Uschi! (35 page)

Thongor’s screaming was over.

Uschi crammed one whole handful in her mouth. She chewed and swallowed. That was one tasty half of face. The other handful of face followed the first into her hungry mouth. The beard whiskers helped bring out the flesh’s natural flavor.

The naked skullface of Thongor Bronson was like the poster art for an early 1970s Amicus horror picture suddenly and quite successfully brought into reality. With the unruly and filthy barbarian hair swinging in front of it, the unveiled bone was pearly white, with very little blood smears marring its smooth complexion, and shiny wet under the Kaki Hunter Sports Auditorium’s lights. His fear and agony dilated eyes were still intact within the sockets, now lidless and as big around as ripe oranges. Absent any lips, it was now unattractively obvious that the wrestler suffered from gum disease problems and they were receding from his smoker’s stained teeth. The nasal cavity drained clear, watery mucus. The tip of his moist tongue poked out past the teeth and did a bit of wiggling, but only for a brief moment.

Thongor fell dead at Uschi’s feet. Not a single spasm or squirm left in the remains, instantly at rest and unmoving. One, two, three—ring the bell. The modern day barbarian was off to that big wrestling federation in the sky.

Auditorium security, fat, middle-aged weekend wannabe cops armed with only rubber nightsticks and watered down pepper spray, finally arrived at ringside and were about to storm the ring, but when they witnessed the gruesome face eating, they stopped and seriously hesitated about going any further. Might be this was a something they shouldn’t tangle with.

The crowd was apeshit with panic. The may be professional wrestling aficionados, but they still knew enough to know when something real was really real. And, brother, this was real. That guy in the center of the ring was just barehanded murdered. A collective decision all at once passed through everyone’s head: This was the time when the getting was good to get the fuck on out of this place and not look back. A mad stampede broke out for all available exits.

Uschi rushed to Denny’s side and knelt beside him. The worry was easy to read in her expression. “And how’s my best thing doing?”

He was going to have a whale of a bruise there on his face. The cut under his eye continued to leak; it would require doctoring. It had to be hurting him something terrible. Her poor best thing.

Despite all that horseshit, Denny gave his graveyard ghoul girl a little fondle along her right boob, cupping what he could fit in the palm of his hand. He let his thumb pleasingly rub over the T-shirt and make her nipple beneath stand at attention. “Ain’t no need to be all concerned, sugar cube,” he good-naturedly informed over the chaos of the fleeing audience. “I happily assure you I am still moving and grooving and boogalooing with the best of them.”

Uschi looked to the hooter in question that was receiving the heavy petting, and then back at the beautiful man who was doing it to her. In answer to his feeling her up, one of her copiously blood-dripping hands ventured to his crotch, unzipped him, and exuberantly reached inside. He jolted and sucked in his wind and managed quite well to never falter in continuing to give her tit attention as she indulged in a hardy handful of hard-on.

Uschi told him, “I love you.”

Denny smiled with only one side of his mouth and did his best Han Solo at the end of
Empire
response, “I know.”

PART 2

L
ater, at Corpus Christi’s only Half Price Books, the two lovebirds huddled close together amongst the shelves in the MEDICAL section and were hot and bothered lost in an old autopsy manual that provided a wealth of graphic photographs. The book’s contents were lust at first sight for the both of them. Who would have ever imagined the illustrated step-by-step guide for the proper procedural for spleen removal could be so romantic?

“Are you what we think you are?” The question was asked with one part wonder, another part fanboy getting to meet a celebrity hyperactivity, and a dash of disbelieving skepticism.

Uschi looked up from the manual. “I don’t know,” she said. “Depends on who y’all might be taking the time and effort to think I am.”

The ones asking were a pair of gawky teenage boys wearing tawdry horror movie T-shirts and ugly punk rock haircuts. Plenty of pimples and overweight and the two of them were probably the only friend each other had. There were difficulties maintaining eye contact with her, what with them braless Gojira-proportioned knockers under her T-shirt an out of control grass fire in your very own front yard major distraction. But one boy found enough willpower to look her in the face and asked, “Aw, you know, one of them? Like from the movies?”

