, did you spike my drink with that shit, too?”

Mongo just smiles and scoots around her toward the door. “Give me one moment,” he says and disappears into the room.

Carrie leans back with a hand on her gut. I use the break in the action to clean myself. It takes quite a bit of paper and sets me to gagging a little myself. I don’t know how she managed to keep her head down there between my legs for so long. It smells like something crawled up inside me and died. About two weeks ago.

Mongo shouts from the room, “OK, ready, both of you out here now!”

Carrie says, “Screw you jack, I need to hit that pot, like now.”

Mongo’s at the door again. “No, out here. Is part of next challenge. Two more to go.”

Carrie and I look at each other and it’s clear by the look on her face she didn’t really know what she had signed up for. “Hey man,” she says, “I ain’t doing any of that ‘Two Girls, One Cup’ puking shit on each other business.”

“Just shut whore trap and get out here now.” Mongo motions with his knife for us to come out. We both do as we’re told. Hard to argue with a three hundred-pound Chechen brandishing a weapon.

•

I stare at the plastic sheeting covering everything for a second before responding to Mongo’s comment. “We need to do a hot what?”

Mongo shoves me onto the bed. “Is called hot karl, and you need to lay skinny, pale ass on bed.” He nods at Carrie, who’s hopping from foot to foot and looking more than a little sick to her stomach. “And by looks of whore ex-wife, we should hurry before we miss opportunity.”

Carrie’s in such bad shape she doesn’t even bother to respond to his whore comment. As for me, I’m not even thinking at this point. I’m on autopilot. Whatever happens now, happens. I feel like this is one of those out-of-body deals, like I’m hovering above myself, watching with a strange detachment while these curiously odd things happen to my body.

I watch myself lie there while Mongo pulls a box of Saran Wrap from the bedside table drawer.

I note with mild amusement as he tears off a long sheet of the clear plastic wrap and places it over my face.

I am only slightly interested when he tells Carrie to squat over my head and shit on my face.

“You want me to do what?”

“This is hot karl,” Mongo says impatiently. “And by looks of you, this will be most epic hot karl ever captured on film.” He motions to the bed and says, “Now, assume position.”

My outside-the-body self notes the look on Carrie’s face, and I can’t decide if her lips are curled in a rueful smile or a disgusted grimace. Her stomach thunders again and she scrambles onto the bed. Whether she really wants to do this or not, she’s clearly out of time. It’s either do it here or do it where she stands, but there is no more waiting to decide.

I close my eyes and feel like I’m floating somewhere between my body and some ethereal plane of self-enlightenment. I really feel like I’m on the edge of a transcendent breakthrough here. I’ve never been very spiritual or mystic. Carrie tried reading tarot and following our horoscopes and checking our star patterns once, but like everything with her, it was a passing fancy once she discovered how much work was involved with that mumbo-jumbo. But this is something more than that. It’s like I’m splitting into two separate forms of existence right inside my own head. There’s two of me in here and I seem to see and feel worldly experiences through both of them. My earth-bound physical self takes in all the rudimentary sensations and processes them, noting how the bed bounces as Carrie steps over me and positions her bottom over my face. The existential ethereal me notes the ironic twist my life has taken and how it seems to be coming full circle back to Carrie, who once again is shitting on me, but this time in the very literal sense rather than figuratively.

This realization might actually be amusing if I wasn’t about to become the recipient of a fecal facial.

My eyes are still shut, and I don’t think my physical self would let them open for any reason at this moment. We’ve seen some things in our lives, the real me and the mystical me, but there is one thing we don’t want to have a memory of, and that’s the vision of our ex-wife’s open rectum expelling a quart of hot excrement directly into our face. This isn’t a tangible thought in our collective consciousness, more like an intuition. We both know something bad is going on, but if we close our eyes and minds to it, maybe it won’t be so bad. Mind over fecal matter.

