Uschi! (15 page)

Denny fumbled backwards a number of steps and didn’t stop until he bounced off the bony shoulder of a kid with a devillock haircut dancing with his own date. He apologized for any bother and then stood there, the music playing and the dancers around him all in motion, watching Chopped Meat close in on Uschi. He had his gorilla arms out like he was about to try a bearhug on her. The rolls of fat collected on the back of his neck reminded Denny of the coils of a rat snake wrapped tight around a stout fence post. Great saddlebags of sloppy flesh on his hips spilled over his belt and made his shirt balloon out on the sides.

I’m loosing her. He’s going to take her away from me.

Denny was going to speak up. He was going to take action. Something was going to be done. He had to stand up for himself. Uschi was his.

“… hey …” he dry mouth croaked and started to take a half step forward.

And Uschi took over from there. She never lost her smile or joyful attitude, only raised her hands, the fingers parted far apart and twisted like claws, and placed them on Chopped Meat’s face and raked her nails hard and deep down him. They were like carving knives, the fingernails, digging raw and juicy furrows into the doorman’s flesh. An eyeball was compromised, sliced open and leaking soft material. Blood poured from Chopped Meat’s face the same as tap water from a kitchen faucet. The ribbons of meat her nails took out of him were corkscrewed like curly fries and fell from Uschi’s fingers and rolled off of the top of Chopped Meat’s protruding round belly and dropped to the dance floor. He screamed once, slapped hands to his striped face, and a snarling Denny helped him to get to stepping by giving him a swift kick to his ass. The fat menace shambled away fast into the throng of people.

Denny and Uschi came back together. He gave her a worried look. “You think we’re in trouble?”

“I don’t give a shit if we are or not.” She put her arms around the one she loved, and the gore on her hands went all over the back of his
Big Bad Mama
T-shirt. “I’m not going to let this get in the way of our good time. I hope the cocksucker crawls off somewhere and dies.”

They danced for three more songs. Nobody else ever bothered them. Then Uschi decided it was time for a trip to the men’s room.

Chapter Ten

S
he just took him straight on inside, into the men’s room, invading without a second of hesitation male’s only territory. Some guys gave her appearance a double take, most had catcalls and other lewd noises ready for her when she passed. Uschi ignored them all.

There were three urinals and four toilet stalls and only the one sink for hand washing. The graffiti on the cinderblock walls was plentiful, colorful and beyond the call of duty vulgar. The sounds from the stage didn’t carry well past the bathroom’s walls; Feces from the Ass were muted. You could use your indoor voice in here. The smell wasn’t much changed from the odor on the dance floor, maybe a tad more piss and barf added.

Holding him by the hand, Uschi led a red-faced Denny to the first available stall. She closed and latched the door behind them. This one was designed for the handicapped. It was more spacious than other stalls and there were handlebars mounted on the commode.

“I thought we were due some you and me time,” said Uschi. She reached inside her notable amount of cleavage, did a little digging around to find what she wanted. Eventually she pulled out from under the right hooter a joint and cigarette lighter. She lit up, enjoyed the first toke, and then handed it over to Denny.

He went right to it, putting it to his lips and having a drag. This positive glow promptly embraced Denny the split second the weed started to reach his bloodstream.

“Tell me something I don’t know, best thing.”

“Well, did you know Boris Karloff’s real name was William Henry Pratt?”

“No, I did not.”

“Well, it most certainly was. I read that this one time in
Psychotronic
magazine. So it’s got to be true. Find it hard to believe Michael Weldon would ever steer me wrong on something like that.”

“That’s why it’s so groovy to hang out with you, best thing. I learn new and fascinating shit all the goddamn time. Plus you got a really sweet cock that does the most wonderful things to me.”

The unexpectedness of that last statement caught Denny Gleeth unprepared. His penis had never been complemented before.

“Are you having a good time tonight?” It was the only thing he could think to say after hearing talk concerning his dick.

“I sure am. How about you?”

“Yeah, it’s an experience.” Denny could feel the toilet paper rack jabbing into the back of his knee.

“Thanks for doing this for me.” She eyed him through the sweet smelling smoke and her hand went to his shoulder and straightened the collar of his T-shirt and stroked the wrinkles that were bunching up along there out of the material. “I really do appreciate it. This isn’t your bag. I know you’d rather be at a comic book store, or home watching
Manos: the Hands of Fate
right now. It means an awful lot to me you would do this.”

