RetroGunslinger

Chapter 3

Perhaps my popularity was limited to the general public. When I awoke, an hour later, I found that I was still in my bathroom with my hair soaking in a pool of blood. For a moment—this being the second of these in less than a day—I was at a loss for what had happened. Then, as I stood up and pressed my hand to the gash in the back of my head, I happened to look down and see the shriveled gray…thing… I called a penis. Once again I shrieked and fell against the wall, panting and crying.

“Oh fuck, oh God… Jesus…” I sputtered as I shuffled out of the bathroom, my pants still at my ankles. It was then that I was, in the back of my head glad that there was a thick white wall between the rest of the offices and mine.
What had happened? I had no idea what was going on. Was that… shit, there was hair on the head! There was still some blood at the tip too, which caused a shiver to crawl up my spine at the very thought of what I had just gone through.

I sat down for a few minutes. It was now 1:45 PM, and I was definitely worse for wear. I had had diseases before—if it wasn’t lethal, I probably had it at least once, and this was definitely not anything I had ever experienced. There is not a word in my vocabulary to describe that torment my mind was undergoing at the sight of my desecrated member.

That bitch… I said to myself. She was the cause. That had not been a dream, it couldn’t have been! Black had done this to me—that was the only possibility.

A taxi took me down to my apartment on Augustine Street after I bandaged my head using a well-placed first aid kit under my desk. I told him to wait up and ran through the deserted lobby like a madman on speed to the elevator, where I smashed the “28” button and flew up to my room. Now, when I say flew, I mean I lurched up the elevator shaft like a drunken leach while Kenny G grumbled through the speakers. All the time I mumbled under my breath “Fuck, fuck, fuck…”

Upon arriving at my apartment—room 2804 if you are ever interested—I proceeded to seek out a revolver, some kitchen knives, a good length of rope, a golf club (a driver), and a duffel bag to put it all in. Rummaging through the various drawers and closets of my three thou-a-month home, I found it all except for the rope. Why I needed this all did not register in my head, all I knew is that I needed it and I was worried for my cock.
With the duffel bag thrust over my shoulder and a fistful of bullets in my pocket, I headed out once again. Reaching the lobby, I ran down the shining tiles with all the speed in my body. My mind was focused on getting to that club as fast as possible. Surely, there had to be some way to save me—a cure. I was thinking about the possibilities when, not paying much attention to where I was going, I slammed into a passing businessman reading the paper. The man, dressed in a drab grey suit, smelled of onions and was bloated to a point where I couldn’t understand how he fit himself into the thing. His very appearance made me angry.

“For Christ’s sake, watch where you’re going!” he blabbered as he and I got up.

I took out the revolver and shot him in the face. Just like that. Bam. One second a mass of facial obesity, the next a bloody hole of torn flesh and skull fragment. Screams came from every other direction of what had suddenly become a very crowded lobby. As the tub of lard fell to floor again, I felt a surge of accomplishment that I never imagined murder would be like. Here I was, having just killed a man, and my adrenaline was rushing through my body, I had a bright smile on my bloodied faced. I am positive I looked like a very attractive madman.

The first person to run for the revolving doors was a young, mildly attractive woman in her thirties dragging along a toddler. The first word to come to mind was “slut” and, aiming very carefully; I got her in the temple and the kid in the belly. The mother dropped to the ground heavily, but the kid skidded along the floor like a hockey puck and got stuck in the revolving doors. About five seconds had passed, and several people were stuck in place. I believe the grand total was nine living suspects. All of which had to go.

The fourth person to die was a businessman who was, in my eyes, the skeletal equivalent of the first victim. I shot him twice in the chest and found it so very humorous that his briefcase flew into the air and spilled papers all across the lobby; that I laughed in a way that may seem maniacal to some but to me was more of a chest-bursting delight given off by a well-done sitcom. Either way, he fell to the floor with crack of the skull while the other eight people began to hurtle towards the revolving doors. Of course, they were stuck with me thanks to their rash decision.

