Chim+Her and Chim+Him were two separate titles originally published through Cyber Pulp Press of Houston. They showed how much fun one can have in collaboration with another writer of either sex. Where there were three collabs with each of the writers in the original books, here I’ve chosen the very best collaborations from each book. Collaborations with Destiny West, Queenie Tirone, Dawn Andrews, Brutal Dreamer, Charlee Jacob, Amy Grech, Christina Sng, Alex Severin, Simon Logan, Mark McLaughlin, Vincent Sakowski, Greg Wharton, John Edward Lawson, D.F. Lewis and M.F. Korn.
UNKNOWN; THEY ARE MY CHILDREN
As I stand here before my altar of agar-plated petri dishes swarming with pathogenic strains of bacterial cultures such as staphylococci, streptobacilli and gangrene, I can feel the ghosts of the medical pioneers of the Nazi Death Machine whispering to me in thickly accented voices.
‘Relive our glory.’ They tell me but their instruction is scant. I must fly alone.
I take my victims by force.
Street kids, prostitutes, homeless bums anybody that won’t be missed. I have a partiality to the female flesh; it appears to handle the agonies of pain with a greater threshold.
They say “it’s always the quiet ones...” what do they know. I fight in pubs. I shout in the street. I am Reverse Psychology man. A new breed. Clever enough to stay just this side of the law. To manipulate and control. I stay awake all night in my apartment complex working on my ‘thesis’. You can see me shuffling behind the thin, shiny curtains tending to my children. You can probably smell me in the shopping lines, queuing up. You could probably tell there was something wrong with me from my purchases – I mean no normal family can use as much bleach, medical swabs and firelighters as I buy.
You cannot see the wood for my trees.
It’s like I have invented a perfect smoke screen that confuses the enemy and sends them after less worthy prey, the car stealers, the extortionists, the deviants of society. While I roam the rain-soaked streets with a glaze of lust in my eye and a need that can only be fulfilled by serious and intelligent experimentation.
Take last night as I was roaming the back streets kicking through rubbish, crushing the skulls of stray kittens with my steel capped boots and pondering my existence I came across her.
Her - I didn’t quite catch the whore’s name. To earn the right to use a name you have to be worthy of life it’s self. This ashen skinned stick insect, needle marks weaving their scab-encrusted way up the inside of her arms, looked at me through hollow dead eyes.
‘Twenty pound for a blow job, mister.’ She croaked at me, her actions hazy and drug induced.
I stared at the girl with my acid coldness. I had no feelings of anger or sympathy for such a pathetic creature. I gave her another week at the most before she was found dead from an overdose or slashed to bits in a dumpster. I do prefer my ‘patients’ to be a bit on the healthier side. However looking at this loathsome creature I offered her the chance of doing something worth while with the last few days of her life. Of giving her life some meaning and perhaps even benefiting her own kind or perhaps just satisfying my own sick tendencies. I coaxed her with the offer of two hundred pound for a few hours of her time. She licked her dry cracked lips pock-marked with scars of herpes and feigned a smile of approval at the prospect of more heroin hits.
I know the back streets of the city like the palm of my hand. I could walk them with my eyes closed, I know every brick and every dumpster. When life sees me it flees, I have an unspoken reputation in these darkened alleys, however not even my infamy can keep my potential prey from me. It is human instinct to experience everything for one’s self, we need to feel, to touch, to taste and the opinion of another, the advice or warning of another can never justify, can never quench one’s own desires.
I wove with her through the decaying back streets, her arm linked in mine to keep her body steady.
I had even contemplated carrying the whore in a fireman’s lift, her cum-stained knickers on public show. Her slowness did little to appease my lack of patience though the prospect of her flesh that close to mine repelled me making acrid bile rise in my throat such that I involuntarily spat several times to my free side. Visions of her rancid flesh filled my mind. My makeshift lab beckoned to me as my surgical tools and petri dishes swarming with disease serenaded me like a lust-filled, and competent, lover. I ignored her mumbled questions, I pictured every movement in my head. I saw her naked malnourished body upon the table and I felt the pressure of my scalpel slicing into her flesh.
Back in my quarters the girl knelt before me, her claw-like hands bony and scab-ridden fumbled with the zipper of my trousers seeking to release my flaccid cock from it’s sweating confines. I moved my hands down to her greasy hair, I felt my fingers touch her dirt encrusted scalp then move down to her neck. I caressed her flesh, then I pressed. I watched as I was spared more of her filthy touch as she collapsed to the floor at my feet. I raised my foot and kicked her. I kicked her between her disease ridden thighs and fought to contain myself from kicking her repeatedly. I needed her to join the others.
There they were, in the lockup room. Drugged into lazy submission. Their lips sewn together and sealed over the weeks and months like earring holes...