“You don’t have to thank me like that. I’m glad to get out. Do something I never thought I would do. It makes me feel good about myself.”

They finished the joint in short time.

“Y’know,” said Uschi, “standing here looking at you, it is giving me an itch.”

“Yeah.” Denny just stood there, keeping his hands to himself, being innocent.

“It’s a certain kind of itch.”

Poor Denny. He still wasn’t getting it. He raised an eyebrow. “Okay.”

Uschi wetted her fingers and untucked the front half of his
Big Bad Mama
T-shirt and snaked her hand up inside there. She went to the nearest available nipple and pinched and teased it. It was amazing how unaware men were to the sensitivity of their own nipples. Denny moaned like he had never had it this blissful before and needed to raise an arm and brace himself against the stall’s wall to remain standing.

“Best thing,” she told him, “it’s a sexual itch. One only you and your mighty tallywhacker can scratch. Tend to it for me, will you?”

And she lifted the skirt of her zebra print cocktail dress. She was going commando, no panties for her.
Howdy, Alfred E. Neuman and Patty the pussy, right nice to be seeing y’all again so soon.

Now he had it. She wanted some. Sex in the bathroom.

Maybe it was the tequila and pot working, or could be the love of a swell zombie dame, but Denny felt emboldened, ten feet tall and too goddamn good to be true. He believed the operation she requested was doable. His steady hands worked like a pro and dropped his jeans and underwear below the knees. “I’ll scratch you.” Not the sexiest thing he could have said, but it was all he could think of at the moment.

There was no lover’s foreplay slap and tickle preface to this fucking. This was straight intercourse. Getting to the nitty-gritty like two animals in heat. Uschi bent over the commode and grabbed on to its handlebars while Denny advanced on her from behind. Their genitalia interlocked and the pumping rhythm was instantly established. Denny dedicated all his concentration into his hip action. Uschi admired his thrusting motion, highly commendable, hard and steadfast as a machine. He got her whole person to rocking and the toilet to rattling. The bowl’s filthy brown water was agitated, stirring up a frothy head of bubbles. A soiled condom floating on the surface rode a storm tossed sea.

“That’s it,” Uschi encouraged. “Give it to me, best thing. Go. Go. Go. You are hitting the spot. Oh yeah. You’re hitting the spot. Harder. Go. Harder. That’s it. Va-va-voom, three-D, pow.” She turned her head and looked over her shoulder up at him. Her lips were curled back in a dazzling slutty snarl porn legend Seka would be envious of. “Look at me. I said, goddamnit, look at me.”

“I’m looking, I’m looking.”

“Don’t I look hot with your dick inside me?”

He had to agree she did look most hot indeed.

They orgasmed simultaneously—brilliantly and equally most gratified. About a minute to get themselves resituated and on their second wind, and then they exited the men’s room stall to rejoin the world already in progress.

The dead man they came upon splayed over the floor only a few short steps outside their fuck stall did do some damage to their positive afterglow.

“Sweet monkey motherfuckers,” calmly commented Uschi, nearly tripping over the lifeless unfortunate littering the urine sticky tiles.

“Roger Corman Christ,” added a shocked Denny.

Exsanguination was the cause of death. The body’s blood had been quickly and violently drained from the torn open throat. The prominent lip imprints made from tremendous suction pressure circled the wrinkled, puckered wound. There were other corpses not far off from where this one laid. A half dozen or more puddles of dead meat strewn across the men’s room floor and one left propped sitting up against the side of a urinal. All of them on the receiving end of the relative same level of graphic neck mistreatment. All this murderous mayhem committed in only the short spell of time Uschi and Denny where inside the shitter.

“I told y’all this shit was to be continued.”

That voice, like Slim Pickens seasoned with Charlie Manson
Hee-Haw
cornpone drawl. The words took control of the room the same as would the crack from a snapped bullwhip.

There stood Li’l Bocephus, arms crossed over his chest and leaning a hip against the sink and wearing this total rascal smile on his anemic Jethro Bodine of a face. “Did you two turd monkeys honestly think I was done with y’all? You thought you could put me out of your minds and go and do whatever you wished? That I weren’t ever gonna come back and do something wicked toward y’all? You did think that? Well, that wasn’t in any way, shape or form smart thinking on y’alls behalf, was it? I told you I put my mark on you two. I promised that this ain’t over by a long shot. I said I’d get you. And now, retardo and blimp tits dead whore, the shitting and the getting is upon us.”

