have bought, that, yes, she’d like a drink. The bartender pours it, holds it between his legs, stirs it with his cock, lets a couple drops of bloody jizz fall visibly into it and hands it to me.
I grin, give it to her. “Here, bottoms up.”
She grimaces, puts it down an arm’s-length on the bar, pulls back. “God.”
The other patrons laugh derisively, and I think she realizes for the first time that she’s just an amateur here.
She looks around for her bodyguards, notices that they are gone, and I see the fear on her face again, but she pretends she’s not afraid, and she walks away from me, to the other end of the bar. She walks now with the grace and confidence of a dancer, the athlete she has to be in order to perform her stage show, but when I am through with her she will not walk that way. She will be hobbled and crippled, cleaned out with the razorcock perhaps, or violated to hemorrhage by the first three feet of Mr. Pole, and she will never be able to dance again. Each step she takes will be filled with pain and will remind her of her former pretenses and her forced knowledge of reality.
What if I cut her off at the kneecaps, cauterize the wounds with lighter fluid and fire, use the leftover blood to lubricate her bottom two holes?
Could she handle living on stumps?
She looks at me from the safety of the other side of the bar, faces me. “How big are you?” she asks, feigning boldness.
“Cock or arm?” I say.
She blinks.
“Two feet cock, four arm. More reach with the arm, too. I can maneuver around in there, feel out the womb, stroke those babygrowing sides with my fingers. Ain’t nothing like it, babe.”
She looks sick, looks like she wants to say something, looks like she wants to bolt, but her bodyguards are gone, she’s a long way from the door, and she’s been left here and hanging and knows she’d better make the best of it.
A crowd is gathering. The Mother and Zeke and Mr. Pole and the Roothog. Ginjer and Liz. There’s an animal smell in the air. Lust. Sexual lust. The lust of victors for more victims.
The bar is never satisfied is it?
I drink her drink with the drops of bloody jizz, walk over.
The Roothog approaches. “A question,” he says. “Do you have to be in love to have sex?” It’s clear he still doesn’t know who she is.
She stares in open horror at his whiplike pizzle, and she nods slightly, tentatively. Her voice is a little girl’s voice, frightened. “Yes,” she lies.
“Love is spending time together,” he says to her. “Sex is just sex.” He grins, cackles, and pulls on his pizzle, and I realize that he does know who she is. He’s just thrown a quote from her book at her.
And she’s scared.
Sometimes the Ugly Bar surprises me.
She starts for the door. The Mother blocks her way.
I nod casually toward the Roothog’s pizzle. “He’s good with that,” I say.
“Let me out of here!” She tries to maneuver around The Mother, who moves to the side, blocks her again.
“You want another drink?” I’m trying not to laugh.
“I want out of here!”
“Then why did you come in?”
She looks at me, doesn’t answer. I’m the only one she’s really spoken to, and she thinks that’s established some sort of relationship between us, she thinks I’ll feel sorry for her and take pity on her because I’ve looked into her eyes, but she doesn’t know shit about the way things really work.
I stroke my codpiece. “I’ll take you,” I say. “I’ll even hurt you if you want.”
“Let me out of here!”
“No.”
The flatness of my refusal throws her. Did she have lipstick on when she came into the bar? It’s gone now. Her lips are thin and dry. There’s a tic starting in her left eye.
“You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” she says. “There’ll be a lot of people looking for me. A lot of people. You don’t know who I am—”
“I know who you are,” I say.
She stops, stares at me, and what little color she has left drains from her face, leaving it a beautiful porcelain white.
“Come on,” I say.
I take her hand. It’s soft, thin, I can feel the bones. I start to pull her toward the door to the Back Room.
“I–I’m having my period,” she lies.
I grin at her. “The more blood the better.”
“Oh God … Oh God … Oh God …” She’s crying. Scared and frightened. Runny mascara tears. Clear snot. She doesn’t look much like a pop star now.
“Please …” she begs, sobbing.
And I lead her into the Back Room.
The waterbed is filled with sperm and blood, piss and placenta, but I don’t take her to the bed, I take her to the table and strap her into the stirrups. She is pliant and pliable at this point and I can do anything I want with her. She looks around, takes in the bones and the babies, the devices and the animals. Dazed, she tentatively touches the sticky wall next to the table with a finger, slowly puts the finger to her tongue as I strap her in, then she’s gagging, spitting so she won’t puke, and Liz comes and licks the spit off her face, off her mouth.
She struggles, squirms, and Liz slaps her face. Five times. Quickly.
The games have begun.
The pop star looks at me, mouth open, nose bleeding, eyes teary.
“Make a fist,” I order.
She does, and holds it up, and Ginjer jumps on top of it, sliding slowly down, already slippery wet. The pop star reacts instinctively, cries out in disgust, tries to shake Ginjer off, but Ginjer’s cunt is like a steel trap and she’d clamped on tight and not letting go and she starts spinning, round and round on the pop star’s arm, squealing wildly with each successive climax.
“Get if off!” the pop star screams. “Get it off!”
But Ginjer’s still spinning, and the juice dripping down the pop star’s arm is starting to mix with blood.
I’m not sure if it’s Ginjer’s blood or the pop star’s.
The Roothog steps up, pizzle in hand, starts whipping her with it.
She’s screaming. More fear now than pain, although that will change.
Ginjer’s already ground off the fist, and blood is streaming down the pop star’s arm. Her chest is bruised purple by the pizzle.
They all want in on it, all the patrons of the bar. I’m not greedy, I’m willing to share, but her mouth is mine. I’ve earned it. I stake my claim, pointing, and there are no objections. Zeke holds down her forehead, while I bust out her teeth. She stops screaming, fainting I think, but that makes no difference to what I want to do. There are shards of teeth left, and I clean them out with a piece of bone. Her mouth is filling with blood, just the way I like it, and she comes to, gagging, and I open my codpiece and take out my cock, and start feeding it to her.
Her bladder lets go, but Liz is there to bathe in the spray.
It’s gone too far, I realize. She’s not going to make it. I wanted to leave her changed, marked, not dead, but there’s no turning back now, and if that’s the way it’s gotta be, that’s the way it’s gotta be. Fame or no Fame. There are no exceptions.
Everyone’s the same in the Back Room of the bar.
We take our time, and she’s alive for much more of it than I would have thought, but eventually we finish her off, and by the time it’s all over and done with there’s not even much of her body left.
What remains is thrown in the slush pile.
