RetroGunslinger

Okay, before you read this, a little background: I wrote this short piece about a year ago and while I don't think it's very well written, a lot of people enjoyed it. I'm currently planning on developing it into a much more well-written novella, with this as a rough draft. Also, keep in mind this is a parody.

V.C. – Venereal Curse

Chapter 1

Usually, when a man feels himself pulled towards a woman, it is by his dick. I will not disclaim such a thing like so many others in the male race, as I have known such since my earliest pubescent years. However, when I say “usually” as opposed to “always,” I speak from a great deal of experience. Sometimes, when the moon shows itself full and succulent as a freshly picked blueberry, something happens that can only be fully explained by the paranormal—an attraction, but not just any. All sorts of couplings claim a certain heart-U-Haul of an attraction, and it only stands to reason that such hormonal inconsistencies most often end in tragedy. I will admit, whilst still a fledgling journalist in my early twenties that I did every so often find myself in these types of situations.

To explain what I mean, my pen shall now elude to a time in my earliest of situations whilst still in the occupational surroundings of the Griffin Suburb Chronicle, namely one involving a certain gym coordinator Janice Parker. I recall this name, out of the countless hundreds of my other exploits; because it is one of the few I bothered to write down. Indeed, I wrote daily of her exquisite beauty and stunningly attractive naiveté to a poetic extent that would sicken Oscar Wilde. My heart literally ached for her, and to my young and foolish sensibilities, this equaled true love… And eventually the moment came when I was to lay her down upon the bed in my Bohemian residence, and our cries of passion and love rang out through the winds of the city. Five months passed, and in this time we were continually in each others’ arms, kissing in public parks and racing through shopping malls like teenagers. Then it ended. She wanted to move in to my apartment, while I wanted things to stay as they were. It took her only three days to find solace in a bodybuilding forty-year-old businessman from Uptown.

Dear reader, do you see my point? These feelings of bodily pull, like that of the moon and the Earth, are pure scientific nonsense. There is nothing truly magical to it, as I was to continually learn as I made my way to the Society columns in the Griffin City Post. Every night, as I scoured my way through the hit nightclubs and flashing lights of downtown Griffin City, my swinger ways began expressing themselves in an elite fashion that put all of the suited businessmen from Uptown to shame. My writings became a bizarre fusion of family entertainment and perversion. As I put into prose the times and places of the city’s most prominent citizenry, my own adventures into the after-dark world of Griffin City leaked through. At first, my editor seemed to feel betrayed by my mix of Gonzo antics and Playboy journalism, but as the letters began flowing in, he treated me like the teacher’s pet, giving me any assignment I wanted. Hell, I even managed to get a column in the Home & Garden section with an article regarding the sexuality of certain flower arrangements, mostly inferring the psychological effect of what I called (and later coined) “plant porn.”

However, dear reader, you may be wondering what the point of all this is, what exactly the true love I have referenced actually is. Unfortunately, I am not entirely sure if I can call it such. Judge as you will, but to this point it continues to elude me, even after the ghastly misadventure I will soon recall.

My name is Sebastian Holts, and I have discovered an attraction of the most bizarre kind, one that may well be called true love. I am here to tell you that true love, if this is what it is, has consequences beyond the range of even the most skilled romantic’s imagination.

The story of my falling in love begins in the offices of the Griffin City Post Building on Fourth and Main Street. I was at my desk in an office I am still, even in my current situation, proud to say was just the size of that of the paper’s editor, Charles Crumb. At the time I had just celebrated my 37th birthday—which did involve an orgy, I will add, with girls men are usually not allowed to touch even with three thousand dollars in twenties—and I was in high spirits, working on an article in regards to the class of Downtown hookers and their influence on the rising artistic talent in the area. It was a two-parter.

Recently I had been interviewed by Def-Core Magazine (a favorite among the disillusioned youth of the area), at which time I had been informed of my popularity with the high school and college students who felt that my classical style was something of a paradox considering my job with the local newspaper. To this I replied, in a faux-suave manner, “Repetition is a thing of beauty if done right, and is the singular principle behind modern newspapers that has never made its way into magazines.” Of course this was total bullshit, and saying it to Def-Core Magazine made it an almost inhumane joke. Despite my lack of respect for the magazine, it did fill me with a great deal of pride to know I was an inspiration.

