Dinner and a Movie,
Or,
A Deeper Stank
by
William D. Tucker
Copyright 2007. All rights reserved.
Libby had instructed Denise to seek a deeper stank, and to that end, Denise turned her attentions on Libby's boots.
But first: dinner and a movie . . .
Dinner was at a boring little place called Serge's. Libby and Denise's tastes in food: none too exciting.
And then Libby and Denise went to the arena. They watched the derelicts in the arena. The opening act featured the usual crew of jackoffs poking the derelicts with low voltage prods, mostly young urban professionals, riders of the trains, el and sub, investment brokers, office dwellers, ad sales execs, web psychologists-
"Get'em in the dick! Get 'em in the dick!"
It was always the same at the beginning of the spectacle: shambling hordes formed an undifferentiated mass of utterly fucked humanity. But, by the end of it, certain individuals will have emerged into bloody, tumultuous prominence, to blaze, to bash, to fuck, if only to be re-absorbed into the mass . . .
And then the throwing in of the raw pieces of maggot meat. See how they scrap. And then give'em the bottle to fight over, usually breaking it in the scuffle, but some of them preferred to eat glass, anyhow, soooooooo-
Libby thought about a deeper stank. Her twat itched. She bit Denise's earlobe. Denise meowed, licked Libby's eyeball. The two of them were ensconced in a section of the stands nearest an exit, somewhat apart from the crowd, but still very much a part of the scene.
Oooooooooo! That one fucker chowped that glass, then put a piece in that Iranian invasion veteran's eyeball-ewwwww! If it didn't make a motherfucker hard/wet.
And then they threw the dead babies in, one for each walking trash heap. It was intended that they swing the joy bundles by their umbilicals, weaponlike, but crazy Glasseater bit into them, spit chunks out, not caring for it. Not as good as glass.
And then they asked for a female volunteer from the stands. Denise made to get up, but Libby grabbed a fistful of red hair, jerked-"You're mine tonight. Maybe tomorrow . . ."
Andrea Adolph was the volunteer's name. She was 28 years old, worked in advertising/web-psychology design. Devout vegan, Buddhist, Technophile, into randomly generated electronic music, cats, dogs, rabbits, and cheese (you just couldn't get tasty vegan cheese substitute anywhere!).
"I am bred for consumption!" Andrea declared into the microphone, thus marking her off from the vast crowd of consumers. "I am a healthy consumable/comestible!"
And then the dudes in charge stripped her to the bare, soapy skin. She wore no undergarments. She stood on the precipice, arms out, feet together, cruciform. Face lifted to the sky, expression beatific. A thin, humorous string dangled from her snatch.
"Danglesnatch!" Denise said. Denise and Libby snickered together. Libby bit Denise on the ear. Denise got wet.
Libby said, "I can smell it, kitty, I can smell you soaking."
Hooks, bike chains, aluminum baseball bats, and some old aluminum cafeteria trays were tossed to the derelicts. Glasseater swung a hook at the Veteran. The Veteran, one-eyed, held a tray up to block the hook.
Mr. President, a man wearing a painted on three piece suit with an American flag pin stuck through one nipple, grabbed a bike chain, scourged his back.
The others cowered, moaned, shat themselves, made water, fingered assholes, pumped penis shafts. The dead were happy inert, and did not weigh upon the audience.
Glasseater kicked the Veteran in the balls, took his other eye with the hook. Tray clattered, as Glasseater bit into the eye-gouged bastard's neck. The old fed on the young.
Mr. President screamed, "It's all my fault!" His back was bike chain bloody when a couple of trash heaps with aluminum sluggers played percussion on executive skull. Mr. President laughed himself a motherfuckin' madman, inviting some poor pathetic shitters anad pissers with hooks, and chains, and filed down teeth to join the fun(?).
Glasseater drank Veteran blood, pumped his cock left-handed(his own or the Veteran's? The world will never know . . . !), put hook into Veteran stomach. The work was strenuous, so Glasseater paused to vomit blood that wasn't his own anyways, and this pissed him off, so he starts to try and lick up the blood, ended up chomping up mouthfuls of dirt and blood and a bottle cap or two.