Calmly, I replaced the five bullets I had fired, aimed, and with all of the darkest luck in the world managed a cool eight hits, emptying out the chamber into six occupants and two employees of the apartment. A few were twitching in the end, as I had as many body shots as I had head shots, but I knew I could not afford to waste any bullets. Why I did not think of the consequences of these insane actions, I could not comprehend. No doubt someone had pressed an alarm button or called the police, so I bolted out of the building, hopping over several bodies left in my wake.

Unfortunately, the cab driver had apparently heard the shots and bolted, so I was left with a gun tucked into my coat pocket and a face and torso covered in blood spatters that forensics would no doubt have a field day with. Wiping the blood from my face off with my sleeve, I tried hailing a taxi, but not one would stop for a passenger covered in Karo syrup, so I began walking. The sidewalk was littered with equal helpings of hopeless degenerates and tight-assed cubicle dwellers, and it further sickened me like the sight of Mr. Chunk-a-lunk had. Somehow, the need for mass genocide was only now showing itself a villain, and I knew that if I did not do something quickly that the further bloodshed would be especially unsavory.

I ran. I ran like a crack fiend from an imaginary demon. My mind raced along with me, catapulting itself into recesses best left unexamined. Flying through the sea of Griffin City’s citizens, I delved into hundreds if not thousands of sadistic possibilities that I never knew could be thought up by myself. Realistic scenes of torture and murder sung behind my eyes, flashing by like a gruesome documentary straight from the front lines of World War II: the slicing of eyeballs, the power drilling of genitalia, costly experiments in zombification on living subjects… I recall most vividly the longest of my depraved visions: that of a bizarre act of rape involving a young woman’s throat that, if I were to delve into heavily, could readily cause a fit of projectile vomiting.

I ran down at least twenty people in my mad dash toward some unknown freedom, seeing them only as inoffensive blurs in my deteriorating vision. I had so much to do, and I knew it. I had to get rid of these foul clothes, I had to find some mode of transportation, I had to get to the Club de la Tux, and most importantly, I had to find a way out of this horrifying ordeal.
Then, my eyes focused themselves on the singular image of a car—a blue sports car—being neatly parked in a lot next to a bistro of some kind. That was it, my deranged side cried out, a car and a valet to accompany it!
I ran faster, bolting across the busy street, past the valet station and into the lot. With the feel of a panther, my eyes set on a specific pray, I rushed past the automobiles of the richest class out on business luncheons, and flew at the bright blue exterior of the car. The valet did not see me as he was stepping out from the driver’s seat, and so I knocked him out with a blow from the butt of the gun without any struggle. He was a young man, maybe twenty, and the sight of his sorry exposed state filled me with further murderous anger. Luckily for him, I had things to do and grabbed the keys.
In thirty seconds, I was off to the Club de la Tux, only vaguely realizing that I had just committed a massacre with only the slightest tinge of reasonable thought.

Chapter 4

The roads were wet with recently shed rain, though I could not recall a drop falling from the sky. It was surprisingly easy for me to drive, despite my trashed cock and related misadventures. Traffic was also a surprising factor, in that there were very few cars in my path even with the busy-bee mentality of the City. It was as if the Red Sea had parted just for me, allowing me to go on with my quest as God most assuredly wanted.
My thoughts had remained on Black, though I only just realized once in the car that I had delved into exactly what had happened very little since my grim discovery. So, I meditated on the bizarre occurrences that had made up less than a full day, going over every last detail in my mind, from my arrival at the Club de la Tux through the cliché club scene and into the extravagant Noir Room, into the eyes of Black and onward through that canvas horror she called home, through the shared sexual gusto of our passion, straight into the terrors of living death and vaginal torment that no man should ever go through.

