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By Mike Philbin
Saturday, September 22, 2001
Rated "R" by the Author.
Man meets old friend and is taken on a supernatural trip of London.
It was hot and humid, the day of our reunion in central London. The balmy air was pressing my damp undergarments to my flesh. I had not long since that day terminated my employ at the dank and dreary broom cupboard offices of the District Surveyors in Clerkenwell. My immediate superior and I having exchanged a few choice phrases as I was manhandled to the front door by security. It was there on the door step of the District Surveyors Office like a stroke of genius luck that I happened across an old acquaintance from my studious schooldays as a hardened boarder at Brighton Grammar School. As I remember it, a minor paradise of calculus and cock sucking.
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‘FoxHead?!?’ the mystery figure had hailed from across the tumultuous street, thick with groaning tyke-hauled barrows laden with tubs of donkey-lard en route to Farringdon Station and all points North.
Initially, as I recall, I had quickened my pace somewhat and pulled the bowler down over my eyes. Perchance my addressor was a debt collector or spurned husband intent on sweet revenge after my name popped out at the flashpoint of some matrimonial arraignment I was hitherto unaware of.
Then suddenly, realizing FoxHead was a name with which I had not been associated since the days of my youth, I halted abruptly and turned to face my hailer.
He was a tall fellow; gangly looking as he skipped a loping stride through the perilous wheels and negotiated his navy woolen cape in the after tow. Conscientious to keep his footing on the uneven, ill-maintained and horse-shit slick old cobbled road.
‘FoxHead, it is you!’ his taut face beamed.
I must have been wearing a serious face, for he laughed aloud, tossing back his head in his customary flamboyant way. A way that negated further personal interrogation.
‘Gleeson.’ I was sure of it.
He came in quick and nimble, taking me in his arms. Squeezing the wind out of me. We laughed like thoroughbred lunatics for the better part of a minute. Passers-by forcing sheepish grins at our mad display.
‘But my, how you’ve grown’ I commented upon this upright, athletic man who had once been a soft, fleshy lad.
‘Chest High.’ he broke free, masturbating air.
‘Foolish man … I mean, your… you were always such a …’
‘Shrimp, they called him. He was a thimble of urine. Cheeks like peaches.’ he mad a fat face.
‘Indeed. Where did it all go?’
‘The weight? Fucked it off, let me tell you!’ he bawled as a fragile femme glided coyly by. To my shame I laughed. He laughed louder, as always. It was only when I regained my composure that I recognized the look of effete dread in Gleeson's eyes.
‘Easy now…’ I remarked, ‘What could so grieve one so mercurial of nature as your good self?’
Gleeson suddenly and inexplicably formed a big wide grin all the way across his vulpine face from ear to ear, a supernatural feat of physiognomy.
‘I seem to have stumbled upon a purgative for the amoral soul the likes of which few mortal men have sampled. Food of the Gods, my man. And of their darker halves, no doubt…’
‘In plain English?’
‘Like a fucking eggshell, man.’ he giggled unrestrainedly, ‘Feet the size of Tiger Prawns. The future. Oranges and Cinnamon…’
‘Wait, wait …’ I tried to calm him. At length his mania subsided.
‘You’re not on business of any sort?’ he asked, anxiously refering to his pocket watch.
‘No, actually, I have just re…’
He held out his white gloved hand attracting the attention of a lazing rickshaw puller who puffed and panted his way round the spine-shattering helter skelter of the seedier parts of town. It felt decidedly darker now as if more of the day had passed than I remembered.
We pulled up at the gated entrance to a large town house set back from the main drag aways. Gleeson flipped a column of punched out florins at the wheezing shaw-punk,’Ey up, Nutcracker, away and fetch some choice bones for yer good lady wife. Now, FoxHead, shall we dine?’ With an undersea glance, he ushered me down into the sewer which ran along by the rickshaw’s lead-rimmed wooden wheels, blind to both the stench and depth of the effluent he was ankle deep in. ‘Come. Hurry.’
Taking his gloved hand, I stepped down into this slaking ordure. A tingle of fear shot through me as at first I thought I had lost my footing. But Gleeson adjusted his hold, clenching my wrist so that it threatened to snap, and guided me to the pavement.
With the rickshaw making a suspiciously hasty exit and me scraping what-ever-the-hell it was from my only presentable pair of shoes, Gleeson busied himself with the bell built into the marble column gateposts.
‘Battleships lost at sea.’ he drooled, ‘Don’t look so terrified, wee FoxHead. Anyone would think this was your first time on hallowed ground.’
I guess he had already clocked the dread in my eyes. Of course, I denied the insinuation outright, ‘ How dare one be so bold!’