The handle of the hook stuck up out of the Veteran's stomach. The eyeless sonuvabitch pulled hard on it, tried screaming with a torn out throat. He then spasmed, made a sound like speech but not.
Andrea dove from the plank, landed on a pile of moaning wretches. The wretches "Ooofed!" moaned somewhat louder. One of them realized a woman with a broken arm was lying on top of him. He grabbed her hair, pulled. An old bitch, maybe a grandma, stood up from a corner of the arena, came up to Andrea, hiked up her tattered maternity gown, arched a stream of brown urine all over the Lady Comestible's tits.
Andrea Adolph smiled with the peace of the saints.
"Young fuckin' cunts," said Grandma, "whole fuckin' whores in whoredom."
"Mommy!" said Denise. "Mommy!"
The crowd writhed.
Libby stuck her hand down Denise's pants.
Granma snorted, gagged, sniffed, and finally hocked a glob of red/brown/green shitty Christmas mucus onto Andrea's tummy, just above the tattoo of a hummingbird impaling a flower.
Glasseater vomited dirt. He stomped about, clutching his throat. Audience cackled at this universal gesture of distress. Glasseater pounded himself in the belly 'til the bottlecap came flyin'. Audience booed/cheered, half were busted up, half were disappointed.
Libby took her hand out of Denise's soaking panties, sniffed/licked/sucked on the hand.
"Mmm!" Libby said. "Nice and juicy, daughter-mine!"
Glasseater pistoned his arms into the air, jumped around in a circle, more like an oval. He spoke a speech that was more like gag-speech, damaged and inspired by glass. That went on for a surprisingly long time. The audience cheerscreamed their approval, and the gag-speech went on and on and on . . .
Meanwhile, Andrea hit an unbelievably high note as a wretch dug down between her legs with a hook. The wretch, dribbling from mouth/nose/asshole, worked that hook action-dig, dig, dig-dig out that hooded nut-dig, dig, dig-dig out that lovely stank button!
"Whore moanin' like a goddamn slut," Granma said, hiked up her maternity gown, sat down and around Andrea's face, wiggled a bit, made sure she got Andrea's face snug between ass cheeks.
"Only breakfast fit for a whore," Grandma said. "But they get they breakfast, too!"
Grandma gritted her teeth as she ground out a fart. Andrea moaned through the intense muffling of the asshole covering her face. Her body writhed, a decapitated snake wiggle. Three wretches had their mouths on the hook torn ruin of her snatch. Grandma shifted around a bit on Andrea's face. She giggled hoarsely, said, "Goddamn whore licks like a slut!"
In between wrinkled/withered buttcheeks, Andrea's face extruded a tongue that worked the rim of Grandma's asshole.
Grandma said, "Goddamn cunting whores!" and let go with warm, mostly liquid diarrhea. Andrea gagged/twitched, choked down Grandma's soupy shits. Andrea's tongue worked the rim. Grandma shuddered, squawked her creaky pleasure.
A wretch pounded a wretch with an aluminum tray. The pounded wretch screamed at the first hit, but then she just laughed. Laughed like screaming, so high-pitched, so shatteringly beseeching, but it was definitely laughter.
A wretch clawed down Mr. President's "pants," while another scratched the commander-in-chief's face, raking blood furrows in jowly cheek. The one wretch tore out the executive cock ring-now he was Mr. President! The head of the dick had a rip in it, a missing-ragged puzzle piece, and the essence of Mr. Presidenthood left the ruined body. Meanwhilst, the Facescratcher built up some nerve, and sank mossy, gapped-out teeth into a once executive cheek. Then, another wretch put his non-pearlies into the other cheek, with visions of Jesus being tortured in his dick.
Grandma shuddered and sang, bobbed up and down on Andrea's face. The trio of pussy-eating wretches tore bloody ragged strips-"Ewwwww! Ahhhhh!" quivered the audience.
