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CHUM (Installment 3)
by Mark Spitzer (Continued from Cyber Corpse #4)

Hola Perverted Reader! And Welcome back to CHUM, the CORPSE'S most lamented piece in the CYBER CAFE, as well as last issue's most perused work (if it weren't for Tom Robbins), a FECKLESS novel soon to be published in its entirety by Zoland Books, a very brave publisher of respectable authors, willing to risk it all on SMUT like this!!!
     In our last installment (easily accessed by clicking above), Yann saved April and Nadine saved Yann who couldn't save Bubba who died in the storm. In this installment, murderous motives MUSHROOM toward an imminent and indulgent triangle of LUBED-UP LUST, soon to Nagasaki into a visceral Vesuvius of blood and guts, out of your computer and into your head!!!           

Chum IV

     Father O'Flugence prays for the people. This storm has been hard on the town, everyone is under stress. It's obscured the vision of his flock, as it has every year, and has added to their fear of each other. But he will forgive them, and work with them, and try to understand them--even though he knows the battle will be lost. Satan has landed on the island.
     But not in the form that Mother Kralik claims. Father O'Flugence is certain that the Devil could never invade such a heavenly creature as the young woman sleeping peacefully beside him.
     He gets up from his chair and looks at her driver's license again, which he found in her purse--complete with wallet, credit cards, checkbook, cosmetics, flaregun, and a few thousand dollars in cash--of which he only pinched a couple hundred bucks: "April Berger, California, 26-years old. Height: 5'9". Weight: 120 pounds. Organ donation: Yes." Father O'Flugence blesses her again.
     She is still out cold, due to a concussion, but at least she's bandaged now, and clean, and warm in his home. And in the hands of Sister Erma, who watches over her, and prays for her when he's not there. Sister Erma enters the room.
     "How is she father?" the squat nun asks.
     "She's getting better," he answers, "mumbling more and more. Did they find the doctor?"
     "Yes," Sister Erma replies, "He's dead."
     Father O'Flugence closes his eyes and lowers his head. The tempest has taken its toll. Already today he has held three funerals, and now he has to give another for that womanizing, no-good drunk Bubba Murphy, bless his soul. He shakes his head and opens his eyes.
     "God pity us," he tells the nun, and she nods back. They look at April fast asleep beneath a Mary Magdalene being raised by angels. April's blonde hair is everywhere, she has perfect skin, long lashes, and a healthy bosom.
     "Oh," the priest remembers, "any luck finding any clothes?"
     Sister Erma sighs, and turns away with embarrassment. "No father," she says, "I've been asking around, but none of the women seem to be very enthusiastic about donating anything. I'll try again later this evening."
     "Well," Father O'Flugence says, walking toward the door, "I'm sure something will turn up. But now I better go bury Mr. Murphy. Will you be alright?"
     "Oh, I'll be just fine," she says, "don't you worry. I'll keep my eye on her. She seems to be doing alright. Poor thing, she's probably just exhausted."
     Father O'Flugence forces a smile, and closes the door softly behind him. He descends the stairs, puts on his coat, and leaves the house.
     Outside, it is a whole different world. Despite the heavy drizzle soaking the dusk, chainsaws can be heard droning throughout the town. Hammering can also be heard, and the shouts of men lifting things. The streets are full of sand, and trees are down everywhere. There are fish on people's roofs, and sea-soaked gulls on the lawns. Luckily though, only a few people died in comparison to years before. This year, the destruction is mostly property. So far, that is.
     Father O'Flugence walks around the church and enters the graveyard. What's left of the Murphy family is gathered in black: Nadine, Widow Murphy, and Bubba's two retarded sisters. Yann is also there--all of them standing beneath the tarp strung above the freshly-dug grave.
     Father O'Flugence is impressed that Yann showed up when no one else from The Jezebel cared enough to brave the rain. But still, he's not surprised that Yann is there. Father O'Flugence has always fancied Yann a decent noble lad, and a handsome one at that.
