Sloppy Seconds Read online

  Sloppy Seconds

  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

  Cover art Copyright 2008 Mark McLaughlin

  "Hurting Him" first appeared in the Brutal Tales e-zine

  SKULLVINES PRESS

  skullvines.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author and publisher.

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  Table of Contents

  Sloppy Seconds - In Retrospect

  Morbid Obesity

  Panty Pudding

  Alive

  Felching the Worm

  Crackwhore Gigolo

  Hurting Him

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  Sloppy Seconds - In Retrospect

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  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 to
p 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!

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  Morbid Obesity

  Second Place - 2002 Gross-Out Contest, Chicago

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  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.

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  Panty Pudding

  Second Place - 2003 Gross-Out Contest, Kansas City

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  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, ambul
ances, 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.