Before we get started, a word of warning. This story was originally supposed to be published in an anthology about offensive superheroes. It was the brainchild of my friend, Zeb Carter, who recently passed. There isn't a single solitary publisher who would accept a story like this, so I thought I would share it all with you. But please be advised, this was meant to be exceptionally fucked up. If you want a trigger warning, I suggest all of them. This will put horrible questions in your head, questions you don't want to answer and will probably make you wish you hadn't read beyond this point. If it sounds like this story might not be for you, here's your chance to back out.
Some of you may have read my book, Blood, and you might be reminded of Lucifer Robinson. The guy you're about to meet is that guy's twin brother. They're triplets, actually, and their older brother is the worst of the bunch. Pray you never meet that guy . . .
This warning will be represented at the top of each of these posts, just in case. This story is dedicated to the memory of Zeb Carter. Thanks for being having the balls to run with this lunatic story. And to those of you who knew him, yes, I am referring to that.
Martin Peck looked across the hospital bed to the skeletal old lady staring back at him. He took in her canyon-like wrinkles and her foggy cataract eyes, magnified by glasses with lenses as big as Frisbees. He saw the tangled mess of tubes running from her to the machines keeping her alive, and he tried his best to smile.
Here we go again.
Betty McVicker rolled down the blanket with her tree branch arm as far as she could, a doughy flap of loose skin hanging from her bicep like a hornet’s nest under an eave. When she realized she couldn’t go any farther she grabbed a handful of her gown and pulled it up, revealing a bald and puckered pussy, labia sagging down far enough to tie in a knot. She pulled her lips back with two fingers, showing off a tunnel he could probably shove his fist into.
He grimaced and thought of the money.
She spread her legs as far as they would go, and Martin crawled up on the hospital bed between them, his pants already open, his cock pointing out like a blind man’s cane. Without the boner pill he’d popped an hour ago, he wouldn’t be this hard.
Just before he pushed into her, she coughed in his face, filling his nostrils with her stale milk breath. He turned away from her so she wouldn’t see him gag. A bit of sound did escape him, though, and to cover it up he tried to make it sound sexy.
“You ready for this?” he whispered.
“Fuck me, Martin. Jump these old bones.”
None of these old ladies were good at sex talk, but they thought they were being seductive, like they thought they needed to give him something to look forward to. The only thing he looked forward to was the end of this job.
He held his breath and touched the tip of his dick to her loose pussy. It puddled around his glans, and he fought the urge to pull the flaps up around his dick like a sock.
Stop thinking like that. She can’t help that she’s old. Just . . . just get through this. Try not to be an asshole.
He eased in, surprised by her level of wetness. Ladies her age usually needed lube, but she was greased up and ready to go. Maybe she’d used a bit of K-Y before he arrived. Some of them did.
He pumped away between her legs, trying not to put too much weight down, fearing that he might break her. She tried to wrap her legs around him, but she no longer had the strength or range of motion. Instead she tightened her thighs against his hips, as if trying to crush him between pillows. He wondered how long since someone had done this for her and decided it must have been back during the Reagan era. Didn’t old people keep track of time by presidential administrations?
Her talons went to his shoulders, and one of them eased up to wrap itself in his hair. Dry fingers scratched at his scalp, and he once again had to remind himself of the money.
Finally, after nearly a half an hour of effort, he felt that familiar burning sensation in the base of his dick. His movements became more vigorous, and finally he stabbed himself into her as far as he could and felt his convulsing orgasm fill her up.
He braced himself against the bed for a moment, feeling the last of his cum ooze into her, and he pulled back. As he left her body, she put a flaky hand over her gaping vagina, as if afraid his semen might escape. All things considered, she probably was.
He rolled out of bed—careful not to hurt her—and went for the box of Kleenex on the night table. He cleaned himself off before stuffing his soft penis back into his pants and zipping up. As he buckled his belt he noticed that Mrs. McVicker held out a wad of money to him. He counted it all and then shoved it in his pocket, turning to leave.
“Thank you Martin.” She wheezed, panting and out of breath.
He cleared his throat, but he couldn’t bring himself to face her. “Anything to help out a nice lady like you.”
-
Outside the hospital Leviticus Robinson leaned against his long white limo, rolling an ornate walking stick between his fingers. His thin frame swam in a dapper white suit, and his long white hair snaked down his back in a ponytail. His pale face seemed lost in the brightness of his surroundings, marked only by his sparkling blue eyes and a red slash of mouth beneath an aquiline nose. A cigarette burned from a long black holder sticking out from the corner of his grin.
