Uschi! (2 page)

Then he heard it. Over the sounds of the upset weather outside and the singing of the rage-fueled blood pumping through his skull and echoing in his ears he heard it quite clearly. Coming from behind him, somewhere in the close vicinity of his microwave oven.

It was laughter, deep and all masculine. Someone was laughing their ass off at Denny.

His fists fell to his sides and he grew calmer as a rush of relief began to set in. He recognized the voice. Oh thank goodness, he knew that voice well. Denny turned around and looked right to the microwave, knowing full well where the laughter originated.

The exploded and splendidly deceased toad in there was having a good laugh at Denny Gleeth’s expense.

Satan was in the building and, finally, making his presence known.

“Shit in my mouth and tell me it is warm banana pudding, boy, you just ain’t right. Seriously, I mean it, all kinds of crazy fucked up in the head. Beating on your poor pitiful self like that. A punishment crazy motherfucker, that is you.”

The toad remained on the microwave’s rotating dish, inanimate but for the mouth, which spoke its words only by simply flopping open and closed like something from a cheap pull string operated ventriloquist puppet ordered out of the back of a comic book. The horror movies had it all wrong, the voice the devil spoke with was not unlike the one you’d hear from a typical hardcore working class man trying to make ends meet and keeping his wife and kids clothed, sheltered and fed. Nothing spectacular or memorable. Just some damn dude’s ordinary speaking voice, with a Texas good ol’ boy drawl about it as thick as the gravy spread over a chicken fried steak dinner. This never failed not to strike Denny as a disappointment. To his way of thinking, the devil should talk like a large and angered beast, all feral growls and reptilian hisses echoing out as if originating from the bottom of a deep, dark pit no living thing had any business making a home for itself in, not a trace of humanity detectable in the vocal stylings. Certainly would’ve been more impressive that way, and would’ve made Denny feel he was doing something more unholy and obscene in the eyes of God and decent thinking people. Instead, he was left at times believing he was ordering aluminum siding over the phone from just another Joe Blow. Why couldn’t the things that occur in his life ever live up to the expectations that he had created for them in his imagination?

“Denny, my little earthworm, you are funnier than almost anything playing on the TV these days. I swear it is so. A one-man slapstick comedy routine. Quality work. Why, I’d put you right up there next to Abbott and Costello, Mel Brooks or the Three Stooges. No bullshit, you are that good. Only thing missing in your act—the absent ingredient keeping it just a cunt’s hair shy of attaining memorable brilliance—is testicle mistreatment. A good shot to the crotch is always comedy gold. Do me a favor, boy, and think about adding that to your routine the next time you happen to loose it and find yourself gone apeshit. Maybe you could scorch your scrotum with a waffle iron. Hey now, there’s something to keep in mind, am I right? I don’t think I’ve ever seen that before.

“You’re Shemp funny, that’s what you are. Shemp was always my favorite Stooge, and I don’t give two shits and a chili dog fart who knows it. I’m not ashamed of my admiration for his comedic talent. The man is grossly underrated, that’s a fact. Those Curly aficionados can kiss my ass and enjoy the tangy after taste. You know, one of them is down here with me. A Stooge. I shit you not. There is a Stooge damned for eternity to hell. Yessir, there sure is. It’s Larry Fine, the fucked up haired one that was typically in the middle and was on the receiving end of the majority of Moe’s nasty eye pokes. True story—he burns in hell. You’d be surprised about the real Larry; despite his loveably goofy looks, he was quite the unsavory rascal. Back in the early fifties, he killed a whore with his bare hands because she stupidly made the big league mistake of snickering over the smallness of his pee-pee when he exposed it to her. Larry was a sensitive soul and self-conscious toward the caliber of his manhood. He promptly beat on her until she stopped living and dumped her remains in a ditch. He as well enjoyed harming his wife ... liked to use her face as an ashtray for his cigars. Plus that absolutely huge collection of child porn he kept hidden away from the Howard brothers and the rest of the world didn’t exactly endear his ass none to any of the heaven folk. One day, Denny, you will join Larry and me here in hell. Don’t the thought of that excite you? It does me. We’ll have us some good times, you’ll see. The devil, the Stooge in the middle, and you, the boy who loves zombies.”

