Like Porno for Psychos Read online

  Like Porno for Psychos

  Wrath James White

  "Violent, erotic, blasphemous, and extreme." -Fear Zone

  "Without apologies, White tears through your emotions, from sympathy to hate, humor to shock..." -Horror Web

  From a world-ending orgy to home liposuction. From the hidden desires of politicians to a woman with a fetish for lions. This is a place where necrophilia, self-mutilation, and murder are all roads to love. Like Porno for Psychos collects the most extreme erotic horror from the celebrated hardcore horror master. Wrath James White is your guide through sex, death, and the darkest desires of the heart.

  To Mom

  DEADITE PRESS BOOKS BY WRATH JAMES WHITE

  The Book of a Thousand Sins

  Population Zero

  His Pain

  Sex and Slaughter

  Like Peyote for Pimps

  Joy

  Kids

  Feeding Time

  Rottweiler

  Nothing Better to Do

  House Cleaning

  Fatter

  The Strange Lusts of Hypocrits

  After the Cure

  Make Love to Me

  How can you say I do not love you

  merely because I am destructive

  in the expression of my love?

  I love you

  as only the starving wolf

  can love the wounded deer

  with an obsessive adoration

  like physical hunger.

  It is to adore them forever

  uninterrupted

  that I would pinch off your eyelids

  to never be denied the spectacle

  of your wondrous eyes.

  It is to never see your lovely smile

  deceased from your face

  that I would pull up the corners

  of your full red lips

  and pin them to your cheeks.

  It is so your voluptuous breasts

  would never succumb to age or gravity

  that I would bind them in piano wire

  and anchor them to your throat.

  And so you would never forget

  the sensation of my mouth

  wet hot against the joining of your thighs

  and I

  never to forget the taste

  that I would cannibalize your sex

  savage your labia and clitoris

  with my teeth

  chew up into your ovaries.

  And how could mere malice

  or cowardly misogyny

  explain such an act?

  Only love can rationalize this madness

  this passion

  which even now brings the taste of your sex

  melting on my tongue like a sweet confection

  to my tastebuds

  and tears of the most profound joy

  to my adoring eyes.

  Cocoa’s face was covered in livid purple bruises. Her front teeth had been completely shattered and her nose was smeared across her face as if she’d gone twelve rounds with a heavyweight. Her neck bore the marks of ligature strangulation. The finger saw the perpetrator used to murder her was still embedded in her esophagus. A hideous gaping wound yawned open beneath her chin like a blood-soaked second smile. The serrated wire had cut straight through to her vertebrae, nearly decapitating her. Coagulated blood formed a tremendous pool all around her. Her tank top and miniskirt had been pulled up and her bra and panties were missing. One of her breasts looked like it had been chewed up. If G hadn’t paid for it himself, he’d never have been able to tell that her clothes were once white. G turned his head as shivers began to raise goosebumps all over his skin. That’s all he could stand to look at. The rest of the damage was just too horrible. He shoved the picture across the table, back toward the detective.

  “This is the second ho you’ve lost this week, Tyson. Is this how you protect your girls?”

  “Pimpin’ ain’t easy,” hissed the leather-clad, platinum and diamond bejeweled pimp in a voice that was low and raspy from too much alcohol and weed. It was one of those universally excepted truisms of the game, so self-evident as to hardly merit repeating. Tyson Price (better known as G-Town Slim) first heard the age-old axiom from the lips of his father. He would mutter it everyday in an exhausted sigh as he collapsed onto the lambskin leather couch and rolled himself a joint after kicking G’s mother out of the house to work the Boulevard for tricks. When G’s mother was murdered by a trick who gave her AIDS back in ’83, he remembers hearing his dad mutter those same words over her grave before sliding into the back of his block-long Lincoln Town Car with his new ho and disappearing from G’s life forever. G was only eight years old then. Almost two decades later, he was a mirror image of his dad.

