/ Language: English / Genre:sf_horror

Sloppy Seconds

W White

Who Wants Some of Wrath’s Sloppy Seconds? …

Who wouldn’t? Each year at the World Horror Convention, the most anticipated event is the Gross-Out Contest, where authors stand up in front of everyone and deliver some of the most disturbing, gut-wrenching tales anyone has ever heard.

Wrath James White’s stories are among the best of them. Now, we present his stories for the first time in print — uncut.

Here are his four stories from previous years, as well as his entry for the 2008 WHC.

But there’s more! We have a bonus story that is “one of the most grotesque and horrific murder/rape/revenge stories I have ever written.”


Sloppy Seconds

by Wrath James White

FIRST EDITION

This collection is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Copyright 2008 Wrath James White

Sloppy Seconds — In Retrospect

When I entered my first World Horror Convention Gross-Out Contest in Chicago back in 2002, I had very little idea of what to expect. I made it to the finals the year before in the now-defunct Delirium webzine's first and last online gross-out contest, but that didn't prepare me for the spectacle that is the WHC Gross-Out Contest. I was expecting some tiny room with maybe a couple dozen people. I walked into an auditorium that seemed to house half the convention's attendees. The list of competitors was nearly two pages long. The previous years had been dominated by such giants of the genre as Brian Keene, Mark McLaughlin, and Ed Lee. I was fully prepared to be out of my league but luckily, none of them entered that year.

I sat in the back, listening to the other competitors spin off their tales of gore and disgust while I continued to refine my own story, whittling it down further and further until little remained but the horrific descriptions as I prepared for my illustrious debut. Little did I know that the style I was developing, as I edited and re-edited, would become the style of gross-out readings to come.

Earlier that day, I received valuable advice from the previous "King of the Gross-Out" Brian Keene on what the judges were looking for. I knew I had to grab them with the very first line and not waste too much time telling a story. I had to get right into the guts and grue as quickly as possible. So, I went to work cutting out all but the sickest lines. What I was doing was modeling the story after a joke; first the setup, then the punch line. The delivery would be one long rant of stomach-churning imagery. It begins with a one-liner that immediately grabs the audience's attention. Then it sucks them in — hopefully making them laugh — and builds up to the big punch line at the end.

Repeatedly, I left the auditorium to rehearse, more nervous than I had been in years (and I have read poetry on-stage in the nude). finished my last edit just as my name was called. I walked up to the podium and began my oration.

"Mary was a 500-lb contortionist who'd died with her titanic legs still wrapped around the back of her neck…"

The room exploded with laughter. I paused, waiting for it to die down before barreling forward with descriptions of the woman's putrefying girth, watching as the audience alternately laughed, winced, and wretched. I detailed the mortician's surprise as a beautiful blonde model slid out of the obese woman's snatch before hitting them with the punch line, "They say that inside every fat woman is a skinny woman screaming to get out, and somehow, this one had just escaped." The laughter reached a crescendo. I knew I had them.

There were some other great stories that night. Adam Pepper read a hilarious story about an infant resisting its mother's efforts to abort it, titled "Super Fetus." Brent Zirnheld read a deliciously nauseating story about a man with a fetish for sucking the pus out of pimples that I thought would definitely win if mine did not. And there were a few others that were pretty good as well, and still others that went from ridiculous to plain terrible. Many of you know what happened then, the first of a long series of bizarre controversies. Adam did not win. Brent did not win. And I took second place in what would become a string of second place wins in the gross-out contest. The winner read an esoteric poem and then threw a chicken. I had not even considered her in the running and, judging from the audience's reaction, neither had anyone else. But who are we to judge? She won fair and square, as bizarre as the whole episode was.

In the years that followed, I took second place three more times and then a fourth-place finish after being penalized for running overtime without getting to the punch line. It had become almost hilarious to me. One thing I did notice was that the style I developed that night in Chicago had begun to take over the contest. The next year in Kansas City, I took second place to Cullen Bunn who read a story in a style almost identical to the one I'd debuted the year before, beginning what has been a record four first-place wins for him.

I was quite flattered that he had chosen my style to emulate. There were a great many different approaches to the gross-out contest at the time, including bizarre props, full-length stories, poems, and true confessions. Cullen had taken what I started and elaborated on it, adding voices and sound effects. It was really good and has improved year after year. In 2007, I noticed something even more impressive: almost every entry that year (with the exception of the veteran participants) sounded — in pace, tone, description, and delivery — like the one I authored in Chicago of 2002. It was perhaps the best gross-out contest I have had the pleasure of participating in. The style had caught on. I had, evidently, started something.

The contest in 2007 was a shoot-out between some of the heavyweights of the grotesque and the comedic: Cullen Bunn, Mark McLaughlin, Jeff Strand, and me, with me once again taking second place.

In 2008, Cullen Bunn retired and instead judged the event. The lovely Rain Graves, another past winner, was the hostess of the evening. Jeff Strand and Cullen did a surprise gross-out duet that would have probably taken first place had they not been disqualified. Judges can't participate.

The rest of the evening was filled with one derivative rip-off of Cullen's style or mine, or some hybrid in-between. Every story involved analingus or cunnilingus with some elderly, overweight, dead, or diseased woman proving that sometimes imitation is not the sincerest form of flattery. Sometimes it's just silly. The winner, the lovely and talented Whitney Lakin, was by far the most original, doing a story about being stuck in a fat farm with nothing to eat but cum-soaked candy bars.

My story about a crackwhore in a leper colony once again took second place in what was my final performance at the gross-out contest.

