Edward Lee - Grimoire Diabolique

Vinchetti turned up the sound. “Stick me!” a woman’s hot voice implored. “Stick me right in the ass! All the way in! Hard! ”

The penis on-screen obliged.

“Thing is,” Vinchetti went on. “See that cock? It ain’t my cock, I can tell ya that. But the ass that it’s goin’ in and out of happens to belong to my wife.”

Tony’s face was already going pale as cream. Before he could reach into his jacket for his gun, Vinchetti had already drawn down on him with his own pistol. The room seemed to freeze, its only movement coming from the TV screen where the sodomy continued. Eventually the camera lens opened, enlarging the scene well enough to show Vinchetti’s pert strawberry-blond wife bent over a vanity. The man sodomizing her was Tony.

“Boss,” Tony grated, “you don’t understand…”

“I understand that you’ve been butt-fuckin’ my wife in my bedroom. What else I need to understand? See, I had Lunky put a camera in there after he put the one in the cash room that fingered Hymie.”

Beads of sweat trickled on Tony’s forehead. “She came onto me, boss—I swear. Said if I didn’t do it, she’d tell you lies about me. I swear on my mother’s grave, boss!”

Vinchetti upped the volume some more, and now his wife—between proddings—snickered, “Thank God you had the balls to put the make on me, Tony. Ain’t no one else in this joint’s got the balls to.”

Tony paled further as Vinchetti kept the pistol aimed at his head.

“A woman’s got needs, ya know?” her voice continued. “A woman needs a cock up her ass sometimes, not that little thing my husband’s got. Christ, it feels like one of those little Vienna sausages.”

Oh, dear, Dr. Prouty thought.

Vinchetti turned off the video.

“Come on, boss,” Tony pleaded, having already urinated in his farcical white slacks. “It was just one of those things, ya know? I didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“Sure, Tony, sure. And I don’t mean nothin’ by this…” He gave a curt nod to Dr. Prouty who immediately stepped up behind Tony and snapped him in the side of the neck with a Bush automatic injector full of tranquilizers.

Tony staggered a moment, then was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Vinchetti’s wife had been previously “prepared.” Naked, of course, she sat strapped to an examination chair, her pretty head belted back against the adjustable head rest. Terror sheened her impeccable white skin and jutted her breasts out like ripe peaches above the chest strap. Tony, too, had been strapped to a chair, though far less intricately.

“You’re a genius, Doc, a friggin’ genius!” Vinchetti complimented, rubbing his hands together.

Dr. Prouty rolled his eyes.

Neither victim could make much in the way of vocal protest, just grunts from Tony and raving whimpers from Vinchetti’s wife. No, their mouths had not been stapled together like Hymie and Darcy—Vinchetti like variation. Instead…

Pretty proficient work, if I may say so myself, the doctor thought.

He’d run a half-inch-wide esophageal catheter down the throat of Vinchetti’s wife, after which he’d instigated what you might call a stomach pump in reverse. He’d also, quite skillfully, performed a modified ileostomy on her upper-left abdominal quadrant. In medical terms, the procedure (unlike the more familiar colostomy), circumvented the mid-small-intestinal process (known as the jejunum) through a surgically constructed stoma (or aperture) after which the small intestine was severed at this proximal point and stitched to the inside of the stoma. Dr. Prouty’s modification, however, bypassed this final step, and merely extricated the severed intestinal length.

In less-than-medical terms, he’d cut a slit in Mrs. Vinchetti’s belly, reeled out some gut, and snipped it.

He’d left the lower end of the intestine to dangle. The higher end he’d stapled to Tony’s lips via the McCrath Model SS40-C.

“Looks like a hose runnin’ from her stomach to Tony’s yap,” Vinchetti observed.

“Yes, a… hose,” Dr. Prouty offered, “from which chyme, mucosa, and partially digested intestinal material will empty.”

Another familiar Vinchetti chuckle. “The low-down prick likes stickin’ his dick into my wife’s shit, let’s see how he likes eatin’ it, huh?”

“Precisely.”

“It’s almost like you hooked her ass up to his mouth!”

“In a manner of speaking, that’s correct, sir. However, I thought you would enjoy a variation of that description. What I’m referring too, of course, is my decision to transect the jejunum rather than, say, the sigmoid colon.”

“Huh?” Vicnhetti expressed his incomprehension.

“It’s the large intestine that wilts the majority of moisture from the feces, sir. But severing the digestive tract at the jejunum will detour that effect.”

Vinchetti’s brow creased. “She’s gonna shit in his mouth, right, Doc?”

“Yes, but with intestinal matter that hasn’t been fully subjected to the complete digestive process. What voids into Tony’s mouth will be essentially diarrhea.”

Vinchetti cracked his hands yet again. “The Hershey Squirts! Neat-o!”

“Yes, sir,” the doctor continued to elaborate, “and given my previous preparation of goat cheese, raw garlic, baked beans, and canned dog food, it should make for an interesting mix.” (After the ileostomy, Dr. Prouty has emptied this mish-mash of ingredients into Mrs. Vinchetti’s stomach through the esophageal tube by means of a surgical aspirator pump.)

Tony’s mute face began to redden, as Mrs. Vinchetti’s bowels began to move.

“He’ll have to eat it,” Prouty said, “or he’ll drown.”

The gray-pink length of intestine began to squirm. Muffled gargling could be heard, and Tony’s cheeks billowed hugely at each blast of diarrhea..

“Gorgeous, Doc. You’re a true star.” Vinchetti patted Prouty on the back and led him out of the room.

Dr. Prouty tried to rein his enthusiasm, to control himself. “So, um, we’re done now, sir?”

“With them two? Sure. We’ll let Tony chug on that for a while before I have the boys feed ’em both to the pits.”

Warm joy surged through Prouty’s veins. “So then… I can go now?”

“Sure, Doc, you can go just like I promised—”

Prouty nearly squealed in delight.

“—after pigs can fly and fuckin’ Santa Claus come down the chimney to hold my dick for me when I piss,” Vinchetti finished. “When bears wear funny hats and the pope shits in the woods.”

Prouty’s heart seemed to drop to the floor. He stood and stared. “But… sir. You said—”

“Yeah, I know, I said you could leave if you fucked Hymie in the ass and got your nut before Tony.” Another slap on the back. “But there’s one thing you gotta learn, paisan. My word ain’t worth a tick on a dead dog’s balls. Never trust a goombah slime-bag mafia fuck like me, Doc.” Vinchetti walked on, belting laughter, but then he turned and winked. “Me, you, and that fancy stapler of yours? We’re gonna have ourselves a lot of fun in the years to come. Later, Doc! Have a great day!”

Dr. Prouty watched his boss disappear down the hallway.

Oh, well. It could be worse. There was always the hook.

Casparza was repulsive—a human blob. He couldn’t pack the food into his fat face fast enough. Look at him , Hull thought, disgusted. Just another greasy spic blimp .

But the girl—she was beautiful, and all class. She’d said her name was Janice. Too old to be squeeze , Hull decided. Mid- or late-twenties . He’d heard all the stories; the fat man was a kiddie-diddler—anything over 15 was over the hill. So how did Janice figure into it? She looked like a typical American businesswoman. Come to think of it, Hull had seen lots of Americans milling about the plush villa. What were so many Americans doing here ? This was Peru.