E-Story 6 : Charlie’s Goldfish

By Tenzin McGrupp & Mona LaVigne

Charlie sat in his bedroom, half naked, half drunk, and with an unknown visitor lying next to him. Face down in the mound of pillows, Charlie couldn’t tell if the person on his bedroom floor was a man or a woman. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the events from the night before. The recollection was blurry, but he vaguely remembered a party, a woman in a blue dress, and a bottle of tequila, somehow always in his hand, and somehow always full. He also remembered a large barking dog which tried to bite him, as he looked down to see the crusted blood and the multiple teeth marks on his heel and calf. With his unwounded foot, he lightly kicked the body on the floor which stirred and turned its head to face him, and with a smile, whispered, “Good morning, Andy.”

Charlie was horrified to see Gladys, the chain-smoking, denture wearing, fifty-something year old spinster, that used to try to seduce all of the delivery boys at Angelo’s Pizza, where Charlie worked for two years during high school. He reached down to help her off the floor, and when she stood, he realized she was naked from the waist down, her blue dress half-unbuttoned, her middle-aged breasts perky and fuller than he had ever imagined in his adolescent fantasies.

“Who the fuck is Andy?” and that’s when Charlie realized Andy was his dog’s name. As if on cue, his rottweiler came in from the other room and began licking the wounds on Charlie’s leg while Gladys calmly fastened the buttons on her dress and began stroking the dog down his long, shining back.

“You have not lived life until you’ve been fucked by a big black horny dog,” she boldly exclaimed as she kissed Andy on the lips and gave Charlie and air-kiss as she walked out the door. Charlie slumped down in the chair, retched for a few minutes into the nearest garbage pail, and finally noticed that his dog Andy was standing before the front door, his tail slowly tapping against an empty bottle of tequila, short whimpers coming from his throat.

Charlie hurled a sneaker at his sexually charged mutt and yelled, “You fucking dumb ass dog! Not only did you fuck Aunt Gladys, you had to bite me when I caught you two, didn’t you?”

The dog shamefully approached his owner, head down, tail drooping, and looked up at him, and when they made eye contact, Charlie said, “That’s right, you’re a bad dog! How could you do something like that? It’s absolutely disgusting!”

Before he could discipline his unfaithful sidekick, his girlfriend Monica, a gifted karaoke singer from Omaha, Nebraska, a buxom blonde with a glass eye, knocked on his door.

“Surprise!” Monica exclaimed when Charlie opened the door, and surprised he was indeed, as Monica was not supposed to return from her eight-week stint as a roadie for AC/DC for at least another two weeks.

Andy ran out of the door past Monica, and as she leaned over to kiss her boyfriend, she almost tripped on the empty tequila bottle and that’s when she noticed an unfamiliar scent of Lady Speed Stick and jalapeños.

“What ya been up to, baby,” Monica asked as she breezed past Charlie into the bedroom, and when he followed her in there, he found her on her hands and knees, collecting pillows off the floor, and when she looked up and saw the lacerations on her boyfriend’s feet and legs she gasped, “Oh, Lord, Charles, not again!”

“It’s not what you think,” Charlie said and quickly changed the subject, “So why are you back so early?”

Always eager to talk about herself, Monica plopped down on the bed and said, “Oh, well, Angus, you know, he has issues, he got into a fight with some woman who claimed to be the mother of his child, but everyone knows, you know, that he’s so fuckin’ burnt out, he can’t even get it up anymore, but so to avoid an international conflict or something, their A/R guys decided that it would be best if all the girls on the crew left the tour a little early, and I was kinda disappointed, but…” and on she went, with Charlie only half listening, and half paying attention to the fact that Andy was missing and so were his underwear from the night before.

Charlie began to experience bleeding out of his rectal area when Monica quizzed, “So Charles, what was your Aunt Gladys doing here so early? And why was she carrying a 12-inch dildo with her?”

Charlie had totally forgotten about Gladys’ brilliant idea and the black studded dildo, but it all came back to him as warm blood trickled down the back of his leg and onto the floor as he recalled being violated while a cold, wet snout was pressed up against the small of his back.

Charlie for most of his adult life had hidden a secret from his family, friends, and even from his beloved one-eyed cheery Monica. Only the sexually ambivalent Aunt Gladys knew he was a furry fetish freak, after he picked her up in an AOL chatroom and had cyber sex for 15 hours straight one lonely Saturday evening, only to find out who his cyber girlfriend really was after arranging a clandestine meeting at the Denny’s on Route 17, the one near the old Cracker factory, where his dad used to work before being fired for ejaculating on the boss’s mal-adjusted teenage daughter during a company bowl-a-thon. After getting over the fact that his secret lover was, in fact, his estranged mother’s sister whom he had never really known, he was able to close his eyes and enjoy the feeling of Gladys’ hands and his own dog’s tail twitching across his most secret parts, and soon the ritual of his Aunt Gladys coming by his apartment every Thursday to harness the electric libido of his rottweiler and send Charlie to new heights of erotic pleasure became routine.

But he didn’t have time to think about his incestuous problems, nor his lost dog because he was late to class at St. Copious School, where Charlie taught third grade. Smiling, he said, “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you’re back, but I gotta run to school!” He went back into the bedroom, threw on some clean clothes, and kissed Monica on the cheek as he slipped out the door.