To commemorate this event, I thought I'd compile this little literary retrospective of my five years in the WHC Gross-Out Contest. In addition, I've included one of the most grotesque and horrific murder/rape/revenge stories I have ever written entitled "Hurting Him" which first appeared in an online webzine called Brutal Tales. This will likely be the last place this particular story will see print, so do enjoy.

Since many of these stories had to be greatly truncated in order to fit the contest's five-minute time limit, this is the first time most of them have been seen or heard in their entirety. You will notice certain scatological themes repeated throughout these stories, along with an almost obsessive recurring theme of analingus and diseased, unwashed female genitalia.

This repetition was not only unintentional, but I didn't even notice it until I put this little book together. I guess when I think of gross, putting my mouth on something covered in pus, feces, and disease is at the top of my list. That, and the fear that my own obsessive adoration of the female form might lead me to similar excesses of lust and perversion. Though, I honestly can't imagine being obsessed enough with anyone to try sucking their soul out of a dead dog's ass.

Still, you get my point. Or maybe you don't yet, but you will. What follows are some of the sickest, most vile, most despicable acts ever put into print.

Have fun!

Morbid Obesity

Second Place — 2002 Gross-Out Contest, Chicago

Mary was a 500-lb contortionist who'd died with her titanic legs still wrapped around the back of her neck. Her legs were like two pale, bloated logs crosshatched with varicose veins. Even in death, her face was pinched and creased with the exertion of maintaining such an uncomfortable position. Her skin was now loose, slack, nearly sliding off of her from the buildup of necrotic fluids as she decomposed, adding yet more ripples to the rolls and rolls of billowy fat suspended from her chin in successive rows of increasing girth. Her engorged breasts and stomach were but more layers in a cascade of flesh that hung all the way down to the cavernous orifice yawning between her mammoth thighs.

Her vagina had been turned inside out as if a grenade had gone off in her uterus. The labia were red and swollen like a baboon's ass and glistened with a virulent unctuousness as a steady stream of dank liquid dribbled out of her raw and bleeding snatch. It looked like an infected hatchet wound — more the symbol of man's fury than his lust. A gangrenous stench wafted from her syphilitic cooze as I knelt between her thighs and licked my lips appreciatively.

"Scrumptious." I dipped a finger into that frothing maw, stirring a creamy soup composed of what I could only guess was the semen of perhaps a dozen men, mixed with the discharge of an advanced yeast infection, and tinged pink with menstrual fluids. I licked my fingers clean and winced at the taste — which resembled spoiled caviar — as I prepared to gobble the fat woman's vandalized pussy. I lapped at it tentatively and then sucked on those bloated cunt lips; my face covered in the cocktail of rotting fluids, eagerly ingesting whatever disease had killed her.

"Delicious." I shivered as illness and death bathed my stupefied taste buds.

I pulled out my knife and sawed at her cunt with the dull blade. Cutting off a choice piece that suppurated from bleeding sores and looked sort of like a barbecued pork skin, I bit into it and felt the blisters and corpuscles rupture in my mouth, splashing across my tongue and churning the bile in my stomach into a tidal wave. My eyes rolled back in my head as I shuddered with ecstasy.

"Scrumptious!" I repeated, delirious with rapture.

Just then, the fat woman's body convulsed.

"Is this fat bitch still alive?" It seemed an absurd question, but no more absurd than my own cannibalistic, necrophilic fat fetish.

A superstitious guilt made me wonder if perhaps my postmortem perversities had somehow reawakened her desire and in doing so, reawakened her from death as well. I stepped back as the corpse undulated. Her huge, gelatinous stomach looked like a sack of cats heading for the river as something within it struggled its way toward freedom. Impossibly, her thighs spread even wider and the gases of decay belched from her fetid, half-eaten twat in a stifling cloud, causing me to gag and cough but curiously adding steel to my erection.

Another great burping noise emitted from between her thighs followed by sticky-wet, squishy sounds as her cunt regurgitated a full-grown woman of pornographic proportions onto the floor at my feet.

She had perfect breasts like flesh-coated cantaloupes, the waist of a twelve-year-old, a tight little ass that wobbled gently high on her back, blonde hair down to her waist, a clean-shaved pussy, and big blue eyes like an Irish Setter. She slid out of that grotesque blob of putrescent fat in a stream of pus and goo, followed immediately by a yard of stringy wet afterbirth.

They say that inside every fat woman is a skinny woman screaming to get out and somehow, this one had just escaped, I thought.

I stared in slack-jawed amazement at the wide-eyed Barbie doll curled up on the floor, splashing around in a noxious pool of filth and rot, and then at the chunky red stew of steaming blood and afterbirth. My erection was straining in my pants with the power of death. I had two options now: I could fuck either one or both of these bitches; the fat dead corpse or the svelte young, living Barbie doll.

The funeral director wouldn't return until morning and no mourners were expected for this carnival sideshow prostitute who'd died gagging on rhinoceros semen live on digital camera before the eager eyes of an internet zoo sex crowd. And of course, no one even knew about the Miss Nude America who'd been trapped inside of her.

I dragged my eyes voraciously over that perfectly-shaped Venus recently evacuated from the loins of a bloated corpse, and then at the dead thing that still lay upon the gurney with its thighs spread wide. It took me a second to decide before I turned my back on the mindless newborn centerfold to finish my meal.