As said, I was working at my desk, when Charles came into my office unannounced with a brightly colored poster neatly tucked under his arm. It was a gaudy work, and upon showing it to me, without a word exchanged, I knew that I would be off that night to stalk the club scene. The advertisement was for a certain Club de la Tux, and featured a man dressed in a black tuxedo (get it?) dancing with a voluptuous woman in a red dress, surrounded by all ranges of LSD-influenced colors and shapes, with the name of the club and the address hanging like a chandelier above the couple’s heads.

“What do you think, Sebastian?” An obligatory question from a man who knew his talents were nothing, and that I was the reason for his great successes.

“I think…” I said with a hint of ironic curiosity in my voice, “…I’ll go get drunk tonight.”

At this point, Charles no longer cared about my bothersome quips and jabs, as he knew that I would do my job. He knew I would do it well.

That night, I took a limo to the Club de la Tux, which was located Downtown on Reginald Avenue, constructed out of what was once a decaying apartment building, as opposed to the usual spacious basement that was the norm for popular nighttime hangouts. Indeed, the entire building was the club. As I ventured into the place, the first surprise I was faced with was a dark, blonde man who was quite possibly more handsome than myself; acting as the doorman. He took my coat like a badge of honor, marveling at the black Armani design, staring into my gray eyes with his shiny ocean blues and praising it and telling me he hoped I would have a pleasant stay at Club de la Tux. His nametag read, simply, GREEN.

The interior of the place was even more of a surprise than the remarkably attractive man named Green. As I strutted through, the red and black Victorian motif of the place, coupled with the bright natural lighting of thousands of candles gave a dream-like quality of which I had never been exposed to in my thirteen odd years stalking through the hot spots of Griffin City. The place did not seem to be remarkably crowded, this being on account of the great number of rooms throughout the Club, each of which I noticed contained a different, staggeringly intricate design. There was a disco room, a sports room, even a Salvador Dali room. I sampled most of these, had a few drinks, but nothing really stuck. Most of the rooms seemed to my high-class tastes to be quick, thrown together parodies of their respective themes.

Eventually, I found my way to the last room in the hotel, which interested me more than the others I had seen—a film noir-theme sitting in what was once the penthouse. At this point in my story, I suppose it would be pertinent to add that I had seen Sunset Blvd. at least thirty times. This room was the least crowded, most of the city’s scummy club-demons having been distracted by the flashing lights and noises of past rooms mostly on the second and third floors.

The room actually reminded me of Rick’s in Casablanca, which gave me a voyeuristic sense of nostalgia. There were about twenty people total, but the vastness of the space made it seem like less. Many of those in the Noir Room were dressed in tuxedos and silk gowns that almost made them blend in to the grey walls and black and white furniture, they were sipping martinis and lounging about chatting, while somewhere a hidden speaker played a continuous string of obscure jazz and blues that even I could hardly place (I was astounded when I finally heard Miles Davis’ “Moon Dreams” playing at one point).

I had a feeling I would be staying here for a majority of the night, so I ordered a rum and coke from a man whose name tag read “Pink” and went to have seat on a lone black couch next to a bookshelf full of Mickey Spillane and Sax Rohmer paperbacks. As suspected, I was soon joined on the couch by a young woman—in this city, even the most luxurious places are home to those looking for a night-long good time—who was dressed quite elaborately, even for a guest who knew about the penthouse. Her long black hair was put up in a tight bun, exposing a long neck leading to a voluptuous body dressed in a sparkling white sleeveless gown, completed by a pair of knee-high jet black boots.

“Good evening,” I said.

“Hello,” she replied, “have a long night in mind?”

“I never make plans that far ahead.”

“Casablanca?” Sadistic sarcasm.

“Hey, call a fair game or I'll slap you right in the kisser.” I said, hoping to stump her.

“You’ll slap me? You slap me in a dream, you better wake up and apologize.”
Damn.

I made an exaggerated attempt to sit closer to this woman, and she giggled at my mock-feeble effort. Smiling, drink in hand, I leaned closer, just enough that I could brush my lips against her ear and said “May I say you smell really special?”