Unfortunately, we still have to feel it. The plastic wrap sucks down tight over my face, sealing off my eyes, my nose, my ears. It feels as though my entire head is enveloped in steaming soup. It hammers my face with astounding force, as if expelled from a hose. Plastic wrap sucks into my nostrils but I can’t really smell anything, nor can I breathe. Warmth consumes my head and filters through my hair. I feel it beneath me, pooling between my shoulders. It’s already starting to get cold.

I’m struck by how nonchalantly this is going down. It’s as though I was being drowned with a big pot of corn chowder, rather than…

Rather than shit.

My face is being buffeted by shit.

Hot, wet, thin, laxative-brewed shit.

On my face.

In my hair.

Running down my back.

The only thing keeping it out of my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth is a thin layer of plastic film.

The other-worldly me and the physical me become one again real quick. It’s a sensation kind of like my skull sucking my brain back in through my ear. The world goes from ghostly detachment to very real sensations. This is the moment the smell hits me, despite the layer of plastic protection. I suppose I could be imagining it because of what’s on me, or I’m panicking due to asphyxiation, but I don’t think so.

Oh, fuck me.

I freak.

If I was thinking, I would probably try to execute some sort of roll-and-peel maneuver to extract myself from the plastic wrap in such a way as to avoid anything on the other side of it from touching my face.

But I’m not thinking, I’m most definitely panicking. Of course I am. My face is covered in shit sludge.

I scream. I sit up fast and run face-first into Carrie’s ass. There is an audible splat, even through the plastic wrap in my ears. All the sludge on my head does what gravity forces it to do and begins a horrifying landslide down. I can’t tell where plastic stops and excrement starts. I can’t see anything either. I run into the wall and bounce off the doorframe in my mad dash to the bathroom. I slam into the sink, hike my shin against the toilet, fall to my knees and reach frantically for the faucet in the shower. Hot, cold, I don’t care. I’m nearing a state of hysteria, as well as oxygen deprivation.

I think I’ve lost my mind.

•

I have no idea how long I’m in the bathroom, lying half in, half out of the tub, letting the shower water course over my head. I could likely stay here until I drown. I’m not clean enough yet. There will never be clean enough. Eventually, Mongo comes for me.

He pulls me out from beneath the stream, hauls me to my feet and slaps me a few times.

“Fuck, alright! Stop hitting me!”

He wipes me down with a towel and when I open my eyes, he inches from my face.

“Time to finish this.”

I shake my head. “No. I got nothing left, you sick bastard.”

I mean that in an emotional sense, that I’m a hollowed husk of a human now, that I can’t possibly go on. That I’ve reached the limitations of what I can endure and I feel that I speak the truth, but my own rumbling innards betray me. A new wave of pressure in my bowels makes me nauseous.

Mongo grins. “Sounds to me like you have one more left in you.”

I feel like crying and then I feel like screaming. I want to lean forward and bite the nose off his face and spit it out. I want to drive my thumbs into his eyeballs and then ram my still hard dick into his empty, bleeding sockets. I want to remove his head with a dull serving spoon and deposit this new wave of shit directly into his chest cavity.

He grips me tightly by the neck and leads me back to the room, announcing, “Alabama hot pocket time!”

Carrie, trembling and still a little green, tosses a soiled towel into the corner of the room and says, “What in the name of fuck is an Alabama hot pocket?”

Mongo tells us.

We look at each other and then reply in unison, “I’m not doing that!”

My colon growls. Mongo repositions the cameras and says, “Now is time. We do this and we win. Game is over, million dollars is ours. Don’t you want to be rich?”

I say, “Not anymore. I’d rather you stab me than go through with this.”

“I’d rather you stab him, too,” Carrie says.

Mongo chuckles and reaches into his pants pocket. He pulls out a photo and holds it up for both of us to see. It’s Carrie’s little Chinese baby. “What about this little one?”

Carrie’s face hardens and I see death flare in her eyes. “If you touch my little girl, I will never stop tracking you down, you sick piece of shit.”