The atmosphere was electric with eminent hostility. One of the toilets was experiencing water pressure difficulties. It gurgled like a content frog in a pond.

“I got me some plans,” coolly informed Li’l Bocephus. “Put a lot of creative thinking into these plans. Y’all are a critical part of them. They’s revenge sort of stuff. It’s gonna be nasty and bleak for y’all. Time I give the two of you the gift of a little Li’l Bocephus goodness.”

Chapter Eleven

“W
hy, if it isn’t the NASCAR fan nightstalker,” pleasantly exclaimed an excited Uschi. “Well, alright. I’ll have you know you’re the reason I skipped dinner. I knew we were going to run into your tasty self somewhere along the way tonight. Hey, you’re looking a lot better than the last time we met up. You seem right fine and peppy.”

That was true. A day’s rest inside his Chevy Silverado’s toolbox had worked shock-you-shitless wonders on improving Li’l Bocephus’s condition. His eye was fully-grown back, pushing out the clod of steel wool plug sometime during his daylight slumber. He had removed the duct tape from his hand and chuckled in relief when he found brand new pinkie and ring fingers. The fingernails on these two new ones were disease free and immaculately clean, unlike their eight dirty and fungus infected crusty yellow brothers. That duct tape was made to last and what he had wrapped around his middle wasn’t cooperative when it came time to remove. It required serious effort to tear it away. But he finally got rid of every last bit of it, and there beneath waiting for him was his bare belly, sealed shut and the pale and freckled skin smooth and displaying not a hint of the zombie massacre comeuppance he was the victim of. Those good ol’ intestines and organs in him were feeling fine and settled and exactly where they ought to be. His roof shingle mask the last thing he ripped off of him and now he again was as whole-faced and pretty as ever.

The dark ink of that ROY ROGERS FUCKED MY MOMMA tattoo on his arm caught the bathroom’s lighting and glistened like chocolate syrup on a bone white china plate.

Li’l Bocephus thought to bring backup to this shindig. Three more vampires were as well in the men’s room, each one as murderous and supernatural in origin as he. They were currently holding down the fort over close by the urinals. You couldn’t get anymore arrogantly cocky than the way they were presenting themselves. Smug douche bags unrestrained.

The blood-drinking trio Uschi gave a good looking over. She was far shy of being impressed with what she was getting an eyeful of.

“Truth is told about it, pilgrims, I’ve seen better in Jess Franco movies.”

There was a dark-skinned Mexican gentleman. He was beer loving potbellied and dressed in stained sweatpants and a Pantera concert T-shirt. His eyebrows were large and fuzzy and grown together to form one giant unibrow that cut a bushy horizontal slash along the upper half of his face. The eyes were charcoal black with gold irises and the teeth very unnaturally long and very unnaturally sharp. He tirelessly picked his nose and greedily devoured whatever snotty treasures he discovered.

The one in the middle must be a Republican. A proud Rush Limbaugh dittohead filled with an obscene abundance of Anglo-Saxon Caucasian moral and financial conceited superiority. The idea of Ronald Reagan’s face added to Mount Rushmore probably made his dick hard. He was tall and in good shape and the brown suit and red tie he was wearing dirty and overdue for a pressing, but besides that smart and conservative. A small American flag was pinned to the left lapel of his jacket. He featured Clark Kent hair, dark and cut neat and strict, greasy like it were combed with slices of buttered toast. The vampire fangs inside his blood slobbering mouth were white the same as powdered sugar and serrated as much as the cutting edge of a steak knife and were the only thing outwardly showing he didn’t work in some medium high six figure capacity at a savings and loan bank and volunteer his evenings to a committee dedicated to keep another pro-abortion liberal judge off the Supreme Court.

Number three was Linda Blair in
Roller Boogie
. Frizzy brunette hair trapped in a tacky perm and the headband circling her cranium scaled in purple sequins. Her teenage physique was still hoarding plenty of baby fat and encased in control top pantyhose and a flashy purple Danskin leotard. Her roller skates were hot pink with neon bright orange laces. There were plenty of freckles on her dimpled cheeks and her fangs resplendent smile was as wholesome as acid thrown into your face.