Panty Pudding

Second Place — 2003 Gross-Out Contest, Kansas City

James was in love with a ninety-five-year-old crackwhore who'd serviced the men in his family for nearly five generations. She was little more than a skeleton with wrinkled and mottled flesh wrapped loosely about her brittle bones. Her hair was all but gone save for a few white follicles clinging stubbornly to her crinkly, liver-spotted scalp. Her mouth was a hollow crater, devoid of teeth and with gums that shrank back against her jawbone. Her withered breasts were two empty bladders hanging from her chest, drooping past her naval like cue balls in tube socks. Her ancient thighs were a maze of varicose veins from which shriveled skin sagged like gooseflesh. Between them, her labia hung like dried, crinkled curtains of jerked beef in a withered tangle of flesh down to mid-thigh. Her ass was just a narrow coccyx draped in a translucent film of blue-veined skin.

Every ounce of beauty she'd ever possessed had been leeched out by decades spent on her back and knees. And James adored every age-ravaged inch of her.

When he was but a young boy struggling with the hormonal insanity of puberty, James would sneak into his father's room — as the old man sweated and groaned between the already-aged whore's leathery thighs — to smell her underwear as he watched their bedroom acrobatics. Lacy, satiny things that covered the feminine parts of a woman his young eyes were forbidden to see.

That feeling of being close to something so mysterious and dangerous excited him tremendously. The musky scent wafting from the seat of those silken fabrics; melded with the sight and smell of his father's passions, enflamed his pre-pubescent fantasies. He imagined a menage a trois with his father and the prostitute, participating through his olfactory senses in the bizarre sexual acts unfolding before him. Sometimes his father would catch him kneeling beside the bed with the whore's panties pressed to his face, grinning like a chimp with a handful of shit. Sometimes he would chase him away, but often he would just smile and wink at him.

As James grew into young adulthood, his attraction to women's underwear blossomed into a full-grown fetish. He would steal the panties and masturbate with them as he listened to his dad plunge the old whore's asshole with his miniscule cock from the other side of the bedroom door. His taste for women's underwear never abated.

James was now approaching his thirtieth birthday. It had been more than a decade since he'd even thought about the woman his father had contracted both gonorrhea and syphilis from and passed along to his unsuspecting wife. Then one evening, he flipped through the channels of late-night cable and spotted her on a corner where a news team had gathered to report on a police killing or some other nonsense.

James barely heard a word of the news anchor's ramblings as he stared past the onsite correspondent at the prostitutes working beyond him. Johns were still stopping to pick them up, unmindful of the news cameras or the gathering of police, ambulances, and coroner vans. Whatever addiction drove them was stronger than the threat of incarceration or exposure on national television. James knew the feeling. He visited prostitutes frequently and kept a refrigerator full of penicillin for those occasions when wearing a condom just wouldn't suffice and he had to go raw dog.

Among the half-naked crackwhores and heroin-addicted cum buckets stood his family's dirty secret, now so old that she leaned over a walker as she stood on the corner. She wore a miniskirt so high that her thong was visible, disappearing into the flabby narrow flaps of her wrinkled ass cheeks. A blonde wig hung lopsidedly from her skull with wisps of bone-white hair peeking from the sides. Her eyes were completely vacant — null and void. She absentmindedly popped her dentures in and out of her mouth as she flashed her withered tits at passing motorists.

James grabbed his coat and dashed out of the house. He had to have her, or at the very least, her underwear.

James had what the doctors called mysophilia. He was obsessed with women's underwear, and the more worn and ragged, the better. Skidmarks, menstrual stains — all the tastier. He purchased used underwear from eBay, stole them from laundromats and even the homes of friends and neighbors. He'd been caught on more than one occasion but it didn't matter to him. He could not imagine life without his face pressed into the sweaty folds of a woman's worn drawls. Or with her bloodstained undergarments wrapped around his cock as he joyfully masturbated himself raw.

He had no problem finding the old whore. He'd frequented that same corner many times. He parked across the street, working up the nerve to approach her as johns drove by, laughed, and spat at her. Every now and again, a desperate trick would actually stop for her. Bargain shoppers, he supposed. Then James would tail them as they drove to some alley where they raped and brutalized her for less than the price of a drink.

James followed her all night, watching tricks fuck her in her diseased ass for whatever change and lint they found in their pockets. No amount seemed too small. At her age, she was probably grateful that anyone wanted to fuck her, let alone pay for the privilege.

He watched her blow a homeless man in the park for a cigarette and stagger out, semen drooling from the corners of her lips and down her chin as she smoked a Marlboro down to nothing.

He watched twelve college jocks ejaculate into a 40 oz. bottle of Old English and then giggle themselves silly as she drank the entire concoction down. As far as James could tell, she earned five dollars for the feat.

She ended the night with a bukakki festival as eight or nine Mexican construction workers from a nearby high-rise project jerked off on her. Her face was still a white mask — covered in globs of thick cum that dripped from the tip of her nose, chin, cheeks; bubbling from between her lips with every breath, and even dripping from her eyelashes — when James pulled alongside her. Still, he loved her, even with her ancient features obscured by half a pint of dick snot. Even with cum bubbles popping in her pie-hole as she smiled that toothless smile of recognition when James herded her into his car.

"I knew your daddy, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

"I used to watch you sniff my underwear while your daddy drilled me in the ass."

"Yeah, those were fun times."

He took the octogenarian whore back to the roach-infested tenement that she called home, reeking of urine and burning cocaine. She passed out on the mattress which sat naked in the center of the one-room apartment, and James turned to the pile of laundry on the other end of the room. He knelt down and rummaged through it for underwear.

He pulled silky, satiny, and cottony things from the piles of sweaty clothes and pressed them rapturously to his face. He dragged his tongue across the smooth folds of fabric in long luxurious strokes, wincing at the bitter, tangy cheese-and-horseradish taste of feminine discharge as he lapped up the crusty white stain from the crotch of her undergarments.

