Grimoire Diabolique

He had thirty of them, one for each day of the month, and he put them all up in luxury condos he paid for in cash. Things weren’t bad. No, not bad at all.

And Rudy found a great solace in his calendar month of bimbos; they provided him the escape his psyche needed, the abstract catharsis which relieved the entails of his complicated, high-stress lifestyle. Plus they fucked good, which furthermore relieved the hatred he now harbored wholesale for Beth. Rudy got lost in his women, and this banished the steady and bothersome awareness that his fiance was impaling herself on a “bigger” man than he, limblessness notwithstanding. Becky was his favorite, a slim, sultry blonde, whose specialty was tongue-baths, which made Rudy a great adherent of personal hygiene. Then there was Shanna, the full-tilt brunette with a rack of tits you could use to drydock a Los Angeles-class sub, and a welcome propensity for always asking Rudy to enter through the, uh, back door. And we mustn’t forget Chrissy—now there was a woman! She had looks that would make Jessica Alba seriously consider suicide, not to mention a mouth that could suck-start a Ford Tri-Motor.

Yes, Rudy’s buxom recreational brigade all proved quite adroit at helping him cope with his problems, to the extent that his only real problem was wondering just how much joy juice his vesicles could manufacture. A man could only put out so much, but lo and behold, his girls were always ready to prove that he was possessed of an endless reservoir of love lava. And on those dread occasions when he felt the old crane simply wouldn’t rise, his bevy of beauties were always quick, by their sheer expertise to prove a grand synonymy with Jesus—in that they could raise the dead. Rudy loved his women, he cherished them. And whenever he grew sick of one, he simply dumped her and found someone else. Just as there was no shortage of beer in Bavaria, there was no shortage of beautiful women who liked moolah. What a life!

In the meantime, Rudy urged Beth to research, as thoroughly as possible, every aspect of Mesopotamian mythology, ancient ritualism, pre-Christian divination, and the like. She even found one book called The Synod of the Alomancers, and learned everything about the Cenotes of Nergal, the Nashipus, the Ashipus, the ziggurats, and all the intricacies of the regalia and the ritual. Rudy felt this necessary in order to make Gormok feel more at home. He had contractors make a mock temple out of the basement. He purchased real censers and thuribles, standards and statues and murals etched with the holy glyphs. He even had a clothier make a special hooded black robe and sash, identical to those worn by the ancient alomancers, which he donned each time he asked Gormok The Talking Torso to perform another divination. Rudy wanted the atmosphere to be right for his dismembered bread-winner; he figured it was the least he could do.

On the other hand, though, Beth grew more and more sullen. She rarely even spoke, not that Rudy was around much to talk to—his harem kept him busy, when he wasn’t busy himself wheeling and dealing at the broker’s. Beth became stoical, morose. Now, the ludicrous head atop the diviner’s torso insisted she service him many times a day, amid an array of kinky twists which were better left undescribed.

But more months went by.

And Rudy’s fortune increased exponentially.

IX

It was funny, sometimes, how the universe worked. Rudy recalled telling Beth once that there was never enough, but actually, now, he found he was wrong. Already he was one of the richest men in the country. What more did he need? So it was rather appropriate, in a cosmic way, when Beth walked into his den one evening and dropped the bombshell:

“I’m pregnant,” she said.

At first Rudy felt enraged. “Pregnant! You’re shitting me! This is a joke, right?”

“It’s no joke, Rudy. I’m pregnant.”

He gnashed his teeth and jumped up. “You mean you let that goddamn horny torso knock you up?”

“I have to fuck him ten times a day,” she drily pointed out. “What did you expect?”

“Well—well, goddamn it, Beth! I thought you were on the pill!”

“The pill isn’t foolproof, Rudy.”

Calm down, boy, he induced himself. Don’t panic. “Yeah? Well, it’s no problem. You’ll simply get an abortion.”

Her race looked carved in granite. “I’m not getting an abortion, Rudy. I’m having this baby.”

“No. You’re not.” He opened and closed his fists, to quell his rage. “You’re not going to have a kid by that thing’s spunk.”

“Thing?” Beth chuckled. “I thought he was our man. Forget it, Rudy. I’m having this baby. You won’t give me one, so I’ll settle for Gormok’s.”

You evil calculating bitch, he thought. You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You went off the pill on purpose just to put me on the spot.

“But I’m willing to make a deal,” she went on. “I will get an abortion on two conditions. One, you make me pregnant, and two, you kill Gormok.” Then she passed a small box to him. “Open it,” she said.

Rudy opened the box to find it occupied by a Smith & Wesson Model 65 .357 Magnum.

“You’ll do it right now, Rudy. No more lies. No more false promises. You’ll dig a grave in the back yard. Right now. And then you’ll take that silly thing outside and you’ll kill it. And I mean right now.”

Rudy didn’t care for being dictated to, especially by a woman. So she’s calling the shots now, huh? Beth the little Torso Fucker. Well… It was all he could do not to smile.

“All right,” he told her. “You’ve got a deal.”

Rudy found the shovel. Then he went out back,

««—»»

He’d been thinking along these lines for a while now anyway, hadn’t he? The shovel bit into the soil. He didn’t need any more money, which meant he didn’t need Gormok, either.

And there was one more thing he didn’t need:

Beth, he thought, and grinned.

He’d gotten what he wanted out of her. And another point: she was starting to look really beat these days. Skinny, pale, dark circles under her eyes. I’m a high-roller now, he congratulated himself. Why’s a big time, big-buck guy like me need a little-tit, string bean bitch like her?

He could move his harem here! Shit, those girls made the Playboy Mansion look like a dog pound. And there were some new ones now too, like Beverly: California tan, waxed pubes, 40 double-D’s and nipples sticking out like a pair of golf cleats. Her tits should hang in The National Gallery! he reveled as he dug. And Melissa? A cosmetic-surgery paragon; she had a body on her that would put a stiffer on the Pope! Then there was Alicyn, whose vaginal barrel was more dextrous than an olympic gymnast. Oooo-eeee! he thought. Not to mention Shelly and Kelly, two brick-shit house redhead twins whose favorite bedroom game was “Sandwich.” Rudy never hesitated to play the part of the cheese.

There were so many, an endless Whitman’s Sampler of sex!

Shit yeah! I’ll move them all here! The entire bimbo brigade! I’ll build a fucking luxury apartment complex in the back yard! He could picture it. A different chick every day, a mass orgy every night! He’d eat Beluga caviar out of nut-tan bellybuttons, abdomens. Slurp Perrier-Jouet from Tit Valleys. Blondes on the half-shell, baby! Redheads Au Gratin, and Brunettes Au Jus! I will live like a Renaissance prince! Yeah. And Gormok? And Beth? Rudy’s grin darkened in the moonlight. He rested a moment. Then he began to dig the second grave.

««—»»

“You come out here with me,” he insisted. “I need you to hold the flashlight.” “All right,” Beth agreed. “And bring the gun.”

Even bereft of arms and legs, Gormok was not easy lugging up the stairs. The fucker weighs more than a pallet of bricks! Rudy thought between grunts. Then, as he lowered the torso into the wheelbarrow, Rudy winced as if slapped. Gormok, apparently unable to control his renal system, urinated quite liberally into Rudy’s face.