On his way to school, he stopped off at the Starbucks in the strip mall behind the Bitter Root School for Gifted Children, and ordered his usual morning beverage, a Double Mochacchino with extra foam, from his most recent crush, Sunshine, the unshaven seventeen-year old hippie chick, with extra hairy armpits. A glance of her pits would send Charlie into a sexual frenzy and give him enough mental masturbatory imagery to hold him rock hard all day long, until he would retire to the bathroom in the teacher’s lounge at the end of school, and rub one out in the first stall near the window, with the Starbucks counter girl’s pits in his immediate thoughts.

This morning, however, his former student was friendlier than usual, for when she handed him his Double Mochacchino, she leaned across the counter and said, “Mr. West, you smell real good today.” Charlie noticed the little tufts of hair peeking out from under her arms and as she took a big whiff of the air around them, it occurred to Charlie that he had not showered since he had been rolling around on his bedroom floor with a 124-pound rottweiler. The combination of that memory and the sight of Sunshine’s hairy arms gave him an erection that could have split the atom.

Embarrased and sweating profusely, he excused himself, bolted out of the store sans beverage and drove back home to shower, only to find Monica still in his room, sitting on his bed, with a look of horrified terror on her pudgy cheeks, thumbing through his assorted collection of kitty porn.

“Oh, Monica…” he began, but she just looked up at him with her big blue eye and said, “Charles…my God…what the FUCK is this SHIT?” Charlie had no explanation for his wide (quite wide) variety of feline fucking tapes: Sweet Kitties In Heat, Hot Wet Pussy, Meow Me Now, just to name a few.

But it was the tape in the VCR, and the images on his TV screen that concerned Charlie the most. He had caught Monica watching his secret tapes of himself, dressed up like a panda bear, and Aunt Gladys, wearing a black latex nun’s outfit, and the entranced tantric couple have a foursome with two of his neighbor’s dalmations. Monica began to cry, her sobs racking her body in time with the human moans and canine whimpers coming from the TV at which Charlie stared, impressed with the camerawork.

“I’m unable to handle this right now, Charles. I knew you had some ‘sexual problems’ ya know, getting it up sometimes, but this… this, I don’t understand. I thought you loved me? Why?”

“I do love you, Monica,” Charlie replied, running his hands through his hair and sighing, “I just have some things I like to do and you, well…” But before he could finish, Monica stood up, towering over him at her stately 6’7” and said, “Charles, no. No excuses, no explanation. You are a sick son of a bitch, and I want you to get the HELL out of this apartment.”

Charlie looked her sternly in her good eye, and calmly said, “Monica? Fuck wait. Morris. Morris. Lest you forget, Morris, who helped pay for your sex change operation? And, Morris, how about all that expensive hormone therapy? And four years ago after you lost your job at Jiffy Lube, who helped get you an attorney to sue those biased Nazis?”

Monica glared at him, her glass eye shimmering, and stepping back, she hauled off and punched Charlie in the eye, and as he stumbled about she walked circles around him and growled, “Oh Charles, if only you knew who you were fucking with, you would not have thrown those things in my face. If only you knew what I knew, you would not have said any of those things. You see, Charles, I got some things on you that might not fare too well with the Archdiocese. This video bullshit, whatever. It means nothing, really. Let’s just say that we have some video tape of you in the costumes aisle of the Wal-Mart having your way with a rubber mask of a certain former resident of the White House.”

Before Charlie could get up she punched him again, this time knocking him unconscious. When he came to, he was lying in the living room, naked and hog-tied with phone wire. He looked up and saw his most precious hobby, his 40 gallon aquarium filled with Ashai, a special rare breed of Japanese goldfish. The tank was cracked and water slowly trickled out onto the floor. He noticed that half the fish were missing and could hear Monica cackling behind him, as she would pick one by one up by its tail and slowly lower the flailing goldfish into her mouth. Monica continued this ritual for a few minutes before walking behind the bound Charlie and began to insert his special Japanese goldfish into his asshole.


Written by Tenzin McGrupp, & Mona LaVigne
© Paul McGuire, 2002

E-Story 5: Purple Jellybeans and Vanilla Milkshakes

Written by Paul McGuire with Armando Huerta, Jessica Lapidus, and Skipford Von Beaverhausen

She hung up the phone and hurled it across the room. Her mother's foreboding voice still hung heavy in her head, her words of warning leaving a smoking hole through her ear. She didn't care what the old crow said, her mother was jealous, just like the rest of them, jealous that she was the beautiful one in the family, and the only one that got out of that small town in Mississippi called Gladstonia, twenty-five long uneventful boring miles of stupidity north of nowhere special except for an awful smellin', inauspicious collection of cheeze doodle eatin', moonshine guzzlin', Old Skoal chewin', marijuana growin', racist gang of thugs, known uncomfortably to the nineteen year old colorblind Amber, as her family.