He closed his eyes and inhaled the heady pheromones wafting from the sweat stain around the waistband, the meaty whiff of steaming feces from the lumpy skid mark in the seat of the panties, and he tried to imagine her beautiful vagina leaking sluggish, sallow drips of yeast infection and venereal disease into her satin thong as diarrhea oozed from her loose, heavily-traveled rectum.

As he picked yet another pair of underwear from the pile (this one with a used maxi pad still stuck to it as if bandaging a copiously-bleeding wound) and began licking the bloody pulp from the cotton as if it was his last meal on earth, James thought of sliding his tongue between her flabby, mottled ass cheeks and into her dilated anus.

He looked over his shoulder. She appeared to have stopped breathing. Then he closed his eyes and remembered how sexy she'd been in her sixties. He'd love nothing more than eating the old whore's asshole.

James slid her skirt and thong off. She didn't stir. She had either passed out in a narcotic fugue or passed away completely. James was too preoccupied to check for a pulse. He knelt and put his tongue between her sagging butt cheeks, grinning from ear to ear. He was in heaven.

Along with the taste of Astroglide and chunky liquid excrement, he imagined tasting his own lineage, the sweat and semen of several generations of ancestors who'd ejaculated into her diseased bowels.

He could taste his grandfather's syphilitic penile drip like spoiled sour cream as he traced her puckered anus with the tip of his tongue, his great grandfather's juicy viral warts, the gangrenous tissue from his great uncle's running ulcers and chancres that had blossomed like bullet holes up and down the length of his rotting cock and smelled like death and raw sewage. His father's gonorrhea foamed out of her asshole in a thick curd like aged cottage cheese, and James eagerly consumed it all. Within her weathered anus lay decades of tradition — his birthright.

Even in his delusional state of romantic bliss, James realized right away that he might have picked the wrong asshole to eat. He stared down at those pale cheeks spangled with suppurating pimples. Bedsores leaked pus in virulent ooze that caught in the whore's ancient ass hairs and glistened like morning dew. The angry red outbreak of herpes blisters rupturing in a halo around the over-used asshole — stretched to the circumference of a soda can — erupted in an inflamed nest of blood and shit-slickened hemorrhoidal tissue, boiling up from her ass like a bunch of raspberries.

James's stomach reversed its flow. He regurgitated into her asshole, which funneled into the distended rectum like a flushing toilet. Then it promptly clenched tight and spat it back at him. The woman's saggy buttocks parted and released a spray of yellow vomit and liquid, brown offal in a deluge that rained down his face like a mudslide. He was in deep shit now.

After wiping his face as clean as he could with a pair of the whore's semen-stained nylons and regurgitating several more times, he finally worked up the nerve to try it again. As he neared the steaming mess of infection and disease, he tentatively stuck out his tongue and touched it to her anus. He pinched his nose and pushed his tongue deeper to the slippery wet warmth of that withered ass.

At that moment, he had discovered the true meaning of love: eating shit and calling it candy.

Alive

"…I shall greatly multiply thy sorrow and thy conception; In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children."

— Genesis 3:16

Fourth Place — 2005 Gross-Out Contest, New York City

Johnny was a cannibal with an insatiable appetite for human flesh… and he just happened to work at an abortion clinic.

Each night, he clawed his way through the red bio-waste bags, feeding on bits of ground and shredded meat from the piles of mangled fetal corpses; bloody hamburger spit out by the vacuum used to extract the unwanted parasites from their mothers. Their tiny pureed forms looked like chunks of dough covered in cranberries, or squashed cherries suspended in Ragu — like a watermelon pushed through a meat grinder. He gobbled it up in fistfuls, making a slurping and smacking sound as he greedily sucked down the stringy ropes of premature flesh that drooled from his goatee in bloody gobs, like a fat kid in a pie-eating contest.

Occasionally, he performed back-alley abortions for the local crackwhores using a wire hanger and a pair of tongs to remove fetuses, piece by piece from the diseased vaginas of their mothers — as late as eight or nine months into their pregnancies, when their bellies had gotten too big even for the perverted johns who liked their whores ready to drop. The babies came out in chunks that looked like red marshmallow melted over a campfire. Sometimes he wouldn't even wait until their mothers weren't looking before he plopped the chewy morsels into his mouth. If they would let him, he'd suck the afterbirth right out of their syphilitic cunts and chew it up in front of them. It was his greatest joy in the world.

Most nights, however, he contented himself with garbage.

The rubbery meat and stringy, sallow fat tissue tasted like veal or raw calamari as he slurped umbilical chords out of the strawberry pulp of afterbirth and amniotic goo like strips of overcooked linguine. He bit through skulls that burst in his mouth like over-ripe fruit and sucked out the jelly-like gray matter. He didn't mind the maggots swimming in the stew of flesh and blood any more than he did the other undulating vermin. He slurped them up as eagerly as he did the various limbs and organs floating in that pulp of blood pudding.

But today, there was something else in there… something moving. He could hear it chewing its way from the bottom of the bio-waste bag even as he ate his way from the top. Something in there was alive. Johnny scooped aside the diminutive body parts until he located one still writhing with the spark of life. It was little more than half a fetus; a torso and a head. Yet it was alive.

It growled and gnashed its teeth at Johnny as he stared in amazement and prepared to pop the mewling creature into his mouth. That's when Johnny noticed the entire bag was moving. Hands, feet, heads, disembodied organs, all undulating with life. He could even feel the half-digested remains he'd devoured crawling within him. He felt tiny teeth, feet, hands, fingers, toes, and parts he shuddered to describe scratching and biting their way back up his esophagus, struggling to be free. They were wriggling in the back of his throat.