‘Yes, siree!’ he punched my left shoulder. From the distance, a crumpled-over figure carrying a feeble lantern made his funereal way down the gravel path. It was like watching an old, old spider corner his last supper.
‘Doctor White.’ the lantern carrier addressed my school chum, ‘How kind of you to greet us with your distinguished presence.’
‘Doctor?’ I asked as the wretch wrestled with the cumbersome gate.
‘Duke, this is my very hairswidth friend, Vincent Lavender – FoxHead, as he is to be addressed.’ Gleeson introduced me.
‘Always a privilege, FoxHead.’ he extended a tobacco stained, arthritis ridden claw, which I shook tentatively.
‘Now…’ Gleeson gathered me under his wing, ‘this here is the Duke of NFY. That’s what the cognoscenti call this place, you know, NFY, that’s New Fucking York.’ and once again, he roared with laughter.
Inside the brothel, I was met by such unrestrained sights of carnality as of some demonic debauch in honor of Satan himself. My office clothes, soiled and sticky as they were, were quickly peeled from me by a trio of naked ladies wearing false pigheads; grunting with swinish mud-swilling pleasure at my approaching nudity. Gleeson watching bemused as I valiantly clutched at my socks and gaiters.
Men. Women. Children (or dwarves). Pets. Shaven of all body hair. Indulging in such vile acts of degradation that it turns my stomach to think of it, even now.
With Gleeson as my lowly sherpa guide, I was shown more of this establishment’s lurid clientele and voracious low-life acts.
A paneled corridor of screaming doors. One lay slightly ajar. Inside, I spied a crowd of baying gentry on their knees before a baited grizzly-bear cub that was being set upon by seven naked little girls. They wore Chinese finger hooks and Korean razor belts. Their exhausted sobs eaten up by the viewing rabble. Their white bodies torn here and there by the sharpened claws of the grizzly cub. Their breastlets ripped into tattered grins. Their bald heads tattooed with obscure calligraphy that looked neither Arabic nor Egyptian. The girls performed like dancers with tired blood-red-pudenda legs lifts, urinating firefly green when they were inadvertently caught in the cub’s malicious grip.
‘Piquant.’, Gleeson led us on. Past more doors, locked to their atrocities. Four doors from the end, on the left, Gleeson bade me enter.
I remember standing there in my socks and gaiters, physically shaking, afeared to move, nailed to the paneled floor.
Inside the spacious boudoir, soft lit violet, was a luxuriant double divan dressed in jaune silks, adorned with scatter pillows of the same fabric. There was a pungent claustrophobia to the air as you might find in a herbalists or in the fish market of a scorching afternoon. Gleeson closed the oaken door firmly behind us.
I just looked at him, horrified.
‘I’ll take that as a Yes, then, shall I?’
My palms were wet with perspiration, as was my upper lip. A family trait that, the wet upper lip.
The oaken door swung open, startling me so that I let out a shout that made Gleeson drop the decanter he was emptying into two large crystal tumblers. Like autumn leaves swept along by a stiff breeze, the naked trio of pig headed whores who had so nicely stripped me. Their regimented manner haunts me still.
They shooed Gleeson away from his cursing and onto the bed, laying him out beside me. I had not, at first, protested at their orders, nor had I noticed that as well as the pig heads they wore, their breasts, large and white and round as I remember them, had been transplanted with baaing heads of ewe. Amazing parlour trick, I thought at the time.
Time seemed to linger idly by, like a bellboy impatiently awaiting his tip.
One of our hostesses had cleaned up the mess, she returned warped moments later with a silver tray upon which were artistically arranged a selection of foreign fruits and spices. Meanwhile, the remaining `femmes serviles’ had soapy chamois leather gloved Gleeson and myself to a suitable stretch of arousal.
‘Fucking amoeboid.’ Gleeson glimmered, his second favorite face, I do declare.
‘How’s that?’ I found myself less and less able to grasp his rapidly thickening dialect.
‘Cat smooth. Egg shell slippery.’ he grasped at the porcine face of his masturbatrix and slobbered luridly into her snuffling snout. Pulling away his bright face wet with pigspit and taking with his front teeth a fruit segment proffered by the third maiden.
My hand maiden oinking riotously while she wanked at full speed. The room had become a farmyard clamor and, I believe, it was at this point in the farce that I really began to panic.
My oinking hand maiden went down on me with her disgusting pigmouth. I could feel the tiny pigteeth behind the hairy rubbery lips, the coarse pork tongue working abrasively against my tender rim.