More of Satan’s laughter via the dead toad’s flopping mouth. Like listening to the cackling of a white, middle-aged man who pulls in around less than thirty-five grand a year getting jolly at hearing an off color ethnic joke shared with his fellow aluminum siding salesmen over a beer and catfish platter lunch at a Red Lobster.

Denny sure hoped he was doing the right thing. Awful steep sacrifice to make all for essentially a quality fuck whenever he might like it.

“Anyway, earthworm, appreciate your little performance there. Put me in such a favorable mood.”

That explained the devil’s tardiness. Denny hadn’t done anything wrong. His black mass and invoking of blasphemous powers were solid. Satan was here all along, patiently waiting for the tension to get the better of Denny, knowing full well it wouldn’t take too long to send a high-strung butthole such as himself past his limit and set him off. The whole delay was just to get a comedy routine out of him.

Well, ain’t that a none too delightful pisser?

The running blood from Denny’s nose had reached his lips and gotten into his mouth, putting a salty copper taste on his tongue. Bruises from his beating on himself were starting to become noticeable on his face, ugly and angry looking red and purple tender splotches rising. He found the courage to speak. “Okay. You’ve had your laugh, sir. Glad you enjoyed yourself. Can we please get on with this now?” This all came out of Denny sounding so like a mewling whine. He knew that it did, but it couldn’t be helped. Fears, pain and escalating excitement all conspired to see to it that this was the only tone of voice he could manage. This has got to work. “Please, sir, make my dream woman live?”

“Ah, eager to let your funky lovemaking get going, eh? I can understand. I too am something of a willing slave to my own carnal urges. Panic not, Denny. Female companionship at last is at hand.”

If he wanted one, Denny could get a real woman. He truly could. Granted, he wasn’t anything close to being a good-looking man—physique underdeveloped and puny, eyes a bit too big and buggy and Steve Buscemi quality for his face, blessed with the personal hygiene habits of a pigeon, and a share of noticeably hillbilly crooked teeth here and there in his smile—but he certainly weren’t no circus freak, either. The man had had his portion of experiences with the ladies. Okay, face facts, maybe ladies, yes, was a stretch of the imagination. Can you really call a gal with shitbird ugly butterflies prison quality tattooed on her saggy titties and letting her flabby ass hang out of the back of her thong on a night when the temperature was below freezing and will happily go down on your dick for thirty bucks while you sit behind the wheel of your El Camino that’s pulled over to the curb a lady? No, truth be told, you couldn’t do that. They were nothing more than whores. Serviceable, moderately priced street walkers. But that’s cool. They did for Denny what he needed to get done—a quick, convenient orgasm and the release of some useless fluids. No love. No caring. No complaints.

They weren’t what he really desired, them hookers. None of them were even remotely close to his idea of his ultimate fantasy woman. The woman he could love and share his world with. No average woman could ever hope to fill that bill.

What Denny Gleeth wanted was a smoking hot super vixen living dead girl.

Now, this was not any of that ordinary necrophilia business. Denny didn’t want to just play hide the salami with any ol’ simple dead body. That turd won’t float. If that was the case, then all he had to do to quench his unnatural urges was to get a job at a funeral home, or perhaps become a happy-go-lucky serial killer. This was a terribly particular fetish Denny had here. Denny’s girlfriend had to be returned from the grave, a corpse once lifeless and decomposing nicely and now up and at it again. Preferably her flesh clammy to the touch and with a hint of rigor mortis firmness to her sexy little toe-tag needing self whenever Denny would embrace her in his arms. Her personal odor death camp in summer time fetid, a facsimile of pulse and respiration entirely optional and horny just for this one sex cowboy who was to share this trailer home with her.

What the boy wanted to be was a zombie fucker. That was about as blunt you could manage it. Only that would satisfy him.

Lucio Fulci movies, the brilliance of Frank Henenlotter’s
Frankenhooker
, and the make you jackoff right then and there into your popcorn while sitting in the third row at the movie house drop dead gorgeous Kathleen Kinmont in the inferior than the original but still hot damn stimulating
Bride of Re-animator
were some of his favorite pornography.
Hustler
ain’t got shit on
Evil Dead
.

Sometimes he’d pay extra for a whore to wear a Don Post original zombie Halloween rubber mask as she would work on him below the waistline. Seriously, he did that—the mask’s mouth hole he’d fixed with scissors to make it more accommodating for the professional to get her lips around his tallywhacker. But that shit always came off as shabby sloppy seconds. Our fearless hero needed to get his hands on and dick inside the real deal.