He regurgitated coagulating blood and partially digested meat again and again, trying to rid himself of them. But he'd eaten so much. Pounds and pounds of undead fetuses that were now hideously alive.

Alive inside of him.

"In sorrow thou shalt bring forth children" the Lord commanded.

"Damn kids." A great roiling began in his loins. He doubled over with a nauseating agony that twisted in his guts like razors. A spray of fecal matter crawling with living abortions erupted from his asshole and slid down his pants legs. He watched a fingerless hand attached to the shoulders, neck, and head of some mongoloid Down Syndrome baby wave to him as the toothless face grinned up from the puddle of liquid excrement.

"I wouldn't give two shits for a damn kid." He crushed the thing with his boot, enjoying the satisfying pop of its malformed head as it ruptured against his heel like a balloon filled with Jell-O. But he did give a shit, and it would be his last as the rest of his resurrected dinner scampered out of his rectum, dragging along his entire intestinal track.

And just as the Old Testament had prophesized two millennia ago, Johnny screamed in agony and sorrow as he brought forth children.

Felching The Worm

Second Place — 2007 Gross-Out Contest, Toronto, Canada

The worst part about sucking a dead dog's ass is the maggots, and the hair, and the fact that they don't bathe, or use toilet paper, and after they've been dead for a while, they get all bloated and start to leak, especially in this heat. Now I know you're wondering why any motherfucker would want to suck a dog's ass, a dead one at that. mean, it ain't exactly sanitary; the putrescence that leaks out of these things is stupefying, smells like a portable toilet and tastes about as good. Just imagine licking maggots out of a public toilet and you can almost approximate what I was going through.

But you'd understand if the soul of your dead wife was trapped inside the rotting corpse of a Great Dane, and the only way you could set her spirit free was to suck it out through its ass.

Okay, I'm not sure that's true. That's what the voodoo priestess said, but she could have been fucking with me. The thing is, my wife always had a thing for getting her asshole eaten out and now that she's dead, it's only gotten worse. Man, she's insatiable! How'd she wind up with her soul stuck in a dead dog? It's a long story involving a voodoo priestess with a thing for getting gang-raped by Great Danes. None of my business normally, but she was also bi-sexual — tried to seduce the wife and family pet. I got pissed off and kicked a little ass. My dog wound up dead and my wife trapped in her body. I don't even want to talk about it. It's still a sensitive issue for me.

Thing is, she's no less sexually demanding now that she's roadkill than when she was a three hundred and fifty pound nymphomaniac with an addiction for the soul pole.

And I have to admit. I do miss my dog.

So what it amounts to is me with my lips pressed against Queenie's puckered anus while it oozes liquid feces, farts putrescent gases, and seethes with maggots wriggling across my tongue and into my moustache like a scene from Night of the Living Dead… only with house pets. Dingleberries of dried excrement dreadlock the matted hairs lining her furry buttocks. Festering bedsores and herpes blisters pockmarked her ass cheeks, the latter from a prostitute I'd hired who wasn't entirely candid about her sexual history.

From within her rectum, a hideous infestation of pinworms boil out of her asshole like a pot of overcooked rice… as I first discovered while thrusting balls deep into her bleeding anus, plundering her bowels. I have to have a little fun too, don't I? It isn't all about her needs.

Blood trickles from the torn mucus membranes lining her colon where I dug a tunnel through her, ripping her wide until rectum and vagina merged into one ragged hole, crawling with legions of worms — the same hole I am now licking like a bowl of cake batter.

Queenie did not make a sound, didn't so much as wag her tail as I plunged my tongue deeper into her bleeding, maggot-ridden anus. I rose for air and once again replaced my tongue with my turgid flesh, throbbing with an urgent erection. I know; it seems a bit weird that this shit turns me on. But I haven't fucked a single bitch since my wife's interment in this canine carcass and I was horny as hell.

I itched and squirmed as the riotous swarm of vermin migrated up my shaft, across my wrinkled scrotum, and into the dank moistness of my own ill-washed anus. Their corybantic undulations through my feces-flecked hemorrhoids sent shivers up my spine that drove me to the most violent orgasm I'd had in months.

I withdrew my exhausted organ from my inamorata's nether regions and stared in horrified awe at the sea of maggot-like parasites swimming through my semen as it spilled from her dilated asshole in thick custard-like dollops — squirming, squiggling life that dribbled down her ass-crack and plopped onto the floor.

"How much do I love her?" I grasped Queenie's tail once again and lifted it to reveal her anus, still slimed with gobs of coagulating man-juice and alive with a feverish colony of writhing pinworms.

"How far would I go for love?" I wondered.

Then, without another thought, I buried my face into her buttocks and wriggled my tongue into that unctuous, suppurating hole. And with a loud wet "SLUUUUUURP!" sucked her asshole clean worms, semen, blood and all.

I loved her that much. Dead or alive, she was still man's best friend.

Gigolo Crackwhore

Second Place — 2008 Gross-Out Contest, Salt Lake City

Antoine was a ninety-two-pound anorexic masochist… and the most popular crackwhore in the leper colony. His asshole had been stretched wide enough to pitch a baseball through by his long list of clients with cocks fattened by growths and lesions.

An overzealous back-alley proctologist had widened it further in an attempt to surgically remove his hemorrhoids that involved an apple corer and a filet knife, leaving his anus gouged out — raw and pink — like a half-eaten ruby-red grapefruit. The only plus was that the constant irritation of a prolapsed anus was now all but a memory. He could now take two cocks in the same hole without so much as a grunt. D.P. in a leper colony was no small feat.

