Ryan Harding - Genital Grinder

He turned to relay the news to the dysfunctional duo.

“ Shiiiiiiiit,” he said, clenching the phone in his hand hard enough to dislodge the back cover and send it clattering to the concrete.

They were gone.

The instant Sammy’s back was turned, Greg and Von crept up the stairs at Von’s behest. They could find out later what came of the phone call, but this might be the only unescorted chance they got tonight at the attic. Once clear of the basement, Von stealthily eased the door shut and then they were through the kitchen and up the stairs like a shot, all but trampling one another on the last flight. Even now they could hear the faint, strange laughter which had tantalized them throughout the evening.

Sammy’s secret.

“If it’s Slut Necro Lambda’s twin sister, I got dibs on that backdoor,” Greg proclaimed.

“Hell with that,” Von said promptly, elbowing his cohort to all fours. He reached the top of the dim corridor first, although he was prevented from going in when Greg clamped his arms around his legs.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were hugging me,” Von said. “I’m tempted to drop-kick your ass down the stairs anyway. Have you lost your mind? We don’t have much time before Sammy realizes we’re gone.”

Greg reluctantly withdrew and hauled himself to his feet. Von tried the door.

“Locked,” he reported glumly. He stared the door down defiantly. “You son of a whore.”

“Cussin’ it ain’t gonna help,” Greg said.

“Eat a dick,” Von replied absently, then remembered. “Another one, I mean.”

Greg shoved him. “Why don’t you grab you another one through a glory hole?”

Von ignored him. “Question is, do we break it down? He may have a good reason to lock it up. This could turn into a huge problem that we don’t need tonight.”

“But what if he’s only locking it cause it’s his best work and he’s too selfish to share it with us?”

“That would be pretty low of him,” Von concurred, conveniently forgetting about how they never invited Sammy to take a ride on that body they found on the road awhile back or share in any of the spoils of Geisha Hammond, or how they’d had every intention of not only cheating Sammy out of millions of dollars but possibly killing him to have it all to themselves.

“And he could have dead guys stashed all over the house that we don’t know about. What if he stitched ‘em together to create some kind of superman to guard the door if we ever came back?”

“Let’s break it,” Von said immediately. Sammy obviously couldn’t surgically create some kind of superhuman sentinel like Greg was worried about (at least Von didn’t think he could), but he would do something to make it more difficult for anybody to get in now that he knew someone was determined to see inside. It was now or never. Anything too crazy would need a little more than just a door to keep it in place, wouldn’t it? This had to be something too good to share.

They both reared back and kicked above the door knob the way the cops did on TV, managing to do so mostly in synch for the next few attempts. The door finally splintered and swung inward on the fifth try.

Von entered the attic first, feeling for a light switch in the total darkness. There were no windows and no hint of light anywhere. They stumbled in blindly, fully expecting to run into or fall over something. Von flinched when something touched his face, but a moment later he identified it as the chain from an overhead bulb. He yanked it and recoiled when something in the corner of the attic simultaneously shrank back from the light.

“Who are they?” a woman’s voice said.

“Who’s she talking to?” Greg asked, alarmed, looking around.

“She talks to them,” the woman explained.

“ She is a few bullets shy of a clip,” Von noted.

She emerged from the darkened corner for a better look at them, squinting into the light like someone emerging from a mine shaft. She propelled herself with her arms, dragging her legs behind her like they were as useless as a mermaid’s fins on dry land.

“What happened to her legs?” Greg asked, as if Von had read her medical file.

“Looks like she was in a fire.”

Von was no doctor, however, so it was no surprise that he confused burn marks with tertiary syphilis. Perhaps there was a vague resemblance. There did appear to be several patches along her hips and thighs where a couple layers of flesh had been scorched away, and in some instances they looked to have decomposed to stages of adipocere. They resembled fatty deposits of custard which had crusted in mounds to her skin. Von suddenly found himself thinking of a cheese pizza he’d heated in an oven for way too long.

Her hair was stringy and wild, obviously unwashed for days; maybe months. She dragged a sizable belly along the floor with her, like a dachshund. Her sagging breasts had what Von liked to call Oscar Meyer nipples, so large he just wanted to lop them off with a cleaver and toss them between two slices of bread. Where there weren’t nipples, there were enough blue lines to chart the rivers in a map of Alaska.

“They aren’t supposed to be here,” she announced. “She’s not supposed to see them. She’s not for their eyes. She’s—”

“She’s about to get raped, son!” Greg supplied for her.

“Amen to that,” Von agreed. “I don’t care if she didn’t have better sense than to park her ass on a wood-stove . . . I’m gonna blast my load so far up that joyhole they’ll have to wring out her kidneys to get a sperm sample.”

“She’ll bite him,” she warned.

“Then she’ll have to be beaten unconscious first. You do the honors, Greg.”

Greg nodded, mistakenly thinking that Von would give him first crack at her box if he corralled her. It wouldn’t have mattered either way. She pounced on Greg without warning, and were Von not carrying one dandy of a hard-on in his jeans, he would have laughed. He was far more interested in tenderizing some bone dry beaver than seeing Greg embarrass himself yet again, though, so he was mostly just aggravated.

“Von, get her off me! She’s using her teeth! Please, Von, she might have AIDS! C’mon, let’s just bang her and get the hell out of here!”

“Keep her occupied!” Von then unleashed the beast and set its course for Gash City. He certainly didn’t prefer to feel the deformities on her posterior, but he didn’t have all night to question the aesthetics. Sammy wouldn’t stay occupied forever, and truthfully Von couldn’t care less if Greg got his turn at bat. It was too bad for him, though, because he was definitely missing out. The passage to pleasure wasn’t without some moisture, although not immediately. It was more like there were mild obstructions as Von thrust for maximum depth, but his friction managed to puncture them and drain whatever juices they contained. It was easier going soon enough . . . if he tried not to think about all those runny scab-like things he was sliding against. He couldn’t decide if the squishing sounds were from his entry or those burn wounds peeling away and oozing. As the woman thrashed violently to free herself from either Greg or Von, he decided he didn’t much care. Either way, she was going to have some extra grease on the skillet in about 2.2 seconds.

He exploded enough to fill a two-pint milk carton just seconds before Sammy’s determined footsteps reached the attic stairs. He reluctantly pulled out and hurriedly reassembled his pants, though it was hard not to be distracted by her legs—the algae-like manifestations were positively seeping now, the semen-like emissions spreading down to her heels.

Von was pulling up his zipper when Sammy burst in, none too happy.