Christian braces the door with the little of his strength, as the insane ones shriek-slam the outsides, ripping apart the windows and yard decorations. Some make it on the roof, stomping on the shelter, trying to tear it down. Others send rocks through the windows toward the dancing crowd, bludgeons on their meat.
The blue woman leans back, still glaring into me, and my rolling vision at her. She uses her leg powers to fuck faster. She spasms her back like caterpillars, smack-bouncing her breasts… ocean waves ripple through the soft fleshies. She drives my body with mean thrusts, fucking my skull into the concrete, hard, nonstop, a spark of pain flashing in every drum…
She makes her hands into claws and strikes my chest, digging them with purple nails, enticing my blood to come play.
When I scream, the pain becomes bliss-intense. Furious animals tearing into me for food — I notice myself enjoying the idea. I’m weak and whining under her dominion.
And she’s only four.
A skinhead is thrown into Fria’s nipples. The nipples pierce through both of his lungs and kill him instantly. After this first death, the mosh pit becomes a giant murder-dance game.
People are toss-hammered, mangled into the knife sculptures, thrashing to the music. And stomachs are opened on the palm tree and the windmill and the cactus and the monster and Fria.
Vodka’s pale skin is drenched with blood and chunks of hamburger fat. He begins masturbating, greasing up his shank with shredding men’s red fluid.
The slicing massacre continues until most of the crowd is covered with slash marks. But nobody dies, because death doesn’t exist anymore. So the crowd continues to slam each other, cut each other, with no blood left, with missing limbs and facial features, and everybody slips in the blood pool beneath them and sometimes gets back up again.
Gin stumble-slides into the cactus sculpture, and gets his leg stapled between two limbs, with a dozen long needles through his ankle, trapping him beneath the stampede. All he sees is a repeat of combat boots stepping on his body, but his body can only feel mental pain.
The blue woman slices reckless, trying to claw all the way through my body. Blood whipping off of me with the pulsation, soaking the sheets brown.
My screams continue. She starts punching me with her left arm as she continues to cut me with her right claw. Fists nail my face and mouth, maybe so I’ll stop whine-yelling.
I put my arms around her neck and squeeze, choking some pain back in her direction, but she seems to like it. And it gets her more excited, throwing more punches, with both hands this time. Beating my shank inside of her, beating blue knuckles onto my face…
The front door breaks away and Christian is tossed into the blood dance that cyclones him away from the street people, who begin crazy on the punks as they dance by. Battering orgy. Boot Lips continues screaming with gore leaking from his forehead into his eyes.
The street people enter the dance. Their skulls smash into the deadly artwork as they try to get to Sid to stop him from singing so harshly. Some begin ripping the place apart. Skinheads slice into them with knives and hammer them with chains belts.
The blue woman stops beating me when I climax — squirting blue woman food into the eating hole. She seems to climax too, vibrating her thigh muscles and lower lips. But it’s not a realorgasm. It’s just the blue woman’s mouth-like vagina slurping up my juices to process them into her system. I go dry and her vibrating stops. She falls onto my mutilated body, stinging the wounds as she rubs herself…
I can sense her smiling with satisfaction, licking the blood from my face with her chilly tongue. Then she falls asleep with her face on my raw-beaten skin.
The street mob makes it to the band, to Boot Lips, and destroys all the equipment.
The music ends.
I hear the combat-scramble continue — yelling, smashing, pounding — throughout the rest of the night. Falling into my head, staring at the whirling ceiling. I am a shredded towel underneath a sleeping dog.
The blood trickles quietly.
Scene 18
The Death of a City
Rippington died last night.
It just looked at all the people in its belly and figured that its life wasn’t worth carrying around anymore, since the citizens were ungovernable and incapable of becoming civilized ever again. It found no reason for itself to go on.
So it rolled over in its bed and died.
This morning, its rotting corpse can be sniffed in the air, all over the streets and inside buildings. Madness-rain is pepper in the grey sky. There aren’t anymore businesses or any money being circulated. No one has any food or water left to survive on, and nobody cares. No one even has sense enough to leave town to search for food; they’re all just waiting to die and become zombiefied.
Rippington is no longer here for us. No more city for us, we’re just living inside its remains, mutating into nothing but remains ourselves.
And little boy Earth watches us die and giggles.
I awake to the rain tapping on the ceiling and the blue woman lapping at my damages, sucking on my shank with her eating hole — not hungry enough to eat, just vagina-licking it, like a funpop — propped on top of me again.
When she sees me awake, she gives her tongue a rest and glares at me. Her BIG eyes — engulf-swallowing me like normal, but something is not all-normal about this look. There seems to be something new added. It almost seems like… love.
Just as I see this look, I feel it coming on… a love-passion moment, which she hasn’t felt for me even though we’ve had sex many times, thinking that it was impossible for her, impossible for blue women to love because they are machines.
And just as any two regular human beings tossed into such a situation, we bend our necks forward and wrap ourselves into each other, lips into osculation, kissing.
I soon feel human again.
I thought the act of kissing became extinct long ago, even before the walm, people just stopped caring enough to kiss before fucking. Love is a dead performance. Only the hardcore fuck job is required.
But here love is, right between us, flaming up and stabbing us.
And it is almost beautiful, in a pedophiliacal sort of way.
Richard Stein said that love pops up when you least expect it.
He also said that alcohol can play a BIG part in the birth of love, even though love is only love because of drunkenness.
The killing of a buzz can kill this emotion very quickly.
After a few minutes of passion, a slug of mucus-goo — a squirming worm-ball — crawls up her throat and into my mouth, sliding down my throat too quickly for me to react.
It chokes me with its intense, porkfat scent, this large regurgitated stomach booger, which goes down my throat and into my stomach bag like a bowling ball.
Then I cough her kiss away from me. Push her back like she just took a shit in my mouth and hack up the bad taste.
I dip my face over the bedside to puke up the snot ball, but nothing comes out. It resists. I turn to the blue woman to see her face, wondering what she did to me. Was it some accident that she’d be sorry and disgusted for?
But she just smiles and grabs my stomach for a caress.
Her touch burns cold.