Now, sex with Antoine was like stirring a bowl of chili with a toothpick. However, the sluggish, steady leak of excrement and semen from his distended, vandalized anus like a river of melted s'mores did little to detract from his charms.

"Come on, baby. Let's get to fuckin'!"

Antoine rolled his eyes and joined his septuagenarian trick on the bed.

His client, Mikey, was one of the oldest fuckers in the colony. At seventy-six, he had so much nerve damage from decades of leprosy, infected appendages that had been rotting for months with gangrene literally dropped off of him during sex. Luckily, Antoine was used to it.

Mikey popped two Viagaras and a heart pill and began stroking his misshapen cock to an erection. There was a wet chafing sound as sores and blisters ruptured, leaking blood and pus between his fingers while his palsied hand busied itself trying to raise the dead. Finally, his withered cock — which resembled some sort of wounded sea slug — began to stiffen and elongate in the old man's hand.

"Come on now, youngin,' suck my cock! Suck it like you love me!"

The ancient john's bulbous dick was festering with an advanced case of syphilis and the length of his member was pockmarked with raw, bleeding sores, blossoming like infected bullet holes and leaking a stream of clear liquid that smelled like last season's still-hidden Easter eggs. Syphilis had likewise rotted his nose off, leaving a ragged crater oozing snot over his mouth.

Mikey's eyelids blistered with a cranberry cluster of herpes sores, as did his anus and scrotum — resembling the inside of a pomegranate and swollen to the size of naval oranges. His mouth was so full of herpes that he could barely speak, and his tongue looked like some kind of pork rind. The few teeth that remained in his rotting maw were black with tartar and cratered with cavities from smoking meth and eating Twinkies. His breath smelled like he flossed with roadkill.

Antoine felt as if he were about to fuck something from a Brian Keene novel or a George Romero film. Mikey looked like he missed his own funeral, wandering around with his gangrenous erection and waiting for someone to take enough pity to cremate him.

Such was the state of politics in the colony that this old, perverted corpse was both the town mayor and the church's most respected member. Antoine had once given the diseased fossil a blowjob in the confessional booth. Afterward, he promptly washed his mouth out with holy water while stammering his "Our Fathers" and "Hail Marys."

Mikey had once been over six hundred pounds and, though he'd lost the weight, folds of loose, wrinkled skin hung in long, billowy sheets from his body, turning his arms into bat wings and his torso into a sagging avalanche of flesh. In order to get to the man's penis, Antoine had to lift the long flap of skin draping from Mikey's belly down to mid-thigh and duck under it like he was crawling beneath a blanket. The skin enveloped his head as if it had been submerged in a vat of flesh-toned taffy.

Antoine hyperventilated as the meaty perspiration and body heat created a stifling sauna, choking him with body odor and humidity. He struggled beneath the hood of skin, trying to move it aside, while gasping for air and growing more claustrophobic by the second. Finally, he tossed the skin to the side and sucked in a huge breath like a drowning man rising from the water, exposing the man's deformed organ to the light of day.

Antoine slid his mouth over the old leper's cock and felt herpes pustules exploding in his mouth like bloody zits. The organ unsheathed as he went down on it, the skin sloughing off like a used condom and gathering by the man's scrotum. As his mouth traveled back up the cock, the skin went with him, disengaging from the penis and slipping down Antoine's throat like a raw oyster.

Antoine had but three choices: spit, swallow, or gag. The fetid remainder of foreskin was usually not the substance in question when those alternatives arose.

He swallowed the lumps of flesh, trying to convince himself that it was some foreign delicacy that a millionaire would pay thousands of dollars to consume like caviar or blowfish. It did have the texture of raw calamari.

He continued fellating the man's swollen flesh, which was now naked of all skin and glistening an angry red — slickened with blood and saliva. His lips and tongue bounced over the herpes blisters and leprosy lesions as he took the decaying meat down his throat, sliding it past his tonsils with the practiced ease of a sword swallower.

The old fucker was now sitting up in bed, hunched over Antoine, hissing and wheezing as if on the verge of cardiac arrest and drooling on the top of Antoine's head as he tried to work. The man's lips had rotted off long ago, so he couldn't help the drooling or that perpetual idiotic grin. The ragged void where his nose had been was leaking dollops of snot that plopped out of his nasal cavity and onto Antoine's head, dribbling down his face as he continued his vain attempt to bring the nerve-damaged cock to orgasm.

Leprosy had deformed it with large tumors, giving it the look of a megalomorphic summer squash and making it feel like some sort of medieval French tickler as it thrust in and out of Antoine's throat. Antoine was trying hard to keep his mind on business when Mikey's left eye popped out of his skull and slid down Antoine's forehead.

A violent orgasm ripped through the geriatric leper, shooting a tacky, viscous stream of semen — thick and curdled like warm yogurt and seething with a cocktail of STDs and microscopic parasites — down Antoine's throat along with the misshapen gland of his cock, which popped off like a mushroom cap and lodged in Antoine's throat, clogging his air passage.

Mikey was quick, jumping up as Antoine began to turn blue, and clasping his hands around his waist from the back. He dug both fists into Antoine's stomach in a desperate Heimlich maneuver. Antoine had almost lost consciousness when several quick thrusts dislodged the head of Mikey's cock from his throat and shot it across the room in a spray of blood, saliva, and dick snot.

Mikey picked the head up off the floor. The thing was infected so badly with herpes, syphilis and gangrene that it was black and purple and smelled like a used diaper. He tossed it onto the bed next to Antoine, who was still trying to catch his breath, along with a twenty dollar bill.

"Keep the tip," he said, trying to lighten the mood.

Antoine glared back and then stuck out his tongue which fell out of his mouth onto the bedspread.

