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

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

monsoongorilla

Thank you for sharing. Great work

RetroGunslinger

Holy crap, somebody read it! I'm not really prepared for this, um, thanks for the comment, thank you for reading and uh, I'd give you a free cookie or something if I had any... wow...

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

M.B. Keene

HedwigStrange

Hey, I'll come back and comment more after finals, but I have to say I love the names Sebastian Holts and Charles Crumb. They remind me of the way Dickens names his characters.

HedwigStrange

Alright, sorry it took so long for me to write a decent review. I'll nit-pick my way through phrasing, then I'll address the overall later.

For the first section posted:

Nice Line: "Usually, when a man feels himself pulled towards a woman, it is by his dick." Any female reading immediately dislikes this guy, so your make-Sebastian-an-asshole goal is well established there.

Some of the descriptions just seemed odd - stretching metaphors to get a new image sometimes works and sometimes does not. The moon-as-ripe-as-a-blueberry thing doesn't quite work since Sebastian is narrating and he is striving to look sardonic and world weary rather than romantic. This phrasing also seems awkward: "I could smell the sweetness of her cunt and taste the sexual juices." Sexual juices. Sounds anatomy textbook-esque. If he is completely entranced - maybe he is tasting her nectar. The explicitness of "sexual juices" isn't really necessary with the bluntness of the surrounding language and the gooey sweet of "nectar" would be a better set-up to be plunged into formaldehyde.

While I really like the names Sebastian Holts and Charles Crumb, I don't care for the names of the members of the infinity - the color naming scheme just seems... eh. meh. bleh. In fact, the name "the infinity" is pretty blah as well. I know Sebastian comments on how irritating that name is, but it's so irritatingly stereotypical the acknowledgement doesn't make up for it.

The first sex scene (still in peach phase - no formaldehyde)... I'd like to get in to it more. I felt a little cheated, what with the Disney type fade out right as the lovemaking gets started, then returning hours later. I know it wouldn't add anything to your storyline, but as long as it isn't too in depth it shouldn't be too distracting, and who doesn't like a little explicit sex here and there? Also, we know from the tone of the story so far that bad things are coming, and we figure it has to do with this woman, but leading us away from the trail for a little interlude might heighten the suspense...

When describing the formaldehyde scene... no need to talk about a virgin's fluids. We already know Sebastian is an asshole, so the detail doesn't add anything, and it distracts from the action. Also, some awkward parts: "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."
Hmmm. Immediately sickened. It technically means something happened quickly, but it doesn't sound like it. Sickening takes a while. Perhaps "I vomited uncontrollably on the white night gown and bare legs of my new conquest, retching more with each new whiff of the inescapable scent." "Vomiting further" is also oddly proper sounding for the situation. Perhaps he says something "through his vomit" - much more grotesque.

When the monsters emerge from the paintings, it shouldn't be from watercolors, but from thick oil paintings. Watercolors are just too soft and sweet an image for this.

Second Section:

In the first shooting scene: "the grand total was nine living suspects" Did you mean witnesses?

"Mr. Chunk-a-lunk" Meh.

When Holts is fantaszing, he sees scenes from the "frontlines of WWII" - the whole experiments on humans, genitalia drilling, etc. would probably be from the labratories and hidden torture chambers of WWII, not the frontlines. The frontlines would be more with the exploding limbs, rotting wounds, etc. This is so picky, I know, but then, I'm a pain in the ass.

Awesome bit: "...despite my trashed cock and related misadventures." so non-challant, it's perfect. I laughed aloud.

And over all comments:

In general, violent scenes just seemed gratuitous after a while. Maybe that's my girly side being unappreciative of the effort put into the goriness, but... at least if you're going to use violence for shock value, make it unbelievably twisted. Chuck Palahniuk twisted. And I felt that the plot got lost in the blood.