“It must be my new shampoo.”

“That’s no shampoo. It’s more like freshly-laundered linen handkerchiefs, like a brand-new automobile.”

I knew she was captivated by my recitation, and my instincts proved true when she placed her hand on my inner thigh and said: “I wish I could fuck William Holden.”

My praise to God was unmatched at this point. This woman was something I did not pick up at the usual places every other night—she was beautiful, smart, and best of all, devious. A thought suddenly hit me at this point, and it sounds crazy since I had only just met this woman, but I saw myself spending the rest of my life with her. Even now, I realize how off-the-wall this seems, to suddenly fall madly in love with a woman who just spouted some movie and not-so-movie lines over the course of a minute, and whose only intention, it seemed, was to get laid.

I decided right then and there that I would accommodate her in this, but only for the chance to spend the night getting to know her—in and out, so to speak. So, I leaned brushed her lips with mine and said “I’ll do you one better.” No reference there. “Care to dance?”

For the next two hours, I spent my time with this woman, never asking her name, she never asking me. That would come later, when I had her alone, when I would show her that I was a real person, and a great one at that. Until then, it was all charm and fun, dancing in sync to the smooth jazz and sipping drinks, enjoying the beautiful room.

Then, “Come with me.” She made the first move.

“Sure, why not.” I made myself out to be as nonchalant as possible about it.
She led me out of the room and into an elevator in the hall—I had taken the stairs up all of the floors—and was surprised to find a panel showing a total of seven floors, though I had counted only six.

“I thought that was the penthouse.” I muttered, simply curious about where I had gone wrong.

“It was” she answered, pressing the button marked “7”. “This building has two, it is nothing unusual.” The woman took out a key and inserted it into a small keyhole next to the “7” and turned it with a flick of the wrist, and we ascended into the second penthouse.

It took less than thirty seconds for the doors to reopen.

I am not sure exactly what I expected to see. A swinging pad right out of a Bond film, perhaps; or maybe sexual playground of rich girl playthings? Whatever it was, I didn’t get it. Instead, I was confronted with an art gallery of sorts, with wall-to-wall of Lovecraftian paintings and statues. It was at least twice as big as the first penthouse, and seemed less of a themed place and more of a museum.

“I get the feeling this isn’t part of the club” I said, awe-struck by the peculiarity of the artwork and size of the place.

“It’s not, it’s my home.”

It took a minute for me to realize, but it hit me nonetheless.

“You live here?”

“Yes, Sebastian, I do. That was my club, and this is my home, and you are going to kneel.”

That’s when the weird shit started happening.

I knelt as she said, without realizing it. She calmly stepped in front of me, grabbed my hair, and pushed my face into her crotch. I didn’t think about it, and began to lift up her dress and kiss her midsection. It was glorious, she tasted like peaches.

For a good two hours we made love in her penthouse, and I tasted her in so many ways, I studied every inch of her. I could not resist the temptation of spending all of the time that I could with her—it was like being with a goddess.

“What is your name?” I asked her while she was kissing my chest.

“My name is Black.”

Chapter 2

When I awoke it was two in the morning and I was lying in Black’s bed, alone. The bedroom was a piece of work—paneled black and white walls, a crimson carpet with three black and gold Persian rugs, works of Lovecraftian art hung everywhere—and the bed I was on, being the most comfortable thing I had even lain on, was covered in silk with the same pattern as the Persian rugs.

The two hours we had spent making love before going to sleep in this bed was mostly a blur to me, though the memories of her skin brushing against mine as we thrust against each other was vivid and pleasurable to recall. Without thinking, I began to hum a tune to myself as I left the bed and walked out of the dark room and into the darker hallway. This was a mistake.

The icy cold that seemed to inhabit the place reminded me that I was nude, and I wondered briefly where my clothes were. I shrugged the thought off and continued wondering through the penthouse. Feeling along the walls for a light switch I continually bumped into those God-forsaken paintings that seemed to be camping out for an Iron Maiden concert, laden with tentacles and inhuman claws and teeth. They seemed to glow in the dark.
The place was strange to be in, to say the least. If I had not been so sure of my destination before, I would have sworn that we had left the Club and gone to her 2,000,000 a month mansion in the North—that’s how it felt. The entire space seemed to stretch into all kinds of directions and—with the lack of windows that I had only at that moment realized—gave me a frighteningly disorganized feeling. I was slipping into something different, even compared to all of the bizarre and sacrilegious things I had viewed in the past. It scared me.