     Ay, the old priest thinks, he'd make a fine husband for Nadine...
     Approaching the coffin, Father O'Flugence blesses Nadine once more in his head. All night long, and all morning too, he has been blessing this girl he thought would never amount to anything. But what she had done in the cave was a Godsend. He never knew she had such spine. To stand up to Mother Kralik was something even he couldn't do.
     Nadine nods at the priest, who solemnly ducks under the tarp. She wonders if the old dust-farter knows she slammed the door in Sister Erma's face. The nerve of that old holy hole, coming around and asking for clothes for that rich bitch! Let her buy her own stinking clothes to cover her fat-ass tits with...
     "Hello father," Nadine says respectfully.
     "Hello Nadine," he greets her, and then the other pallid faces. Widow Murphy does not nod back. The word is out that she has lost her mind, but Father O'Flugence knows it's just shock. A shock that's not uncommon on the island. She could emerge soon, or never at all.
     "Please join hands," Father O'Flugence says. He sees Nadine blush, but reach out for Yann. Yann, so it seems, is nervous, and looking a bit uncomfortable. His suit is too tight and his tie is too short. Nadine finds his hand and grips it.
     The six of them form a ring around Bubba's coffin, and Father O'Flugence starts in with the words he knows too well. He talks about what an outstanding citizen Bubba was, how he loved his daughter, his wife, and his crew, and how he will be missed by all. Secretly, however, he observes the mourners.
     Widow Murphy is staring straight ahead, with a look on her face like nobody's home. As for the retarded sisters, it's amazing they can even stand up without falling down, their expressions being exactly the same. Yann, on the other hand, appears sincerely downcast. And then there's Nadine, clenching his hand so tight that her knuckles have turned white. She keeps looking at Yann, but hardly ever at the casket.
     Then, after Father O'Flugence says everything, he signals the driver of the van, who brought Bubba's sisters from the home on the other side of the island. He comes and helps Yann lower the coffin into the pit, and then he takes the sisters away.
     Yann, however, stays to help Nadine and Father O'Flugence fill in the grave. Nadine's mother just stands there watching. After a while, flowers are laid on the mound.
     "God bless you," Father O'Flugence tells Nadine, repeating what he can't stop repeating these last few days. It's the popular phrase of the day, thanks to the storm. Empty embraces are exchanged, and then the priest walks off, escorting Widow Murphy home.
     Now Nadine and Yann are alone. She looks up at Yann, and Yann looks down at her. What she sees is one hunk of a man, bound by clothes, wet with sweat and rain. She'd like to stroke his head. He could suckle her and she could stare into the distance with a supplicating look on her face.
     What Yann sees, however, is a pathetic homely girl who's been deceived by her father, and he pities her. She has no clue that he has seen her naked. She doesn't even know that what she has is what he sees when he wakes up with a woody: that jet-black patch, that fleshy ass, those pert little tits--Man, what he would give to give them a lick!
     "Nadine," he asks, "why'd you do that in the cave?"
     "Because," she says, "they were gonna kick your ass, Yann."
     Yann and Nadine stand there for a while and listen to the rain. It is now much darker than before. The silence hangs in the air like a parlor-room fart, both of them pretending it doesn't exist.
     "Thanks," Yann eventually says.
     "Sure," she answers back.
     They are both staring at the mound of dirt that used to be her father. Then, after a while, Yann speaks again.
     "I just wanted to tell you," he says, "your dad was a... a... a swell..."
     "Cut the shit Yann," Nadine suddenly tells him, spinning on one foot, and glaring up and into his eyes. Yann gulps. The look she's giving him makes him want to piss.
     "I think I gotta go take a leak," he tells her, "I mean, umm..."
     She grabs him, pulls his head down, and jams her tongue inside his mouth. Yann can tell their lips don't fit. Between them, there is no magic whatsoever. What he feels is absolutely nothing. But still, he kisses back as Nadine makes out even harder, stabbing her tongue around in a frenzy, and digging her nails into his neck.