Glasseater, still making his gag-speech with emphatic gestures and all, began to savvy that the audience was not giving its complete and undivided attention. Glasseater gagged, spewed blood with anonymous chunks.
Grandma sang, "Ol' whore cockchugger! Ol' whore cockchugger! Eat this ass, eat this ass, I say, eat this ass!"
Glasseater ceased his incomprehensible mouthings, turned his baleful glare on Grandma.
"Ol' whoooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrzzzzzzzz!" Grandma sang. "I say, ol'whooooooooooooooorzzz-AH! Ain't no breakfas' fit fer a whore, 'cept tha breakfas' from this ass! WHAP-TUNG!"
The audience howled.
Libby allowed Denise the privilege of licking her own stank from Libby's fingertips.
"Taste that," said Libby, "that's your stank. It's nice and deep."
Denise sucked it down, squealed, nipped Libby's fingers.
"You can draw a little blood," Libby said, "but if you try to take any digits, I'll chew your clit off."
Denise behaved, despite such an inducement to misbehave.
Grandma sang, "Sit on a whor'z face fer the grand ol' glory! Sit on a whor'z face fer the grand ol' glory! I say, sit on a whor'z face fer the grand ol' glory, 'cause yer too late to suck this cock! WHAP-TUNG!"
Grandma screamed. Her voice broke a hundred times over, but that didn't matter. She screamed. Andrea's tongue worked the rim, her dying act of love as she bled out from a torn pussy. The rimjob action drove Grandma's scream up, up, up! Grandma's voice shattered twelve hundred thousand billion levels of righteousness over, the tongue dervishing inside her asshole, mothereating overdrive, cranking Grandma' s ecstasy to high upon high, turning her on so fierce the old bitch began to spray brown/red/black snot from her nostrils and tearducts.
The audience cummed spontaneously in whole sections. Then they came again. A stank-scented breeze wafted over them; other, more quiescent sections, shot off jizzom as lonely individuals, pathetically alone in jerkingdom/fingeringdom.
Glasseater ground his teeth, red eyes extruding themselves from eye sockets like the inner tubing of a punctured tire. The eyes locked on Grandma-"TARGET ACQUIRED!" Glasseater spat toothdust, stomped up to the old bitch, ensnared her mousy-haired, spotty-skinned skull with his large hands. Glasseater squeezed a motherfucker, crushed a fatherfucker, made an ol' bitch's skull reformat beneath a wicked bastard's grip.
Grandma said, “GEEEEEEEEEEYYYYEEEEEAAAARRRGGGHHH!!!”
Glasseater grunted/gagged/speeched.
The audience, now a unified entity, fingered its collective asshole/pussy.
Things popped/cracked/gave inside Grandma's skull. Her nose dribbled dark petroleum looking blood. Glasseater squeezed harder. Structures cracked/snapped/shattered and moved into each other within Grandma's head. Her gummy right eye splunked out, dangled over a crushed cheek. (Inside Grandma's mind, the fluids of thought and memory sloshed together. Childhood became mixed with adulthood with earliest sensations of being in the womb. She recalled the first time she choked a pretty young thing to death with her own diarrhea ha-cha-cha as being in the first house she bought with her husband as a fetus, who was a fetus himself. She'd invited the pretty young man, Dmitri, up into her mother's snatch, where she used her umbilical to lasso Dmitri's ankles together, and then hubby Hachiko, the loyal terrier fetus, walked in on her as she had been chlumping liquid poopies into Dmitri's mouth and nose. She tried awkwardly to get the can of premium meat chow and the can opener to play nice together-but that was when the road just outside came crashing through the living room, carrying the garbage truck with it which shlammed Hachiko into brittle pieces of vase. The truck crashed through her mom's water which drained the womb house with a loud flush, sucking everything into bright scientific sunlight, into gloved stranger's hands, which fucking A squeezed her sort of new body, squeezed-)Grandma's head cracked loud a hundred times and grape-burst. Glasseater gagged/howled, the sound of victory, even as the bone shards pierced his hands, the pain became a part of his victory sounds.