Then I thought about my dick. Or, at least, the fungi between my legs that had once been my dick; what did it look like now, I wondered. I could not feel it, nor had I been able to since I left my office. It had, in that short amount of time since blacking out, become shriveled, grey, and hairy—could all of that have changed? Perhaps my luck would hold out, and it would heal on its own, without need of medicine or—looking back on the situation—magic? There was only one way to dodge the gritty distress of impatience and satisfy my curiosity…

Steering the car with one hand, I unzipped my pants with the other. My thumb brushed against the shaft ever so quickly, and I bit my tongue. Oh Lord, it was sticky! Looking down briefly, I could barely contain myself at the site: there was no skin to the thing! I could see veins pulsating, and a thin layer of pus keeping blood from escaping while thick white hairs flowered from the head—fucking Christ it was terrible! Why? Why!? Why was this happening!?

I continued to drive, despite my ravaged member. My focus was still on Black, making my curiosity out to be child’s play in comparison to my blind vengeance. I knew that none of this would end well, that it would be bloody, bloodier than it already was. It would be hell, and I would prove to be the true devil in it all.

I finally arrived at the Club, and was mildly surprised at the sight. It was indeed only one story tall and had many other differences that I could not for the life of me seem to recall. This was nothing majestic, this was but a bar rushed, it seemed, to look like a nightspot. There were neon lights streaking across the front and the pink stucco of the exterior was peeling rather badly, causing a distinctly cheap and degenerate look to the so-called “Club de la Tux”. Apparently it was a joke.

I went straight for the door, having parked the car on a fire hydrant and making sure everything was in my bag. Walking in, I found myself in what amounted to a ‘70s disco with a bar. All of the lights that should have been flashing were shut off and a lone glittering orb was hanging rather sadly from the ceiling, adding a depressing note to an already dreary place. I recall there being several posters prominently featuring classic film advertisements covered in offensive graffiti. Two of the titles featured prominently in my mind: Double Indemnity and Sunset Blvd.

“This… this is an atrocity… a goddamned atrocity…” I cried feebly, letting bitter hot tears run down my face.

All seven men at the bar, as well as the Bartender himself, looked at me as if I was a carnival freak.

“What’s wrong with you, buddy?” One with a disgustingly scraggly beard asked.

That blind rage that had taken me over at the apartment building was back, and I did not want to stop it.

“I’m not your buddy.” I said, letting my hand float into my bag.

“What the fuck is your problem, man?” Asked one with a giant liver spot just above his left eye.

“You.”

A small knife I used to use for cutting potatoes flew into the liver spot like Robin Hood’s arrow into a bull’s eye. Coincidentally, I noticed that the man fell over like a sack of potatoes. I think I laughed.

By the time the other patrons had jumped from their seats in sheer horror, I was holding a butcher knife in one hand and a cleaver in the other, and hacking away. What happened comes back mostly as a blur: hands detaching from wrists, blood spraying from filleted throats, torn out eyeballs stuck to my blades… before I knew it, I had killed five of the bastards and unlike the previous massacre, it went by almost without me really knowing. The two living barflies and the Bartender himself had gone from cool, straight-faced men to enraged and whimpering children. One of the barflies was sitting on the ground clutching his arm, which was covered in blood—I guessed his own—while the other just stared at me with a broken bottle in his hand, anger in his eyes. The Bartender was loading a shotgun.

Now comes what may amount to the most bizarre twist in my tale, something that I never expected could possible happen at this dire point: I got a hard on. By hard on, I do not mean it got a tad rubbery down below, no—I am talking eight inches of solid steel in my pants. The pain of trying to keep such a thing restrained was unbearable, of course, and without a second’s hesitation I unzipped my pants and let it rise into the air like a battleship’s cannon. Immediately, the Bartender and still-standing man began staring in disgust at my strange frankness.

Then, dropping the knives and—acting on some newly founded instinct—I wiped my right hand in the blood on the ground, brought it to my cock, and began rhythmically pounding my rotten meat in front of the two awe-struck men. Seeing this spectacle as some ungodly ritual, the Bartender without a second’s more hesitation fired the shotgun. As the pellets flew into my chest and the quintessential explosive bang rang through my ears, the world seemed to slow down.

Suddenly, I was alone, sitting in the air, surrounded by broken statues and the oddly sweet aroma of sulfur. Nothing moved, except my hand, still sliding up and down my cock. It was crazy, all of the pain and pleasure such an act caused, with the pus building up against the edges of my fist, exposing veins and bloodied tissue. The hair on the tip of the head lay flat and wet against the little bit of skin left. I realized, in that instant, what was going on… I was about to orgasm. It was those few seconds; that singular pleasure just before reaching blast off, that was happening to me.