Family... if you could call them that. Her mother had farted her out, her older brothers had tortured her as befitting a favorite child, and her uncle had occasionally molested her, Oprah-guest-style. Her real family were her friends and lovers, constantly changing, and always interchangeable. Though the choices in Gladstonia where dismal at best, migrant fieldhands working their way down to Florida were always good for a quick poke in the dusty bed of an El Camino. But all the 70s-Style Truck-Fucks could never have prepared Amber for Hector, the sweet, hairy Mexican boy, who would be the catalyst for her escape from Gladstonia, for when she met him at 15 she knew nothing of the outside world, and when she left him at 17, she was a mother of two and $15,000 richer. Three weeks after they first met, the young lustful couple fled to Fort Walton Beach, Florida, where Hector would peddle nickel and dime bags of Gladstonia's finest marijuana to college kids on spring break, while Amber quickly found work, and unexpectedly got her first deviant glimpse at one of her deepest reptilian-erotic passions… topless dancing at Stan's II on the weekends and hot-oil wrestling with alligators every Wednesday night at Gator Sally's.

Hector moved to Lakeland to work the orange groves, taking the children with him. Amber's reputation grew with every performance, and one Wednesday she found herself wrestling a six-foot gator in front of Ol' Dirty Dogg, the tattoo-covered rap star whose latest single, "Hot Nasty Puppies in Heat," topped the Billboard singles chart.

When Amber wiped the hot oil out of her eyes and saw Ol' Dirty's gold teeth and enormous diamond earring, she knew she was truly in love. She had one problem: well, two actually. The only thing preventing Amber from becoming Ol' Dirty's new bitch and smoking endless blunts with her new Pimp Daddy, was his wife, former sitcom actress and infomercial star, Shaneqia Devixen, and her annoying yapping poodle, Coconut. They were both riding in Ol' Dirty's tourbus for the entire summer tour during his twenty show tour of Canada. The tour bus, custom made by Flava Wheels in Detroit, had a Bang & Olufsen sound system, vibrating bed and a gold plated bidet for Shaneqia to wash out her clean shaved box.

Amber was enticed by Ol' Dirty Dogg and his diamond-encrusted smile, and set it upon herself to find out how she might get rid of Shaneqia in the cleanest yet most comprehensive way possible. She was going to hire a hitman, but O.D.D. got himself into trouble and was thrown in the county lock-up after he had shot up a Domino's Pizza delivery man's car while he was sideswiped by the speeding driver on his way to taking his grandmother to church one Sunday morning. O.D.D. got out of his car and just started shooting at the other car, and to his misfortune, one bullet grazed a bystander and left him with a chunk of his nose shot off. As a result of this mishap, O.D.D. was doing a three-month (a case of brilliant lawyering) stint in the Fort Walton County Jail, and when Amber went to visit him she carried a bouquet of daisies, practically limping with the weight of the industrial-size file buried inside. She never got to see him. O.D.D. was shanked on his way to the visitor's room by a fellow inmate, who was convinced that O.D.D. had stolen his wife four years earlier. Amber sat behind the plexiglass in the visitors room for a good hour before a guard approached her and questioned her presence. She told him her business and when he informed her that Maurice Jones was unavailable at the moment, she jumped at the sound of O.D.D.'s real name and dropped the bouquet, which hit the concrete floor with a CLUNK.

As she burst into tears, Amber limped outside and drove straight to work at Stan's II. Later that evening just before midnight, after spending two grueling hours in the V.I.P. Lounge entertaining a table of touchy-feely, bad-tipping, Saudi students who attended a local flight school in nearby Panama City, she was ready to hit the main stage. Within minutes she met a new suitor, the tall yet stoic, Buck Axlerod, a minor league baseball player with the Tampico Stogies, who was in town for a weekend series against the Destin Palmettos. He was a lefthanded pitcher with a wicked curveball and was once touted as the baseball's next hot prospect, but a motorcycle accident and an uncomfortable case of shingles kept him on the bench all season and he had yet to see any action. Buck had come into Stan's to drink away his sorrows of rejection, but when he saw the sparkling Amber, swinging spread-legged on the steel pole, he realized that he was too good for the Stogies, and this gorgeous female was too good for Stan's. When she examined the bills he'd shoved down her thong and found the address of his motel in the bundle, Amber knew that she was about to get out of town.

She showed up at his motel room a half hour later, and Buck's roommate, Sly Kennedy, was passed out on the floor after a night of binge drinking. The new couple flew into a passionate embrace only to trip over Sly. They laughed in unison, rolled over, ignoring him, and took off each other's clothes in alphabetical order, starting with Amber's bra. Eventually, Amber and Buck frolicked into porno-style sex for three straight hours in front of the comatose corpse. After a shower and another quickie, they got dressed and Amber took all the money out of the drunken ballplayer's wallet. She easily convinced Buck to take her as far away from Florida as he could.

They hopped in her car, hit I-10 West, and started driving. Buck drove all night, speeding away from the rising sun, and had nearly reached the Alabama state line when they heard the familiar wail of a siren behind them.

"Shit," Amber said, pushing down on Buck's right leg, forcing him to slam the accelerator to the floor.

"The must have found the body in my apartment already," she continued, with no remorse in her voice. "I sprayed Febreze all over it, but the neighbors must have smelled it anyway."

The patrol car raced past them and never stopped. Buck slammed on the breaks, pulled off to the side of the highway, grabbed Amber by the throat and growled.

"Jesus!" Amber choked against the force of Buck's hand, "I was just kidding!"