  G-town Slim wore a full-length leather coat, a silk Armani shirt, and tight Hugo Boss jeans with a pair of snakeskin boots. His neck, ears, and wrist were iced with a sparkling platinum necklace hung with a six-inch crucifix, 2 Karat diamond earrings, and a diamond encrusted platinum Rolex from Jacob the jeweler. He made this detective’s monthly salary in one night on the streets. Still, he wished he could have traded places with him at that moment.

  The cop shoved the photo back at him, grabbing him by his soft brown dreadlocks and forcing his head down onto the table, rubbing his face into the photo, forcing him to look closer at the ruin done to Cocoa’s privates. Her vagina had been completely eaten away. Her murderer chewed away all her labia and clitoris leaving one ragged hole. He had completely cannibalized her sex. G-town threw up all over the desk.

  Pimpin’ ain’t easy. Some days however, were worse than others.

  The detectives let Tyson go. Apparently regurgitation wasn’t the common response of sex murderers when confronted with evidence of their crimes. Selena, one of G’s main money-makers, picked him up at the station in his money green Mercedes E-class. She immediately began chattering on about a new ultra slim smart-phone she wanted that did everything but suck dick and give handjobs. When her incessant squawking grew too much for him to tolerate, he quiteted her with a slap. The silence immediately rushed in and began to work his nerves even worse than Selena’s high-pitched whine. There were too many questions coiled like serpents within the quiet, waiting to strike and constrict. He could feel his lungs slowly crushing beneath their weight.

  He turned on the radio and blasted a frenetic hip-hop tune with indecipherable lyrics spit out like machine gun fire in an exaggerated southern drawl. It didn’t help. He could still see Cocoa’s battered and vandalized corpse in his mind, competing with the memory of her head banging against the roof of the Mercedes as he’d given her a little something to remember him by last night before putting her out on the stroll. He wasn’t concerned about his semen showing up inside her during the autopsy. He always used a condom. Besides, he never denied that she was his ho. It would be no surprise that he would have fucked her, but fucking a girl was a far cry from doing to her what he had seen in those pictures.

  G-town felt himself slipping into a depression as he recalled the image of his beautiful Cocoa, with her platinum blonde hair and smooth milk chocolate skin, ripped open and looted of her most valuable parts. Her lovely breasts with the big perky nipples like Hershey Kisses were still fresh in his mind, how they’d tasted the night before and how they’d appeared in that photo with one of the nipples bitten off. He reached under the seat and grabbed the bottle of French La Bleue, an imported French Absinthe, that he’d acquired a habit for at the last Player’s Ball in New Orleans. Almost choking, he took a long swig from the bottle and grimaced as the fiery green liquid burned its way down his throat. Then he lit up his “special” joint, a marijuana cigarette mixed with opium leaves. The same pimp who turned h
im onto La Bleue had turned him out on opium and weed. It was a high that made you never want to land.

  It was at the fifteenth annual Player’s Ball in New Orleans. An old pimp who called himself Hundred Dollar Bill and still maintained a stable of nearly thirty women introduced the exotic inhalant to him as they watched the whores compete in a striptease to see who was the best “Bottom Bitch” in the West. While naked prostitutes undulated on the floor and dry humped each other, Hundred Dollar Bill pulled out a fat sack of weed and another of dried opium leaves and began mixing the two together on a CD cover of James Brown’s greatest hits. He cut open a White Owl cigar with a switchblade, dumped the tobacco out into an ashtray, then rolled the opium and marijuana up in the cigar paper while extolling the virtues of the pungent cigar to G-Town.

  “Forget all that cocaine and heroine and ecstasy and junk. That stuff don’t do nothing but make you stupid. I mean, that’s all cool to impress the ladies, but this here is the bomb. This is the real pimp shit. Brother, this will put the ice in your game. How do you think I’m able to hold down a stable when I’m damned near sixty years old? Because I’m a visionary. It was my idea to start sellin’ pussy over the internet. This here is where I get my visions. The Native Americans have peyote, Timothy Leary introduced acid to the white boys, to the pimp, the spirits of our ancestors speak to us through the chronic. Now lace it with a little of this opium and the effects are ten-fold. Man, a couple hits of this and you can see eternity and it is sweet, my brother. It is so sweet.” He took a long draw on the over-stuffed joint and passed it to G-town.

