Uschi! (19 page)

“I just didn’t see the point in any of it.” The tone to Li’l Bocephus’s sad words would make a sack of pinto beans seem downright hyperactive in comparison.

“That all you got to say for yourself?”

No, as a matter of fucking fact, it wasn’t. Why hold his opinions inside? He cut loose with it.

“The needle to my gas tank is squarely sitting on the big E,” Li’l Bocephus said. “I gave trying for revenge a go and it up and failed me, and now I don’t want to bother with anything anymore. I’m past the kemo sabe phase and gone on to full-tilt-boogie-woogie unconditional surrender. It is official; I have entirely given the fuck up on everything. Go and do to me what you want. You and your Frankenstein titties go on and eat on me to your fucked up worse than a catshit snocone heart’s content. I don’t care. Look at me, this is about as pitiful as you can achieve. I suppose I am at the point where I’d be better off taken out of this world. You’ll be doing something of a fair majority of a favor here, ending my existence. That there is what I would call an unavoidable fact. Complete destruction would be a whopper of a relief after these two past nights I have suffered through.”

Denny was standing close behind his homemade zombie girlfriend powered by the devil and had his hands tucked deep in his pockets. “Calamine lotion on Bettie Page’s mosquito bites,” he commented. A hardy share of those pitiful words just uttered by the vampire struck closer to home than he was comfortable admitting to. He had to wonder outloud: “I don’t sound that sorry when I’m down on myself, do I?”

Uschi turned her towel turbaned head away from Li’l Bocephus and looked at Denny over her shoulder. She answered his question truthfully but still with compassion.

“You’re even more sorrowful. A lot more. It’s so dismal at times it almost turns my stomach.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. It’s a very negative habit you have, best thing. And the sooner we cure you of it the better you and I both will be. But you especially will be the better.”

“I guess I don’t know no better.”

“I think you do,” she told him. “But it’s just much easier for you to hate on and talk bad about yourself than to actually face whatever problem has put you in such a fit. You won’t let yourself be confident and try to do anything to make things better. You’d rather wallow in self-pity and self-abuse than go to work and risk any kind of failure. You keep yourself closed up and unwilling to partake of the world happening around you.”

He didn’t have any answer for that. It was true and he knew it and she wasn’t going to let him avoid it.

Attention returned to the honky tonk undead in the bathtub.

“There’s sure as shit nothing worse y’all can do to me now, I’ll tell you that,” he said.

“Oh, tasty-fangy, what famous last words.”

Along with the washing her hair, Uschi had used her time in the kitchen to assemble a tool for herself. She had unscrewed the wooden handle to a toilet plunger and taped to the end of it a rolled and fat stack of
The Watchtower
magazine.

A born hoarder, Denny rarely if ever threw anything away, so whenever the Jehovah Witnesses came to the Big Kahuna grounds for door to door preaching, he’d take a copy of their Jesus loving pamphlet and just toss it into any ol’ pile of periodicals. Besides copies of
Starlog
,
D-Cup,
Filmfax
,
Gorzone,
Juggs
and
Bust Out
throughout the place, there was a plentiful supply of God rags given to him in hopes of saving his soul.

Uschi brought her construction down and brushed the magazine half lightly along the exposed base of Li’l Bocephus’s neck, drawing a line across his hairline. Where it touched the skin he instantly smoked and blistered and globs of sizzling melted flesh drooled off of him.

There was pain. A pain unlike any Li’l Bocephus had ever experienced either in death or the days of a pulse and ability to acquire a sunburn. This was a hurting more than God and government both ought to allow, a tremendous searing napalm pleasant agony.

He spit out his dip of snuff and screamed all he could give. Li’l Bocephus bucked once, elevating himself out of the tub high enough to slam a hip into the mounted on the wall soap dish and hammer it to rubble. Broken limbs uselessly flapped about like the flippers on a baby walrus unable to remove itself from dry land, and his whole body shook as energetically as an old electric football game’s metal field. His trembling skull caused the faucet spigot to quake and the pipes in the trailer’s wall to rattle.

He eventually found the gumption for this comment: “That was … Oh shit … That was so wrong in so many different ways.”