But Buck was riled and Amber realized that the only way to calm him would be to pry his fingers from her neck and give him a blowjob. After he came in her throat, careful not to soil the car seat (an occupational hazard when one such as Buck is accustomed to facials), the two agreed to head to Las Vegas with Sly Kennedy's money bulging in their pockets and Amber's tiny hand resting on the new bulge in Buck's pants.

They drove all night through Louisiana and Texas only stopping to gas up and for the necessary bathroom breaks. They tried not to spend any money aside from purchasing cigarettes and fast food. The only stops were for the occasional session of oral sex on the shoulder of the interstate. Buck would keep a silent count of the towns in which Amber would go down on him for the novel he had hoped to eventually write when they got to Las Vegas.

Mobile, Alabama; Biloxi, Mississippi; Baton Rouge and Lake Charles, Louisiana were the first towns and cities that Buck memorized. When they got to Texas, the heat was no match for Amber's desire for Buck's massive cock and she was jonesin' for his tasty member. Beaumont, Sugarland, Austin, Dripping Springs, Sonora, twice in Fort Stockton, Balmorhea, Sierra Blanca, and El Paso... all were random locations of their vehicular sex acts throughout Texas.

When the couple got to Las Cruces, New Mexico, they spent the night at a Motel 6, took a bubble bath, tied each other up for an hour and tickled one another's naked bodies with feathers from a dead bird they found, and watched a James Bond marathon on TBS before drinking a fifth of Smirnoff and passing out. The kinky couple awoke to the sounds of a large explosion and the mechanical sounds of helicopters circling above them.

Wearing one of Buck's Tampico Stogies t-shirts, Amber leaned out the window and saw nothing but a huge billowing cloud of black smoke which looked to be some 50 miles away. She ran to Buck, still drooling on his pillow, and shook him violently. When he did not move, she rolled him over to find his face covered in his own vomit, and instantly knew that he was dead. Thinking fast, Amber reached into Buck's crumpled pants, grabbed his wallet, his car keys, and a small bag of heroin she knew he had tried to hide from her in his boot. She got into her car, left the parking lot of the Motel 6 and gassed it to Vegas, far away from the smoke and helicopters.

Twelve hours later she got to the outskirts of Vegas, tired, nearly broke and with an itching sensation in her crotch area. She knew only one person in Vegas... Stan’s twin brother Fran. Stan gave Amber her first job after the underage Lolita begged and pleaded with him for an audition and Stan reluctantly hired her after she gave him a better than average blow job and waxed his new Geo Metro. She finally located Fran’s phone number at the bottom of her alligator purse and called his cellphone. Like his twin, Fran also owned a strip bar, this one called the Snatch House, located near the old shoe factory. He would agree to see Amber on one condition: she had to bring him a box of Munchkins from Dunkin Donuts.

She walked into the Snatch House only to see the skankiest and ugliest girls dancing, and the one on the main stage had the worst plastic surgery she had ever seen. Amber took the box of Munchkins over to the back office, a small room behind the bar. When she walked in she saw Fran, who looked like Stan except for the six inch scar that ran down the side of his face and crossed over to his neck. She also noticed that the office smelled horrible, like a combination of three day old piss and rotten eggs.

Fran made her get undressed as he shoved the Munchkins, three or four at a time into his mouth, and began to explain to her the rules of his club. Amber got sicker with each minute she was in his office, and she realized that Fran had one of the worst body odors she had ever experienced. She coughed and tried to hold her nose, but Fran made her come closer to him as he unzipped his fly and pulled out a limp undersized penis. He smiled as he shoved a couple more Munchkins in his mouth and motioned to Amber to finish her audition. She got down on her knees and the stench from his crotch almost made her puke. Fighting back tears, she could feel the crumbs from the Dunkin Donuts hit her on her back and her neck as she quickly finished up oral sex on her new boss. It was taking alot longer than she had hoped, and the foul odors were driving her crazy, so she tried to think of something that would make her happy. She drifted away to the time when her Uncle Jerry had taken her to the Dairy Queen when she was seven and he just bought her a large bag of purple jellybeans, and she held them in her hand as she slurped down a ice cold vanilla milkshake.

© Paul McGuire, 2002

E-Story 4: Merry's Gift

Written by Pauly with S. Adkins, Armando H., J. Lapidus, Derek McG, Sim Schwartz and Modeski

Merry smiled as she picked up her gift off of the kitchen table and with eager anticipation, untied the green bow and tore off the pink birthday wrapping paper. Without a glance she dropped the paper on the floor knowing the Guatemalan housekeeper, Yelitza, would pick it up and shrieked when she saw her present. Merry giggled, sprang out of her chair and jumped up and down, while Yelitza stared in anguish.

"It's just great, Mommy!" she said, holding up a pair of Barbie dolls, shining under cellophane in their slender pink boxes. The White Barbie had been decked out for a day of fun and sun in a bathing suit, but the Lightbrown Barbie was dressed up in a dour-looking maid's outfit. Merry's mother steadied her digital video camera to capture her daughter's satisfied eyes. Yelitza frowned and moved stealthily behind Mrs. Goldman, carrying the discarded giftwrap to the trash, never taking her eyes off the spoiled eight-year old child. Merry put aside her new dolls and picked up another gift, an envelope left to her from her distant Uncle Benjamin while Yelitza poured Merry's mother some more fresh squeezed apricot juice. Unknown to Merry and Mrs. Goldman, Yelitza had spit in her glass before she poured her juice.