  “Like peyote for pimps, huh?” G asked, as he turned it over in his hands.

  “Something like that, yeah. It helps a brotha see the truth beneath reality. See, cause that’s where a pimp lives—beneath reality, in its disease infected bowels. This here helps you negotiate through the sewers.”

  With only a modest stable of six girls, G-town deferred to the wisdom of his more successful elder and began indulging regularly of the hallucinogenic weed. He was hooked after the first night spent watching the room spin and whores twist and contort like images in a funhouse mirror. They wound up spending the night together. Retiring to a four-star hotel suite with the best hoes from their collective stables. For a man in his late fifties, the old pimp fucked like a teenager. He of course attributed his stamina to the weed. He said it made every experience more intense. Tonight however, all it seemed to do was make the horrible images of Cocoa’s savaged corpse more vivid, adding details to it that he hadn’t been aware of before. Like the way her eyes were half-lidded and a sly smile seemed to stretch across her bruised and battered face as if she’d just had a really good orgasm or smoked some bomb-ass weed herself.

  G pulled the Mercedes to a halt at the corner of Broad Street and Spruce where his other two whores were busy getting money. He gave Selena two tabs of xstasy and a long hit off his joint before kicking her out onto the sidewalk. They always felt special when he let them hit from his joint. He told each of his ladies that it was a privilege only granted to them and that he would kick the shit out of them if they told and made the other girls jealous. They knew he was full of shit, but they liked the way the weed made them feel when combined with the Xstasy. It almost made them want to fuck the sweaty, overweight, undesirables that lined up to punch their pathetic erections into the girl’s distended orifices each night.

  “Now go get my money, bitch,” G cooed affectionately, planting a long slow kiss on Selena’s lips and trying not to think of how many cocks she’d sucked with that mouth. Most women would do just about anything with their mouths that a trick paid them to do except kiss them. That was just too intimate. That was the one thing they reserved for their man and any pimp who refused to kiss his whores, no matter how many buckets of cum she’d sucked down that night, would soon find himself whoreless. It was one of the prices a playa had to pay to be part of the game.

  He tasted the minty flavor of mouthwash and was grateful that she’d remembered. All of his whores carried mouthwash and douche in their bags. The type of tricks who paid two hundred dollars an hour didn’t want to smell a woman’s profession on her breath or when she spread her legs.

  “You sure you don’t want me to take care of you first, Daddy? You look like you could use some of this good Puerto Rican pussy right now.”

  “All I want from you, bitch is two thousand dollars before sunrise. You hear me?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  G-town swallowed a capsule of X and watched Selena’s tight voluptuous ass bounce off down the street, enveloped in black leather. He felt his dick stiffen in his pants as he remembered how well she could work that miraculous calypigian.

  Maybe I could have used some of that fine Spanish pussy after all. He thought. Maybe busting a nut in her perfect ass would have cleared the cobwebs from his head and put some sunshine back into his thoughts. It was too late now. He would look weak to the other girls and they’d get jealous if he pulled her in off the boulevard for a quick fuck. He’d have to wait until the end of the night when she was done getting his paper.

  G sat there on the corner for nearly an hour, watching Selena and his two other hoes Yolanda and Tina turn tricks like they were born to the task. They always worked harder when they knew he was watching. He knew that if he wasn’t there they’d probably be slipping into the alley to smoke weed and snort coke or they’d spend an extra twenty minutes with some trick, telling him their fucking life story instead of giving him the pussy, getting his money, and getting the fuck back out on the stroll.

  He nearly finished an entire bottle of La Bleue as he watched his girls prey on the male sexual appetite to his economic advantage. It was a good night. The tricks were biting and G could almost see the dollars stacking up. Still, he was short two hoes now, and that meant less money no matter how you sliced it.

