Cult of Kill #1 Page 7

  “It’s not for you, it’s for Vicki.”

  “She won’t drink it now that she’s pregnant.”

  “She’ll never know. You said it tastes like Kool-Aide.”

  James took a deep breath. “What do you think it will do to her?”

  “I’m not sure, but it might just straighten her out.”

  James went over to Vicki and offered her the drink, claiming it was non-alcoholic. She sipped the drink and James waited patiently for her to drink down the little Jesus in the glass.

  Finally she finished the drink off. And immediately demanded James to take her home.

  During the drive, she said nothing. She just stared straight ahead.

  James felt somewhat guilty for tricking her, especially when she exited the car without even saying goodbye. Did she know it was alcohol?

  James headed back to the bar and couldn’t help thinking about his misdeed. He pounded his fist on the dash and stopped the car. He could just keep driving and hope the whole incident would just blow over. If she was, in fact, pregnant, it couldn’t be his. He didn’t even have sex with her. She thought they had intercourse because James had jizzed all over her leg, and obviously, the way she walked later that next morning, the snake had done a number on her. But James never even put his dick near her after he had vomited the snake into her crotch.

  But for some reason, James felt sorry for her. So he turned the car around and headed back to her apartment.

  He knocked and no one answered. He tested the door and it opened. Two steps into the living room, James saw blood on the floor. A vase was broken against the wall. In the far corner, Vicki held a shard of the vase in her hand and was gouging her stomach.

  “No!” James yelled, rushing at her.

  “I must free myself from evil,” she explained, then cut deeper. Blood gushed from the slit in her abdomen. James wrestled away the knife and put pressure on her stomach. Vicki broke down in tears, still struggling toward the jagged piece of porcelain.

  Blood still squirted through James’ fingers. He took his shirt off, applied more pressure.

  Something suddenly bulged from the wound. James dropped his shirt and stepped back in shock.

  The snake’s pale head was sticking straight out of her abdomen, its head roaming back and forth in mid-air. It opened its mouth to hiss, but, instead, spit the little Jesus figure across the room, into the shag carpet.

  It ducked back into the wound as Vicki fainted.

  “Oh man,” James said, “This can’t be happening.”

  He knew he was in a predicament. She was obviously bleeding to death right before his eyes, but if he rushed her to the hospital, they would either discover the snake and think he implanted it there, or save the baby and reserve James the right to be a father, which he didn’t want either. Or maybe the baby was already dead, and he could just take her to the hospital, then leave her for good. The possibilities were endless.

  James finally acted, driving her to the hospital.

  * * *

  Three months passed. Vicki had been saved, though she had lost the baby, for which James was secretly glad. The snake had been extracted and the doctor’s only explanation was that it was some kind of unknown parasite.

  He still saw her from time to time at the bar, but they both managed to ignore each other.

  Until one night, she was waiting by his car at closing time.

  “Come back to my place. Just for old time’s sake. Please.”

  James didn’t mind the idea so much now that Tequila Son couldn’t fuck things up. It would just be him and her, without that damn import Tequila to fuck everything up.

  They were naked less than an hour later, rolling around on the bed. James could see the scars on her belly. That night three months prior kept slipping in and out of his mind.

  “Come on, James. Give me the oral treatment. You were so good,” she pleaded.

  James knew she would be disappointed to learn that he wasn’t responsible for the vaginal tongue-lashing previously, but he knelt just the same and started lapping away.

  “Oh yeah, baby, give it to me good!”

  James lapped harder.

  “And say hello to the kids while you’re down there.”

  Before it registered, a tiny head poked out of her vaginal lips. James almost licked it, before he pulled away and screamed.

  As he stared, several more tiny heads poked through the darkness, their tongues flitting toward James.

  “They’re almost ready to come out now. They hatched last week. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  James stared in disbelief. The only thought that went through his head other than fleeing was that he needed a drink. A light drink.

  Chocolate Jesus

  Sunday school was no place to be on a gorgeous summer day. Ms. Larson would rattle on about how Jesus did this and Jesus did that and how everybody was going to burn in hell if they didn’t live their lives like snobby little pricks who judge everyone else.

  Alex hated church. His mother forked over five bucks each Sunday for him to put in the collection plate, but, instead, he’d hike on over to Louie’s candy store and buy himself an assortment of candies and chocolates.

  His mother never knew. She was always wrapped up with Nick. Though the guy was half her age, she hung all over him like he was the last guy on earth. She stopped going to church altogether and started getting on her knees for other things instead.

  Alex kicked up a cloud of dirt down the alleyway as he stared back at his house. The shingles on the roof whistled in the wind and the gutters were filled with plant life. Things had gone from bad to worse since his father had been killed in a car wreck almost two years ago.

  And that’s why he hated church so much. If Jesus really existed, then his father would never have died so young. How could someone so powerful and good let something so bad happen? Preacher Roberts had said that everything happens for a reason and when Alex asked why, the preacher simply shrugged his shoulders and patted him on the head.

  That was the last time he attended.

