Spermjackers From Hell Read online

  Pappy, however, was inside watching videos of Japanese schoolgirls on his computer, hated hound dogs, and his pipe-smoking days were long in the past on account of the cancer and the hole in his neck.

  Nor was the drive any sort of Dukes of Hazzard law-dodging yee-haw. No bumbling deputies, no evil revenuers, no raucous chases down dirt roads and jumping the crick when the bridge proved out. A little disappointing, though he doubted his cousin’s truck could have taken much punishment, and the jugs of ‘shine in the back surely couldn’t.

  That the Harmon sisters were in fact a couple real bow-wows proved without dispute. One tall and scrawny, scrawnier even than him, with hair like dried mop-strings; the other almost short enough to be a genuine dwarf, a stocky fireplug of a thing.

  But they thought he looked “jist an ab-see-lute ringer for that crossbow-totin’ dreamboat on that there zombie show, don’t he?” and, well, an empty jar or so later…

  So, here he was, sprawled with his pants around his ankles on the bare mattress of a swaybacked king-size, in a room with travel-agency posters tacked to the faux-wood paneling—sunny beaches, Florida, California, Hawaii—while both Harmon sisters totally went to town on him. Bow-wows, maybe, but could they ever suck a dick! One on either side of him, taking turns or working it together, sometimes pausing to kiss each other all sloppy-slobbery and open-mouthed before going back to slurping on his cockmeat like it was a honey-dipped corndog.

  The moonshine ran warm through his bloodstream, and his brain felt steam-clouded. He made a token effort or two to fondle a tit—the scrawny sister was ironing-board flat but had big hard lug-nut nipples, while the dwarf-sister sported a firm round little softball set—and for the most part was content to lie there and let them have their fun. The ‘shine took no detrimental toll on his performance; his first load pumped down the scrawny sister’s throat within a minute, and twenty seconds later with the licking and nibbling continued unabated, he was rigid again, rarin’ to go.

  “You can thank me later,” Pete had said.

  Yes, indeed, Spencer certainly would!

  Occasional worries crept into his brain... there might be trouble, there might be some angry hulking Harmon brothers around, or a scowling Big Daddy Harmon with a shotgun.

  He knew the kinds of things that could happen out here, not far distance-wise but worlds away from fancy-ass Fairmont…had seen and even participated in them with his own family…when one of Jolene’s boyfriends broke her arm and stole her car, Spence had been among the Bodeans who went and took care of it.

  Luckily for him, no Harmon menfolk showed up.

  Big Mama Harmon did.

  The door swung open and there she was, filling the frame top-to-bottom and side-to-side, close on four hundred pounds of jiggling rolls in an aqua-blue mu-mu; what her daughters lacked in tits and ass, she more than made up for. The scent of toaster pastries—flakey-bakey crust, sweet frosting, and fruity filling—hung around her like fine perfume.

  The king-sized creaked as she crawled herself onto it, bulling her daughters aside the way a walrus might push through a pack of seals. A moment later, she had Spence swallowed root-deep, while the other two tongued at his balls and butthole.

  Pete had not mentioned this!

  Thank him later? Spencer would send him a goddamn gift-basket!

  Big Mama Harmon drew back at the last moment and he blew a gusher all over the naked mammoth mounds of her chest. She used his still-throbbing cock to smear the spunk around like warm and creamy fingerpaint, then titty-humped him hard again in that slippery valley while her greedy cumslut daughters lapped up the excess.

  He may’ve blacked out there for a minute, from the sheer intensity. Didn’t slow them or his dick down at all; when he could again focus, it was to the most amazing yet sensations of suction and friction; he had never experienced or so much as imagined anything like it! Almost more than he could take!

  Spence heard someone hollering and realized it was him, hollering himself hoarse, uttering every dirty word and blasphemy in his vocabulary, simultaneously begging for more and begging them to ease off a little before he ruptured something.

  Lifting his head from the mattress took titanic effort. But he had to know which of them was doing this expert suck-work, this blowjob of the gods.