Those seconds quickly passed by however, and as time sped back up and I hit the wall behind me with a sickening thud, I came. It burnt, it stung, it hurt—but it felt so good! The thick, oily-black stream of cum flew through the air… and onto the Bartender’s neck. His first visible thought was to look at me in horrified disgust and wipe the freak wad off of his neck, but this interrupted by a sickening scream flying out of his mouth like the forces of hell. The sound of bacon sizzling became apparent, and what I saw was a depressing new twist on my condition: my sperm had become excessively acidic and was burning a whole into the Bartender, forcing him to drop his weapon and clutch his throat. Gargling and crying, he fell and bashed his head against the bar. Behind the barrier, I could hear him still gargling and whining in confusion.

This, of course, left the two last survivors, both of which ran out of the bar in shear horror of the situation, leaving me alone with six corpses, several bleeding holes in my chest and a feeling of macabre self-satisfaction.

Chapter 5

From where I sat, there was not much to see. There were the five bodies lying before me in pools of blood, and there were still those damnable posters everywhere I glanced, but there wasn’t really anything useful or interesting in sight of the now-abandoned bar. Within ten minutes, I was sure that the police would arrive, unless of course these people had something to hide. So, clutching my chest with one hand and balancing with the other, I stood up, rasping. I was in pain, my cock was burning, and I was bleeding rather badly—I was also pretty sure that one of my lungs had been punctured. I had maybe an hour left, possibly two if I could defend myself against the torrents of pain and lack of breath.

There was a backroom, marked “Employees Only” behind the bar. My attention was drawn there at first, but then something in my head told me to direct my attention to the opposite end of the bar: to the restrooms. Perhaps it was the fact that I had just shot acidic skin-dissolving sperm from my Frankenstein’s-monster-of-a-penis that made this seem reasonable.
Stepping over the bodies, I let my newfound intuition guide me along into the men’s restroom. Once inside, surrounded by grungy yellow tiles and the distinct smell of diarrhea, I moved forward toward the condom dispenser. It seemed sadistically fitting that it had come to this.

For a full thirty seconds, I pondered the importance of such a thing, besides its ironic value, before realizing something very interesting: on the “Petite” button (a very unnerving way to put things, by the way) there was the faint image of a red fingerprint. This was, no doubt, a very sarcastic sign that I did not particularly appreciate, but nonetheless followed. I pressed the button, and everything around me changed in an instant.

The shit-stained toilets and mildewed sink transformed into a gleaming black marble bar, complete with thousand dollar bottles of the finest champagne, the ugly tiles melted into gray walls and a floor that matched up perfectly with said bar, while the condom dispenser became a book shelf: all Mickey Spillane and Sax Rohmer paperbacks. I was back in that beautiful place known to myself as the Noir Room.

After accepting the fucked up nature of my situation, coupled with the undeniable fact that this could only get worse, I took to further realization. First off, everything was the same as it had been, just as I had first described—even the windows looked out into the night life of Griffin City. I was sure that, had it not been for the insurmountable pain caused by the craters in my chest that my watch would have told me that it was the afternoon still. My mind, as I recall it, simply resigned to say I was in another dimension. Secondly, there were people. Not the sort I had seen just a few hours ago, but instead a gaggle of tuxedoed gooses staring blankly at me. All of whom wore nametags.

I noticed Black first, in all her original beauteous glory, then the handsome man Green, followed by the bartender known as Pink. The rest naturally fell in as I began to recognize numerous faces I had seen while peering into the various rooms of the Club de la Tux. The nametags, in their quirky fashion, all kept within the color motif. An older woman named Fuchsia, a teenage black boy named Navy, a very tall man named Yellow, etcetera, etcetera. Needless to say, my first feeling upon seeing these people was that of rage. Thoughts of brutal murder and manipulated havoc ran through my mind, causing a much unanticipated but accepted bulge to grow in my pants.
“Welcome to Thunderdome” were the first words to come out of Black’s sultry lips. My initial thought was that she had broken the rules of our game.