  As always, Alex arrived at the candy store and purchased a chocolate bar with the collection money his mom had sent with him. He sat on a park bench outside the store and watched Sunday-goers pass along the street. He leaned back on the bench and let the warm sun cascade down his arms and face. He closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

  By the time he awoke, the sun had melted his chocolate to the park bench. Alex noticed its shape had distorted in the heat in a strange way. And Alex almost pissed his pants as he looked upon a tiny figure of Jesus staring back with chocolate eyes.

  Alex rubbed his eyes and shook his head, as if the motion might knock him from a deep slumber and a fitful dream. But the chocolate figure only crossed his arms and waited silently.

  The figure’s face was sculpted almost perfectly as in the various portraits his mom had hung across her bedroom walls. With the same beard and pleading, gentle eyes, this figure sported a wavy robe and sandals just like Alex would have pictured Him wearing.

  “Tell me your troubles, my son,” the figure spoke clearly, as if the sound had been transported from some insane puppet master, channeling the speech solely into Alex’s ears.

  Alex stuttered, then shifted to the other side of the park bench, trying to ignore the strange little man made of pure chocolate.

  “Don’t be afraid, Alex. I am the light of the world, remember?”

  Alex glanced around, afraid that someone might walk by and see him talking to a half-foot chocolate fudge chunk that resembled the Lord. “Go away…leave me alone!”

  “Your soul must go on, Alex. You mustn’t skip church and indulge yourself with pleasure over obedience,” Jesus said. “The key to unlocking heaven’s gate is discipline and sacrifice.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you.”

  “Your father wants you to go to church and live a life that’s righteous.”

  Alex perked up, feeling saddened, but yet aware of the n
ewfound possibility. “I want to talk to him. I miss him!”

  The chocolate Jesus smiled and held out his tiny hands, palms up. The chocolate slowly melted and bubbled, shifting and coalescing into a broad-shouldered man with a mustache and glasses.

  “Dad!”

  His father lifted his chocolate hand and waved. “Hi son!”

  Alex pouted. “You’re not really my dad.”

  The chocolate figure crossed his arms and said, “It’s me, Alexander. I’m in heaven now.”

  Alex felt a wave of disappointment, considering his father was once warm flesh that could be hugged or able to play catch with in the back yard. Now, after his death, he was reduced to appearing as a chocolate chunk, only because Jesus had allowed him to. What kind of a deal was that?

  The figure responded to Alex’s disinterest by morphing back into the Jesus figure. “I know you’re mad and don’t understand. You’re young and you have to learn that all things happen for a reason, but in the end, you’ll be rewarded in the kingdom of heaven.”

  Alex felt his lip quiver. He thought about the last day he had seen his father and how much his life had changed since he had died. He thought about his mom and how she had changed too. She never cooked meals and hardly spent time with Alex. It was as if Alex only reminded her of his father, and she couldn’t stand the pain of being alone, to where she had picked up Nick to fill the space. And Nick, in turn, lived off his mother and when the walls were quiet in their room, he’d secretly sneak over to Alex’s and talk to him softly while slipping his hands under the sheets, touching Alex in a way that no one else ever had. And Alex felt bad, like he had lost his place in the world. At age ten, he felt as if he didn’t belong. He trusted no one, not even the tiny figure which stared back with pleading, gentle eyes.

  “Please listen—”

  “No!” Alex shouted, leaping from the park bench. “You listen, for a change. Every night I talk to you and you don’t listen. You don’t protect me from Nick. But you allowed my father to die and leave me here alone.”

  “But nothing matters down here…”

  “Bullshit!” Alex knelt closer to the tiny chocolate deity. “Everything matters. The world is bad and everyone down here is losing hope. No one can see heaven from down here anymore.”

  “But it’s the people who have tainted this world,” Chocolate Jesus explained.

  “But it was God who created this world in the beginning. And when He did, He created the bad as well. He created things that made Dad leave me and He made things like Nick.”

  “But I’ve finally come to help you, Alex.”

  Alex felt rage. He felt how his swollen rectum still burned from Nick’s last visit. He felt loneliness and distrust. “Well, you’ve come too late.”

  Alex picked up the chocolate Jesus and shoved him into his mouth.

  He clamped his jaws shut over a tiny scream and chewed with delight. He felt movement in his mouth slowly dwindle to an oozing layer he licked off his teeth and gums. The chocolate tasted so…divine.

  * * *

  Alex returned home to find Nick snoring on the couch and a note from his mother that read: Alex—went to the grocery. Fix Nick something to eat when you get home.

  Alex felt his stomach cramp from eating the whole chocolate chunk on an empty stomach. He ran to the bathroom, pulled down his pants, and released his bowels into the toilet. Sweat trickled on his forehead as he strained.

  Before he could reach for the toilet paper, Alex felt something splashing in the toilet, clinging to his butt. An echo of a gurgle erupted as he leaned forward.

  Peering at his behind, Alex gasped, seeing a tiny lumpy figure still sprouting from his excrement. The oblong turd shifted as arms molded onto each side followed by legs. The tapered point of the mass fell off into the water as a horned head suddenly formed with a face that smiled. The pointed tail was the last thing that developed.

  The figure used its newly formed hands to spread apart Alex’s butt cheeks. In a gravelly voice, the figure muttered, “Damn, kid, he sure did a number on you, huh?”