  It wasn’t Big Mama or either of her daughters. The face bobbing at his crotch belonged to some fuckin’ relic, some hundred-year-old Harmon, all sagging skin like wrinkled linen, wisps of blue-white hair clinging to a paper-thin scalp.

  Staring into those wide blind cataract-filmed eyes, weirdly greenish and seeming to glow, struck a horror-note memory, reminding Spence of some fucked-up story he had to read in school, something about a guy with one freaky-ass eye so the other guy chopped him up and buried him under the floor—

  The crinkly lips, slick and shiny, parted in a dribbling grin. He saw sunken toothless gums, glistening-wet nubbed ridges of flesh, with his cock sliding between them as he helplessly kept thrusting into that ancient, lewdly slavering mouth.

  Interlude: Vignettes #4

  Boys and their toys.

  Junk-obsessed, and by no means is it only good ol’ Sigmund Freud. Look at history, mythology, anthropology. Zeus, who couldn’t keep it in his toga…Priapus, the god of colossal erections…Osiris had his cut off and fed to a croc, so that his widow Isis had to make a wooden one to conceive Horus…

  As for Loki, well, even with the box-office success of a certain fourth-wall-breaking merc (shameless gimmick, that!), it’s unlikely we’re going to see Tom Hiddleston doing the bit where Loki ties his own scrotum to the beard of a goat.

  The meat and veg, the wedding tackle, Mr. Happy and the Twins, call it what you will. The external male genitalia, to be more clinical.

  But, if we’re talking eunuchs—and we are now, because one was mentioned earlier, along with the dogfucker—it’s more the lack or absence thereof.

  Long-time lack or absence thereof. Not erectile dysfunction or late-in-life injury or gender reassignment surgery or the methods of chemical castration they sometimes try to use to treat sex offenders.

  Eunuch-eunuch.

  You might not think, in this day and age, there still are such things. Not in America, anyway. That’s more for, like, harem guards, right? Arabian Nights and Sinbad movies. Those pudgy dudes in charge of making sure no other swinging dicks go messing around with the sultan’s gardenful of wives, concubines, and olive-oil slave babes.

  Doesn’t happen here! Not here in the greatest nation, apex of the free and civilized world, ‘Merica! Get real. That’s history and third-world shit, primitive, barbaric, right up there with ritual cannibalism and stoning people to death!

  ***

  Uh-huh. Tell that to Enoch Shaw.

  His parents were good Christians. That’s what they believed, that’s what they didn’t just claim but proclaimed. Often.

  Because God. Because Jesus. Because the Bible.

  Because sin and sex and evil and temptation and Heaven and Hell.

  Remember Carrie’s mom and all those other religious whackadoo fanatics from Stephen King books? Ever seen those news articles about people who let their kids starve or suffer or die waiting for a miracle? The Lord will provide, though not in the form of, oh, say, medical intervention, vaccines, drugs, transplants and transfusions, no. Those are all sciencey and scary and therefore the Devil’s work. Pray the gay away. Truss up your troublesome tweens in blankets to be ‘reborn’ and stop their backchatting.

  That kind of thing is what we’re going for here. That’s how the ever-so-holy Shaws were. Better than you. Better than everyone else. Married in sacred abstinence, unpolluting of the flesh, above all those perverse and worldly lusts, yadda-yadda.

  Golly-gee-whillikers what a surprise it was when she turned up preggers. Oops. Awkward. Embarrassing. To their credit, at least they didn’t go so far as to try the Virgin Mary excuse. No angels or Holy Ghosts or acts of God presumptions.

  Besides, by
admitting their fall from grace, they could wallow in repentance, really get down and abject and mortificational with their sinful selves, wear the hair shirts, do the martyrdom mambo. And, best of all, they could make sure their child would be godly from the get-go. Their child would never give in to such wicked temptations.

  Along comes Baby Enoch.

  He might’ve been better off if they’d gone extreme anchorite—another word from ancient Greek, and another real actual historical thing people used to do; look at us, just learning stuff all over this shit!—and just walled him up inside a monastery, denied all human contact except for hearing the singing and the sermons. Maybe they couldn’t find a bunch of monks who’d go for it. Who knows.