Jehovah Witnesses generally made it a practice to bless each copy of their magazine; thus
The Watchtower
was transformed into a type of low rent holy object. It held the same destructive powers against a vampire as did a crucifix or holy water. The pain those pages visited upon Li’l Bocephus’s wretched carcass was literally biblical in proportion. The hellish energies that animated Uschi and gave her her winning personality operated on a different frequency than those that kept Li’l Bocephus and others of his like functioning, making her immune to the burning touch of mundane holy instruments.

She dragged her torture device down the length of his back. It cut him open as if a surgical laser were being used in the procedure, burning away his western shirt and scorching a four-inch deep furrow into his meat. Boiling and bubbling parts of him ran off of his body in sloppy rivulets, and what parts of his spinal column that
The Watchtower
came in contact with were reduced to shriveled and steaming clumps of charcoal ash.

More screaming. Li’l Bocephus sounded positively girlish with how high-pitched his yelling could reach. He was freely weeping from his one eye by now.

“Please stop doing that,” he begged.

She parked her ass down on the side of the tub, posing herself like a ’40s cheesecake pinup model. She stroked Li’l Bocephus’s hair and this seemed to calm him some. The shaking decreased and the pipes rattling quieted. Then she was reaching inside his vertebra damage and clacking the tips of her fingernails against the parts of bone that had avoided being scorched. Uschi asked with a hellcat purr in her voice, “Where is your nest? Where are the rest of the
Salem’s Lot
rejects spending the daylight hours? And don’t bother trying to tell me any stories. I know things such as you like to keep together like a pack whenever manageable. There are more of you out there. I want to know where we can find them. Tell me. Tell me real quick.”

Not waiting for any answers, she held the roll of magazines against his forehead and cooked away his sinus area. The smell of burning Li’l Bocephus reminded Denny of bacon cut from a diseased hog staying too long on a hot skillet. His brow in under a minute was reduced to a smoldering and blackened crust ringed crater.

“Mapache,” whimpered Li’l Bocephus, ruined brow trickling in watery streams down his impaled on a faucet face and dripping off the chin like hot melted wax. “We’ve been spending the last few months camping out in the Mapache Thicket. We’re just off of Nyman Road, in spitting distance of this old abandoned goat ranch. We’re pretty out in the open, not trying to hide ourselves from anyone.”

“I know about Mapache,” said Denny. “It’s just a couple of miles away from here, toward the east. It’s this undeveloped patch of wilderness that goes avoided by a good deal of people. There’s been gossip about it for as long as I can recall. They say it’s haunted and where the unnatural tends to thrive. Story goes lots of folks have wandered in there and never been heard from again.”

“How many are left of you?” asked Uschi.

“Not counting myself, only four. But they are the four strongest of us. Especially the sisters.” Thinking of the sisters suddenly had Li’l Bocephus rediscovering his smile; it came loaded with a dash of that old time mean-cockiness disposition he had believed lost to him. Nothing positive could come from a shitheel such as this finding his good humor again. “Oooo, titty bitch and retardo, y’all aren’t going want to tangle with them two sisters we got. They can do violence like no one else I ever seen.”

Uschi grinned. “They sound like my kind of girls.”

“You’re chickenshit compared to them.”

“That a fact?”

“Fact.”

The storm was starting to peter out, the thunder and lightning on the wane and the rainfall down to a polite shower. Give it another half an hour or maybe less and it should all be over for the night.

“Well, fangface, let me take a moment here and demonstrate to you just how chickenshit a zombie hellspawn such as my little ol’ big-busted self can be. I would like to dedicate this next act of obscene cruelty to all the lovers out there in the world. Especially the handsome one standing next to me with the superhero tallywhacker that delights me so.”

Denny made with a bashful one side of his mouth smile. “Aw, that’s sweet of you to say, sugar cube.”

Over time the exposure to Li’l Bocephus’s unholiness had contaminated his clothing with the same evil that possessed his body. Uschi positioned her torture device in the general vicinity of Li’l Bocephus’s ass. The seat of his britches was eaten away to smoke and inconsequential cinders after only the briefest contact with the collection of magazines. The Hanes underwear beneath went the same way, the heat produced sufficient enough to melt the elastic in the waistband of the briefs and fuse it with his blistering hide. Buttocks were fully revealed.

“Time we said good-bye to that virgin ass.”

