Ryan Harding - Genital Grinder

Greg was practically drooling. “Right as rain, son!”

Angelique stared at them with a mixture of doubt and incredulity. “You want me to smoke with my box? For how much?”

“How much?” Von echoed. “Why, on the house, darling. In the interest of science.”

“F.O.C.?” No doubt in her face now, just incredulity. “That’s sick.”

“Why, are you a dyke or something?”

Greg looked confused all over again. “What’s . . . fawk?”

Angelique sighed. “You boys haven’t even paid the cover, have you? Look, this is a business, not a charity. You want something extra, use the ATM inside. Then talk to me. Assuming you aren’t cops.”

Von’s foot shot out and kicked the door, shattering the knob of bone above her heel. She crumpled, cigarette falling from her lips, crying out. It was doubtful anyone would hear her scream over Celtic Frost, but Von hurried, dragging her inside by her hair. Greg followed close behind, dropping a boot in her sternum. The vestiges of her last cigarette drag exploded as smoke from her mouth, followed instantly by a stream of vomit. The torrent was clogged with a murky, mucusy substance instantly recognizable as semen. Von pushed her head at the doorframe and slammed the door on it for good measure. She was definitely unconscious now. As far as the rest of the evening’s activities were concerned she was not imperative, but this did not stop Von from stashing her in the Nova’s trunk while Greg held the door. Old habits die hard.

Their destination in the Complex was fortuitously close, known as The Vacuum. It was actually two rooms, with holes in the dividing wall. The guys would not know who was behind the wall, but they’d slip forty bucks through for a blow job from whomever.

Greg gestured to an unassuming door, painted a sickly shade of green. “This is it.”

Von nodded. “That’s where the magic happens. Ready to meet the Wizard?”

Greg opened the door. They were tensed and ready to lay waste to anyone who might be within, but the room was empty. Angelique had been alone as calculated. There were bouncers at the club, but not as much of a call for them in a locked room. They guarded the door to get in here from inside the club, though, and it wouldn’t be wise to lollygag . . . The Vacuum existed for an entirely different form of gagging.

“Man, did you see how much ball sauce she puked?” Greg marveled.

“Enough to repopulate the Holocaust,” Von concurred. “I didn’t think they really swallowed, even for the extra fiver. I don’t about you, but I was relieved to find out there’s actually a girl back here and not some candy-ass.”

Von cracked his knuckles, pacing. He didn’t want to be here a minute longer than he had to, but this part wasn’t up to them, unfortunately.

They were not in a room so much as a storage closet. The distinguishing characteristic was of course the deadbolt-sized holes in the wall, in a descending arc—a convenience for the abnormally tall and short knob-job seekers. A sixty-watt bulb burned weakly overhead. A well-thumbed issue of Shocking Crimes had been left on a folding chair in front of the holes, presumably by Angelique. Von reached for it, catching a bold yellow headline which proclaimed ON THE TRAIL OF ATLANTA’S BUTT SEX KILLER! He’d heard about those goings-on, which imparted a profound moral to all aware of the murders—tay the hell out of Atlanta. A journalist named Thorndike McHatchet had the low-down on this sickening affair, as well as an amusing article entitled RAPIST CROSSED THE LINE TO MURDER, AND THEN WENT BACK TO RAPING AGAIN . . . WITH THE SAME VICTIM!

That’s when he heard the door open on the other side of the wall. He looked up at Greg, startled, although he’d been expecting it. “Give me the knife,” he whispered.

He glanced at the issue of Shocking Crime a little forlornly, and then stuffed the magazine into the front of his pants as a souvenir, his hands shaking.

The music within the club stopped long enough for them to both hear a fly unzip, and then two rolled up twenties were pushed through one of the holes. After a moment of indecision, the consumer slid another five dollars through. Greg pocketed the money.

Von held his hand out for the knife, waving his fingers. Greg put something in it; it was a Swiss army knife. Von’s eyes flew open like window blinds. He got close to Greg’s ear and whispered as loudly as he dared, “Are you out of your mind? We’re not lost in the woods on a camping trip, you retard!”

“It’s all I’ve got,” Greg shot back.

The customer cleared his throat impatiently. Von looked down, and sure enough, the guy had eased his meat through one of the holes.

He gave Greg another disgusted look, and flicked out the Swiss army blade. He noted the faint beginnings of rust along its edge as he tentatively reached for the man’s engorged member, like a timid schoolgirl picking up a dead frog for dissection in a biology lab. It jumped in his hand when he finally seized it, and the guy moaned.

Von’s skin crawled, but the sleaze element was what had allowed for this whole caper in the first place after an amusing anecdote shared by a friend of theirs who got blown away just a few weeks ago, minding his own business at a stop light on the street corner of 37th and Garren as he walked home from the Electra Complex. The whole thing had been his idea, but he obviously didn’t have any use for it now after a shotgun blast to the face courtesy of some whack job Greg claimed to know from Movie Heaven. The fact that he had only been kidding when he said it was no deterrent to Von and Greg, who practically had dollar signs in their eyes.

“Use your teeth,” the man behind the wall gasped. “Please. I’ll pay extra—”

The request came as no surprise, but it still made him feel queasy, like those magazines where fellas wanted a high heel crammed in their dickhole.

In a passable falsetto, Von asked him to lean into the wall. The customer obeyed. Von had the knife poised over the base of the shaft like a guillotine. The touch of blade on skin earned a groan that almost made Von physically ill. The tendons in his forearm tightened as he gripped tightly and began sawing with the army knife.

“Oh, baby . . . that’s so sweet it’s almost painf—” And then the guy dispensed with the “almost” diagnosis and began bleating like a slaughtered lamb. The rust made the cutting a grueling process, and Von had to keep the organ in an ironclad grip while his other hand burrowed through the shaft. He did an admirable job of working from the initial wound, like a lumberjack burying his axe in the same groove swing after swing. The blood was deep red, gushing from the stump-in-progress like a surrogate orgasm. The guy struggled as his screams became almost feminine shrieks, which however heart-felt and desperate could not exceed the volume of “Too Fast for Love” on the club speakers. His knees had given out, but the member in Von’s hand could only elongate as the customer pushed off from the wall, trying to squirm free. Once the rusted blade had slit and hacked through enough of the shaft, the frantic gyration provided the final ingredient to the castration. The last inch and a quarter came free in a moist surge of ripping meat and veins.

Von stumbled backward, dropping genitalia and implement alike. A renewed spray of crimson jetted through the suck-hole and then through two more of the descending holes as the newly minted eunuch pitched over to his right and hit the deck, a faint thud barely audible on the other side of the wall and undoubtedly lost to the nearest bouncer beyond the door.

“Come on!’ Greg seized the severed sex organ and bolted.

Von slipped in the haphazard puddles of blood, but his sudden paranoia that Greg was trying to make off with the penis gave him the proper coordination to stand erect. He grabbed the knife with a blood-soaked hand and tore off after Greg. He was quick enough to catch the side door before it slammed shut behind his companion, and he emerged into a stifling wall of humidity.