     "Owww!" Yann yells, and pulls back. "That hurts."
     "Oh!" Nadine exclaims, "I love you too!"
     Yann pretends he didn't hear what he just heard. This chick is delusional and he knows it. But still... he could get a piece. And then they could break up.
     Yann grabs Nadine and pulls her against him. They make out some more, his boner between them like an iron rod.
     "Are you hungry?" she finally asks, pulling back.
     "Yes," he says, faking a saintly dewy expression.
     She takes his hand and they walk down the hill together. He is hard and she is wet. Lightning flashes in the sky.

* * *

     April wakes up and stares through the room. This is not her place in L.A., this is somewhere else. There are shepherd scenes on the wall, and pictures of Jesus, Mary, Moses, the whole gang. Whose bed was she sleeping in now?
     The last thing she remembers is sailing out of Dutch Harbor. She was taking the producer of her next movie, Karl Ronson, up to see the ice-floes. It was a corporate deal. He got to watch her tits and ass, and she was allowed to write it off. She didn't like sleeping with the creep, but that's what she had to do to get the deal. Once the director signed on with Ronson, she'd be in for a seven-figure paycheck, but first she had to spread her legs. That's show business.
     Anyway, it wasn't all that bad. The guy got so drunk he could hardly get it up, the food was good, and the scenery superb. She'd be back in a week and on the set, and Ronson would be somewhere else, getting sucked off by some Hollywood whore.
     She, however, was not a whore! She was a damn hard worker, who other workers depended on: her agent, the director, a whole cast of actors, technicians, stuntmen, even the pimply key-grip. And if she didn't giggle and wiggle and jerk Ronson off, they'd all end up shooting porno--which is why she was chauffeuring him around in her private yacht, and letting him lick her award-winning tits. For the team.
     But where the hell was she now? April places a hand on her forehead and feels a bandage. Pressing on the bump beneath it, she winces. She hadn't had a crack on the head like that since she was thirteen, and learning to sail. The boom had swung in and knocked her off the deck. When they pulled her out, she was bleeding pretty bad, but still, was conscious enough to tell her father she'd get that boom back.
     And since then, she had, by conquering the winds. Not only had she sailed around the world by herself, but she had also sailed right into Hollywood where she starred on a popular television show, and then became a movie-star. Or rather, a multi-million-dollar corporation with big tits.
     April remembers sailing north of Nome, but that's about it. It started getting cold. Something was interfering with the weather channel. She was looking at the maps--that's it! Going through the Bering Strait, she figured she could ride the shoreline or cut straight up and avoid the traffic of tankers, so that's what she did. The wind was blowing good. She figured it would get them up there pretty quick. And the sooner the trip was over, the sooner she could start forgetting Ronson grunting from behind. What a loser! He could hardly get it in half the time.
     After he had his way with her that night, though, and she pretended that she liked it, April decided to sail until dawn. They'd get there in the morning, he'd take his pictures, she'd pretend she wasn't exhausted, and then they'd turn around and head back. So she put on a t-shirt, some bikini bottoms, and put a parka over that, and flicked on the running lights, sailing into the wind.
     April loved sailing at night, but this was not Tahiti. Setting her bead on the North Star, she switched the radio on, but all she got was static. Eventually though, she picked up a signal. It was old-fashioned Morse code: three long beeps followed by three short beeps, repeating over and over again. No doubt some kid messing around. She turned the radio off.
     Near dawn and past Cape Hope she started getting tired. Her ears were playing tricks on her. It was like there was a rumbling, but still there was nothing obscuring the stars. And it couldn't have been thunder, because the sky was clear as far as she could see.
     Then she heard a slight small thump against the bow, and then another. April turned the spotlight on. She was cutting through a current of birds. Dead birds. Seagulls. Hundreds of them. She shined the spotlight into the wind.