As Mrs. Goldman, also known as The Hairy Moled Biotch to her helpers, took a big 'ol gulp of her juice, Yelitza winked to her smiling and giggling compadres, as she knew the fluids that Mrs. Goldman consumed weren't simply saliva, rather it was mixed with a healthy dose of liquid acid. The staff silently rejoiced while they finished preparations for Merry's Fabulous Birthday Lunch.

In the enormous kitchen, an army of illegal aliens from small coastal towns and mountain villages from all over Central America were chopping and slicing. The sounds of hot onions in oil, and the pungent tang of garlic in hot all-clad cookware, and the hiss of the Viking Gas eight burner range, all created the sounds of the kitchen that Merry could not withstand for very long as she began to see shallots the size of leeks dance across the marble countertops and into the basket she had gotten on their last trip to Provence two years ago.

"What is wrong with this picture?" Merry said as an artichoke the size of a housecat jumped out of the boiling water of the 8 Quart stockpot she seemed to be staring at, and struck Yeltiza on the forearm. Shrieking in pain, she quickly ran over to the sink to pour cold water on her burn. With a crooked smile, Merry dropped the envelope and it slid underneath the table as she ran out of the kitchen as Mrs. Goldman followed Merry with her camera.

While Yelitza cleaned her burn wound, she noticed the envelope lying on the kitchen floor and quickly snatched it up. Yelitza did not know anything about Uncle Benjamin, but assumed that he too, was wealthy and hoped to find something special inside... cash money perhaps. Regardless of its contents, she pocketed the envelope knowing that Merry has a short memory and Senora Hairy Moled Biotch would not remember its existence after she became preoccupied with the crazy journey that lie ahead. All provided, of course, by Yelitza and her Guatemalan Happy Juice.

Yelitza wandered out of the kitchen into her bedroom which was the adjacent room, a tiny space with no windows and a couple of old gym lockers that she shared with the other workers, who used it as a break room and changing room. The back room/bedroom where Yelitza lived, was the least attractive room of the luxurious sixteen room Fifth Avenue duplex that Mrs. Goldman had persuaded Mr. Goldman to buy shortly after their tabloid fairy tale marriage of a decade ago. That's where Yelitza had moved into after Mrs. Goldman hired her, just a few days after Merry was born.

Yelitza remembered the headlines of the Daily News and New York Post, from almost a decade earlier, the one's that she used to read on her long subway rides from Sunset Park, Brooklyn to her job as a Nanny on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. The newspapers would be filled with daily dreck and silly stories of the 71 year old Wall Street guru, Avi Goldman, who was caught up in a May-December relationship with former child actor, twentysomething Jane Wickman, who had just been released from rehab for excessive pill popping. The bleached blonde, waif-like, washed up starlet, would soon become Mrs.Goldman Number 6 after she successfully seduced the geriatric, Viagra popping billionaire, during a long weekend holiday in Maui.

Yelitza was recommended to the Goldman's who were looking for a Nanny and she was hired on the spot after Mr. Goldman met her and fell hopelessly in love with Yelitza's beautiful jade-green eyes. Mrs. Goldman felt threatened by her husband's infatuation with the dark-skinned Guatemalan, and had immediately launched an internal strike against the girl, first by giving her the smallest room in the house, and progressing to things like conveniently FORGETTING to pay Yelitza on time.

Yelitza locked the squeaky door to her bedroom, wiped the irksome sweat from her nose and neck and opened up the fancy birthday envelope from Merry's Uncle Benjamin. What Yelitza found inside was a round trip ticket to Uncle Benjamin's estate in Miami Beach, Florida where he owned two of the hottest night spots in town, a 50 foot yacht, and a restaurant called Flambayed Shor. As Yelitza hid the envelope underneath her mattress, she decided she would keep the tickets, fly to Miami with her new boyfriend, Ivan and spend a few relaxing days on the beach. The thought of an exotic weekend with her lover made her blush with erotic enthusiasm.

She had to decide what she would wear and sighed knowing that her high heels purchased at Payless, while good for kicking Ivan during the heights of their S&M romps, would not cut it on South Beach. Suddenly, she heard a crashing sound followed by the familiar shrill screeching voice of Mrs. Goldman, "Yelitzaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"

Yelitza ran back into the kitchen to find Mrs. Goldman perched like a vulture on the large marble-topped island in the middle of the room. Her Donna Karan blouse ($270, Bloomingdales) was torn, and she had thrown her Manolo Blahnik shoes ($450, Manolo Blahnik, SoHo store) at the cook. In one hand, she clutched the two Barbie dolls; in the other, a large kitchen knife ($34, Williams-Sonoma) covered in blood. Yelitza stood in shock because she didn't think the acid would kick in this early and watched as the kitchen staff stampeded past her. At Yelitza's trembling feet lay Merry, her right hand clamped tightly over her left wrist, blood seeping through her small, white-knuckled fingers, her mouth locked open in a silent scream. Yelitza scooped up Merry’s severed limb off the floor and ran over the freezer to pack it in ice as she searched for a bag large enough to fit a small child’s hand. When she found a suitable baggie, she sealed it up and turned around to find Mrs. Goldman missing and Merry passed out with her face turning a shade of Picasso Blue in color.