  As if it wasn’t hard enough for an honest pimp to earn a living, now he had this mess to deal with, some lunatic murdering his product. Fate wasn’t content to make his life miserable by having the cops bust his hoes just for standing on the corner too long or shaking them down for free pussy. It wasn’t bad enough that the other pimps were always trying to pull hoes from his stable. There were tricks raping, robbing and sometimes killing his moneymakers. Then there were the usual obstacles of hoes getting pregnant, drug addicted, falling in love with a trick or just getting so lazy he had to break his leg off in their ass on a regular basis just to keep his money from getting funny. And now there was something out there eating his bitches. This was the last thing that G-town needed.

  The night before they’d found his bottom bitch and main money-maker, Desiree’ “White Chocolate” Williams, with most of her female anatomy cannibalized and now Cocoa was gone too. G had tried to put a spin on it with his remaining girls to keep them from getting scared and running.

  “Now, I know y’all miss Desiree’. I’m gonna miss that bitch too. And not just for the four gees a night she was pullin’ down. She was the first hoe I pulled in this town and she’ll always have a special place in my heart. But she was too stuck on the cunnilingus. She probably tried to get some pimp to eat that sweet pussy of hers and he got mad and sicked a pit-bull on her ass or something. I done told ya’ll to steer clear of those other pimps. They catch you even looking at them and they’ll try to claim you. I know it’s a hard lesson, but y’all got to learn that pussy-eatin’ is for the tricks and the other hoes in the stable. Ain’t no pimp gonna go for that shit. Not even with his bottom hoe. Y’all bitches don’t know how well y’all got it with me. Man, there’s some hardcore gorilla pimps out there that’ll cut a bitch up just for talkin’ some shit like that.”

  It was obvious the girls accepted his explanation reluctantly, skeptical of his reasoning. But G-town knew that by the time they were ready to hit the stroll again, they would have convinced themselves that he was right. It was the only way they’d be able to face the streets and they had no choice in that matter. It was either th
e streets or the back of G-town’s hand. Of course, they didn’t know about Cocoa yet. They would trip when they found out another one of G’s girls had been eaten. And G-town knew something none of his girls knew yet, that Desiree’ and Cocoa had not been the only girls attacked by that lunatic.

  Cadillac Jim lost a girl just two nights ago. They found her with her breasts and snatch eaten away and her throat torn out. And Platinum K lost two of his hoes last weekend. They’d both been found with breasts, vagina, and buttocks completely consumed.

  But G-town couldn’t let any of that mess with his money. He had a 500 dollar a night cocaine habit and a taste for French La Bleue, fine clothes, expensive cars, and opium and marijuana that went into the tens of thousands. He couldn’t allow some pussy-hungry, psycho werewolf trick to stop the flow of Benjamins.

  G pulled another bottle of Absinthe from the glove compartment and began working on it. By the time the black van pulled up in front of Selena, G-town was somewhere over the rainbow.

  He didn’t know if it was the opium or the absinthe, but the man behind the wheel of the van had a face that seemed to morph in and out between a piranha and a gigantic vagina with teeth. He stared at the hideous thing as it beckoned to Selena and wondered why she would even consider getting into the car with a freak like that.

  Can’t she tell that pussy-face is the killer? The one who’s been eating whores out fuckin’ literally? That ho has no sense at all.

  G rolled down the window and shouted for her, but it was too late. She disappeared into the van and it sped off down the street. G-town started up the Mercedes and followed them. He couldn’t afford to lose another moneymaker.

  The van drove down Spruce Street, across Broad Street, and then made a left onto 11th and another left onto Walnut. It drove a few more blocks before coming to rest in an alley beside an old recently renovated Colonial row-home. They got out and the man’s face was that of a piranha again. Two other girls got out of the van with them. Apparently, one girl was not enough. The man had a big appetite. Still, Selena was the best looking of the bunch and the man seemed acutely aware of that fact.