The audience was respectfully silent. Glasseater had turned over a new trick. And then a smattering of golf claps, building into applause proper. Glasseater pistoned the air with bone-pierced hands rolled into fists. The audience howled and whooped. Glasseater kicked Grandma's corpse on its side, the ass coming unstuck from its snug seal over Andrea's face with a ploppy "POP!" Glasseater jumped up and down on top of Grandma's corpse. The audience clapped its hands bloody, jumped up and down in the stands, screamed throats raw. The arena thundered and shook.
Denise was sucking/tonguing/chewing the earwax out of Libby's ear.
Libby said, "Perhaps one day I'll crush your head like that."
Denise sucked/tongued/chewed out that wax.
Now, all this time, during the arena battle, certain individuals stepped into the ring and distinguished themselves: Glasseater, Grandma, Andrea Adolph, Mr. President, and a handful of nameless, yet industrious wretches here and there (examples: the wretches that tore out Andrea's pussy, the wretches who worked over Mr. President.) These individuals were exemplary. Now, all this time, during the arena battle, there were a whole bunch of others, who composed a thoroughly undistinguished mass if you will-not one true individual amongst them, not one single, solitary upstanding shitizen in the whole lot. This mass of undifferentiated personalities/tissues/speculative soul essences-this mass was a kind of collective anti-shitizen, which clungstuck to the walls, hid/cowered in the corners. If one were to look close, one might make out an individual human-type bodyshape here and there, but, overall, one would not get the shining gestalt of true individuality from any one of these shambling forms. These forms, less than wretches, goggled and moaned at the periphery of the action, no single one bold or ballsy enough to step to the fore. And this mass, this They, They watched, with one rheumy, cyclopean eye, They watched all the true, exemplary individuals fall, 'til only Glasseater was left standing. Only Glasseater filled They's eye. They stared with a towering/tyrant toppling hate-on!
Glasseater danced and stomped up and down on Andrea's corpse, blood and innards shooting out of the hook-torn cunt.
The vast undifferentiated mass began to move in from all sides, a circle of hate constricting about a single point.
Glasseater pistoned his arms. The stands thundered/shook.
The Mass, the They, the Anti-Shitizens raised hands with yellowed claws, made ready to strike . . .
Glasseater emitted a high-pitched gagging/hacking scream.
The Anti-Shitizen snare closed tight, many hands with many yellowed claws striking with hideous strength born of hatred, envy, deep-seated feelings of inadequacy, a free-floating generalized anger at the world. Glasseater's triumphant gag-scream was cut off as his throat was torn asunder by claws. The terrifying mass constricted tight, began, verily, to pile itself upon the distinguished individual. The stands were, once again, respectfully silent-but only for an instant! And then they were thundering and yelling and cheering and screeching for MORE! MORE! MORE!
Libby said, "Let's go home."
Denise was, by this point, cleaning Libby's other ear. She disengaged momentarily to nip Libby's right eyebrow.
The vast, undifferentiated mass crushed/fucked/clawed/raped/utterly bugger-pierced, and annihilated Glasseater. And then they began to attack each other. And then the audience began to churn and roar, turning on one another with-
But Libby and Denise were on their way, through the nearest exit tunnel, to the parking lot . . .
The bedroom, Libby's, had huge posters of Yukio Mishima imitating St. Sebastian, Dirty Harry with his elephant pistol, a framed triptych of De Sade and Marilyn Monroe playing twenty-one in a decadent soda shop. In the first panel, De Sade is winning, Marilyn Monroe balling her fists in rage. The second panel has De Sade losing, his fists balled into wrinkly, pale biscuits, Marilyn with a sly smile, knowing/suspicious eyes. The third panel is midgame, no clear winner. De Sade dealing, Marilyn holding steady at twenty, De Sade's got seventeen, and he's about to give himself a hit-
Libby was meticulously unlacing her boots, not one to be casual about such things, using long, supple fingers on the laces. No wasted motion, a minimum of friction and fraying. Laces, twelve years, continuous use.