     And that's when she discovered that what she thought was the horizon was not the horizon--it was actually something above the horizon, along the horizon, and as black as the sea. And it was growing, and rising above her, and humming. Then she saw a flash, and felt the rain. She was sailing straight into it.
     Three seconds later, April was hit by hail. She was so surprised that she let out a squeal. A chunk hit her like a fist in the mouth. She couldn't believe it. Another one hit a porthole behind her and shattered the glass. The sails began to slap and snap. She had to come about.
     April ducked and spun the wheel. Bigger hail rained down on her back, pelting the parka. She'd have to get inside and sail it from there. Another chunk hit her in the head. She screamed.
     "What's going on up here?" Ronson asked, opening the door and sticking up his head. The boom swung down and hit him in the skull. April heard the crush of bone as he flew right out of his slippers and was flung into the sea. The rope caught, the sail filled, the jib expanded, and the boat took off wing-in-wing.
     April screamed again--but what could she do? She couldn't turn the boat back and into the eye of the wind, clipping along at 30 or 40 knots. Besides, he was already a quarter mile behind, with a smashed-in head, bobbing in her freezing wake. She'd never find him.
     BLAM! Thunder blasted right behind her. The hail had stopped, but the rain was just as furious. April looked over her shoulder and it hit her in the face like birdshot. Nevertheless, she covered her eyes and peered into the storm. There was a line of foam hovering above her. It was the crest of an enormous wave bearing down on her. She didn't even have time to don a life-jacket. The wave lifted the stern into the air, and the boat went vertical as she leapt into the icy waters. The next thing she knew, her parka was pulling her down, and she was struggling to unzip it. That's the last thing she remembered.
     "I'm alive," she hears herself say.
     "Thank God indeed," a kindly voice replies.
     April looks toward the door opening before her. A priest is standing there bearing flowers.
     "These are from some admirers," Father O'Flugence says--and she immediately directs him to put them by the window. It's a reflex reaction.
     "I knew you'd come to," Father O'Flugence tells her, smiling like a pervert. At least that's what April thinks at first. Never trust a priest--that was her motto. They don't just go for little boys...
     "Where am I?" she finds herself demanding, surprised at the snotty tone in her voice. "Alaska?"
     "Well," the priest says, "I guess you could say that. Your ship was caught in the storm. You washed up on an isolated island in the middle of nowhere. This is my home... my name is Father O'Flugence."
     "Well," April says, "did you find any other bodies?"
     "A man in pajamas?"
     "Yes, that's him."
     Father O'Flugence pauses, then answers slowly. "Yes, I heard he was found, but not in very good shape..."
     April's voice shudders. "He was dead... I saw the boom hit him in the head."
     Father O'Flugence looks at the floor. He speaks softly, lying: "His remains... have been buried."
     Both of them are silent for a while. Then April speaks up. "I need to make some phone calls."
     "Yes," he says, "but I want to send Sister Erma by to check on you first. She used to be a nurse."
     April nods, just to get the old guy out of her room.
     "I'll be back with some crumpets," he tells her, and turns toward the door.
     Crumpets, April thinks, what the hell is this place?...
     Father O'Flugence leaves, and April immediately throws off the covers to see what she is wearing. It's a blasé floral smock. If that asshole touched her...
     April sits up and tries out her limbs. Everything still works. How she survived in that water, she'll never know. She wonders if she experienced any brain-damage, then stands up, feeling weak, but strong enough to go to the flowers. No card. Typical. April looks out the window.
     Outside, a quaint little town is coming alive. People are out and working in their yards. Simple folk, with simple clothes and simple tools. Grandmas, Grampas, bearded men. And cats! There are cats all over the place: lazing in the morning sun, licking paws, climbing trees, rolling in the grass.
     April always wanted a cat, but has always been so busy jetsetting that if she ever got one, she'd have to leave it with her mother--and then that cat would become her mother's, not hers. She opens the window.