Hurting Him

I'd dreamt of hurting that fucker for over a decade. I knew now that he had a wife and child, a good job, house, car, and a dog. His happiness burned the lining of my stomach like lactic acid on a bleeding ulcer. It made me want to scream.

I wanted to cause him so much pain that he would curse the moment of his birth and the day the universe itself was authored. I wanted to see all the joys of life die in his eyes; the chords stand out in his neck as he expelled his agonized spirit into the void in a nerve-rending shriek. I wanted to drink deep of his suffering and grow fat off his misery.

Many nights I masturbated to the fantasy of his tortured flesh laid open beneath my blade, his bloated purple intestines boiling up out of the wound like a nest of eels, his blood splashing over my feet and squishing between my toes as it sprayed from a dozen lacerations. I'd shiver with orgasm as I imagined raping his pretty wife in front of him, and then I'd wipe my lonely seed from the hollow of my navel and imagine that it was the last drop of his life's blood.

I planned it all out in my head in lavish detail as I whipped my flesh into a frenzy. I imagined capturing him, chaining him up in my basement, and giving him a shot of morphine to slow his pulse so he wouldn't bleed out before I was done with him, to numb the pain just enough so he'd remain conscious while I introduced him to the death of a thousand cuts. Cauterizing each gouge, avulsion, or severed appendage with a Bunsen burner. I imagined keeping him alive for hours, hacking and sawing away at him. But then what?

Eventually, he'd be dead and my own pain would continue. What he'd done to me was impossible to avenge. He didn't just steal my girlfriend — my first love — use and discard her like a condom after he'd pumped it full of semen and wiped his ass with it. He stole my capacity to love and trust. He made me a monster. Love no longer meant joy to me. It meant inevitable loss and the unbearable pain that would follow. He stole the very beauty of life from me.

I needed to find a way to keep him alive and in misery for as long as I lived and suffered. I went online and scoured the dark sorcery and necro-sex sites.

There was no doubt that I'd find what I needed. There was a market for every perversion. Sure enough, on one site that featured graphic pictures of hairy, overweight men gang-raping corpses, I found the thing I needed to ensure that Paul would outlive my hatred.

It's amazing the things you can find on the Internet these days.

I took his wife first, in front of him. I let him watch her scream as I broke a 40 oz. bottle of Colt.45 off in her asshole. I shattered the end of it with a baseball bat after I'd shoved it in deep, lubricated with the blood from her savaged vagina. Jagged shards stuck out of her hemorrhoidal tissue, leaking blood down her thighs. Once she'd stopped screaming, I rammed the bat up there too, grinding the glass in deeper and bringing a fresh volley of screams. It was still nothing like what I'd done to her vagina. I'd gotten real creative there.

Paul had screamed, begged, cursed, and threatened as I lit the tiki torch and fucked his beautiful, redheaded, doe-eyed wife with it. I could barely hear his pathetic yammering over her wails.

"Aaaiiiieeee! God No! No! Noooooo! Don't! Heeeeeelp!!! Aaaaaargh!!!"

My, how she must have suffered. She bit right through her lip as her labia and pubic hair singed, shriveled, and fried like bacon. I had to burn them away first to get the thing in deeper. Then I took a steak knife and cored it out, cutting away all the burnt tissue, widening her cunt into a ragged, bloody hole that looked like the gutted remains of a half-eaten grapefruit, until the torch would fit.

Her stomach glowed red as I slid the torch inside her, and there was that peculiar boiling sound mixed with the smell of barbecued pork. Her screams gurgled out of her along with lungfuls of blood. They were so loud; I had to gag her with duct tape. They were drowning out Paul's screams. And those were the ones that I really wanted to hear.

Paul had met his wife in college. He'd strung Christine along the entire time he was courting the bride-to-be. He would shoot his vile semen down Christine's gullet only hours after sticking his oily little cock in his new girlfriend's ass. I knew. I was watching them. Sometimes, I thought he knew I was there, that he was performing for me… turning the knife. He knew I still loved Christine. He had to know that. And even as I glared through the window as she gagged on his shit-stained cock, I wanted her back.

He'd continued to see Christine for months, even after marrying his redheaded cunt of a wife, until Chrissy finally stood up for herself and left him for a bottle of Jack Daniels and a shotgun slug. They found her still sucking on the twin barrels with her brains dripping down the wall behind her. Bits of cranium and gray matter splattered the love letters she'd composed to Paul and never sent. He didn't even show up at her funeral. I know. I was there.

And now this cold-hearted fucker was crying for the woman he killed my beautiful Christine for.

"Fuck this bitch! She deserves to die!"

I shoved the torch deeper until I could smell her intestines cook. I use to love chitterlings when I was a kid. But I never could stand the smell.

The bitch's screams gargled out of her mouth in a scalding spray of boiling black blood. But it wasn't her screams I was listening to anymore. It was Paul's. They made my dick hard. And I would hear those screams forever. It was almost too good to be true. But I'd already tested it on his daughter, so I knew it would work.

His daughter still hung there, skinned and nearly filleted and decapitated, but alive. Bones stuck out through her glistening red meat and stringy sallow fat where I'd sawed away muscle tissue. Her flesh was flayed and sagging in a heap where I'd de-boned her. She whimpered, her eyes retaining a hint of awareness and intelligence as she writhed and convulsed in more pain than any human had ever lived through before.

The half-dead cheerleader was conscious of everything I was doing as I shoved my cock into her body — now little more than a squishy bag of blood-soaked pulp, ruptured and displaced organs, and loose skin. I wasn't even sure which orifice I was raping. Nothing was where it was supposed to be any longer. Her weepy eyes stared out at me from the hole I'd cut in her throat, and I'd pulled her tongue through her eye socket. The face is quite malleable once you remove the skull.

