He was lying on the bed and it was as though he were on a spit or a bed of stoked hot coals or something instead of a Sealy Posturepedic because his flesh was melting, fat running streaming down his body, staining the sheets yellow, brown, then red — and finally black as charred skin broke and slid across his chest, his thighs, his belly, all of it pooling underneath him like some foul overflowing stew, dripping off the sides of his bed and pooling there too. Messy. Horribly messy.
But there wasn't any pain. Only a sick, dreadful sensation in his stomach that he'd really gone and done it this time, he'd lost control in the worst possible way and that this was what, disgustingly, it all came down to, no boiled down to ha ha ha, flesh and fat breaking up and sliding, falling, dripping on the Persian rug.
'It's going to get very messy,' he heard himself say and then there was good old Harry standing at a psych podium saying, 'what you dream is how you see other people seeing you,' and then Laura stood over him watching. 'You really are slime, you know?' she said. And this time he had to agree.
He really was.
As he woke — as his left eye oozed down over his cheek to join the right eye already melting on his chest — he saw he really was.
I Would Do Anything For You
By Edward Lee
This story is the basis for the Ketchum/Lee collaboration I'D GIVE ANYTHING FOR YOU
'Please, please don't do this to us, Clare!' Roderic pleaded from the flagstone steps of the great house. It was his mother's house, for God's sake.
How many times had he said that in the last nine months? Big deal! Clare wanted to shout as she turned in the court. Can't you take a hint? 'It's just not working,' she said.
He splayed his hands, befuddled. 'What do you mean it's not working? Things are great. You said you'd marry me!'
'Oh, Roderic, I did not,' she lied. Early on, of course, she had responded very positively to his nuptial allusions. Clare, at thirty-three, wasn't getting any younger, and there were literally millions of reasons why a girl might want to be married to Roderic. But… Money isn't everything, she pondered. It got to the point where the relationship simply didn't suffice. 'I'm sorry,' she feebled. 'But I just can't see you anymore.'
Roderic's gape turned vapid. 'Is it another guy?'
'Of course not!' she chose to spat. How dare he suspect her of sleeping around! Besides, Fudd was more than just another guy. He was everything Roderic wasn't: strong, handsome, assertive, and…well, he had a big penis. She opened the door to the 300ZX (which Roderic had bought her, by the way) and was about to get in.
'But what about the trip to Paris?' came his next idiotic query. 'Don't you want to go?'
Paris might be fun, but there was a catch. Roderic's mother would be going too, along with Dallas, that ruffian manservant of hers.
Obviously, he didn't, but Dallas did. The sinister manservant, in his long leather jacket, glanced up blank- faced from the side of the house. He was stacking a cord of firewood, after dividing each round cut in one of those automatic log-splitters. The glint in his eyes just then…terrified her.
Worse, though, was the look of disdain on Roderic's mother's face, which could be seen now in the sitting- room window. The crinkled visage peered through the glass, causing tiny hairs on the back of Clare's neck to stand on end.
'Darling, please,' Roderic yammered on. 'Come back inside. We'll sit by the fire, I'll open the Louis XIII, and we can talk. We'll talk this thing out.'
'Roderic, read my lips! No new to—' Clare blinked. 'Er, I mean, it's over!'
For God's sake, he was crying now! Men were such babies. 'I would do anything for you,' he sobbed. 'I would build a temple. I would row a league. I would climb the highest mountain, cross the driest, hottest desert —'
Clare rolled her eyes. What a romantic putz!
'Anything, Clare,' he wept on. 'I would do anything.' He paused to sniffle. 'Tell me how I can prove my love.'
Play in traffic, how about that? 'Goodbye, Roderic!' she shouted. She slammed the car door and drove off. The estate shrunk behind her amid glowing topiary. In the rearview, as she descended, Roderic fell to his knees in grief as his mother and her leather-clad servant approached the porch to comfort him.
'There's my juicy little love-muffin,' Fudd said when Clare came back to her apartment. His tongue roved her mouth in greeting; her 36C's tingled against his muscled chest. Already, the deft, strong hands unbuttoned her blouse. 'You break the news to the wimp?'
'Yes,' she said rather sadly. Aftermath. Guilt. But why should I feel guilty? She'd told Roderic the truth, and now it was done. 'I'm surprised he didn't take back the car,' she remarked.
Fudd's hands shucked her out of the blouse, baring her unfettered breasts. 'That little creamcake fairy can't take back the car,' he informed her. 'He put the title in your name.'
'And you can bet he won't be paying my rent anymore.'
Fudd had his penis out already, which he often referred to as 'John Henry' or 'Mr. Meat Missile.' He pressed it against her. 'Fuck him and his mama's money. Coupla days and my next big score comes in. You and me, we'll be rollin' in green.'
Clare sighed. Fudd rubbed her back on the couch, his firm touch banishing her stresses. 'Now let's gander that ass,' he said. He stripped off her jeans, propped her on hands and knees like convenient furniture. 'Ooooo-eee, that's shore one humdinger of a butt, ain't it?' he complimented. 'Gots to get me a taste of this little hole.' Clare moaned at his next gesture: Fudd's tongue, by the way, was not particular about which orifice it tended, and as for her 'little hole,' it clenched in spasmodic pleasure, the likes of which she'd never experienced with any man, much less Roderic. In moments, Clare felt like a bitch in high heat. Then Fudd's own pants came down. 'Here's somethin' to help you forget about that mama-rich wimp. Make way fer John Henry, yeah boy!'
Clare gulped as Fudd made good with his promise. His inordinately large cock slid right up into the slot of her sex, bulging her. Each stroke pushed away more of the memory of Roderic. 'There ya go,' Fudd said in somewhat less than the King's English. 'Ain't got no reason no more to worry 'bout that creamcake, not with my cock up yer snatch. How's ya like that big rod plumbin' yer pipes, huh? Gots me a load of love juice I'se just been savin' fer this purdy thing. So how's about rubbin' them there balls whiles yer at it?'
'Oh, honey,' she moaned. She reached under and fondled testicles which felt heavy as cue balls. She could feel blood vessels pumping in the large, intricate sac. 'Stick it in harder.'
Fudd obliged. Christ, his cock was so big she thought she could feel it in her stomach. 'Yeah, just like that,' came her hot whisper. 'All the way in as hard as you can. I want you to fuck me till I can't see straight. I want you to fill my pussy up with your come…'
But the muse fell to bits when the phone shrilled. 'You gots ta be fuckin' kiddin' me,' Fudd complained mid- stroke. His penis withdrew, and slapped her on the bottom like a scolding hand.
'I'd do anything, darling,' came Roderic's weepy, sniffly bumbling. 'I would do anything for you.'
Fudd hadn't much cared for the telephonic coitus interruptus, so he'd worked off his angst at the expense of Clare's physical real estate. Not that she'd objected: her orgasms ensued without abatement, and in a multiple fashion. What Fudd lacked in societal sophistication he more than made up for in cocksmanship, and with a prostate