     "Hi cats," April sings to them, "hi there, hello, yoo hoo."
     An old man and an old woman look up from collecting sticks. The old woman immediately looks away, but the old man stands transfixed. To April, this is not uncommon. He probably saw her on Baywatch.
     Two knocks sound on the door. "Come in," April says, jumping back into bed. A nun walks in, smiling like an idiot, holding a bundle of something.
     "I see you're feeling better dear," Sister Erma says, and approaches. "How do you feel?"
     "Great," April says, faking it.
     Sister Erma peers in April's eyes, then asks her to stick out her tongue. She does it.
     "You look fine to me," Sister Erma says. "I wish we could send our doctor up, but he's in heaven now."
     "I'm sorry," April lies.
     "Well," the nun says, placing the bundle on the bed, "I have some clothes here for you. I apologize that they aren't what's in fashion these days, but there is a very uncharitable streak on the island at the moment. But you must understand, the storm wreaked havoc upon us all, and it takes a while to recover..."
     April unwraps the bundle. It's a nun's outfit.
     "It belonged to Sister Stephanie. I think it will fit you," Sister Erma says. "She's in heaven too."
     April laughs, pretending to have heard Sister Erma. The idea of dressing up in nun duds is pretty hilarious to her. Only in Hollywood...
     Sister Erma is aghast that April would laugh at Sister Stephanie's death. However, she realizes that the poor little lamb has lost her way, and like the people of the town, is no doubt under stress.
     "Your underwear is over on the dresser," Sister Erma says, "I had them cleaned, but I'm still looking for more clothes for you. For now, at least, you're welcome to wear these. Maybe a ship will bring something in."
     "Thank you sister," April says, "I really appreciate it."
     Sister Erma goes out, and April automatically reaches for the remote control. It takes her a few seconds to realize there isn't even a TV in her room. Not even a phone.
     After crumpets, April goes out sans habit, the sexiest nun in town. She swivels her hips, and breathes in the fresh fish-air. This place is just too much, she thinks, and nods at people on her walk. She is ecstatic to be alive.
     Down at the docks, she looks for a pay-phone. They didn't even have one at that backwards-ass country church. She finally locates one--but hesitates. What's she going to do? Call up her mother and tell her she's alright. Yes. And then what? Call up Larry, her agent, and tell him that Ronson is dead? Call the police? Call Entertainment Tonight? Go back to Hollywood and strut her stuff? Suck cock? Take it in the ass?
     "Fuck that!" April says, and decides to wait a bit. She's a millionaire, she can do whatever she pleases--and what she wants to do is check out this town where chance has landed her.
     April walks out on the dock. Men are loading and unloading nets. A one-eyed fisherman smiles like an angel at her and she nods back. All the men are gentlemen, eyes wide, jaws agape. No doubt, they'd never seen a 42-inch bust in a nun-dress before, except of the old, fat, saggy variety.
     But anyway, their politeness is enchanting. They take off their hats and gaze into her eyes, greeting her with "Mornin' M'am" and "Nice day, eh?" And no flashbulbs go off in her face. And no lipstick mouths shove microphones at her. And no one wants an autograph. She's free!
     April sighs, and walks to the end of the dock where a kid is playing with a kitten. He's wearing a t-shirt that's too big for him.
     "Hello kitty," April addresses the cat. It's a small yellow kitten with white paws, almost too young to be on its own.
     The kid spins around with a genuine grin affixed to his face. "Hey, ain't you that lady?"
     "What lady is that?" April asks, kneeling down to pet the cat.
     "That washed up on the beach," the kid says.
     "Yes," April laughs, "I suppose that would be me."
     "You a nun?" the kid asks, squinting.
     "I guess I am," April says, "at the moment."
     They both regard the cat, batting at its tail.
     "My mom says I gotta get rid of it," the kid says, "its mom died in the storm."
     "There seems to be a lot of that going around," April smiles.