“Who are you people…?” I responded, resisting the urge to fly at and tear out the bitch’s throat.

"The Infinity" came the reply.

I am positive I looked like some uneducated dullard at hearing this, but it really did not register. The dramatic presentation of the word "infinity" irritated me, as I had no idea what to think of such a thing, and besides, my cock was in shambles and it was more of a burden on my mind than something my curiosity yearned for. Then she explained, obviously unaware of the degradation I had endured.

"I am sure you are curious as to what I mean," Black continued. "We are not people as you would define the word, but instead an organism much unlike yourself. We are not of your world, nor are we of your dimension. We have been and will be supreme, since the beginning of time itself. We tell you this, so that you may die in understanding of your situation. The intention of this entire ordeal was not to get you killed, as you were a pawn in a much larger game. As is our dear friend, Mr. Crumb."

With this last sentence I noticed Charles sitting on the couch I had occupied the previous night. He appeared suddenly dismayed.

"What?" he muttered, a cigar stuck at an odd angle in his mouth.

"You see, Sebastian, you have a great many enemies in this world." Black was almost robotic saying this, cold as steel. "Unfortunately, your very worst was the closest to you."

"You fucking bitch!" Charles cried, dropping his cigar and bolting up. "You said I won! You said I won!!"

"But you did" said Green, piping up from his subordinate position in the group. "You asked us to make Mr. Holts suffer for his sins. He has, and so much more. You also added, rather hastily, that you wanted the scum cleansed from the earth. Those were the two points in your feeble ranting, were they not?"

"Yes they were! But what is this about--"

"Mr. Crumb" interjected Black. "You need not worry about our larger plans, or your facilitation with them. You chose your path, and you have been rewarded. As we speak, all of the scum of the earth is slowly dying away, beginning with Mr. Holts. However, you should have been more specific in your accusations."

For a split second, I would swear I saw several of the group crack a smile before, in unison:

"Mr. Crumb, you are scum."

With that last note, everything went perfectly silent. Not an inch of cloth ruffled with movement, not a single breath registered from anyone, and nothing made the slightest noise outside. It aggravated me.
“So why the fuck have I been killing people with my goddamn penis?!” I yelled, breaking in the silence in a rage. “I have hair growing on the wrong fucking head! You got that? I’m pretty sure it’s ready to fall right the fuck off, so what the hell is going on?!”

“You weren’t supposed to kill anyone, Sebastian.” Black said, calmly.

“Pardon?”

“That was your own doing, your own rage exhibiting itself through your situation.” Black spoke softly, as if it were all very common. “You used your confusion as an excuse. That was not our doing, but your perverse desires coming to light. You should have only come out of this situation with one murder on your mind.”

Then it hit me. I suddenly knew what was happening.

“Charles Crumb.” The words escaped from my lips as if spoken by a stranger.

They wanted me to kill my employer who, from what I gathered, wanted me killed. He who was fed up with the world treating him like shit, who wanted nothing more than to rid his senses of the barbaric ways of men. For such a thing, he had called these… demonic things dressed in human flesh to aid him.

“Oh what the fuck is this?” Cried Charles.

Of course, at this time I was past my breaking point. How could this possibly be the reason for my day’s torment? Surely there had to be a better explanation…

Fuck it. I knew what I had to do, and was compelled to follow through.

“After this” I said, “I’m coming for you, bitch.”

Black nodded in an understanding way, and I then proceeded to follow through with my devious task, that of both vengeance and obedience…
I dropped my bag, threw off the thought of pain, and ran at Charles, without a second’s hesitation, catching him by surprise. The miserable bastard thought he could erase his problems by getting rid of me, well, then I would have to show him how wrong he was. He would receive what he deserved—a shot through the head. I was on him before he could think to move, jumping into his chest and knocking him to the floor—and suddenly my hard-on was back, raging in my pants, hurting but yearning for the kill. Quickly, I got it out—now a massive, deformed member covered in pus and blood, huge throbbing veins intersecting into the thorny head: a monster!

“Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh God…” Charles kept repeating over and over again, tears rolling down from his beady eyes. Now, after this demonic cluster-fuck he created, he prayed to God… Surely, it fell on deaf ears.
Throughout my task, the “Infinity” watched on like bored voyeurs, keeping track of every movement with neither pleasure nor dread. I knew. I saw it in the corner of my eye while I was shoving my cock into that bastard’s mouth, they had planned this all. Sure, they said that they were different from humans, but they were just more of the same—

—I rammed it down into his throat—

—The same old attention-seeking, violence-loving, perverse people with
power, chock full of themselves and their disgusting needs and wants spiraling into a hellish whirlwind of selfish gifts and acts of depravity—

—He squealed and cried, but it was all muffled by my demonic cock thrusting in and out of his mouth, the thin spikes at the end tearing apart his tongue—

—It was too much.

His teeth bit down in panic, and shattered against my iron-hard phallus. I came, and my load was followed by Charles Crumb’s brain and skull fragments, gliding along the marble floor. Somehow, I knew this latest incarnation of my demon-cock was permanent.

The remaining head fell to the ground with a thud, and I stood up, straightening myself to the best of my ability. They were still watching, probably with amusement, at the foolish reporter who had dedicated his life to the wicked humor of man trying to make him look presentable with a deformed hard-on. It was all a game, as far as my knowledge went. I had one last question though, one that was suddenly scratching at the back of my brain…

“Black” I said.

“Yes, Sebastian?”

“Why? I really want to know now… why?”

“Reason, I suppose. A lack of it.”

Everything went away.

A Final Note

Dearest reader, you may wonder now of my gruesome tale of woe and the meaning of what I said in it’s beginning—that I have discovered an attraction of the most bizarre kind, one that may well be called true love. Well, it is true that what has happened is quite bizarre, and as I sit here in the dark of some dank room in some unknown place, the idea of the love I speak of has become all the more apparent. Human-to-human love is nothing but a burning hole in the mind, one of confusion and indecency, which can only end in complex chemical reactions and satiated lust, leaving nothing truthful. True love, as I have come to understand it is not a love for a particular fellow human being, but love for love itself.

I am sitting here, my only light coming from some unidentifiable location and only a pen and paper to keep me company, and I do not pretend to completely understand these feelings of mine. Perhaps it is because of the growing thing lying between my legs that I believe what I do, or some final gift given to me as a friendly offering before my inevitable death… either way, I believe that I have found the answer to the question regarding what true love really is.

True love is the bond between past and present, the ever-seeing eye gliding along the path best traveled, trying to find and understand whoever created such a link from one place to another and the importance of such a path. True love is immersion into another’s life, much like that vowed but not carried out in marriage. You know what I speak of as well as I do; because you are the most important part of my story, you the one scanning through or adhering to every word of my tale.

As I sit here, under an indiscernible light source, writing this all out on the pen and paper that seem to have appeared specifically for my meditation, my mind races to understand what has happened to me. In this solitary position, my chest still bleeding profusely, I sit frozen in time. Is this Hell? Or could it possibly be some extraterrestrial prison? I haven’t the faintest real clue, but the growing parasite that is now slowly making its way over my abdomen and down my legs makes me pray this story reaches someone, anyone. I have learned something so degrading to my every moral and social fabric… I have learned whom I truly love.

Dear reader, I love you.

--Sebastian Holts

The End


Real quick, some changes that will be made to the story:

1. I'm expanding the story from lasting two days to lasting about a week, with Sebastian coming in contact with numerous other characters.

2. The general language is going to be changed. I want Sebastian to sound like an asshole, but he just sounds too stupid for my tastes.

3. The ending of Chapter 5 will be different, as right now it feels like a cop-out.

4. At least five times more sickening.

Any and all criticism is welcome. I know it's no masterpiece, or even close to it, but it's a rough draft, and I'd love to make the final draft something special.

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

M.B. Keene