Yelitza sprinted out of the room searching for Mrs. Goldman all over the apartment simply to find her getting down in their Disco Room to Bootsy Collins. Mrs. Goldman had removed all her clothes, yet still held the Williams-Sonoma knife in her hand, while she attempted to do the Hustle. Yelitza tried her best not to laugh during this grave and serious situation. She had the urge to videotape Mrs. Goldman's comical and scary attempt at dancing and post it on the internet to further embarrass the bitch. Composing herself, Yelitza quickly tried to figure out how she can contain this domestic problem and not get fired at the same time. Meanwhile, Merry ran wildly around the apartment with her bloody stump in tow. Yelitza thought, “This is a job for Ivan. He'll know what to do!”

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911 and grabbing the hysterical Merry, she took the bleeding child into the hallway and left her there with explicit instructions not to go back into the apartment. Yelitza ran back into her room to grab her passport, the tickets to Miami and her favorite picture of Merry; when she was 3 years old, dressed up like a Pumpkin, and it wasn't even Halloween. She smiled as she shoved these items into a gym bag and in her hand she still held Merry's hand, in the zip lock baggie filled with ice, which started to leak. She ran back into the kitchen to get another baggie and in there she saw a naked Mrs. Goldman, blood trickling all her her body, her own right breast severed as she fished out her implant and threw it at Yelitza. Before she could react, the saline blob landed on Yelitza's sensible shoes, jiggling like a bloody jellyfish. Her eyes wide in horror, Yelitza dared not open her mouth for fear that she might vomit, but before she could even think of what to do, the ziplock bag that contained Merry's hand burst open onto the kitchen tile. Water and melting ice went everywhere, and the child's hand, its fingers still in their natural curve, landed smack on the implant, cupping it perfectly. Yelitza, trembling with fear, opened her mouth to scream, and instead vomited on her sensible shoes.

Yelitza took off her shoes and ran barefoot out into the hallway where Merry had once again passed out. Yelitza pushed the elevator button to call it up and hugged the shaking Merry with all her might. Mr. Jim, the elevator man freaked out when the doors opened up to the Penthouse. He saw a barefoot Yelitza, who was in shock and drenched in blood, holding the bloody Merry, and her eyes swelled up with tears as he rushed them both into the elevator. He ran into the apartment as Yelitza hit the Lobby button and she clutched the birthday girl in her arms and began to sing her a lullaby, one that her Grandmother had used to sing to her and her sisters when they were children.

An eternity passed as the elevator smoothly sank to the ground floor. When the doors finally opened, Yelitza darted into the lobby, shouting, “Ayuda! Ayuda!” as she cradled the unconscious Merry. She ran out the doors and immediately began dashing toward the local hospital.

A policeman immediately saw her. “Stop,” he shouted. “What are you doing?”

Yelitza, functioning solely on instinct, ignored the policeman and continued running, blood dripping down her gray maid’s uniform and her bare feet.

“Stop,” the policeman ordered, more forcefully this time. Yelitza, blind to everything except the emergency room four blocks away, didn’t see him draw his gun. He holstered his gun and began to chase her but tripped on the curb and fell quickly to the pavement. Yelitza frantically kept running across the busy street until a yellow cab cut her off as it stopped in the middle of the intersection. She stopped just before it hit her and when she looked up she saw a familiar face. It was her boyfriend, Ivan, and in his heavy Russian accent he yelled, “Get in.”

Relieved, Yelitza threw open the back door and climbed in, cradling the fading child, and told Ivan to drive to the hospital. He turned to her, leaned back and kissed her hard on the mouth, their tongues twisting, her toes curling, as Merry’s stump bled profusely all over the seat.

“How are you?” Yelitza asked her lover, forgetting everything that had been happening.

“You would not believe my day, ptitsa,” he groaned, as Yelitza closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

© Pauly 2002

E-Story 3: The Bloody Hands

Written by Pauly with B. Singer, Juan F. Rib, J. Lapidus, Derek McG, Simanoff, S. Adkins, Keren G., Señor, Modeski Armando H., Boogie, and Skipford Van Beaverhausen.


He quickly walked into the bathroom in silence, and systematically washed the blood from his hands and from underneath his fingernails. At the height of rush hour, the train station was bustling with activity, and all types of men, in suits and rags, were breezing past him to piss in the filthy urinals. He took his time making sure every drop of blood was gone, before checking his clothes for any signs of more blood. Satisfied with his appearance he casually peered through the mirror at the four stalls behind him and, once certain he was alone in the bathroom, entered the third stall from the left - always the third stall from the left. He walked in, locked the door and took a deep breath, as he heard the echo of the distinct cackle of Strawberry Fields, the local street walker, who uses the second stall to turn tricks and give $20 blowjobs to horny commuters. While in the third stall, the mysterious man heard a familiar voice amidst the loud and boisterous activities going on in the stall next to him but unfortunately he could not contain his need to collect himself and finish his assignment. He opened up a manila envelope and saw the picture and address of his next victim, as Strawberry Fields popped her head over the stall and slyly whispered, "Are you next honey pie?" The man hid the envelope under his arm and smiled back at the hooker, "No, not today." He handed her a black and white cookie, which he took out from his briefcase, and she sauntered out of the restroom. Alone at last, with a mere few moments to kill, he sunk to the ground, leaned against the shitter and wondered how the fuck he got into this mess. It wasn't always this tough to do jobs for the Old Man, but recently it had been tougher and tougher.