He turns to me and says, “Or maybe I pay visit to little peeing whore? Tricia is her name, I believe?”

I want to respond, but I’m overcome by another wave of nauseous intestinal pressure that buckles my knees. The lingering smell of shit inside the room doesn’t help. It smells like a nursing home exploded in here.

Carrie grabs my arm and pulls me toward the other bed. “Fuck it, let’s get this over with.”

She lies back with her ass at the edge of the bed and spreads her legs as far apart as they’ll go. I shake my head.

“I can’t do this.”

Before Mongo can say anything, Carrie screams at me, “Come on you fucking pussy! Be a man and do what you have to do. Just get it over with.”

She spreads her vaginal lips apart and looks away at the wall.

I turn and point my ass at her. I can’t hold it much longer.

I can’t believe I’m going through with this. I focus on Mongo. I direct all of my thoughts and energy at him. Anger burbles out of me as powerfully as the shit that blasts from my ass. Instead of thinking about what I’m doing, I concentrate on how I’ll make him pay for this.

When I’m done, I turn and look at Carrie. She’s staring up at the ceiling with a look of anger mixed with horror. Her voice is barely a whisper as she says, “Please just hurry up and get this over with.”

I nod and slide into her. I close my eyes and try not think about the hot slop enveloping my crotch and sticking to our thighs, the sickly stickiness as I slap against her. I block out the odor, the texture, everything. I have one focus: Mongo’s bloodied face. On his knees. With his hands tied behind his back by barbed wire. I conjure the image of a hot poker in my hands. I imagine the kind of revenge to be had with such an implement. I can hear his screams, pleading for his life. Begging me not to hurt him.

I pump harder, determined to finally finish this. I’m lost in the fantasy of revenge. I’m thrilled by the promise of torture. I’m near climax when, in my mind, I rear back with the glowing poker and give Mongo one more chance to plead for his life. I relish it. Then I plunge forth. I finish it.

Carrie is beating against my chest and sliding away from me. She’s saying something but I don’t understand her. She points behind me. I turn and realize that the sound of Mongo’s pleas for mercy are still in my ears, very real.

But he’s not begging me to stop. He’s pleading with the two gorillas who have him flat against the plastic-covered floor, his arms pinned behind his back and a handgun pressed deep into his cheek.

A moment later, Peter Oh’Tool strolls into the motel room through the open door. He flashes me a greasy smile and shoots me with a thumb-and-forefinger gun.

“Howdy, Dennis.”

Peter looks down at Mongo and shakes his head. He squats down and leans close to the Russian bear’s face and says, “Dmitri… why are you trying to ruin my show?”

Mongo, or Dmitri, I guess, starts to say something in a whiny, high-pitched voice, but he’s cut off by a vicious downward thrust of the gun barrel across the bridge of his nose. Blood spews from his face across the plastic, mixing with small puddles of brown fluid.

I collapse onto the bed.

•

Carrie takes a shower while I stand at the sink in the bathroom. We’re in there for quite some time, both of us silent as we clean up. We emerge in a pair of threadbare bathrobes to find the room has been restored to its original dumpiness, the plastic tarp gone. And there’s no sign of Mongo anywhere. I hope he’s encased in that tarp, stuffed in the trunk of a large black sedan.

We stand side by side facing Peter Oh’Tool. He looks at Carrie in the same way he looked at Mongo/Dmitri a few moments ago.

“Now,” he says, “what to do with you.”

Carrie has tears in her eyes. “Please…”

“You should be in a trunk with Dmitri right now for helping him, you understand that right?”

She nods vigorously.

“But I’m not going to do that. When he threatened your child, that’s where I drew the line. But you understand this: if I see or hear anything more about you sniffing around Dennis here for the prize money, I’ll come back. You understand?”

Carrie nods harder.

“Alright, get the hell out of here.”

Carrie grabs her clothes and can’t leave the room fast enough. Peter and I watch her go and then he turns back to face me.