‘What in God’s name do you think this is!’ I was on my feet screaming into the lonely silence.
‘You’re just being sow-er, FoxHead….’ Gleeson fired off the clichés, followed closely by the pigsluts.
‘Why so pigged off?’ faces close to bursting.
‘Oink you happy here?’ pre-explosion of held back sniggers.
Gleeson held out the silver tray. Eyes brightening ever wider. I felt a cynical hand reaching ashamedly for the fruits. I took a lemon colored segment and, hesitantly, slipped it into my mouth. The orgy resumed while I stood there, my erection still valiantly proud. Gleeson fighting against the amorous tide of swine mouths, lubricated fingers, suckling breasts, cunts moist with chucklings.
The room, quite accidentally I believe, fell on its side. I laughed until my lungs ached and I thought my bladder was going to rupture.
It must have taken the girls some time to bully me back to the bouncing jocularity of the bed, for a sweating heat had developed in the interim. I remember finding this most amusing at the time.
And as pigheads and eweheads sucked and slurped at my cock, my mouth, my ears, my testes, my toes… my fucking toes. And having thought ‘my fucking toes’, in a trice was one of the adulants’ boiling cunts engulfing my left fucking foot. She took me in to the ankle. Head back. The muscles of her forearms veined and pumped up from pulling me in. Oinking madness.
Though I could no longer see, there being an ewebreast in my face into which I felt a mad compulsion to insert my tongue, I could feel my hairy shin pressing up against her pubic bone. My toes touching…her ribs?!?
I shot to a seated attention. She was there, on her back, legs in the air, my left foot now swallowed up to the fucking knee. And having dared the genie with ‘my fucking knee’, did my leg disappear inside her to the thigh. The circumference testing the elastic limit of her vaginal meat.
Hot hands pulled me back to the bed. Gleeson was on his back beside me, face contorted with perverse pleasure as the woman rode him, her bleating breasts a real horror show. Another woman entered the room.
Her Siamese head was scraped of all hair. Her face bore only the most basic suggestion of features. Her skin was pale, off-white, as sickly a shade as I have ever witnessed. Haunting the place naturally set aside for pubic geometry was a baby elephant head, complete with nervously flapping veiny ears, curved ivory tusks and, jutting forth atop the vaginal mouth, an inquisitive little trunk. She walked round to Gleeson’s pinned-down side of the bed.
‘I can smell your thoughts, you naughty boy.’ the Siamese woman’s pubic snorkel explored Gleeson’s sweating forehead.
‘I know.’ Gleeson glimmered, and gleamed, shuffling to lie across the bed, his head slung back over the edge, ‘And I want you to screw them. Work me over, you honey. Fuck my eggshell brains out.’ He guided the baby trunk down his ungrateful throat like a starving fledgling wolfshit, cromping, chomping for more. She smiled at me in her polite oriental way such that I didn’t want to look.
She took his head by the ears and extricated the trunk from his throat. Gleeson’s mouth opening and closing impatiently as he whimpered. Into his skull pan went the ivory tusks. Gleeson let out such a horrendous and horrific scream that I ejaculated with shock, my body fighting the wrought iron of peristaltics as I watched on; enthralled.
Out of the cranial fissure, covered in silky grey fur, three foetal forms flopped. These triplets of Siam crashed to a sloshing mess by Gleeson’s unseated pighead whore, their bodies woven multiply to each other in a series of sticky postulant flesh bridges. Instinctively, like a shark in the presence of blood, they turned upon the girl. Gouging and gnashing out great wet burning bleeding chunks of pig blubber. Her ewe breasts protesting with deafening bleats. Her gloved fists punching gaping wounds through silky grey fur. Pulling back bloody stumps.
To my further astonishment, the remaining whores seemed oblivious to the death of one of their kind. The girl with my entire left foot up her cunt was still bucking like fury. I cared not that my socked foot was hanging comically out of her mouth. Cared not that her fingers were pulling of the sock so that her thin pink tongue could protrude between the toes. Cared not for the Siamese witch who had turned over the carcass of Gleeson White and perched herself behind her bare white arse, shoving the elephant trunk deep into his anus only to pull it out, licking dirty feces from the wrinkled leather tip with her cunt mouth. Cared not for the masturbating whore who was snuffling in my unclean belly button for truffles. Cared nothing for the sour stench of sex and slaughter.
What really disturbed me was that the fetal mass that had ejaculated form Gleeson’s brain was up on its highest hind legs and was looming drunkenly over that side of the bed, licking its many lips and leering with its many eyes. The sewers opened up with each breath it expelled.
Ever so casually, it began to topple towards us.