He swore to himself that he'd quit after his disastrous last job for the Old Man. His assignment was to kill Fidel Castro, an unfortunately named 86-year-old retired stockbroker living on the ground floor of a shit-brown apartment building behind a Hooters in Clearwater, Florida. Racing toward the rear window, he tripped over a ceramic manatee in the yard and fell face-first through a sliding glass door and landed on the floor; his gun, however, landed on the coffee table, knocking over a tiny statue of St. Francis of Assisi and a little crystal dish filled with hard candies. He broke three ribs, tore up his knee and needed 67 stitches on his face, which left several odd looking scars, which he has never been able to correct no matter how many plastic surgeons he went to.

This job was going to be more difficult, as he had to kill the transvestite day manager at the Wal Mart in Clearwater, Florida. This man/woman, was a former offensive lineman from the University of Georgia football team, whom had once been the homecoming queen at Vedalia high school in Vedalia, Georgia. He somberly walked out of the bathroom, past the buzzing commuters, wondering how he could get himself out of this mess. He vowed never to return to Florida, let alone Clearwater. His healed scars were starting to itch and burn at the thought of returning to the Sunshine State, and a sick feeling in his stomach began to turn and churn his insides, but he knew he had to get this last job done, get paid, then and only then he could walk away and start his own business, an adult book store in Vancouver, British Columbia, a dream of his since he first started out as a hitman's assistant in 1977.

As the day finally drew near and the plans were close to becoming a fierce reality, his soul felt like a bunch of little pieces as if he were living at the bottom of a bag of chips. He didn't want to leave New York, but alas, he knew he had no choice, his destiny lie ahead in Clearwater, so he shuffled his heavy feet and ill body back to his cheap hotel room near Hell's Kitchen. Now, although taking a urine soaked Greyhound seemed more apropos for a trip to the pan handle state, time was of essence so he booked himself an aisle seat on Jet Blue for the following evening. He sat in his tiny hotel room and decided he was too exhausted to sleep, which was not good because he had 12 hours until he had to leave for the airport and needed to rest and relax, so he walked downstairs to the corner liquor store and bought a fifth of Wild Turkey, a jug of cheap Portuguese wine, two packs of Camel Lights and grabbed a copy of the Village Voice newspaper. On the way back to his fleabag hotel room, a man stepped out of the shadows and asked him if he needed something a little stronger than booze and cigs. By the appearance of his soiled clothing, this man appeared to be homeless, and in his hand he held a rock of Afghani hashish, with his dry and dirty hands he cracked a small piece of hash off the larger rock and sold it for $15. He slyly buried the pebble of hash in his pocket and walked briskly back to the hotel, anxious to begin on the journey his fortuitous purchase would take him. When he got to his room, he locked the door, unholstered his gun, took three swigs of wine, and began to chain smoke his cigarettes as he methodically flipped through the Village Voice.

Flipping backward through the pages of the Voice absent-mindedly, a picture suddenly caught his eye. Flipping forward frantically, his heart began to pound. He stopped at the page, smiled and celebrated by lighting up some hash. This could be his way out, he realized. It was the Old Man... with long blond hair, shaved legs, implants and a navel ring - on the cover of a new video on sale at Da Booty Shack. His plan of action was clear. He would have to go now to Da Booty Shack, get a copy, and hold it against the old man as blackmail. He smiled and silently rejoiced as he now had a way out of his assignment and to celebrate, he kept flipping the pages of the Sex section until he saw a picture of an escort, Candi, that aroused him. After he finished his cigarette he called Candi's cell phone, asked for her hourly rates and she agreed to meet him in 35 minutes. He took a few more swigs of the bad wine and waited.

After an hour the knock came at the door and when he opened it, he was shocked to see before him a young woman with the body of a 17-year old cheerleader and the face of Danny Bonaduce. She walked in, demanded her $300 up front, and as he unrolled a mobster's wad of $100 bills, she asked Hugo for a cigarette. His anticipatory, half-staff erection had been killed by Candi's face, so he stared at her breasts as he fumbled in his pocket for a pack of smokes. She swiped the pack from Hugo's hands and with a lit ciggie in her mouth, she made Hugo strip and get on the filthy floor on all fours and kicked him with her high heels until he barked like a dog and when he started yelping like a spoiled Pug, she took one huge drag on her ciggie then put it out on his ass. The smell of burning hair filled the room, and poor Hugo, steeped in the throes of an ecstasy that reminded him of Las Vegas, sizzled for about 15 seconds before he realized that the singe was his own. He leapt up and smacked his head against one of the paint peeling walls, drawing blood, which spooked Candi and she bolted out of the room, but not before she grabbed Hugo's mobster roll of $100s and his bottle of Wild Turkey. When he came to with a throbbing headache, Hugo instinctively reached for the bottle of Portuguese wine and took a mouthful, instantly vomiting all over the open page of the Village Voice, all over the photo of the Old Man in drag. With his knees wobbling and his hands shaking, he slowly got up and heard the distant gongs of a church bell calling morning parishioners to morning Mass, and that's when Hugo realized he passed out after being robbed and beaten up by a sadistic hooker and was late for his flight to Florida, so he frantically gathered up all his belongings, the few items that the hooker didn't steal, and with a wicked throbbing migraine headache, he got dressed and ran down the stairs. As though with ESP, a taxi was waiting outside and Hugo got in the back seat, demanded La Guardia Airport, and the cabbie sped off, with a bloody and retching passenger leaning out the window.