Finally, just when I was about to give up all hope and try to find my way back to bed, I thought I saw Black. It was dark, so it was difficult to see her in her entirety, but there she surely was; sitting in an armchair with a white nightgown that seemed to glow in the darkness. I could make out her curves, feel her round breasts and firm buttocks with my eyes, and smell her perfume in the air. God, it was so captivating! It pulled me towards her, made me kneel once again before her beauty, now hidden under the sheet of night.

My hands ventured out, feeling for the hem of her gown, and taking it, I pulled it up and began kissing her silky soft thighs. Oh Heaven! My tongue ventured up, I could smell the sweetness of her cunt and taste the sexual juices; I could feel the heat emanating from it. All of those intentions of mine—the need for her love, the wanting of her eternal company—all of it could wait until I was through with this night. I didn’t want to ruin our passion; first I would savor her physical beauty, than I could delve into her psyche.

“I can’t seem to help myself around you,” I said while licking her.

“Makilay nova,” she replied.

I didn’t take her for bilingual, but I was sure there would be many more surprises before I left her. I continued without much thought into the matter, letting my hands venture further and cup her breasts, caressing them with years of experience behind me. She groaned and continued repeating herself.

“Makilay nova, makilay nova, makilay nova…”

Then, after repeating that same phrase at least fifteen times, she came.
Now, let me give a bit of a preface on this. I was used to a lot, a squirt or two, a skip to the step so to speak, of juices. Once, a virgin came and there was a good deal of blood to it, but it usually had the same texture and taste no matter who the girl was. Not in this case. No, in this case what came was a gush of thick puss, forcing itself into my mouth and down my throat, with the taste and smell of formaldehyde. It immediately sickened me, and I threw up on the white night gown and bare legs of my new conquest.

“What the fuck?!” I cried out, vomiting further.

The lights came on, the entire place suddenly lit up, and I found myself to be a sideshow attraction. I noticed that all of the paintings around me, which once were filled with vile demonic creatures and monstrosities from beyond the stars, were now devoid of the things. Empty landscapes and chambers were all that was left in the frames. For a second I was confused, until I realized that the beings once trapped in watercolor prisons had spilled out, and now inhabited the entirety of the apartment. I realized the depth of my situation as monstrous teeth and slimy tentacles made their way toward me. It was as if the armies of Cthulhu and Dagon and all the rest had decided me an enemy.

I vomited once again, as the overall effect of the scene began to purge me of all hope. The sudden impact of a thousand hungry eyes staring at me only seconds after thinking myself a sexual god was too much; not only did I vomit, but I soon found I had soiled myself heavily. I cannot begin to accurately describe the exact scene before me as my mind raced for an explanation, as even now it frightens me into a state of shock to think of the laughing, howling, growling creatures.

I am not sure exactly what happened next, though I can with a good amount of detail describe what I saw before I passed out.

To begin, what I had just eaten out was not the one who filled me with such hope and childish devotion in the Noir Room. This was not beauty, nor could it necessarily be called a beast—no, “beast” would be far too simple, too romantic a word for such a disturbing image. It was hairless for one, and while the body of it was most definitely that of the woman named Black, the head was what made it out to be so inhuman, if you could really call it a head. It was not round; it was not any definite shape, but rather a constantly changing mass with blank, bright blue eyes carefully hidden in skin so white that it defied explanation. Below the eyes, under folds of gelatinous skin, were set jutting yellow teeth that would normally belong to a rat, but there was no mouth anywhere near these things, though a tongue did casually stretch out as if it were an arm inches below the teeth. Also, the ears, they were the most prominent feature—human ears, but at least seven times larger and covered in pus that acted as an adhesive to keep them hugging what might be called the skull. Oh God—that mass of pulsating flesh over that beautiful body, now covered in vomit and ooze!

Everything went black.