Denny was using the distraction to work on his ducktail. Comb out of his pocket and molding and striving for perfect hair. His black and blue face bruise was major and Neosporin and butterfly sutures were applied to his cut. There was going to be a scar. That was fine and dandy. Uschi said she thought scars were sexy.

The other boy joined in on the conversation. “You know, one of them? ‘
They’re coming to get you, Barbara.
’ You know what we mean, yeah? ‘
When there is no more room in hell the dead will walk the earth.’
That kind of folk?
‘Brrrrrrrrraaaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiins … More brrrraaaaiiiins.’
Is that what you’re up to?”

She raised a hand and put a not that innocent coquettish look upon her beyond the body bag face. “Guilty as charged.”

“Cool,” said one boy.

“Righteous,” spoke the other.

“That’s right, gentlemen,” said Denny. He finished for the time being with his hair and wrapped an arm around his walking dead honey. Uschi leaned in close and snuggled against him. With his other hand he hiked up her skirt the short distance required to leave her beaver open for a peek. “Say your Satanic prayers, eat your vitamins, and do good in school, and maybe one day you too can achieve quality pussy such as this for yourself.”

For both boys this was the first time they ever saw a real female pussy. This up close they could smell the rancid juices and count the cracks in the desiccated rock hard clit.

No way could the two young geeks not avoid making cock snot in their pants after noticing lady business as blissful as that. So fucking awesome. This was the kind of behavior you’d expect to see on the red carpet by a porn star nominee attending the Adult Video Awards, not a used bookstore customer. Best. Book. Shopping. Trip. Ever.

“Could we maybe get your autograph?” Perspiring and his face flush in the afterglow of cuming in his underwear; his arms went out, reaching toward Uschi with a ballpoint pen and a paperback copy of
Resurrection Dreams
by Richard Laymon. Uschi would have also accepted
The Book of the Dead
edited by John Skipp and Craig Spector or anything by Brian Keene.

“Ah, the demands of being famous,” she joked and took the pen and book in her hands. She asked for the boys names and scribbled this on the dedication page:

To Bismark and Faust,

Fuck something dead any chance you can get.

Breast wishes,

Uschi

They thanked her and soon moved on, thrilled more than they had ever yet been in their lives.

“Well,” commented Denny, “it’s good to know the youth of America has got its shit straight.”

PART 3

H
ere it was. At long last.

The ocean.

Denny was actually for the first time ever here and laying eyeballs on it. Experiencing it. He had made it. Another life-long dream of his come true, motherfuckers.

The tide came in and loudly crashed against the beach of Corpus Christi Bay. The calendar said fall was fast approaching, but the weather said different. Summer was continuing to go strong in these whereabouts. The night air on the Gulf of Mexico coastline was hot and humid and quite still, made a body easily turn to sweating and feeling sticky. In the moonlight, the frothy whitecap crests on the incoming waves appeared to be the same chrome coloring as great pools of mercury.

Denny stood on the edge of the water. He wore baggy swim trunks; ace bandages were wound Aztec mummy snug around his ribs and there was an amazed expression over his features.
Time to go for it.
Tentatively, he ventured toward the water. The first wave to come at him scared him. He yelped and retreated from it, feet backpedaling.

You can do this. I know it.

Again he approached the water, determined this time to surrender no ground. He met the next wave. It splashed against his calves and submerged his feet. The wet sand tickled as it passed between his toes. It weren’t that bad. Kinda nice, in fact. It didn’t feel like any pool or bath water he’d ever come across. It was surprisingly cool and seemed to feel thicker than what he was accustomed to.

He dared to go further. Arms elevated, he waded in until it was around his waist. A new wave struck, hitting him in the chest, spraying his face in sea foam and leaving droplets falling off the end of his nose. He laughed a little bit and lowered his inky arms into the water. He was out far enough now he could push off with his feet and float and bob on the surface before slowly sinking back down to the sandy bottom.

I’m doing it. I’m in the ocean. Fucked by a Democrat while a Republican videotapes it, I’m one frolicking in the Atlantic crazy asshole.

