“And you are just not high enough yet. Smoke some more.” He nodded toward the joint that sat on the kitchen counter already rolled and waiting and G walked over and picked it up.
“Smoke, son. You’ll see. We’ll take communion together, as father and son, the way God intended.”
Tyson Price aka G-town Slim, lit up the fat cigar filled with opium and marijuana and put it between his lips, inhaling deeply. This joint was twice as strong as the ones he rolled and he was already so high that this last hit nearly knocked him unconscious. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he was still conscious or not. He could feel the world reel and tilt like he was in a dream. Everything began to dissolve and fly asunder. The girls no longer looked like whores. They didn’t even look human. They looked like eternity. They looked like all of nature compressed into two single forms and at their center swirled a maelstrom of energy, power, creation ... right between their legs. The nexus of all realities.
“Ah, you see it now.” His father cooed seductively.
The two whores were scared to death and were still staring at the gun in G-town’s hand. They relaxed visibly when he dropped the gun. Then they tensed again when they heard Selena moan. She was still alive and in pain. The old man released the two girls and snatched a roll of copper wire from the kitchen counter and wrapped it around Selena’s throat. He began to strangle her as G stood watching in a narcotic stupor.
“Now, son! Before the light goes out!”
G looked down at the ragged hole his father had chewed in Selena’s sex, in that good Puerto Rican pussy. He could see a glow there, like a sunrise, moonlight and stars. He felt a hunger surge within him. The hunger to become one with her, with everything. He knelt down and began to feed, first on her breasts and then on the remains of her sex. The two whores began screaming again. They ran back into the house. G rose from between Selena’s thighs as her body began to convulse in spastic death throes that resembled orgasm.
“I can see it! I can see God!” G exclaimed as he rose from between the whore’s legs, picking bits of fallopian tube from between his teeth.
The notorious pimp known as G-town Slim, knelt back down and continued chewing his way into the womb of his dying moneymaker. A universe of colors filled his head. He ate and ate until he could feel the power coursing through his blood stream. His father had been right. All along it had been right there. He had used it, abused, and sold it on street corners from Philadelphia to Las Vegas. But he’d never truly appreciated its power. Its glory. It had never occurred to him that pussy could be anything more than a receptacle for a man’s seed. That it could possess the infinite power of eternity was something he’d never imagined. Either that or he was just high as hell.
G paused a second to take another hit of the cigar before kneeling back between Selena’s blood-splattered thighs and tearing out her entire uterus with a sickening wet “Riiiiiiip!” followed by a horrible slurping sound, as he swallowed her womanhood in a few quick gulps. Somewhere, within the darkened house, the other two girls were still screaming.
“Come on, son, we have to catch them,” his father said. He could hear the girls pounding on his front door, trying to get out. One of them broke a window.
Still drunk off Opium, Xstasy, Absinthe, blood and pussy, G ignored his father and reached down to pick up Selena’s discarded purse. He rummaged through it, withdrawing a handful of twenties.
“Two hundred fucking dollars? What the hell was that ho doing all night?!”
“Pimpin’ ain’t easy.” His father snickered, shaking his head at his son’s pitiful take.
The aging pimp’s head looked once again like some carnivorous venus-flytrap vagina, with a razor-barbed clitoris and tusk-like fangs jutting forth from between the silken folds of flesh. G didn’t find it so hideous anymore. He imagined he probably looked the same way now.
Again she drew the knife across her naked breasts, carving through her flesh and leaving long rivulets of blood crisscrossing her torso. Her arms, thighs, face, breasts, and stomach were crosshatched with slashes and cuts bleeding down her still staggeringly beautiful body. The cops surrounded her, pointing their guns and ordering her to drop the knife. That was one of the crowning moments of absurdity in a lifetime marked by madness and lunacy. If she didn’t stop hurting herself the officers would shoot her.
The man upon whose flayed chest she knelt was Eddie Walker. He was a sadistic serial rapist and murderer who screamed and cried like the little girls he’d raped, when she disemboweled him. She wished she had the nerve to follow through with her threat to skip rope with his intestines. But she’d found the feel of his steaming, bloated entrails as repulsive as the smell. It smelled like vomit and ammonia.
Shana knew that God, her God, the God of her people, helped those who helped themselves. He gave you strength and the rest was up to you. She lifted the severed penis, still sizzling like a sausage on a grill, and the shriveled sack of burnt flesh where his testicles had been, up in front of her face and was surprised that she could not recognize it. It had only been ten years since she’d had it in her mouth. She spat at it and flipped it over her shoulder into the dirt, watching the cops wince and groan as they realized what it was that she was tossing at their feet.
Eddie moaned beneath her. Even with his torso bisected from his groin to the tip of his chin and his fat purple intestines boiling up out of the massive wound, he was still alive. Even with his genitals burnt to a blackened ruin, sawed off his body and scattered in different directions, he continued to breath. His heart continued to beat. It was true what they said. Evil never dies. Shana spit in his face.
It was not his fault alone that she had wound up this way. Her entire life had been marred by pain. She had never known joy.
Tears rolled down her face as she lifted her arms skyward and called out to the Lord. She knew it was futile. Hers was not a God of mercy. He didn’t respond to self-pity. He didn’t listen when her Nana cut out her clitoris with a sharp blade, no anesthesia, and sewed up her vagina with catgut to keep her pure for marriage and protect them all from the curse. He didn’t hear her cry as her sex was mutilated ensuring that she would never enjoy sex as other women did. As she was prepared to become the property of her future husband once he’d purchased her for the price of thirty or forty cows, her virginity ensured by the destruction of her desire as was the custom in her culture. Even though she’d been born in America, and had never even been to Nigeria, and had been too young to understand that tradition had declared her sex fit only to be receptacles for a man’s seed and nursemaid to his children. That a curse placed on her family centuries ago now placed a horrible penalty on anyone in her family who did not obey tradition.
She’d screamed and cried out for Chango, the Yuruba god of thunder and wrath, as her mother held her down and her Grandma took a thin blade used to filet fish to her most sensitive parts. Female circumcision they called it. It was supposed to keep her safe, protection against the family curse. She’d only been eight years old then. She’d been twelve when a filthy, wild-eyed, speed freak, who looked to her like the pictures she’d seen of Christ, had ripped wide the sutures on her labia. He cut through the stitches with a Swiss army knife before impaling her with his brutal penis, laughing at the thought that someone had tried so hard to keep him out, as he assaulted her in an alley she’d used as a short cut to school. Chango hadn’t answered her prayers then either. Still, she’d called out his name over and over again as the man’s sweat dripped from his brow into her eyes, his alcoholic breath steamed in her face, and his harsh and grimy hands pawed her young flesh while stabbing himself deep inside of her, ripping and tearing her tender flower.