Genital Grinder

Above the heads of Von and Greg, light bulbs appeared. Naturally, the first to be abducted for the creation of the world’s first sanctioned snuff film was Geisha Hammond herself. A stun-gun did the trick, and duct tape did the rest.

Trussed in the basement, not far from Claire Perkins’ makeshift tomb, struggled Bill Glasscock, who up to this point thought his name was by far the worst card Fate had ever dealt him. He’d been at the park with his video camera under the pretense of filming a soccer game, though he was far more intrigued that the players of said game were 10-year-old girls. And if there was grass on the field, you could play ball.

He was rendered unconscious by a blow from a tire iron when he was returning to his car, too invigorated by the choice footage he had collected and the night of ball sack-draining soccer which awaited him back at his apartment. Von and Greg had taken precautions by getting him from Brackard’s Point instead of Bartok; plus, they’d also needed a video camera.

For purely aesthetic reasons they took Travis Wicklund, who was handcuffed, gagged, and locked up in a coat closet. He sometimes told women on the Internet that he was an architect and other times an environmentalist. They got him walking home from his real place of work, the Burger King on Seymour Street.

Sarah, Geisha, Bill, and Travis. This was the cast of unknowns (well, minus “Lolita Ream” and maybe Geisha) who would involuntarily participate in the making of Genital Grinder, the first legitimate snuff film ever made.

II.

They chose a bathtub scene to open, because there wasn’t a movie worth a damn that didn’t have one. Geisha Hammond was more than happy to strip and get in the tub when Von brandished a machete. She was decidedly less comfortable in front of the camera than they expected for someone who made a living in front of it. Von decided it had something to do with the lack of a teleprompter, although the assurances that they would slit her throat if she didn’t comply probably contributed at least marginally. She’d have to do without. Fortune had been smiling on them when it delivered Bill Glassock’s Hi-8; they weren’t going to conveniently catch a gentleman lugging a teleprompter away from a sporting event involving prepubescent girls. Geisha Hammond was wet dream material, so the bathtub assignment was a given. She always wore tight blouses with a little glimmer of cleavage, which made you feel pleasantly warm inside as you listened to an item about somebody blasted pointblank with a shotgun during a “drug deal gone bad” or a newborn tossed off a rooftop like a clay pigeon. Blond hair so light it was almost silver. Long skirts, but usually with a healthy slit up the side allowing a peak of bronze legs in the occasional fleeting long shot. And such lips . . . bee-stung and primed for pleasure. As she detailed the latest local atrocities—a single mother mutilated beyond recognition by the Bartok Butcher, a hobo pushed in front of a train, a cabin full of corpses by an old dirt track, a 12-year-old overdosing on heroin in an elementary school bathroom—all you could think was, If she put those thick lips on my quim-splitter, I’d blast my payload right out the back of that blond head in about 2.2 seconds.

Seeing her in all her nude glory now, he wondered why the hell he’d sat on his old beat-up recliner nursing a cold beer and a hard-on for the past few years when he could have just gone out and snatched her. All that wasted time. If his stomach wasn’t lurching most disagreeably right now, he would have clamped his fingers around one of those solid ass cheeks (no tan lines . . . none) and expected a crack of lightning to explode through the ceiling and consecrate his hand forever as a sanctified object, holier than anything in the world of man.

The bush was only a little tuft of grass, allowing easy exposure of the other lips which could undoubtedly summon a skull-shattering payload in 2.2 seconds as well. It was all Von could do to stay back and not get in the way. He had to remember, they were here to create art.

“Just sit there and soap your titties,” he instructed. “Improvise.”

“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked. Her eyes couldn’t seem to escape the hypnotic hold of the machete tapping against his leg.

“We can negotiate your contract later.” He paused, his own eyes similarly locked on her legs, or more specifically between them, not exactly sure what he was seeing. Two yellow-greenish trails were rising to the surface of the water, like liquid worms. Others soon followed, creating a cloud, and a definite froth was congealing above her thighs.

Greg peered from around the viewfinder of the camera at this “breaking story” in Geisha Hammond’s box. “Is that . . . cum?”

“You idiot,” Von snapped. “You know women don’t have orgasms.” His stomach tensed again, although perhaps it had more to do with the Claire sandwich he’d wolfed down earlier.

“I have trichomoniasis,” Geisha confessed, at first abashed and all miserable, but then her face brightened, suddenly hopeful. “I’ve only been on the antibiotic a couple days . . . and I missed the last dose because of you. Say, I’m not right for your movie at all—”

Von recalled a pamphlet he’d seen at the health department while waiting (and waiting . . . and waiting) to be seen. You might have trichomoniasis if . . . Even though he didn’t have the symptoms described, it had spooked him. Each disease pamphlet he looked at seemed like an inevitable prophecy rather than something informative. Thank God it had only turned out to be genital warts. No cure for that, so same deal as a broken toe . . . tape it and wait until you feel ready to get back in the game. He remembered from the pamphlet that over seven million people were affected with the disease. It was just his and Greg’s sorry luck that they found one of them. What were the odds?

“Get rid of it,” Von said. “It’s spoiling the shot.”

Greg looked at the mini cyclone of vaginal froth taking shape above her thighs. “Uncooked meat can do that to you?” he asked, incredulous.

Geisha flipped a hand through the water as though trying to disperse a cloud of gnats. The froth merely expanded.

“Look, this just isn’t a good idea,” Geisha said, sounding as if she sure was sorry about this turn of events. “Why don’t you just let me go? I don’t want to ruin your movie, and I haven’t had a good look at your faces anyway . . . I lost my contacts on the ride over here. I swear I won’t tell a soul about any of this, okay? What do you say, guys?”

Von and Greg exchanged a look, and Von glowered back down at her. “I say, get rid of that stuff.”

“I can’t,” she reasoned, speaking slowly, as though her argument would get through to them if they just meditated on every word. “You want it . . . I want it . . . but it’s just not meant to be. I’m not the right person for this movie. We gave it a good try, didn’t we? Look, I’m a good sport . . . I’ll jerk both of you off before I go.”

“You’ll jerk us off?” Von repeated.

“Well, yeah, of course!” She smiled, a crooked gesture that seemed to be holding her whole face together against a building flood of tears. “You can . . . you can do it on my chest if you want. Yeah? And you can blindfold me and drop me off somewhere . . . anywhere . . . and we’ll forget the whole thing happened.”

“You’ll jerk us off?” Greg said.

She gave a mock two-finger salute. “Scout’s honor.”

“At the same time?” Von asked.

“Uh . . . sure, I mean if you want. How does that sound?”

“It sounds a bit homo,” Von said, at approximately the same time Greg said, “That would be great!” Greg acted like he was adjusting the camera, blushing.

“Yeah, like Von said . . . that sounds homo. Both of us at the same time. But we can do it on your chest, right? One after the other, I mean. We could start with me.”

She wiped her eyes, the smile dead on her face but maintaining position. “Whatever you want.”

“Think you could hold it like that microphone you talk into on the news?” Von asked. “Like you’re at a crime scene and telling everybody what went down?”

She didn’t speak, just nodded.

“Good . . . we’ll give you the chance to do that. But first, you need to get rid of that stuff and soap your titties