Ryan Harding - Genital Grinder

Breakfast, lunch, and dinner—all Claire. If they’d known it was going to turn into this big a headache, they’d have just wined, dined, and married the bitch. He could scarcely believe at this point that he had been so thankful to find her before, but like anything new, all it took was a little over-exposure to remember that life had been just fine before her arrival. Nothing like blowing a few loads in a putrefying backdoor to rend the veil real quick-like.

No point holding it off any longer . . . it was about time for the cunt a la mode to add a little spice to the whole drudgery of the cannibalistic enterprise. He was actually looking forward to being back home for that.

But that wasn’t the only reason, of course; there was the movie.

Hog-tied, gagged, and tarp-wrapped in the bed of his truck now was the infamous Sarah Pensie, better known to porn connoisseurs as “Lolita Ream,” friend to the varsity football, basketball, and tennis teams back at Bartok North High School, not to mention the shop class and even—God save us—the chess club. Greg and Von hadn’t participated in a damn thing, so they’d missed out. When they heard she’d gone on to a lucrative career in pornography, they’d really felt like Bill Buckner in game six of the ‘86 World Series. Down but not out, they decided to write to her. Against his better judgment, Von left the province of contact to Greg, a decision he’d dearly regretted when he saw what Greg evidently thought a “romantic overture.” The gist of his letter, minus a broad interpretation of acceptable grammar:

Dear Sarah, we went to school together, but I never got to bone you in your sweet ass. I hate that you have missed out on this jizz rocket I’m strapping. All those guys in your movies look like they’d rather be smoking on a rope than giving you the hard yard, so do yourself a favor and get your ass back to Bartok for a real man. You won’t regret it, baby. If you’ve ever wanted to be so pumped full of sauce that your eyes popped out of your head with your twat right behind ‘em, I’m the man to see. I sent you some high dollar earrings last year, so I figure fair is fair.

Your pal, Greg.

P.S. Please hurry as the doctors tell me I may die of the sickle cell in a few weeks.

The bitch did not respond, however, necessitating this little road trip. Apparently too much time blowing Louisville slugger-sized hard-ons in hot tubs and doling out rim jobs aplenty had her thinking she was too good for all the “little people” these days. Well, maybe it was time for her to reconnect with her roots.

They’d staked out the P.O. box for her fan mail—and “gifts” that secret admirers could send her from her fan letter wish list, as if she wasn’t raking in cash hand over quim with her videos selling for about 40 bones per. They watched the post office for three very uneventful and boring days and nights, passing the binoculars back and forth from a strip mall across the street. Even all the tight-shorted eye candy strutting it up the sidewalks grew a bit tiresome after they reluctantly made a pact not to get up to any “funny stuff” with any of them. They had to stay pure for Sarah and not endanger the mission. This rare display of restraint had given them plenty of time to brainstorm what they could do with her when they finally grabbed her. It was a blessing in disguise, because they’d come up with some solid gold indeed.

They’d actually almost missed her. She was totally slumming it in a jogging suit and sunglasses, but Greg recognized the swing of her ass (and the way she bleached that balloon knot, Greg could probably have picked it out of a police line-up) as she swayed through a door held open by an old man who not-so-surreptitiously scoped her backside as she floated past. She came out with a mail crate, probably filled with several envelopes, large mailers and boxes with some of the lingerie or high heels or other wish list items that some pathetic dick-jack believed would earn him some sexual payback puss (scraping together their nickels and dimes to order her a set of lah-di-dah earrings and only receiving some thank-you form letter with no instructions on when they should expect to meet her so she could spread her thighs and properly show her gratitude—they’d knifed the whole envelope open to verify there was nothing else in it—they knew only too well that it left a man with a hole in his wallet and a burning in his ass).

They tailed her to a supermarket and finally to her home, the kind of upper middle class pad owned by someone who ought to be able to buy their own damned earrings. They chloroformed her right there in her driveway as she popped the trunk for her grocery bags. They didn’t think anyone saw it go down, but didn’t linger long to find out. Von gunned it out of the neighborhood and backtracked to the interstate. Greg actually made a decent navigator. It was simple enough to find a vacant rest area (the kind of rip-off place where there weren’t really any facilities and you had to piss between your open car doors if you didn’t want anyone to glom your wang) and get her properly secured.

The sultry little slut was going to fuel quite the orgasmageddon, with her silicone-enhanced breasts defying the mere C-cup that stingy Mother Nature provided, forcing the game into double D overtime.

“Should’ve written back, slutcake,” Greg yelled, though she probably couldn’t hear him.

Truthfully it wouldn’t have mattered if she did. She’d still be here now. She would soon have company, too, because Von and Greg had been quite busy when they weren’t deducting on Claire Perkins.

What sparked the whole endeavor was a news report on the trial of Earl Newman, the alleged serial killer affectionately known as Mr. Drill Bit. He’d abducted eleven women and over the course of three days would subject each to repeated rapes and other assimilated degradations, and filmed the festivities on a camcorder. At the conclusion of three days, he attempted to lobotomize them with his namesake, to no avail. He gave up after four tries and settled for reducing their teeth to peppermint shards and spearing their eyeballs like fish until the sockets burst. This, Earl claimed, was the only way he could achieve orgasm (forgetting the videotapes showed an entirely different story). The strange thing was that he only filmed the rapes, never the killings. Snuff films, reported anchor newswoman Geisha Hammond, therefore remained an urban legend; an unverified crime.

Above the heads of Von and Greg, light bulbs appeared. Naturally, the first to be abducted for the creation of the world’s first sanctioned snuff film was Geisha Hammond herself. A stun-gun did the trick, and duct tape did the rest.

Trussed in the basement, not far from Claire Perkins’ makeshift tomb, struggled Bill Glasscock, who up to this point thought his name was by far the worst card Fate had ever dealt him. He’d been at the park with his video camera under the pretense of filming a soccer game, though he was far more intrigued that the players of said game were 10-year-old girls. And if there was grass on the field, you could play ball.

He was rendered unconscious by a blow from a tire iron when he was returning to his car, too invigorated by the choice footage he had collected and the night of ball sack-draining soccer which awaited him back at his apartment. Von and Greg had taken precautions by getting him from Brackard’s Point instead of Bartok; plus, they’d also needed a video camera.

For purely aesthetic reasons they took Travis Wicklund, who was handcuffed, gagged, and locked up in a coat closet. He sometimes told women on the Internet that he was an architect and other times an environmentalist. They got him walking home from his real place of work, the Burger King on Seymour Street.