“Hey! You can’t park here!”
Leviticus glanced up from his reverie and saw a bulbous security guard huffing and puffing his way toward him. Mirrored glasses seemed plastered onto the guy’s sweaty pig face above a greasy mustache. His uniform barely contained him.
“Move it along!”
Leviticus smiled. “I’m waiting for someone.”
The guard blew a gale of rancid coffee breath at Leviticus’ face and jabbed a finger into his chest. “This is a lane for ambulances only. You need to get this thing out of here right now.”
Leviticus leaned his walking stick against the door, and without warning he yanked the sunglasses off this guard’s face and jammed the cigarette into his eye. The guard screamed as his eyeball sizzled.
No time for mercy. Leviticus threw his knee into the guard’s groin, and as he doubled over, tongue lolling out of a lifeless expression, the pale man picked up his cane and whipped it across the guard’s face. Without skipping a beat Leviticus moved forward and stepped on the guard’s throat, leaning in slightly.
“I detest rude people. Usually my patience is Christ-like, but if I were you, I’d apologize. Right now.”
The guard struggled as he felt his windpipe come closer and closer to being crimped shut. He tried pushing up on the offending shoe, but unsuspected strength kept him pinned down.
Leviticus relented and moved back. “I know talking now will be difficult, so let’s dispense with such niceties. Please remove yourself from my presence.”
The guard whimpered, the fight in him gone, and he crawled away, one hand clamped to the damaged eye, his ragged breath louder than the construction workers down the block.
“Faster!” Leviticus shouted. “I’m sick of the sight of you!” And he kicked the guard in the ass, foot to crack, like it had been planned for decades, blueprints and all.
Just then the man he waited for stepped out of the hospital. A little below average height, he sported a head of thick curly hair, and Buddy Holly glasses amplified his beady brown eyes. Feminine lips poked out of a well-trimmed goatee. Yes, this was Martin Peck, all right.
Martin paused when he saw the guard dragging himself towards the sliding door into the ER. He didn’t know what was going on with the poor bastard, but at least it had happened in a convenient place.
And then he saw the pale man with the million-watt smile.
“Martin Peck? I’m Leviticus Robinson, at your service.” He offered a bow with great flourish.
“Uh . . . do I know you?”
“Not yet, but I think we’re about to be good friends. I have a business proposition for you that will be very profitable for everyone concerned.”
Martin frowned. He knew exactly what this Leviticus character wanted. Martin didn’t exactly advertise his services, but word got around. “I have a job.” Trying to dismiss the stranger.
Leviticus offered a sympathetic smile. “If you come with me and listen to my spiel, you’ll get a thousand dollars, even if you decide to walk away, and believe me, you won’t want to walk away.”
“A thousand dollars?” Martin fingered the five hundred in his pocket and thought it could use company.
“That’s right.”
“Just to listen?”
“Indeed.”
Martin nodded. Fuck it. Why not?
Leviticus stepped aside and opened the back door of the limo, gesturing for Martin to step in.
Martin ducked down and slid across the leather seat, and as soon as he could see the interior of the limo, he couldn’t help but stare. Inside, the car was impossibly bigger than the outside, and he couldn’t help but think of Snoopy’s doghouse. Or maybe that call box the guy from Doctor Who flew around in. Glancing around he saw an office, complete with a large oak desk, art on the paneled walls, potted plants everywhere, and a fish tank that took up the entire wall on the side that should have looked out at traffic. Colorful fish with extravagant fins drifted through the water, oblivious to the puzzle they lived in.
Leviticus slipped in next to him and closed the door. “Like my office?”
Martin couldn’t answer him at first. These surroundings had stolen his breath away. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“It’s not much, but it’s home. Have a seat.”
Martin thought he already had a seat, but then he realized that Leviticus had meant one of the two chairs in front of the desk. The pallid gentleman hung his walking stick on a coat rack and made his way to the mini bar in the corner.
“Drink?” Leviticus asked.
Martin sat in one of the chairs. “I guess.”
“Whiskey?”
“Sure.”
Leviticus poured two and placed one in front of Martin. He then eased behind his desk and took a sip from his glass. “Down to business.”
Martin just looked at his drink. “Sure. What do you want with me?”