     "Yeah," the kid says.
     April picks up the cat. It nuzzles a breast and starts to purr.
     "But what will you do with it?" she asks.
     "I dunno... ice it."
     "Oh... you're kidding."
     The kid shrugs.
     "I'll take this kitty," April tells him.
     "Gee lady, like... thanks!"
     April stands up and walks away with her new cat, holding it against her chest. She talks to it as she walks: "Hi kitty... you're a cute little kitty. Oh yes you are. You're a cat, yes you are. Do you like me? Well I love you, yes I do!"
     At the end of the dock, April turns and walks toward the market. "You're a good kitty, oh yes. Good kitty, good kitty. Now you're my kitty, yes you are."      
     She walks by Mother Kralik who is smoking cigs with a couple deformed seahags. April doesn't even look up, but just keeps going, tickling the kitten. Mother Kralik scowls and mutters something muffled.
     April keeps talking to the cat. "Do you like it here kitty? I like it here. It's so laid back... so relaxed. And beautiful. Who needs L.A.? Who needs it? Do you want to stay here kitty? Huh, do you? I bet you do..."
     The old women watch as April disappears into the distance, swishing her ass like a floozy. The fishermen, though, watch her with reverence. A goddess is among them.
     Then Nadine appears, coming down the hill, leading her catatonic mother. They are walking toward the market, and Nadine is trying to talk to her mother. But her mother still won't answer her.
     Somewhere in the harbor, a foghorn blows. The smell of rotten fish floats up from the sand, rank enough to make a hound gag. April, however, is upwind of the smell.

     Chum VI

     Smoking cigs and chewing tobacco, the women stand in front of the junkstore known as Mother Kralik's Antiques, which is closed for the season. It is late in the morning on a Saturday.
     "Look," the old crone tells them, "if something doesn't happen soon, it'll be our ass! She'll bring in the feds, the world will know what we've done. I say we better do her like we did him, like we did all of them!"
     Grunts of approval are vented from the women. Hairy moles and plaque-ridden teeth nod in agreement.
     Mother Kralik is referring to the half-eaten man they found on the beach wearing pajamas. The sand-fleas had gotten him, but still, he had a wristwatch on, and a whole bunch of rings--which the hags knew would be worth a pretty penny to the Russians. So they cut the fingers off and removed the Rolex. Then did with him what they did to the Canadians the year before, and everyone that's ever washed up on their sand, compliments of God.
     So far, it had worked pretty well. It didn't really matter what went into the mix, because the grinder ground it all into an indistinguishable mush. Shark, doll-porpoise, cod--the Japanese didn't give a rat's ass. They were under contract, so came for their dogfood every month.
     "Did you see the way she was poo-pooing that cat!?" a semi-retarded fish-wife asks. "She must think her shit don't stink."
     "That's right!" Mother Kralik agrees, "and did you see the way all the men pretended to be perfect gentlemen? Makes me sick!"
     "Precious little cunt!" another hag puts in.
     "Pretty little pussy!" another one scoffs.
     Then Nadine comes walking up, leading her mother. They walk toward the women and stop. Nadine has a smarmy grin on her face--like she just got laid or something.
     "Well, well, well," Mother Kralik says, picking at the blood clot in her nose, "if it isn't the little bitch who struck me the other day. Have you come to beg my forgiveness?"
     "Oh," Nadine cockily says, "I forgot all about that."
     Mother Kralik sneers, and holds down the rising tirade in her throat.
     "Okay Maw," Nadine says, "here you are. I'll be back for you in a bit."
     Nadine leaves her mother with her companions, and walks off humming. She is heading to the market.
     "Want a cig?" Mother Kralik asks Widow Murphy.
     Widow Murphy nods. It's the first acknowledgement she's given anyone, of having heard anything anyone's said, since her husband died. Mother Kralik places the cig between her lips, and lights it for her. They all watch Nadine go into the market.