You said that you would be changing chapter 5, which I think would be a good idea. It did feel like a cop-out.
I don't know if the final note was included in your comments on chapter 5, but I wasn't particularly fond of that section. It sounds empty to me. The character is in a cell with some mysterious light (why are we bringing in new mysterious elements at the end of the story? To create mystery, yeah, yeah. But by the end of this, I'm tired and I don't care) and he's pondering about love in extremely vague, pseudo-poetic speak. This phrase gets me: "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'm sorry.. it's just... so empty. I think it's intended to sound wise and mysterious and full of meaning, but it doesn't, it sounds like gibberish. Then repeated, changing, elaborate definitions of love. Then token musings about hell and ponderings about loneliness. Then what should be the shocker- declaration of love for the reader. Yes, it sort of makes sense- we, as the readers, have immersed ourselves in Holts' past and present so he should love us, by hid definition, and his sociopathy makes him detest the fact that he could love us, but... I just don't believe it. I haven't seen why Holts comes to his conclusions about the nature of love.

Oh yes, and perhaps I missed it, but was it ever explained why in particular it is that Holts gets a venereal disease instead of some other horrible affliction? Without a very specific reason, it seems constructed just to gross us out.


So, my notes are atrociously negative, but in fact, I did think this was very well written - excellent vocabulary, smooth writing style, and skillful setting of the mood. Most of the problems are just details, and it seems like you already intend to fix some of the larger issues. I look forward to seeing another edition.

RetroGunslinger

Wow, thank you very, very much for that. No one has really ever given me a very well put together review, and you just knocked the ball out of the park.

I have already changed both the descriptions (really, the writing style as a whole) and the names of the Infinity, and I haven't gotten to the point of having to figure out a new name for them. I'm trying to think of something both terribly dramatic but still relatively interesting. I'm sure I'll think of something.

The sex scene is very, very much extended. There's a lot more sex in general, actually. I've added what amounts to a love interest, without it really being as typical as that term would infer, as well as several other characters to add to the Sade-esque deviancy I hope to imbue the story with.

I'm terrible with painting terminology, so thanks for the oil paintings tip. I'll definitely use that.

I have this terrible tendency to just skim over my writing when reviewing it, and I'm guessing that's how I missed both the "suspects" and "frontlines" instances. In all likelihood I would have thrown out both examples in the final draft anyway, but thank you for spotting them.

I also noticed some of the violence being, in my view, sort of stunted. Since the time of writing (which, I'm surprised to say, was about 2 1/2 years ago), I've gotten much more in touch with my inner maniac, so I'm hoping to create some more memorable examples of violence. Though, I do still like killing the guys in the bar with his sort of cock-gun.

I wasn't sure if the Final Note worked or not, so thanks for helping me understand that. I didn't mean for it to be profound, but more around the lines of being a very misguided lesson for Holts, who never learns anything of substance from his experience. I'll either add more to the core story to suggest why he would come to the conclusion, or cut it and figure something else out to end with. The main point came in Black's revelation that Holts was committing the violence by his own will rather than any outside force, so maybe I'll just expand on that.

The reason for the venereal disease is that Crumb wanted revenge on Holts' popularity and general partying behavior, which is primarily focused on sex. So, he takes his hatred out on Holts' cock, via a relatively unknown supernatural entity. In the final draft I have his hatred given a little more emphasis, but I still keep the entity relatively anonymous.

Once again, thank you very much for the criticism and suggestions.

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

M.B. Keene

HedwigStrange

No problem. I like giving in depth critiques actually... it satisfies my perfectionism/viciousness. So any time you need something reviewed, let me know.

After what you said about the final note, I would drop it entirely as it is now. Go with emphasizing Holts' desire for violence and tie the initial love/romanticism theme back in at that point.

And do I get to see the next draft?

RetroGunslinger

I'm planning on simply self-publishing on lulu.com to satisfy my lust for print, but I'll send give you a draft beforehand since you did such a great job.

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

M.B. Keene