  Instead, the proud parents celebrated not with cigars, but with a heavy-duty rubber band. Maybe a different sort of rubber would have saved the Shaws the problem in the first place, but just try telling them that.

  Anyway. Ever stretch-twist-wrap a rubber band really tight around your finger? Interfering with your circulation, causing this cold, weird, numb, bloodless lump of alien-feeling meat?

  Imagine someone doing that to a baby. A baby boy. Only, not to his finger. To his whole newborn package, inoffensive little grape-cluster though it may be.

  And leaving it there.

  You know what happens to the umbilical cord, after it’s cut and tied? How the excess part sort of withers, atrophies, dries up, and falls off? And that’s where belly-buttons come from?

  Yeah. Like that. Pretty much like that.

  ***

  Of course, some men have the exact opposite problem.

  Rodney Edwards is one of them. He is hung like a horse. Packing serious pipe. His ballsack alone suggests he’s smuggling eggplants. Flaccid, Dickzilla reaches halfway to his knees, and is, as they say, a grow-er as well as a show-er. At full attention, it’s as if someone welded half a six-pack end to end.

  His is, admittedly, a problem a lot guys might not think of as a problem, a problem most guys think they should be so lucky to have. They think, based on porn, it’s what women want. So do some women, inexperienced enough with the real world not to know better.

  Rodney knows better. He knows all too well how bottoming out against a cervix can be less than fun for both parties. He knows porn and reality often don’t match. He knows what it’s like to not have enough blood to run both ends of his body at the same time, and the trouble a raging hard-on can cause an otherwise sensible brain.

  In many ways, he’s a living, breathing stereotype and he knows that, too—a six-foot-ten slab of mahogany muscle with a voice to make panties spontaneously combust, the black man in whose presence white girls go giddy and white boys go ‘whoa.’

  The irony of his name hasn’t been lost on him, either. Rodney, emphasis on Rod. Nor has his chosen profession. As a teenager, he heard and bought into the bullshit about locks and keys, how a good key could open any lock but only a cheap and easy lock opened for any key, and decided whatever else, he was gonna be one badass locksmith keymaster mofo.

  Rodney racked up quite a list by the time he was old enough to buy a legal drink, including two baby-mamas. His third baby-mama became his first ex-wife, after the two of them and a couple of his girlfriends appeared on one of those trashy afternoon talk shows, at which point one of the girlfriends also dropped the bomb about becoming baby-mama number four.

  Eventually, Rodney decided enough was about enough. He pulled his act together, relocated to a new part of the state, and vowed to keep it strictly casual from here on out. No strings, no muss, no fuss, no bother. Aside, of course, from the child support and occasional visits with some of his kids.

  He owns his own business, Lock Steady. The walk-in trade is next to nothing, but out-calls and emergencies are where it’s at. He gets a lot of those from well-to-do Fairmont ladies who misplace their keys on a regular basis, as well as tipsy wine-tasting tourists. The latter, if they treat him right, he’ll refer to a friend with a local taxi service to save them the added hassle and expense of risking a ticket…and if they don’t treat him right, he’ll send word to another friend, one with the county sheriff’s department. Both of which friends are usually inclined to appreciate the arrangement.

  These days, Rodney does all right. He’s a little older, a little wiser, and has finally come to realize being invited over and welcomed in is the best way to go, far better than any amount of doorbusting force or lockpicking finesse.

  It did raise some eyebrows around town when he hired a then-high-school girl to cover part-time hours at the shop, but he and Beth, they have an understanding.

  Besides, she isn’t his type.

  ***

  Enoch, though?

  Poor Enoch. All he has left down there is this shriveled nub of an outie, this raisin-sized skin-tag with a pee-hole. Which, he goes sitting down, by the way, and it’s not the tidiest process. Less stream, and more sprinkler-spray.

  No sensation, either. Not much in the way of testosterone or urges or anything of the sort.

  His parents honestly expected this to make him grow up pure. Pure in body, mind, and soul. Pure in thought, act, and deed. Pure, holy, godly, saintly. Free from sin and temptation.