     "Little whore," Mother Kralik says, "she sure has copped an attitude. She's got something coming!"
     All the women nod and spit.
     Nadine walks past bins of crab, oysters, and illegal salmon. She stops at the sea cucumbers and smiles two rows of almost straight teeth. Reaching into the bin, she removes the largest, squishiest one, and fondles it.
     Yeah, she thinks, she can still feel the cum dripping down her leg.
     Actually though, it isn't semen, it's her own excitement because she's still horny and generating juices. Already, Nadine believes she is preggie.
     After the funeral, they had gone back to her trailer where Nadine started cooking dinner, and her mother and Yann just sat there. She was making macaroni and cheese. As they waited for the water to boil, she excused herself, went into the bedroom, and slopped on way too much make-up. When she came out the water was boiling. She saw how Yann noticed her transformation, and mistook the shock on his face for her dazzling effect. Dinner was served.
     "Have some macaroni and cheese," Nadine said to her mother, shoving the bowl across the table. But her mother just glared at her, and then at Yann. They all sat there for an awkward three minutes, no one saying nothing. Then her mother took her hand and stuck it right into the macaroni and cheese. Like a monkey flinging shit, she then grabbed a handful and threw it right in Nadine's face, staining much of her make-up with orange food coloring.
     Again, the three of them sat there not saying nothing. Eventually though, her mother got up, went into her bedroom, and slammed the door behind her. Both Yann and Nadine breathed a sigh of relief.
     "Gosh," Yann said, reaching over to pick some noodles off her shoulder, "that was, ummm... intense."
     Nadine looked like she was about to cry. She didn't even try to wipe the sauce off her face. Yann, however, took his napkin and started cleaning her off. Every time he went for a drip, he'd remove a layer of skin-colored base.
     "Maybe I just oughta go," he told her nervously.
     "No," she said, and made him stay in his seat, holding him there with her eyes. Yann tried to make conversation.
     "So... ummm... when's the last time she spoke?
     "Day he died."
     "Maybe that was a bad question..."
     "No it wasn't," Nadine told him, "it was real."
     "Some questions are better off left unasked," he said. The conversation was going pretty good.
     "If it's there," Nadine said, "why pretend it's not? It's dumb to pretend that something there ain't there if it's there."
     Nadine didn't answer. She lit up a cig and blew out a big plume of smoke. They watched it linger in the air. Neither of them felt much like eating.
     "Okay," Yann finally said, "if something's there, and it's real, and it's dumb to pretend it's not there... then maybe we should talk about what you're thinking... and what I'm thinking... cuz, I mean, let's face it, ummm..."
     "Keep going Yann."
     "Like... it's there, which is why we're here, cuz, you know... do you know what I'm saying?"
     Nadine blew a smoke-ring out and it floated toward his face.
     "Say it Yann."
     "Why me? Why not you?"
     "Okay," Nadine said, "Fuckin'! That's what we're talking about, ain't it? Fuckin'!"
     Yann suddenly felt sick. He didn't want to be talking to her about this. There were plenty other dark triangles. The way she put it made it seem so crude, even though that was why he was there--because he was afraid of going to a whore. He shoved his macaroni away.
     "Ain't it?" Nadine pressed on. "Ain't that why you're here? Or are you really hungry?"
     "I'm not hungry anymore."
     Nadine felt Yann slipping away. He was looking everywhere else in the room other than in her direction. She saw him swallow hard. She had to act fast.
     Standing up, she shoved the table over. Macaroni and cheese, dishes, glasses, and silverware went crashing to the floor. Yann looked up at her with a combination of astonishment and fear. Was she going psycho?
     Now there was no table between them. Nadine took a step toward him, then suddenly sat down on his lap facing him.
     "Uhh... I don't know about this," Yann said.
     "Shut the fuck up Yann," she said, yanking his head back. She went to town licking his neck, thinking this would turn him on. But in his pants, his dick was shriveling up.