  Alex felt his face flush at the embarrassing fact. He felt weak and worthless.

  The figure slowly left the area, climbing up his back and onto his shoulder, leaving a wet trail of footprints in its path. “How about we make your world a little brighter today?” the devil asked.

  Alex shrugged his shoulder by mistake, smashing the turd-figure into his neck. “How can we do that?”

  He felt the figure slowly regenerate into its natural (or unnatural) shape and, for the first time, he noticed the unpleasant aroma that emanated from the creature. He glanced to the side and noticed that the devil had two pieces of corn for eyes and chunks of sunflower seeds for ears.

  “We’re going to have some fun, kid,” the devil stated, speaking from the depths of a cavity comprised of a hollowed popcorn kernel.

  “How’s that?”

  “Let’s play three wishes,” the devil said, “What’s your first?”

  “I want my dad back,” Alex blurted out.

  The dark lump of a head shifted back and forth, sadly. “Nope, sorry kid. Jesus already killed your dad off. Next wish.”

  Alex’s frown suddenly turned into a slight smile. “My second wish is to watch Nick suffer and my third is to watch him die.”

  “Now that I can do!” the lopsided mass of excrement grinned. “We’re going to make ol’ Nick a sandwich. My favorite is bologna, with Miracle Whip, pickles and razor blades. Add a dash of Draino here and there and you got a power lunch.”

  Alex’s smile widened, feeling his loneliness suddenly fading. “I think I’m going to like you.”

  “I thought you would.”

  Infidelity

  For anyone out there who is married to a beautiful woman, you know the danger that lurks around every corner. For some, the danger is all in the mind—paranoia and jealousy have been known to drive a few good men off the deep end. For others the danger is in the form of some beefcake poetry writer who just happens to teach aerobics at the local YMCA. Although the sensitive muscle-clad guy probably has a little brain and even littler cock, he puts on one hell of a show for the ladies.

  My Rebecca looks like a model on her worst days. And every time we walk down the street, heads turn. How many guys (or girls) wish they were in my shoes? Or perhaps that’s the wrong question. They’re probably not wishing to be in my shoes, but wishing to be in my wife’s pants.

  You have to be pretty damn confident or just plain stupid to marry someone like my wife, Rebecca.

  And, let me tell you, I’m not that confident.

  But trust is something I’d learned to develop with Rebecca. And that trust slowly developed into faith during the first three years of our marriage.

  Although Rebecca and I had our share of problems, mainly in the bedroom, eventually my worries faded and I began to relax. I accepted that she loved me for who I was.

  So I finally felt secure.

  Until one night when that security was ripped away, along with my faith in everything.

  I came home from work early that night. Standing outside my bedroom door, I heard Rebecca moan, “Oh God, fuck me, yeah!”

  My fingers clenched up into fists and I felt my heart race, adrenaline pumping through every cell in my body. I stood there for minutes, envisioning who could be under the sheets with her. Was it the neighbor, the rebellious younger man with the Harley? Or was it the French dude who worked with her during the night shift? As the cast of characters, posing in a multitude of sexual positions, drifted before me, I retreated to the closet to find my Louisville Slugger. Just in case it was the beefcake from the gym.

  When I returned to the bedroom door, my wife’s moaning had increased, along with what sounded like the act of rough or kinky sex. Glass shattered on the hardwood floor. The walls pounded with a steady thumping sound.

  “Oh, oh, I’m coming!” Rebecca screamed.

  That was the last straw.

  That bitc
h never came for me! She didn’t even pretend!

  I kicked in the door.

  And instantly dropped the bat.

  Rebecca was levitating before me, suspended three feet in the air. She was totally nude and pressed against the wall. Her eyes were closed, yet her ass was slapping against the wall rhythmically and she was obviously enjoying every minute of it.

  Her perfectly round tits were getting smashed against her chest, but I could see nothing pressing against her.

  The first thing that came to my mind was the devil. Anything that involved levitation had to be the devil’s own doing.

  “Oh fuck yes!” my wife screamed, reaching orgasm.

  One final thrust from her invisible lover pushed her closer to the ceiling.

  And then she arched her back, her toes curling, and she came.

  I had never seen my wife in such ecstasy. A stream of milky-white cum shot straight out of her. The blast arched across the room and splashed the sleeve of my leather coat I was wearing.

  Two additional things quickly bothered me: #1) I hadn’t waterproofed my coat yet, and #2) I thought only guys came like that.

  My wife fell to the floor, out of breath.

  “What the fuck?” I yelled.

  She opened her eyes and noticed me standing there, but she said nothing. She still had that lust-crazed gaze in her eyes. It was the same look she gave me when she was horny and ready to act on it.

  She nodded her head then smiled, as if she was being whispered to by some unseen presence behind her.

  I looked around the room. The window was closed and locked. There were only two shadows being cast on the wall from the flickering candle: hers and mine. My imagination was playing tricks on me, sending chills down my spine.

  Possession? I wondered.

  Voodoo?

  It didn’t matter.

  My wife was fucking someone or something else. That situation needed rectifying immediately.