Denny stayed out for a while. Playing and laughing and enjoying himself. There was nothing Esther Williams graceful to report here; he got about in the waves as lithe as a mischievous monkey in pancake batter, a lot of flopping and splashing and churning up a turbulent spray in his wake wherever he went. But who cared how pretty he looked? It was fun. He was having an adventure he would always cherish.

Finally, tired and feeling his skin starting to prune, he returned to dry land. Uschi was waiting for him at the picnic area they had set up for themselves. It was after midnight, not another soul in sight, and the beach seemed reserved exclusively for the two of them.

Uschi was sitting on a large beach towel with paper plates and drinks spread out before her. She dressed in a taking care of business wickedly provocative red sequined tiny slingshot bikini that hardly bothered to cover her top and with a holy shit thin butt floss thong that went deep between the ass cheeks and rode up camel toe perfection snug against her magnificent pussy. The new fridge magnet stuck to the tuna can was a watermelon slice.

As Denny sat panting and dripping wet across from her on the towel, she struggled to find just the right way to spray a blast of Raid ant and roach killer on her armpits. “Putting deodorant on with big tits,” she said, “is like working for a moving company.” Eventually, she figured it out and saw the good zombie hygiene task through. Her attention she subsequently put on him.

“Well, best thing, how was it? Was it as Malcolm McDowell in
A Clockwork Orange
as you hoped it would be?”

And Denny gave her a beaming smile. His hair was a tragedy. It was now sopping wet and the salt water had made simple work of washing any trace of the Hep Cat pomade out, had lost all psychobilly ducktail shape and definition. Catch his second wind, and then he’d get a comb and set to work on repairs. “Ah, sugar cube, it was all that and more from beginning to end.”

“That’s what I was hoping to hear. Can we talk, best thing?”

“Well, sure. What do you want to talk about?”

“Are you okay with the way things have turned out? You’re homemade zombie girlfriend having plenty of attitude and taking you away from the Big Kahuna Trailer Park Oasis and setting you off in all these wild hair up the ass escapades? Do you ever regret me coming into your quiet, alone nerd boy life? Do I make you happy?”

“Happy? Honey, when I’m with you this fucked up fanboy thinks he’s gone and done better than winning the state lottery, had a blow job by Raquel Welch in her
One Million Years BC
prime, and got the privilege to shake hands with Vincent Price all in one grand day joyful. That’s how good you and what you have done to my way of life make me feel.”

She reached across the picnic spread and with her hand lovingly stroked the side of his face and his magnificently old school Klingon beard. “That’s what I wanted to hear. And it’s what I want you to keep thinking about as you go over this.”

Uschi opened her mouth wide and with her thumb and index finger reached in under her tongue and removed an object from there. She quietly handed it over to a confused Denny Gleeth.

It was bone dry, not a trace of the saliva in Uschi’s mouth attached to it. It was a simple piece of paper, like one of those Jack Chick Christian comic tracts. He unfolded it and read.

All it was was just a friendly reminder from Satan on how things were going to work out.

The artwork was in black and white and workmanlike mediocre in quality. The first panel showed a skinny guy with great big eyes and goofy teeth obviously designed to represent Denny standing in his trailer home kitchen space and facing the microwave oven. The word balloon attached to him had him saying, “I’VE SOLD YOU MY SOUL, LUCIFER. NOW MAKE MY ZOMBIE LIVE AND LOVE ME.” Second panel was a close up of the contents of the oven, an on its back dead frog, steaming hot intestines running out of its burst open abdomen, and replying, ‘YOU GOT IT, MY LITTLE EARTHWORM. ZOMBIE WOMAN LIVE!” The third panel displayed a caricature of Uschi rising off the kitchen table, her boobs tragically smaller than they were in real life and face an unattractive less cadaver and more Veronica from
Archie
comics. In the fourth panel she was on top of Denny and fucking his brains out, the box above them read AND THEY LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER … Fifth and final panel read in the top box UNTIL HE DIED AND WAS DAMNED TO SUFFER IN HELL FOR ALL OF ETERNITY, and below the illustration was a terrified Denny surrounded by fire and standing in the middle between a horns and pitchfork devil and a person who looked a suspiciously large amount like Larry Fine of The Three Stooges.

“Well isn’t this the badger that bit Victor Buono on his right fatty man titty,” said Denny.