  They expected he would, one day, thank them for their noble selflessness, their sacrifices on his behalf.

  Needless to say, they were disappointed.

  Or, would have been, if they’d lived long enough.

  Not that he murdered them; don’t go getting that kind of idea!

  He tried to be the son they wanted, he really did. He went to church, and he followed their rules. His parents protected him, sheltered and shielded him. None of that sinfulness of television or public school for their son! None of those wicked doctors; if Enoch got a fever or a tummyache, it was God’s will and he needed to be good and pray.

  When he inevitably asked where babies came from, or why some ladies who wanted babies didn’t have them while some ladies had more babies than they could take care of, they told him that was also God’s will. God’s blessing or punishment, depending.

  It wasn’t until about age ten that the doubts began to seep in, and it began to occur to him he was in some fundamental way different from the other boys. He couldn’t understand why some of his friends were starting to change—their voices, their bodies, their sudden interests in girls.

  He thought everyone was like him, you know, ‘down there.’

  When the truth finally hit, it hit hard.

  These days, of course, little Enoch is all grown up. He’s successful in his career, well-to-do, happily married.

  He has a lot of kids.

  Four, with his wife. Okay, the oldest is adopted and the other three took some work, but, they’re still his.

  Them, and many more. Dozens more. Hundreds more.

  You’d never know it to look at him. He’s no Rodney; far from it. He’s roundish and softish, smooth-skinned, pudgy-featured. On the phone, he’s easily and often mistaken for one of his younger sons.

  He’s never had sex.

  He’s never wanted to.

  The Shaws achieved that goal, at least.

  Not only is it physically impossible, but he considers the biological processes of arousal and intercourse to be crude, disgusting. He regards the act with a clinical curiosity and revulsion.

  But he is fascinated, even obsessed, with making babies.

  Chapter Thirteen: Suspicion

  Lock Steady’s storefront consisted of dulled-glass display cases and metal shelves stocked with padlocks, bike chains, hide-a-key gadgets, handcuffs, and lockboxes. A wire spinny-rack of novelty keychains sat on the counter, next to the cash register.

  Beth, slouched on a high stool, ground out her cigarette butt in an ashtray atop a stack of industry hardware catalogs and order forms. Technically, the shop was no smoking, but Rodney gave zero shits as long as she showed up and did her job. Most of which was phone and computer out-calls anyway; she could hardly remember the last time an in-the-fles
h customer had walked in.

  When the door opened, jangling a cluster of old key-blanks instead of anything cutesy like a bell, she damn near fell off the duct-taped vinyl seat.

  But it was only Devon.

  Which, on its own, was still weird, and not just because none of her friends were much in the habit of dropping by. For one thing, it was a weekend evening, prime wine-trade tourist traffic time; his folks’ bistro should have been bustling, with free slave labor all hands on deck.

  For another, the guys had been flakier than usual for like days now. To the point she’d been starting to wonder if they were pissed at her about something…what, she couldn’t guess…even if Jake was still embarrassed over the summoning clusterfuck, and the way they’d teased him about thinking his Nachtwald ancestry gave him super warlock powers or whatever, it didn’t explain the others.

  Then again, since when had Spencer or Marty needed an explanation for being flakey? As for Brendan, let him sulk, no great loss, she stood by her earlier to-hell-with-him.

  And Devon…well, but, here he was.

  “You look like shit,” Beth said.

  He did. Sallow, sweaty, eyes kind of sunken-starey, lips chapped and chewed. No wonder he was on the loose; his parents couldn’t run any sort of restaurant with one of their servers going around like lukewarm plague-on-a-stick.

  “Do I? Uh, yeah, I guess. Sorry.”

  “You sick or something? Don’t breathe at me.”

  “I won’t. I’m not. I just haven’t been, uh, sleeping. Listen, Beth...”

  She listened, raising an eyebrow to encourage him along, but he didn’t follow up his ‘Listen, Beth’ by, you know, actually saying anything. He stood there, fidgeting, shifting his weight—of which he seemed to have lost some—from foot to foot.

  “Yyyyeah?” she prompted.