I remember, in my daydream, scrambling away from the falling hulk, clambering to my feet at the door end of the room and witnessing the truly abominable result.
The humongous struck the occupants of the bed with a wet and bone crunching thud. It tucked into the Siamese whore mother still buggering the lifeless casing of Gleeson White, ripping her featureless head from her shoulders. The far side of the abomination slowly devoured a pighead whore from the feet up. The look on her porcine features as flint-edged teeth munched on one of her legs as she kicked out one of its roving eye with the other; that horrible squeal of her breasts; the lightning in her eyes as the beast chewed out her clitoris. The surviving whore was trapped on the far side of the room, urine trickling down the inside of her white legs.
‘Run!’ I exclaimed, holding out a hand. She looked at me and squealed. That distress call shot through me, chilling.
‘Quick!’ I urged as the monster on the divan was busy licking its lips.
‘Jump!’ No sooner had I screamed that final command than she was leaping over the corner of the divan, grabbing sweatily at my outstretched hand.
As I pulled her to me, her face began to split, her mouth widening raggedly as she was wrenched from my grasp and dragged to the beast my a surreally mutated arm. She squealed and squealed until the top of her head was gnawed off, her manic eyes weeping blood. I turned from the horror and ran into the corridor which was now carpeted in shrimp fur and husks of salt-cured oyster tendons bedraggled with barking ropes of camel mucus.
Each door I frantically yelled at was locked. Even the far door where I had espied the grizzly baiting of girls. Locked form the inside. I raced into the deserted reception area. The air stank of violets. I threw up onto a highly polished circular ebony table I had failed to register on my disrobed arrival. The carriage clock in the corner by the exit proclaimed a deafening midnight. As the chimes rang out their solemn knell, I shook the locked door in its frame until the glass shattered. This sent me flying to the floor in a hail of glass which I had to pick out of my thighs and feet; the pain was unbelievable. There was a rasping sound behind me.
Lumbering its way towards me on all fours was Gleeson White. His bare back was scarred and pitted from his attempts to escape. His dislocated shoulders black with bruising. When he raised his buckled and twisted head, I thought I would die right there on the spot.
The skull was inflated to elephantine proportions, flapping gray ears, ivory tusks curved up out of his eye sockets, the ferrety eyeballs perched at the ends.
He opened his mouth and a loud trumpet sounded. A long gray trunk unraveled from his mouth shooting a meaty splatter of stinking gore in my direction. His arms dislocated further from his shoulders grinding gristle and just hung by his sides as he mechanically rose to his feet. I scrambled back through shattered glass, lacerating my hands and buttocks. Dragging my pain-racked body to the cumbersome front door, I fought with the lock.
Hooves charged me from behind. I turned, terrified at what my ears purported. My eyes saw Gleeson White for the Demonic nemesis he had always been. His skin now all but flayed off. Bleeding lakes. His eyetusks directed at my chest as I…..
Well, in all frankness, I have lied. I have lived my last dying hours a lie to discourage the sad recurrence of their memory. The truth, my good friend, is an abysmal catalogue of insult piled high upon injury. The truth isn’t quite the heroic death chase I have represented here. The horrors I experienced, as the roiling mass of mutated flesh, bone and terror fell towards me, as I failed to extricate my leg from that whore’s greedy cunt, are too great a burden. My constitution has never been that strong you see, being of what they call ‘artistic temperament’. To tell the truth, the fucking thing fell right on top of me, breaking my ribcage and snapping my spine. It devoured all the women but for some insufferable reason left me unscathed as I writhed in my agony. It also left Gleeson White’s dead body where it lay and I had to suffer his rapid, nauseous decay for many hours.
My lungs are now hemorrhaging regularly. Christ, I feel I may choke to death on these damn blood clots. From far away the chiming of midnight sounds.
‘Why am I here?!?!?’ I splutter.
Someone appears at the still-open door.
‘FoxHead?’ the bent-over old lantern carrier addresses me.
‘Duke. At last. Help me…’
‘Can’t do that, sir. More than my whole job’s worth.’ He smiles apologetically as I cough up another lungful.
‘Please. Help me. I beg you, sir…’
He purses his parched old lips, ‘ Oh, I don’t know, sir.’
‘Please! For pity’s sake…’
‘Battleships lost at sea….’ he murmurs.
‘What was that?’
‘That.. That thing.. Battleships lost at sea… What is that? I have heard it before.’
‘Our house motto, sir..’ he cleared his throat and straightened up, ‘Battleships lost at sea, rarely surface.’ he shrugs and dutifully pulls the door closed, locking it on my protesting, coughing, screaming, choking death.
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