I say, “Prize money? So that means I won?”

Peter smiles his onstage porn star smile and claps a hand on my shoulder. “Are you kidding me? You did it, alright! You’re King of the Perverts!”

He’s a lot happier about it than I am. “So, now what?”

“Now, we get all this footage edited and make a show out of it. We begin airing next month.”

“Next month? That fast?”

“Sure, we don’t fuck around here. We’ve been working on your stuff since the beginning. Once I saw that alligator fuckhouse of yours, I knew how this contest was going to turn out.”

“What are you saying, you rigged the game?”

Peter laughs at me condescendingly. “Yeah, man, this is reality TV. You didn’t think any of that shit was actually real, did you?”

“I don’t know, I guess not. So, did you send the little guy with the glasses? Jack Mehoff?”

“Actually, that’s my big brother Todd. He’s a bit touched as I’m sure you noticed.”

“How long did you know what Mong-er, I mean, Dmitri was up to?”

“Since yesterday. I sent Todd here to tip you guys off with the remaining lineup of challenges. Dmitri responded by beating him within an inch of his life. My plane landed in Indianapolis two hours ago and we’ve spent the past thirty minutes in the room next door watching and listening.”

I’m quiet for a while, taking it all in. Peter Oh’Tool saw everything, then. He and his goons could have come in and stopped this at any time, but he chose to wait. He wanted to see it through. I’m not sure how that makes me feel.

Peter heads for the door, leaving me to digest all of this. On his way out, he turns back and shoots me with his finger gun again and winks.

“See you in Vegas for the final show.”

“There’s more?”

“Of course. We have to cap the contest off with the live crowning of our King!”

Final Interlude

The Aftermath

One by one, the girls show up. Each of them pretty much does the same thing. They enter the coffee shop and look around a minute, hovering near the door like they can’t decide whether they want to go through with this or not.

Danielle looks a little scared and unsure.

Pauline looks pissed and ready to amputate a limb.

Misty looks… I’m not really sure how she looks. I honestly don’t remember anything about our encounter past that initial meeting in the bar, and even that is lost in a murky vodka haze. Pangs of shame stab at me for not being able to recall giving that poor woman a shit mustache.

None of them see me sitting at the next table, but then I’m pretty well camouflaged in a long coat with a high collar, sunglasses, and a ballcap pulled down low. They walk right past me to the table where Tricia waves to them. I’m sitting with my back to them, right behind Tricia. Misty is the last to arrive and once they’ve all sat and introduced themselves, Tricia jumps right into it.

“Thanks for coming,” she says. “I know my message was pretty cryptic, but it was necessary. I’ve asked the three of you to join me here today because each of us has something in common. Or maybe I should say, someone in common. Now, before I tell you who that is, I need each of you to agree not to make a scene. At least not here.”

I’m not watching, but I know Tricia is staring right at Pauline when she says this. We agreed beforehand that this message was basically for her. We didn’t expect any outbursts from the other two, but of the three Pauline is the one that actually scares us. All three women eventually give their promise to remain calm and cool. When they have, Tricia turns and says to me over her shoulder, “OK, we’re ready.”

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. I have no idea how this is going to go and I’m nervous as hell. I stand and take off my coat, place it on the back of my chair, which I turn to face the table of women. Before I can lose my nerve, I remove my hat and sunglasses and sit down.

It takes a second for each of them to react. They are not exactly the reactions I am expecting.

Danielle gasps and rises a few inches out of her chair and says, “Motherfucker.”

Misty’s mouth drops open and she says, “You’re alive.” Then she stifles a giggle.

Pauline just sits there and blandly says, “Hi, Dennis.”

“Hi ladies.”

We’re all silent for a second. I meant to plunge right into my spiel but the nerves have taken over, seeing all of them together here. I’ve already told Tricia everything and she promised she was OK with this idea, but I’m still worried about how she will react. She smiles at me and nods encouragingly.