Ivan, the Russian cabdriver turned around and looked at a demoralized, hungover, bumbling hit-man, and smiled, “Rough night, my friend?” While still cognizant of the fact that he had some incriminating evidence against the Old Man, Hugo still felt the need and desire to finish this one last job before he blackmailed his way out of this lifestyle and headed for what he truly yearned to do, besides killing that damn Danny Bonaduce look alike hooker. "Rough night?" didn't fully explain Hugo's situation as he now had a new concern to worry about: his past history with his next mark. The he/she ex-football player and manager of Wal Mart, brought back a flood of unwanted memories of the awkward time he was caught by the Old Man's anorexic daughter, Lola, several years earlier in a very uncompromising situation, after she found a naked and glassy eyed Hugo in bed smoking crack at a Motel 6, with the same transvestite he was supposed to kill.

As the cab stopped at the traffic light, Hugo leaned forward and asked Ivan to stop off at Da Booty Shack before the airport, but he would have to drive fast because he was late for his flight, and handed him a $50 bill which he had hidden in his Bible. Ivan looked the bill over twice before crumbling it up and putting it in his pocket. "No worries my friend, I will get you there quickly. For I used to drive T-40 tanks in Mother Russia's Supreme Tank Brigade. Cab in NYC is small potatoes compared to Russian Tanks, which always used to break down." Hugo was less interested in Ivan's military history than he was eager to get to the porn shop to buy the video with the Old Man. “So tell me, Mister, why must you go to this Sexy Booty Palace?”

Hugo had no answer for Ivan and ignored him the rest of the cab ride, until the cab stopped in front of Da Booty Shack, which to Hugo’s benefit was located just minutes from La Guardia Airport. Hugo handed Ivan another $50 bill and said, “Wait here, I’ll only be a minute.” And Hugo dashed into the porn shop, while Ivan got out of his cab, and dialed his cell phone as he walked to his trunk to get something out of a purple gym bag.

Da Booty Shack was crowded with customers and Hugo frantically looked for the video that the Old Man had starred in, and when he couldn’t find it, he went up to the clerk, a long haired, bearded kid with several nose rings and wearing a ripped Sex Pistols T-Shirt and black leather pants. “So, what the fuck do you want?” snapped the wise ass clerk. "I need this," he replied, pulling a copy of the Village Voice out from behind the counter and finding the ad with the Old Man's picture in it. "And I need it now -- I'm in a hurry." The clerk pointed to a wall of videos on the far wall. Hugo grabbed a copy, paid cash, and ran outside to find Ivan quarreling with three nuns.

"Cannot take you," Ivan was saying. "Already have fare."

Hugo reached for the door handle, but before he could touch it, he felt a large meaty hand clasp down on his shoulder. He turned around, and found himself face-to-face with the Old Man.

“I’ll take this,” said the Old Man as he grabbed his video out of Hugo’s hand. At that point, the nuns walked over to a stunned Hugo and as they grabbed him the largest nun sprayed Hugo with Pepper Spray. When he fell to the pavement, the other nuns began to beat him up, and that’s when he realized they weren’t nuns, but rather three hired thugs, part of the Old Man’s security detail. As the nuns alternated between kicking him in his genitals and his head, he overheard the Old Man say something to Ivan in Russian. The largest nun picked up Hugo and threw him into the backseat of the cab. Ivan rushed back into the front seat of his cab and sped away as the Old Man and the three nuns got into a lime green colored hearse which slowly drove off in the opposite direction.

As he wailed in pain, and tried to open his burning itchy eyes, Hugo wiped some of the blood off his mouth and face. He took a deep breath and bravely faced his ultimate reality: his own death. He fumbled around the floor of the backseat until he found his Bible, and started to say a small prayer to God to ask the Lord for his forgiveness for years and decades of immoral activities. Like the all the drug dealing, and all those nickel bags of Mexican marijuana he sold to fourth graders in Muncie, Indiana. And for visiting transvestite hookers twice a week since he was 16. And for all the cold blooded executions he performed for the Irish Mafia and the Old Man. And he prayed for mercy and pity for all those little kittens he drowned, hundreds over the span of his life for sheer enjoyment. And all those ex-wives he cheated on and beat up, especially the waif like Lola, ex-wife number four, and the youngest of the Old Man’s seven daughters, the one Hugo loved the most. Before he finished praying, Ivan slammed on his breaks and the cab screeched to a halt. Ivan turned around and pulled out a gun with a silencer on it and pointed the gun at Hugo’s chest. Hugo saw a bright flash and instantly he felt a burning sensation in his stomach and a sharp pain rocketed throughout his body. Hugo fought to open his cloudy watery eyes and glanced down to stare at his bloody hands clutching his Bible, and that’s the last thing he would see before he fell silent... his bloody hands.