Leviticus propped both elbows up on the desk and steepled his hands together like he was one of those asshole techbros doing an interview. “We heard about your special gift.”
Martin cleared his throat, and though he didn’t want to drink from his glass, he did. Just a sip. “What do you mean?”
Leviticus grinned. “I wouldn’t be so modest if I were you. We don’t know how you can do it, but we do know that you can cure someone’s cancer just by having sex with them.”
How did this grim specter find out about him? Martin didn’t know. He didn’t care, either. Although he did look well-to-do . . .
“You can’t believe everything you hear,” he said.
“I didn’t just hear it,” Leviticus said. “I studied it. Checked and double-checked. My sources are impeccable.”
Martin tried to figure out what this guy wanted, and he kept coming up with dollar signs. He glanced around at the room that shouldn’t exist in the backseat of a limo. The world was a strange place. Martin, of all people, understood this. Whatever Leviticus was on about, it might be lucrative. Why continue to deny it?
“All right, so maybe I do have a special ability. Possibly. What’s it to you?”
Leviticus smiled, as if to say finally, this idiot understands. “Good. Have you ever heard of the Great American Boozer?”
Of course. Who hadn’t heard of the greatest superhero alive? But what did he have to do with Martin? “Only what I’ve seen on TV.”
Leviticus took a drink and watched his guest over the rim of the glass. Then he slipped a glossy picture across the desk. “By day, he’s a normal man, but when he drinks a considerable amount of alcohol, he becomes the Great American Boozer.”
Martin knew that part. He’d seen the movies based on the Boozer’s life. Now he looked down at the publicity still of the superhero and saw a man far more handsome than the actor who played him. His long dark hair flowed down to his square shoulders and his perfectly chiseled chest. He wore an amber bodysuit, and his cape flowed out behind him, his name on the back in the fashion of a whiskey bottle label. In the picture he stood at the edge of a building’s roof, gazing out at the city with a thoughtful look on his face that said, this is my city, and I’m looking for an excuse to beat some ass.
“Alcohol gives him power,” Leviticus continued. “It gives him a bulletproof body and the strength of a thousand men. It even gives him x-ray vision and the ability to fly.”
Martin looked up from the file, an eyebrow cocked. “I hear it has its downside, though.”
Leviticus snorted. “Sure, the next day he’s practically a cripple, but the important thing is, he’s very valuable to us. Without the Boozer, we’d be in serious trouble. There are other superheroes, but—”
“No one’s as tough as this guy, right?”
Leviticus nodded. “Exactly.”
Martin dropped the folder and, more confident now, took a healthy drink from his glass. He leaned back in the chair and steepled his fingers, an unconscious parody of his host. “And he’s the media darling, right? I mean, they based a cartoon on this guy.”
“Among other things, but who’s counting?”
Martin dropped his hands to the arm rests. “Cut the shit. Why do you need me?”
Leviticus bent forward over the desk. “You couldn’t hazard a guess?”
Martin waited.
Leviticus took another folder from his drawer and slid it across to Martin. “The Boozer has cancer. It’s in his pancreas, and they can’t cut it out. See for yourself.”
Inside the file Martin found doctor reports and scans, the whole works. He’d seen stuff like this countless times over the years, and none of it seemed very impressive. “Malignant?”
“Yes. It’s almost taken over the whole organ.”
Martin threw the folder down. It flapped open, spilling papers all over the desk and on the floor. “Forget it. I don’t do guys.”
Leviticus stared hard at him, a scowl turning his dazzling smile upside down. “Need I remind you that the Boozer is the most powerful superhero in the world? And that without him this world will be an absolute disaster?”
Martin lit a cigarette—without asking if it was okay—and pointed it at one of the x-rays. “Clearly he’s not powerful enough.”
A pause. “That’s cheap.”
“Sure is.”
Leviticus drained his glass and put it down hard enough to crack the base. “You fuck little old ladies for money all day. How much cold hard cash will it take to get you to save the life of the world’s greatest superhero?”
“I don’t do guys. The end.” As if to punctuate his statement, Martin blew a cloud of smoke in Leviticus’ face.
He didn’t even blink. “Why not?”
Martin squirmed in his seat. “I have to draw the line somewhere. No guys. I may be a pervert, but I’m not gay.” He almost regretted the words as soon as he’d spoken them, because he knew how it made him sound, and he wasn’t that way. He couldn’t care less what other people did with their dicks and assholes. He just didn’t want any part of it, that was all.