I had carefully made an incision from the jaw line to the top of her cranium, and I peeled the skin and muscle tissue from her skull before sticking my cock into what I assumed was her mouth. The blood made the boneless hole so wet that it felt just like pussy. I sped up my strokes, ramming my rigid flesh deeper as her lubricious, raw flesh and Paul's screams brought me closer to orgasm.

Even with her throat slit, the little cheerleader maintained a gag reflex, and she regurgitated when I slid my throbbing organ past her epiglottis into her lacerated esophagus. I felt vomit and bile rush by my penis even as I added my seed to it.

Her spineless body sagged into the widening puddle of blood, vomit, and semen, and I was amazed as I watched her heart continue to beat and her lungs inhale and exhale. She was still alive. And I'd keep her like that for a long time. She'd never die. The zombie potion worked.

Tetrodotoxin is a powerful drug harvested from a blowfish, mixed with opium leaves and a dozen other plants, most of which were native only to the forest mountains on the island of Haiti. It's been used for decades by island witchdoctors and voodoo priests to make zombies and is now available over the Internet, along with the precise formula for making the stuff.

If you were of that particular bent, you could find the formula on just about every necro site. Many of the freaks who got off on torture, dismemberment, and necrophilia paid good money for the promise of a woman who would continue to moan and squeal as they slammed their cock into her vivisected corpse; a woman who would still scream and beg for her life as you skull-fucked her again and again, night after night; who you could strangle and gut-fuck, cut off her titties, carve out her uterus, and ask her how it felt.

Paul's eyes looked wounded, injured to his soul as he stared at the ruin I'd made of his beloved wife and daughter and imagined what I had in store for him. I'm sure he believed that he no longer cared what happened to him now that his family had been destroyed. He was wrong, of course, and not just because he was an egocentric asshole. He could not even begin to fathom the pain I would put him through or how long it would last. The pain in his heart — watching his wife burn and bleed, his daughter being dismantled — was nothing like the physical pain I'd inflict upon him.

His expression of hopeless agony looked just like mine on the day Christine left me for that asshole. She was the first woman I'd ever loved. What I felt for her transcended life… and death. I had hated everything until the day I met her, and the world became anathema again the day she told me she was leaving me for my best friend. I held no anger towards her. She had been tricked and she knew that she'd made a mistake, now that she was dead. But Paul, I would hate forever.

It's been several dozen years since I made the first cut. Paul still screams every now and again. Not so much anymore, though. I think he's getting use to it. Every once in a while, I drag out his wife and daughter for a little fun, but even that doesn't seem to phase him. He still thinks he'll die, eventually. He thinks I will, too. He doesn't know yet that I also took the potion. He has no idea how long he's been chained up in my basement. I'm 186 years old now, and the hatred hasn't abated much. I still think of Christine. I picture her smile, hear her laughter, and feel her kisses on my lips. I can see her lying in her coffin with the back of her head filled with clay to patch the hole in her skull. The coroner did a great job. But I knew it was there.

I can still remember the day I walked into Paul's suburban house and pointed the shotgun in his face, the same one Chrissy killed herself with. He'd been so surprised, so frightened, and so filled with regret.

I remember how he'd begged for his life as I herded him and his family into my van and drove them to my little house in the Nevada desert, right at the foothills of Mount Charleston. The fear in his eyes as I forced them into the basement and made them chain each other up; I remember how he'd tried to bargain with me. How he'd made the mistake of telling me that Christine had never loved me, anyway, how she use to tell him about my pathetic attempts at lovemaking and laugh at my physical inadequacies. How he'd tried to take it all back when I ripped the clothes off his pretty young daughter and showed him just how potent I could be.

My fondest memories, of course, are of his pain. The lush tenor of his screams as I skinned his flaccid cock with an apple peeler and slid a condom on it filled with Ben Gay, and then forced his wife to fuck him with her vandalized cunt. They both wailed. But I refused to let them stop until they found a way to cum through the agony, threatening worse injury to them and their child if they disobeyed. Blood flowed from their entwined thighs in a steady stream as they chafed their wounds against one another.

I remember the succulent anguish oozing from his eyes the day I nailed his scrotum to the floor, and then opened it up to remove his testicles. I tied them to a string and dangled them around his neck where they hung for days until he'd gotten so hungry, he'd eaten them.

I remember watching the last vestiges of hope wink out of his eyes when I funneled battery acid into his asshole, followed by a tree branch spiked with penny nails. His ass actually clenched up as I ripped through it with the improvised dildo, lacerating internal organs. His skinless cock even got hard for a moment before I turned the Bunsen burner on and melted it down to a blackened stump.

I look at Paul now, a mass of rotting, charred, shredded, bruised, and battered meat, barely recognizable as having ever been human, and chuckle. He thought he'd never see me again after he laughed in my face when I'd caught him fucking Chrissy in the school bathroom. He thought I'd slink away and hide my head in the sand. But I'd finally found a way to hurt him as much as he'd hurt me that day.

I plan to live forever as his torturer. I scour Paul's body to find the last inch of unmarred flesh and twist it with pliers until he makes a slight moan of discomfort. He thinks there's nothing more I can do to him. He's wrong, of course. I go into the room and come back with a mirror. My withered old cock hardens as his screams fill my flesh.

No one is ever totally immune to suffering. And as long as it's possible to cause more pain, I will never stop hurting him.

Be sure to pick up the print edition of Sloppy Seconds for the insane introduction, "The Revenge of Wrathzilla" by Mark McLaughlin!