     Nadine moved forward, positioning her big wet muff right on top of his crotch. She wasn't wearing any underwear. Nadine never wore underwear. All underwear ever did for her was collect skidmarks.
     Her pussy began to squish around. She started thrusting it up and down, all the while cramming his head into her breasts. Yann started making some sort of feeble attempt at biting at her nipples through her dress. Then she felt his hands on her ass--her bare ass. Yann had ventured under her skirt and was gripping a butt cheek in both hands.
     It felt like forever, grinding against him, until he finally got an erection. The moment he touched her asshole, though, she felt his dick leap beneath her. Nadine started rubbing harder, as Yann poised a finger on her sphincter.
     "Oh Yann," she cried, "I want you to fuck me so hard you rip my cunt wide open."
     Yann's dick started to get soft.
     "Don't talk," he told her, and slipped his finger in a bit. Why he was doing this, she didn't know. Maybe he was a fudge-man. But she acted like she liked it, and after a few more minutes of grinding against him, she actually did. She thought about telling him to shove his finger even further up her poop-chute, but decided not to. Maybe her voice would remind him who he was with, and then he'd lose his boner, which was now a full and furious hard-on.
     Nadine felt her anus tingle. She felt like she had to take a crap, but kept on thrusting anyway. Yann had worked a tit out of her blouse and practically had the whole thing in his mouth. She reached down and unzipped his pants and his cock sprang out, long and curvy, throbbing healthy--not pale and dinky like her father's. Nadine gasped. She had to have that thing inside her.
     All it took was a lift of her hip. When she brought it back down, Yann's cock was way up inside her, touching a part of her that even her finger couldn't reach. The only thing that had ever gone that far inside her before was a Coke bottle inserted by Mother Kralik. And Yann's cock, of course, felt a whole lot better than that. She felt something like melty butter oozing through her. Immediately, her loins began to quiver.
     Yann took his finger out of her bunghole and grasped both buttocks in his hands. He started raising her and lowering her, but she needed it faster. A couple seconds later she was bouncing up and down on his dick. Every time she descended, he'd spank her buns back into the air. Things were rushing hot within her. Nadine felt her skin go clammy. She was about to come for the first time in her life without jerking off.
     Yann pulled out and shot his wad. Nadine opened her eyes and saw him leaning back and slowing down. The whole ordeal only lasted thirty seconds. Her vision blazed white-hot, the fucker! She grabbed his wet cock and tried to jam it back inside.
     "No," Yann said, suddenly opening his eyes, "it's got jizz on it. You might get--"
     "So what!?" Nadine snapped, and Yann immediately went limp. Nevertheless, she tried to get it back in. She weaseled in the head, but Yann wouldn't have it. He tossed her off his lap, stood up, zipped up, grabbed his coat, and ran into the rain. The door banged behind him.
     Spread-eagle on the linoleum, her skirt hitched up, Nadine looked up at the fluorescent light flickering above, and stared at it until all she saw was one vast burst of purple. She placed her hand on her stomach, felt a jab of gas, and imagined it was a tiny kick. Then she smiled a dreamy smile that lasted all night and into the following day.
     "Until we meet again my handsome stud," she said to the all-consuming purpleness, "You fucked me good, you fucked me good..."

     Ahoy Feculent Reader!!! Tune in next time to see Nadine's pathetic pursuit of Yann--as the tension MOUNTS, as the jealousy SWELLS, as stuck-up April settles her SWEET ASS on the island with her eye on young & studly Yann. See Nadine jack off! See April Jack off! See them all JACK OFF together (but apart)!! And see the PORNOGRAPHIC ruin it all leads to!! As we all jack off together to CHUM!!!


Collected Poems of Georges Bataille
Bottom Feeder

Motorhead and Notch of the Sorceress (send 5$ for each title to MuscleHead Press, 3700 County Rd. Route 24, Russell, NY, 13684).

Email: spitzer@corpse.org

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