Rena was still crying, rummaging. She was checking the toolbox, for God’s sake, and the plastic cooler they used when they went to the beach. “Oh, Wendy, I’m sorry! Where could it be? Did I leave it on the dresser with the keys? The kitchen counter?”
“Rena, I told you. Forget about his cock. Here. Help me get him out.”
They travailed then to lifting out the plastic dropcloth in which the deader-than-dogshit Walt had been carefully becloaked. Rena hammered the little bag of teeth against the asphalt with a four-pound sledge, until all were sufficiently pulverized. Wendlyn, meanwhile, removed the glass flask (one of many perks of working in a hospital) and emptied its teeming contents onto Walt’s remaining identifiable features. The concentrated nitric acid made short work of the hands and feet, fizzing away any and all ridge prints, loops, whorls, and bifurcations. Walt’s face, too, bubbled away with equal steaming vigor.
The unappreciated separation of his genitals from his groin, by the way, had not of itself spelled Walt’s demise. He’d screamed loud and hard as a horn on a semi-rig, thrashing amid his Peerless-handcuff trap, but had surprisingly not died. Nor had Wendlyn’s delvings with the Clay Adams brand bivalving scalpel done the trick. It got quite ugly, Walt screaming like that, and thrashing away with no penis. Blood gushed like Great Falls. Eventually Rena had stuck a knitting needle up his nose, driving it back with her palm deep into the meat of Walt’s parietal lobe. She’d jiggled it around a few times, until he checked out.
“Ashame about his face,” Rena lamented now, looking down in the moonlight. “He could’ve been on the cover of
“Not anymore.
They hefted up either end of the dropcloth and rolled it over the rusty metal bridge rail.
Then they were driving away, off into the warm, star-chipped night. “Wendy, look!” Rena celebrated, bending over in the passenger seat. “I found Walt’s dick!”
So she had; somehow, Walt’s severed member had found its way to the footwell. “Now I remember. I brought it along to diddle with while we were driving out.” Rena picked it up and, ever the comedian, slid back her blue-leather skirt and held Walt’s now seriously shriveled cock to her clitoris, spreading her trim legs. “Look, Wendy! I’ve got a penis! I’m a man!”
Wendlyn rolled her eyes behind the wheel. “You’re so silly sometimes. Honestly.” She took the wizened thing and flipped it out the window, where eventually it would be eaten by possums.
««—»»
Wendlyn expertly plunged the dual Doc Johnson vibrators in and out of Rena’s off-pink vulva and rectum, licking the swollen clitoris. Rena squirmed, sighing through her grin, as Claudius, the largest of her three pet hognose snakes, slithered about her belly and pointed breasts. Rena was possessed of some rather left-field eccentricities, several of which Wendlyn was hard-pressed to tolerate: Heineken douches, Bull Frog Stuffing, electric ben-wa balls up her ass whilst in public. Plus snakes. They’d met at North County General, where Rena was a floor receptionist. Wendlyn, a Class I nurses’ aide, caught Rena masturbating in the janitorial closet one night, with a polypropylene Bacti-Capall culture tube and hemostats clipped to her nipples. “Ooops,” Rena had said. Instead of filling out an employee negligence report, Wendlyn had sealed their friendship by immediately planting her big blond pubis in Rena’s face. Their careers, though, had ended rather expeditiously. Rena had been fired for stealing an array of controlled pharmaceuticals from the nurses’ station, while Wendlyn, shortly thereafter, had received her walking papers for “gross sexual misconduct upon the hospital premise.” A staff doctor had pulled back a privacy curtain in an end ICU cove, to discover the ever-curious Wendlyn fastidiously fellating a male critical coma patient. “I wanted to see if a brain-dead person could come,” she’d explained. “You’re fired,” the doctor had replied.
Oh, well. Nevertheless, their friendship remained, and to make a long exposition short, they soon found a vivid compatibility in their ravenous sexualities as well as their sociopathies. In no time at all, they were murdering men at about a rate of one a month, through all manner of demented imagination: gastric lavage with Clorox, non- anesthetic live dissection, brain surgery with power tools, and acts of genital mayhem that could only be described as “bigtime.” Once they’d catheterized a bartender and filled his bladder with 5W 30-grade motor oil, then ice- picked his lower abdomen to watch the oil ooze out. Another time Wendlyn was blowing some dolt they’d picked up at the races; Rena had clipped off his testicles at the precise moment of his climax. Once they’d even dissected a penis, on a living “patient,” removing all the skin and the entire scrotum, after which Rena had clipped off the raw shaft a quarter inch at a time. This guy had screamed so loud they’d had to put cotton in their ears! One pickup had gotten rude with them, actually hailing such invectives as: “Bitches! Lesbos! Psychopaths!” Wendlyn had opened his anus with a pair of rectal retractors stolen from the hospital, while Rena, with more than a smidgen of difficulty, had inserted Tiberius, one of her pet hognose snakes, into the offender’s bowel. Tiberius had churned away for quite some time in there, before finally giving up the ghost, while their unmannerly companion had screamed shock-eyed and blue in the face. “Poor Tiberius,” Rena regretted. She’d finished the man off by carefully drilling a shallow hole in his skull with a l/4-inch carbon bit, then slowly inserting long carpet needles and autopsy pins into the hole. Genital electrocution, ground-glass and/or boiling bacon grease enemas, ice picks in the ears and/or eyes, Coca-Cola blood transfusions, total body flensing, and, of course, what Rena referred to as “dick-scarfing.” Nothing would get a fella screaming faster and louder than having his pride and joy and family jewels nimbly chewed off by a pair of crazier-than-shithouse-rats militant feminists. No, sir. You name it, Wendlyn and Rena did it, much to the disconsolation of many a man, and all in the name of their righteous ideology, to vindicate roughly seventy centuries of subjugation.
Plus, it was fun, at least from the standpoint of a clinical sociopath.
One thing they never considered, though, was the possibility that sooner or later they might pick the wrong guy…
««—»»
Larry seemed a little fat and doty; pickings were slim some nights. He provided at least the necessary prerequisites: your typical gaping, gawping, lustful cockhound/ nutchase/Feel-’Um- Fuck’Um-And-Forget-’Um Man. At the bar, Larry’s eyes had been all over them, and eventually so had his hands. He’d plied them with drinks and smothered them with overtly suggestive remarks, foremost of which was: “What say we get outa this gin joint? I could show you two babes a really hot time.” He’d actually winked then, and gave Rena’s little rump a pat. Wendlyn smirked.
Back at the house, Larry had offered no protestations whatsoever to Rena’s “trick” cuffs. “I’m easy,” he’d chuckled as they’d cuffed him down. Naked, he looked like dough stretched out on the bed, beer gut, no muscles, but…
“His tongue must be as big as his cock,” Rena was very happy to relate, gritting her teeth through a lascivious grin. “Feels like it’s going right up my fuckin’ uterus!”
“He can fuck too,” Wendlyn assured, grinning much the same. This was so good—so slow and luscious and