“Um, I know you’re all wondering why you’re here.”

Pauline says, “Not really. This is about the show, right?”

“Well, yeah, actually, but I also need to tell each of you something first.”

I take another deep breath.

“I need all of you to know that I’m sorry for what I did to you and how I treated you. I showed no respect at all and want to express my deep shame over my actions.”

Misty flat out laughs in my face. “OK,” she says, “apology accepted.”

Pauline just shrugs her shoulders and says, “And? Is that it?”

Danielle sits back and stares at her hands. She doesn’t say anything.

“No, that’s not it.” I reach into the pocket of my coat and pull out the papers and set them on the table. I pass a stack to each of the girls, except for Tricia who already signed hers, and I tell them, “You might not have known this at the time, but when we, um, were being intimate with each other, you were being secretly filmed for a TV show.”

Pauline shrugs again and says, “Yeah, I know this already.”

“Me too,” says Misty.

Only Danielle reacts the way I was expecting. She continues to stare at her hands, but her ears are red and she’s shaking her head.

I say to the other two, “You both knew about the show?”

Misty says, “Fuckin’ duh. That little weasel guy, Captain Sweaty, he told me all about it.”

Pauline nods in agreement and picks up the papers I slid in front of her. “What’s this, release form? Shit, pass me the pen, I’ll sign it.”

“Just like that? You’re not, like, pissed at me still?”

“Pissed at you? For what?”

“You know, that donkey punch thing? I thought you wanted to kill me.”

She rolls her eyes. “Shit, man, don’t you know acting when you see it?”

“You were acting?”

“Hell yes. What, did you actually think you hurt me with that punch?”

I blush at the challenge to my manliness. “Well, yeah, I kind of did.”

“Dude, no disrespect, but my own nieces can throw a better punch than you.”

Judging by the scars on her face, I completely believe her. She finishes signing the release form with the pen Tricia slid across the table to her and Misty holds her hand out for it.

“And you’re not going to push me down another set of stairs for giving you a dirty sanchez?”

Misty laughs again, a robust sound that turns several heads in the coffee shop. “That knock on the head must have screwed up your memory, huh?”

“Actually, I guess it did. I don’t remember shit about that night.”

She’s nearly doubled over with laughter now. I’m moving beyond embarrassment and beginning to get a little irritated with her. “Are you going to tell me what happened or are you just going to humiliate me?”

When she catches her breath, she says, “Dennis, you didn’t give me a dirty sanchez. I gave one to you.”

People are beginning to whisper and point now. My face feels like it’s on fire.

“You started crying,” she continued. “You were blubbering and really drunk and I could hardly understand what you were saying. Finally, you just lay this huge confession on me and then get on your hands and knees and start shouting, ‘Do it to me! I deserve it! I’m such a bad person!’”

All four girls are laughing now, including Tricia. She leans toward Misty and says, “He asked me to pee on him!”

This breaks them up further. Yeah, we’re having just a great time now. Whee.

Misty chokes back her laughter long enough to tell me, “You asked me to ride you like a donkey. You made me smack your ass and say giddy-up. And then you told me to do it. So I did, and it was a really good one, too. You must have had an all-day shit brewing in there. Then you started bucking like crazy. You threw me off and went tear-assing out of the room, and the next thing I know, you’re at the bottom of the steps outside, bleeding everywhere and your Russian buddy is standing there freaking out. I seriously thought you were dead, man, so I got the fuck out of there. But I made sure to wash my hands on the way out.”

That breaks them all up again. This goes on for several excruciating minutes until Misty regains enough composure to sign the release form and slide it over to Tricia. Once everyone finally calms down, we all eventually turn to Danielle. She doesn’t look furious any longer, but her smile fades fast. I feel like I need to say something more to her.

“Danielle, please know that I –”

She cuts me off, saying, “No, don’t talk.” She sits quietly for a moment, gathering her thoughts. When she continues, she looks me straight in the eye with laser beams that cut right through me. “You humiliated me, Dennis.”