Hence the bargain with Old Scratch. Seemed like this was his last chance if ever he wanted to achieve true love and perfect pussy. Where science had failed (never try to jump start a would-be squeeze freshly liberated from her final resting place with jumper cables and a brand new car battery. You’re just begging for fire damage to your home and a trip to the ER for treatment for second-degree burns if you do) and heathen juju sorcery proved a heartbreaker (he was still trying to get all those goddamn chicken feathers from his last bungled voodoo ritual out of the carpeting) perhaps good ol’ fashioned Western Hemisphere Satanic witchcraft just may yet triumph.

The dead suited Denny. They made this awful world bearable. The roadkill he collected and played with in so many unique ways as an introverted, friendless young boy were his best companions throughout childhood. Dead things didn’t behave in a manner like his Momma and Daddy. They went through life perpetually disappointed and embarrassed over the way their only son had turned out. Ugly, stupid, non-athletic and able to quote verbatim every line of dubbed dialogue from
Godzilla vs. the Smog Monster
was not the caliber of man Tabor and Dottie Gleeth intended on raising. The two of them gave up on their baby boy long ago. They hadn’t talked to him in years. A cadaver didn’t bully and intimidate Denny as most men could do. Rotting remains weren’t nothing like living girls. Girls with heartbeats were always eager to openly giggle behind their hands at the sight of poor Denny doing no more than passing them on the street or in the mall. Women would stare at him with heated eyes blazing with this toxic cocktail of disgust and contempt for him, act toward him like he was nothing less than a foul bit of filth dug out from under a toenail. Denny’d rather take a brick slapped upside his jaw than endure one of those
Ugh, how gross!
looks from a woman. The dead treated Denny Gleeth with the greatest respect, forever accommodating, couldn’t give a damn if he wasn’t good enough to be amongst regular people, happy to bring pleasure into his small life.

This was a good thing he was doing. Everything from here on out was sure to change for the better. After tonight, with the love of a good zombie woman behind him, there’d be nothing Denny couldn’t put his mind to and not accomplish. Never again would he be alone and unloved.

“I take it all is in ready?” asked Satan.

“That’s a big and greasy ten-four. I’ve built her up from scratch exactly to the specifics I want and a few others that you insisted on. Now it’s your turn to deliver.”

“Alrighty. Stand back, I’m ’bout to put this bitch in gear.”

The storm remained a terror. Thunder boomed and the lightning flashed and the rain hammered down as if God and his boy Jesus both stood on the edge of heaven and were pissing like a pair of racehorses down on creation with all the hard-hitting full bladder action they could give. And all the while a strange glow commenced to fill the trailer home’s kitchen space. This glow was all purple and pink and gold and other colors popping up here and there in it. Pulsing rhythmically as if in tune with a human heart, the many colors coalesced into a mist-like cloud, gained a liquid consistency like that of someone’s vomit, and promptly settled in the air above the buxom female body on the table. A few seconds of time passed, then, as supple as an eel entering its ocean floor lair, this hellish mist-cloud of ill colors lowered like a shroud over the figure and seeped into the dead flesh, oozing through the lifeless skin’s pores, vanishing inside it.

This is it. This is it.
A turtle no more, Denny’s hand was at his crotch and rubbing at the fast developing railroad spike hardness there behind the zipper of his blue jeans. He figured he had about a dependable six inches of dick to him. He surmised this because of this one time when he measured himself with the able assistance of
Dawn of the Dead
playing in the VCR and putting an at least seven-inch-tall McFarlane Snake Plisken action figure up next to compare to what he had to offer and estimated that size amount.

Please let this go right. Please let this be perfect. Please let me be happy. Please, please, please.

The homemade zombie girlfriend’s ultra-bosom suddenly jumped up, those mountainous titties swelling like hastily inflating twin Goodyear blimps in a hurry to get in the sky and commence circling the Super Bowl. A startled Denny stumbled back a step as her first ever intake of breath was sucked in with a rousing gasp, and then the chest slowly lowered as she calmly exhaled. A few more easy breaths were accomplished. As she sat up, the atmosphere crackled with the brittle sounding snaps and pops of newly reanimated joints, ligaments and muscles functioning. A dark silhouette in the puny candlelight, she swung her legs over the side of the table, lowered her feet to the floor, and stiffly brought herself to a standing position.