When I awoke, I was no longer in Black’s penthouse. For a good five minutes, I had no idea where I was or what had happened, everything was a blank canvas. Soon, however, it was splashed with a thousand colors. I remembered what had happened, in every painful detail—I could see that harmonious visage morphing into the thing that had greeted me in the darkness with spread-out legs, I could taste the formaldehyde-cum, and I could smell my own vomit, shit, and piss…

All this hit me before I realized where I was: my office. Not a murderous tentacle-ridden demon in sight.

Upon standing from my chair, where it felt like I had been lying for hours, the realization that I had been an inch away from death just a little while ago, coupled with the fact that I was sitting just feet away from fellow, normal human beings, gave me the feeling of defeating God Himself. I jumped into the air and cried out a triumphant “Fuck yeah!”

I had no idea what had happened. Had it been a dream? Had it been real? Who the fuck cared? I was alive and well! There was only one thing on my mind, and that was brushing my teeth. It’s odd, I know, but what would you have done having just dreamt of swallowing disgusting torrents of ooze splashing out of a demon’s vagina? I thought so.

I began to walk to my private bathroom door, when the door to my office opened up with the entrance of my dear employer Charles. He looked shaken up; angry even, something that did not come very easily to him despite his position.

“Where the hell were you last night, Sebastian?” he asked, evidently unaware of any late night demon-nookie I may have endured.

“I was at the Club de la Tux, Charlie, and I may add that it was a serious waste of my time!” I was determined to express how much more venomous I was in my uncomfortable state.

“Well gee, that explains why you weren’t even at the fucking club!”

Whoa—what?

“Excuse me, sir, I think you’re mistaken. I went to the Club last night, I saw all the floors, even the Noir Room, and a little place above that you should be aware—” I would have gone further, I would have explained that what had happened may or may not have been the result of a drug-induced dream, but that everything would have made one hell of a story. But then he cut me off.

“So you saw all one floors of the place, then?”

My look of confusion gave me away.

“I was there” he explained. “All night, I was there. The old lady and I got in a fight, so I decided to come over and get some advice while I got a few drinks in me. Go figure, I waited all night for you to get there. Little did I know that you were here the entire fucking time! I just got to work, Louise told me you stayed here while I was gone.”

“Geez” I muttered. “I could swear—”

“If you don’t fucking mind, Sebastian, I’ll do the goddamn cursing around here you cock-sucking faggot!”

Whoa, hostility abounds!

“Sir, I really don’t think—”

“Fuck it, Sebastian, just fuck it. You have one more night; the people of Griffin City can wait a day without your goddamn stories.”

With that, Charles left me with a slam of the door to seek out a cigar and a hidden bottle wrapped in brown paper. I could not grasp the reason behind such hostility from a man who, while probably quite envious of my talents, pretended so often to be my best friend. I had forgotten to pursue much more important assignments before and all it had cost me was a slap on the wrist. Yet another strange occurrence I would be forced to dwell on.
After several minutes of standing in the middle of my office dumbstruck, I decided that after a quick trip to the bathroom, I would make my way to the Club de la Tux and try to understand what had just happened. Perhaps it really had been a dream, but I had to know. Besides, I would be forced to venture back to the place that night anyway, in order to write another award-worthy Society column.

I took three large steps over to the bathroom door, picking up where I left off, when I realized I had a sudden feeling of an overloaded bladder. Once in the bathroom, I quickly brushed my teeth, as the need for dental hygiene was still prominent in my mind, and swallowed a few little cups of Listerine. With the taste of peppermint replacing that of what I hoped was merely morning breath, I stepped across the tiled floor to the toilet.

I unzipped my jeans, took out my dick and immediately began pissing away. Suddenly, as I was ready to enjoy the stress-relieving stream, I was brought down by the simultaneous impact of immense pain and disturbing realization. It was burning, the piss was making the head throb, making me cry out in agony. Looking down, my eyes must have widened three times their normal size at the sight of my member—a grey flaccid thing, covered in pus and scabs. Oh sweet Jesus, I thought, as I fell to the ground. My urine—a thick red liquid—shot into my face as my head bashed against the tiles.
I heard a crack.

__________________
It's a rare pleasure in this world to get your mind fucked. Usually it's just foreplay.

M.B. Keene