I don’t remember how far out of town we went, or how long it took, but we eventually pulled into a roadhouse that was surrounded by swamp. I had no idea there was swamp land in Washington State, but the mosquitoes that attacked my face and neck and hands proved we were back in nature.
Inhaling the thick stench of swamp gas, I followed Gord and Poppy up the porch steps of the roadhouse. Laughter and screams and blaring music poured from the walls. All the windows were bricked or boarded up, and the only sign, reading simply “Roadhouse” in hackneyed smears of flaking paint, hung above the porch.
Poppy opened the door and noise crashed over us. We passed two bouncers, each with a large amount of metal piercing their tattooed faces. They slapped Gord on the back to congratulate him on getting married. Multicolored lights shot around the dark room, showing flashes of flesh—semi-naked and naked women dancing on tables as men howled up at them. The men looked like a cross between a motorcycle gang and survivors of the Apocalypse.
Beards cinched by rows of elastic bands, pierced ears punctured by wooden and steel dowels, tribal tattoos on faces and bald heads, a man with a golden metal ring tight around his neck, muscle shirts, and a helluva lot of leather.
I followed in the slow slipstream of Gord, who could barely take a step through the crowd without being hugged, slapped, given a shooter, a beer, a pill of some kind. Girls flocked to his side to kiss his cheek and let him put his hand on their asses and elsewhere. I saw it all from the back. Gord was finally able to breathe once we reached a horseshoe-shaped booth against a wall deep in the room.
A mounted grizzly head hung over the booth, and Gord took his seat beneath it. Poppy was on his left and I sat on his right. We never paid for a drink, or anything else, all night.
Must’ve been the cocaine—the Black Betty wearing away—but I remember the night only in flashes. Too drugged up to recall all the people I met or how they may have been important to Gord. He introduced me as an old friend and his best man, and I was lavished with attention almost as much as he was. I felt like royalty, though many of the people I met scared the hell out of me. Others tempted the hell out of me. I recall a man with two thick purple scars up either nostril which I couldn’t take my eyes off. I blinked and he was gone. In his place was a gorgeous black girl wearing a glittering gold bra. She lifted it up to her neck and I saw a superfluous nipple beside her right nipple. Whether she pulled my head down or I dived in, I don’t know, but I sucked on the third nipple. It fed me milk that tasted of salt and iron. The liquid may have been blood, actually. There were a lot of flashing lights dyeing the color of everything and everyone. The girl happily said “Thanks, baby, you can suck mama’s nipple any time.” I do remember that. And I somewhat recall that, at one point, a drop of milk glittering with gold flakes hung from the nipple and I was about to suck it off, but then a strobe light blinded me, and the drop fell. I saw it hit the back of my hand and turn into an anemone. I yelled and snapped it off.
I doubted whether or not that black horse pill was saving me or making things worse.
I think, but can’t be sure, that at one point during the night, with Gord lost in the crowd, I had my pants pulled to my knees and at least one girl under the table. I stretched my arms along the cushioned leather back of the booth and felt like a king. I don’t remember if I ejaculated or not, but it felt great and lasted for hours. I was getting a secret blow-job in a crowded room! (Well, maybe not so secret.) My drab college life was far behind me.
During the whole time, I was fed more drinks and coke and pills and weed, and who knows what else. I sucked Jell-O shooters from many pairs of amazing breasts and out of vaginas. Girls, some wearing leather bondage gear, sat on the table in front of me with their legs spread, a tiny plastic cup with green gelatin nestled between their labia. A gathering crowd watched me and cheered, and I had no idea who anyone was, not even the girls.
I didn’t remember moving from the booth for much of the night, except twice. I have vague memories of being in two other places that night, though I didn’t know how I got to either one. And one of the places, I think, I left and returned to.
The first was a bedroom with walls made of mirror, in the middle of which sat a retro ’60s circular bed, draped in red satin sheets, that revolved as I lay on it. Me and three girls, that is. A white girl, a black girl (not the same previous one), and an Asian girl. We were all naked. Girls with me, girls with each other.
In that place, my penis rose and never went down. In fact, oddly, it felt at least twelve inches long. That couldn’t be real. I remember fucking all three girls for hours, shooting my load, then kept fucking them and I was never tired. Nor were they.
Then the next scene I remember had the four of us outside in the swamp. The girls were dressed in bikinis, each holding a shotgun, and I had a four-foot-long machete in my hand.
A skinny man in a suit and tie, collar open, with a pencil-thin moustache and a black eye, was pinned against a tree, lengths of rope tied around his waist, sweating and crying and begging for his life. The girls held their guns on him, screaming at him not to make a move, to hold still while I killed him. Then the girls—all who were calling me Daddy—told me to give it to the man, torture him, hack him to pieces, do anything I wanted. He was a present for me. He wept and pleaded for mercy.
I swung the machete. He put up his arms instinctively to block the blow, and both of his arms flew off, between wrists and elbows. The Asian girl caught a piece of one arm in mid-air and used it as a club to smack the man in his face. He didn’t react to the blow, too busy screaming as blood gushed from his arm stumps. The girl then rubbed his dead hands between her legs.
While he stared in horror at his life pouring out, I stuck the tip of the machete against his trachea, pushed and twisted, reached fingers in, and pulled out a piece of his throat. I was going for his voicebox to shut him up. His screams turned to gurgles and whistles. The girls hooted and laughed, and I stared at the wedge of bloody flesh and the little bones I held in my hand. Then I put a two-handed grip on the blade and swung it like a baseball bat. His screams cut off as his head flew into the white girl’s arms.
The girls all howled with laughter, and each took turns kissing the dead man’s lips while fury consumed me, and I hacked and hacked at his lifeless body on the ground.
We all cheered, hearts pumping adrenaline, sweat covering my face, blood on us all. The Asian girl threw the arm on the corpse, looked deeply into my eyes, and whispered, “My husband.” I smiled and nodded.
The victim’s head stayed with us as we headed out of the woods.
The next scene was back in the bedroom. The girls and I naked again, the severed head propped up on a pillow. I was as hard as iron again, so we all fucked.
Each girl used the head obscenely, putting its mouth between their legs, then the black girl lined the thing up with its mouth open. She grabbed a heavy glass ashtray filled with old joints and smashed it against the head’s mouth, and all its teeth dribbling down the chin.
I fucked the toothless mouth of the decapitated head as the girls urged me on, two of them caressing my body as the Asian girl held the head stable to bear the brunt of my thrusts.
I shot semen across its tongue to the back of its throat. Then the girls all sucked my cream from the dead mouth and caressed me with their hands and lips as I rested from the greatest orgasm of my life.
They then plucked out the dead man’s eyes and told me they were delicacies, as sweet as grapes. I believed them and ate the eyes.
I recalled one of them saying, “Welcome to the family” before the rest of the night erased itself from memory.