Leviticus took it exactly as Martin had expected. “I see. You’re a bigot. You’d rather have a bunch of super villains going around killing hundreds of innocent people than fuck one guy in the ass to save a superhero’s life.”
Martin stabbed the cigarette out on the desk. “You don’t get it.”
“Explain.” Ignoring the blackened mark under the smushed cigarette butt.
Martin stared at that mark and watched the last of the smoke gently rise. “A year ago a married couple came to me with their life savings. Three thousand bucks, give or take a few dollars. You know what they wanted me to do?”
Martin gritted his teeth, and a tear rolled down his cheek. His face didn’t fold in, and he gave no other indication that he knew he was crying. When he continued his voice did not sound pinched or muffled.
“They wanted me to fuck their nine-year-old daughter. She had leukemia.”
Leviticus’ pale cheeks flared up. He cleared his throat and reached for Martin’s empty glass. “Refill?”
Martin snarled, showing off every tooth in his head, nostrils flaring. “Fuck off. Don’t you understand what I’m saying? Sometimes you need to draw the line.”
“And sometimes God needs to kill nine-year-old girls?” Leviticus kicked away from his desk and refilled his own glass.
Martin slumped back. “I don’t know about God. I’ll tell you what I do know: there has to be a line, and no one is going to draw it but me.”
Leviticus sat back down and took a drink. “So I take it you didn’t fuck the nine-year-old?”
“You gotta ask?”
“I suppose not. Is she . . . ?”
“Still alive? No. Her parents sent me the obituary when it happened. I think they wanted me to feel guilty. They don’t get it, either. Even if I did fuck her, could you imagine how screwed up she’d be for the rest of her life? Is that a life worth living? I think she’s better off wherever she is now.”
“How noble of you,” Leviticus said, “to make such unimpeachable judgments.”
Martin stood and slammed his fist down on the desk. “That’s it. Let me the fuck out of here. Now.”
Leviticus didn’t move. “Sit down. We’re not finished.”
Sweat ran down from Martin’s temple and tickled at the edge of his eye. “Just give me my money and let me go.”
“You haven’t earned it yet. Now, sit.”
They stared at one another for a while. More sweat threatened to get in Martin’s eyes, and he flinched, but Leviticus remained cool as ever. He would never crack, not with a poker face like that.
Martin sighed and sat back down. “Fuck it. Let’s get this over with.”
Leviticus smiled and folded his hands together. “According to my sources, the people you cure pay you five hundred dollars in cash, correct?”
Martin didn’t say anything.
Leviticus slid a suitcase across the desk to Martin, latches out to the young man. “My superiors are vastly wealthy, Martin. There isn’t anything they can’t buy, and they want to buy you.”
Leviticus’ slender fingers picked at the latches, and he swept the suitcase open, revealing stack after stack of banded greenbacks. “If you cure the Boozer, we’ll pay you five million dollars.”
Martin couldn’t believe that he sat in the presence of so much money. The most he’d ever seen at one time was ten thousand. He couldn’t even wrap his mind around how much more money than that stared back at him from the suitcase.
He thought about what all that money could do for him. What he could buy. No more apartment, no more rattling rust-mobiles, no more eating at fast food restaurants, none of that.
He reached out for the money, but Leviticus clapped the suitcase shut and locked it. “Of course, you’d only get it upon completion of the deed. And since you don’t do guys . . .”
“Wait.”
Leviticus cocked an eyebrow. He watched Martin sweat for a while, and he could actually see Martin’s Adam’s apple dance with a dry gulp.
“I’ll do it,” Martin said.
Leviticus grabbed Martin’s glass. “Excellent! Let’s have a drink on it.”
As he turned his back to the mini bar, Martin wiped at his face and saw his palm gleamed with sweat. He wiped it off on his pants just as Leviticus brought him a fresh glass.
“Bottoms up,” the pale gentleman said.
Martin brought the drink weakly to his lips. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“I’m glad you are. I can’t see a world without the Boozer in it.”
Martin put down an empty glass. “What’s your job, anyway? You’re too good to be an assistant to the Boozer. What is it you do, exactly?”
“I work to create a better world, that’s all.”
Martin laughed. “You have something to do with that guard back there?”
Leviticus shrugged. “I may have said ‘better,’ but—” He leaned over the desk, grinning. “—I never said ‘safer.’”
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
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