Li’l Bocephus was hip to the situation. The homosexual attack threats from earlier were becoming reality. “Don’t!” His behind was in mortal jeopardy. His being a man was on the verge of being erased. Not this. Not anything like this. Please. Why doesn’t she just eat him like a good zombie should do?

“Don’t worry too much,” she said, and joined him in the tub, climbing in behind him. “You won’t feel a thing but for extraordinary agony.”

Uschi reached between her legs and moved the crotch of her panties over to one side. The plunger half of the torture implement she inserted inside her vagina. Pretty much a whole half of the handle’s length was swallowed. A bubbly, loud queef she cut as it slid in. She locked down on it, tight as a steel trap. Nothing was going to budge from there until she wished it.

“Don’t. Don’t! DON’T!”

Li’l Bocephus’s cheeks were clenched together and his sphincter puckered up tighter than the vacuum seal on a Tupperware bowl. It did him no help. Uschi pushed with her hips and drove forward, and the Jehovah’s Witness dildo bore right through, burning its way into his asshole.

The potency of her pelvic thrust was pure superhuman. The penetration was deep and the cornholing had commenced. She went at it hard and fast. Push, push, push, push, push, push. Uschi was going at this business like she was apeshit to set some new world’s record.

“Looky here,” she was telling Li’l Bocephus. She never deviated from her stride, riding the country boy bloodsucker like she was barrel racing at the rodeo. “Looky here at this. I got you. I got you so good. You’re ass is mine to do with as I see fit.”

Denny could only stand there and stare. Wolfman’s got nards; this was anal mistreatment for the history books.

The holy dildo mercilessly obliterated whatever it came in contact with up inside Li’l Bocephus. Its influence was a fast moving poison spreading through his whole system. The butt cheeks deteriorated to loose and mud-like goo that each time Uschi’s groin slapped into, it splattered a putrid mess along the sides of the bathtub. His back turned boiled lobster red and developed swollen pustules that then popped and spewed scalding hot Li’l Bocephus pus magma. Entrails and organs were reduced to sewage slush that gushed from his ruptured open stomach and all spilled to the tub’s bottom and swirled down the drain. The muscles in Li’l Bocephus’s face fell into ruin, collapsed and withered terribly. His when cousins marry good looks became as handsome as an old timer’s shriveled and wrinkled scrotum.

One final thrust, then Uschi dismounted from him and with good humor and dignity exited the tub. She stood on the bathmat, dripping from her crotch gross vampire slop. The roll of magazines on the end of the stick sticking out of her snatch had caught fire sometime while in Li’l Bocephus. A little flickering orange fireball, bright and black smoke making, sparked into being from the holy on unholy contact.

“Oh,” she said when noticing it and uncorked herself and dropped her torture tool in the toilet. The bowl’s water extinguished the flame with a quick sizzle.

Li’l Bocephus’s one eye was now a blood gorged scarlet orb that had grown too big to rest comfortably in his head. It ballooned from the socket, as big as and steaming hot like a baked potato fresh from the oven. His violated and close to three-quarters dissolved person hung from the tub’s faucet, loose as wet laundry on the line.

“You done homsexualized me,” he pitifully moaned in his good ol’ country boy drawl. “I did not enjoy any part of that unsavory business not one tiny bit. I hate y’all fucking people so goddamn much. I swear … I honestly do.”

He and his dismal condition were soundly ignored.

“We’re going hunting, ain’t we?” said Denny. “You want to take me vampire killing. Gadzooks, you intend to Van Helsing me. This is your master plan? What you think is going to macho me out more than John Milius on a gun range?”

Uschi hungered for comfort food. She helped herself to the bicep muscle in one of Li’l Bocephus’s arms, tearing it off the bone. She bit into it as if she were enjoying a ripe peach and spoke to Denny as the colorful gore circled her lips and hung in stringy, glistening yarns from her chin. “When you put it like that it may not sound like the most mastery of master plans, but, yeah, in a nutshell, best thing, that’s what we gonna do starting bright and early tomorrow morning. So be sure before we turn in tonight to set the alarm for seven o’clock.”

He wasn’t going to argue with his darling returned from the dead lady. Denny only stated the obvious to her. “You’re going to get me killed.”