Denise had been quick to get naked, but for the green thong that Libby seemed to like.
"I could help," Denise said.
Libby, sitting on a hard little stool, glared at Denise for a moment, and went back to work on the laces.
Denise sat up in bed, tottered slightly this way and that. The mattress was hard, but it was situated unevenly on the frame, thus, a bit of adventure.
Denise got down from the bed, the whole thing tipping with the redistribution of weight, her feet touched the floor, and Libby said, "Only if you crawl."
Denise crawled. The hard wood floor was impeccable. Not a hair, a crumb, or even a piece of lint. Libby despised pets, abhorred food in the bedroom. The human body provided all the sustenance one needed in the bedroom.
Libby had the laces all the way out. She drew them back and forth across the palms of her hands, before hanging them on their hooks, which were embedded in the wall. Libby sat on her hard little stool in the corner, poor martyred Mishima twisting, a human pincushion bound, on the wall next to her shoulder. Libby put her hands around the throat of one boot, gripped firmly, but without tension.
Denise crawled closer-
-'til Libby said, "Stop," without even looking up, "Just lie there."
Denise lie on her stomach looking at Libby's hands kinda sideways, 'til Libby said, "Face down," and Denise quickly put face to polished wood.
Libby's hands rested firmly around the throat of the boot. Libby closed her eyes, willed the noisome tumult of the arena away, out of mind, 'til she felt the thoughts squirming in the air around her head. Then, one by one, the thoughts popped, pipped, popped, and with one smooth motion Libby slid her left boot off, one more twist, the boot was then resting sole to polished wood. Libby did the same with the other boot, though she didn't take quite as long to remove that one as she did the first.
The boots stood there. Dusty, caked in places with the gunk of the arena stands, dust and splashes of soda, little chunks of hot dog meat. There was a glorious smell. The smell twisted, and levitated up out of the throat of each boot. Libby breathed it in, got a taste at the back of her throat.
Denise moaned into the floorboards.
Libby said, "Old stank. Many a long march filling the air, and you want it. Don't you."
Denise began to grind her pelvis against the floor. She started to slip a hand down her crotch, behind the green thong, but Libby said, "No."
Libby stood up from the hard little stool, put her feet right next to Denise's ear.
"Clean the boots," said Libby. "Clean them well."
Denise dragged herself across the floorboards, put her hands on the boots, immediately snatched her hands away, and Libby smiled at this. Denise licked the outside of the boots clean. She gobbled up every splotch of mud, each chunk of hot dog, sucked away the vague, almost spiritual, film of old urine and blood and crusty specs of dogshit. She worked her tongue along the ridges of the sole, and used her teeth to scrape away the gunk and shit, a piece of ancient gray gum, an old sticker that still had $1.99 legible on it, a tiny scrap of feather.
"Walking all year," Libby said, her big toe pressing in on the piece of green fabric shielding Denise's asshole. "Haven't been cleaned once. I was saving it for you. Eat up that deeper stank, know how low you're willing to go for a motherfucker."
Denise put her face down the throat of one boot, breathed deep of foot, fungus, and crusty sock. Denise licked and bit the inside of the boot. She got the insole in her mouth, teethed it, sucked it.
"Boots with a fucking filthy history. Take that history inside you. Taste it. Know about us and how the day almost swallowed us up, with all that excitement. The excitement of the whole fucking world was concentrated in that arena. It's easy to lose yourself. But you're loving where my feet live, and that's just something between us . . . "
Denise buried her face in the throat of the other boot.
Libby knelt behind Denise. With the precision with which she took off her boots, she pulled down Denise's green thong, put her nose in the soft cheeks, then burrowed straight for the asshole. Libby inhaled seven different types of shit smell. It made her drool. She spit inside the asshole, began to lick. Denise started farting. Libby drank down the farts as they came. It was warm and nice.
That night they slept together, mouths made dirty that other things might be clean.