I nod and have to look away from her.

“What you did to me… I can’t even begin to explain my… my… fury at you.”

That pretty much kills the jovial mood, which is more what I expected from this meeting. I wait for her to say something else, but when she doesn’t, I try again.

“You have to believe me when I tell you I’m sorry, Danielle. I really am. I have no excuse for what I did to you. But that’s why I asked you here. All of you. I want to make it up, at least a little bit. You know that this was a show, but really, it was a contest. Each one of you represented a challenge, a test for me to pass. And I did.”

I nod in Misty’s direction and say, “In my own strange way, I did. And I won.”

All the girls look up at me with genuine surprise on their faces.

“I won the contest, and after the final show airs in a couple months, I’ll receive my prize. And I want to share that prize with each of you. Five ways, evenly split between all of us.”

Silent shock pervades for several moments before Pauline says with a quiet excitement that makes her voice tremble, “What’s the prize?”

“A million dollars.”

Pauline whistles. “Shit, I was just hoping to get a shot at acting, but this is even better.”

“But the show can’t begin airing until all the participants have signed release and consent forms to allow the use of their footage. If you want, they can alter your image so no one can recognize your face, and they can even change your voice if you want them to. There’s lines in the body of that agreement to initial if you want your identity to be kept secret.”

Danielle shakes her head and stares at the page, reading it through. She finally says, “I don’t know. Just because you want to pay me doesn’t make it right what you did.”

I agree with her.

“In fact, it almost makes it worse.”

I can’t argue with her at all, so I don’t.

She reads the sheet over again and sighs.

“Then again, two hundred thousand dollars will more than cover what my volleyball scholarship didn’t. I could even buy a car.”

She mulls it a minute longer then reaches for the pen on the table. As she signs her name and initials to the pages, Tricia reaches out and squeezes my hand. She smiles at me.

I smile back.

I can’t remember the last time I did that.

About the Author

Steve Lowe is a former sports writer with the South Bend Tribune and occasional stringer for the Associated Press. He writes weird, dark, humorous fiction which contains just slightly more made-up content than his sports stories. His first book, Muscle Memory, was published in 2010 by Eraserhead Press, and his next book, Mio Padre, Il Tumore, is forthcoming from Bucket ’O Guts Press. His short fiction has appeared in print in Amazing Stories of the Flying Spaghetti Monster,  A Hacked-Up Holiday Massacre, Dead Bait, and Abomination Magazine, and several online venues including Bizarro Central, Three Crow Press, and Unicorn Knife Fight.

Also by Steve Lowe

Muscle Memory

Wolves Dressed as Men

Mr. Flashback (writing as Son Porter)

Mio Padre, il Tumore (forthcoming from Bucket ’o Guts Press)

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#007 — Hi I’m a Social Disease: Horror Stories

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Copyright

Published by Grindhouse Press

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King of the Perverts

Grindhouse Press #010

Paperback ISBN-13: 978-0-9849692-5-8

Paperback ISBN-10: 098496925X

Copyright © 2012 by Steve Lowe. All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction.

Cover design copyright © 2012 by Matthew Revert

www.matthewrevert.com

Grindhouse Press logo copyright © 2012 by Brandon Duncan

www.corporatedemon.com

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author or publisher.

Content

Steve Lowe
KING OF THE PERVERTS

The Golden Shower

Interlude 1 The Divorce

The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 1

Interlude 2 The Baby

The Alligator Fuckhouse Part 2

Interlude 3 The Gameshow

The Abe Lincoln

Interlude 4 Jack Mehoff

The Donkey Punch

The Angry Pirate

Interlude 5 The Phone Call

The Dirty Sanchez

Interlude 6 The Hospital

A World of Shit: The Final Sequence

Final Interlude The Aftermath

About the Author

Also by Steve Lowe

Other Grindhouse Press Titles

Copyright