“Hey, Mongo, what was that pill you gave me back in the car?”
Mongo pushes a button on the camera, I’m assuming the pause button, and says, “Pill was Viagra. Drink was fast-acting laxative.” He punctuates this tidbit of information with a pleasant smile.
That would explain the raging torrent flowing from my ass, as well as the raging boner I’ve maintained through all this despite my revulsion. I look down at Carrie, who’s sucking away. She stops every few seconds to turn her head aside and gag, but she dives right back in again. I’m surprised at her conviction in seeing this through.
“Damn, Carrie, if you would have worked as hard at being married as you do at giving a
blumpkin
, we might have made it, you know?”
She looks up at me. Her face is a little green. She says, “When this is over and you pay me my share, I’m going to spend it on hiring Mongo here to torture you.”
Mongo says, “Shut up and finish.”
“I got news for you, Mongo, she could do this for days and I don’t think I’ll ever get off on it.”
“Only need one money shot,” he says. “Rest of this will be edited before sent. Just need enough footage and best shots we can get. Hollywood is tough business, you know?”
Carrie stops and looks up, but she’s kind of staring off in
to
space, not at anything in particular. We all hold our breath for several seconds, listening, before a resonant rumble breaks the silence. But it’s not coming from my spent gastrointestinal tract this time.
Carrie says, “Dammit, Mongo, did you spike my drink with that shit, too?”
Mongo just smiles and scoots around her toward the door. “Give me one moment,” he says and disappears into the room.
Carrie leans back with a hand on her gut. I use the break in the action to clean myself. It takes quite a bit of paper and sets me to gagging a little myself. I don’t know how she managed to keep her head down there between my legs for so long. It smells like something crawled up inside me and died. About two weeks ago.
Mongo shouts from the room, “OK, ready, both of you out here now!”
Carrie says, “Screw you jack, I need to hit that pot, like now.”
Mongo’s at the door again. “No, out here. Is part of next challenge. Two more to go.”
Carrie and I look at each other and it’s clear by the look on her face she didn’t really know what she had signed up for. “Hey man,” she says, “I ain’t doing any of that ‘Two Girls, One Cup’ puking shit on each other business.”
“Just shut whore trap and get out here now.” Mongo motions with his knife for us to come out. We both do as we’re told. Hard to argue with a three hundred-pound Chechen brandishing a weapon.
•
I stare at the plastic sheeting covering everything for a second before responding to Mongo’s comment. “We need to do a
hot
what?”
Mongo shoves me onto the bed. “Is called
hot karl
, and you need to lay skinny, pale ass on bed.” He nods at Carrie, who’s hopping from foot to foot and looking more than a little sick to her stomach. “And by looks of whore ex-wife, we should hurry before we miss opportunity.”
Carrie’s in such bad shape she doesn’t even bother to respond to his whore comment. As for me, I’m not even thinking at this point. I’m on autopilot. Whatever happens now, happens. I feel like this is one of those out-of-body deals, like I’m hovering above myself, watching with a strange detachment while these curiously odd things happen to my body.
I watch myself lie there while Mongo pulls a box of Saran Wrap from the bedside table drawer.
I note with mild amusement as he tears off a long sheet of the clear plastic wrap and places it over my face.
I am only slightly interested when he tells Carrie to squat over my head and shit on my face.
“You want me to do what?”
“This is
hot karl
,” Mongo says impatiently. “And by looks of you, this will be most epic hot karl ever captured on film.” He motions to the bed and says, “Now, assume position.”
My outside-the-body self notes the look on Carrie’s face, and I can’t decide if her lips are curled in a rueful smile or a disgusted grimace. Her stomach thunders again and she scrambles onto the bed. Whether she really wants to do this or not, she’s clearly out of time. It’s either do it here or do it where she stands, but there is no more waiting to decide.
I close my eyes and feel like I’m floating somewhere between my body and some ethereal plane of self-enlightenment. I really feel like I’m on the edge of a transcendent breakthrough here. I’ve never been very spiritual or mystic. Carrie tried reading tarot and following our horoscopes and checking our star patterns once, but like everything with her, it was a passing fancy once she discovered how much work was involved with that mumbo-jumbo. But this is something more than that. It’s like I’m splitting into two separate forms of existence right inside my own head. There’s two of me in here and I seem to see and feel worldly experiences through both of them. My earth-bound physical self takes in all the rudimentary sensations and processes them, noting how the bed bounces as Carrie steps over me and positions her bottom over my face. The existential ethereal me notes the ironic twist my life has taken and how it seems to be coming full circle back to Carrie, who once again is shitting on me, but this time in the very literal sense rather than figuratively.
This realization might actually be amusing if I wasn’t about to become the recipient of a fecal facial.
My eyes are still shut, and I don’t think my physical self would let them open for any reason at this moment. We’ve seen some things in our lives, the real me and the mystical me, but there is one thing we don’t want to have a memory of, and that’s the vision of our ex-wife’s open rectum expelling a quart of hot excrement directly into our face. This isn’t a tangible thought in our collective consciousness, more like an intuition. We both know something bad is going on, but if we close our eyes and minds to it, maybe it won’t be so bad. Mind over fecal matter.
Unfortunately, we still have to feel it. The plastic wrap sucks down tight over my face, sealing off my eyes, my nose, my ears. It feels as though my entire head is enveloped in steaming soup. It hammers my face with astounding force, as if expelled from a hose. Plastic wrap sucks into my nostrils but I can’t really smell anything, nor can I breathe. Warmth consumes my head and filters through my hair. I feel it beneath me, pooling between my shoulders. It’s already starting to get cold.
I’m struck by how nonchalantly this is going down. It’s as though I was being drowned with a big pot of corn chowder, rather than…
Rather than shit.
My face is being buffeted by shit.
Hot, wet, thin, laxative-brewed shit.
On my face.
In my hair.
Running down my back.
The only thing keeping it out of my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth is a thin layer of plastic film.
The other-worldly me and the physical me become one again real quick. It’s a sensation kind of like my skull sucking my brain back in through my ear. The world goes from ghostly detachment to very real sensations. This is the moment the smell hits me, despite the layer of plastic protection. I suppose I could be imagining it because of what’s on me, or I’m panicking due to asphyxiation, but I don’t think so.
Oh, fuck me.
I freak.
If I was thinking, I would probably try to execute some sort of roll-and-peel maneuver to extract myself from the plastic wrap in such a way as to avoid anything on the other side of it from touching my face.
But I’m not thinking, I’m most definitely panicking. Of course I am. My face is covered in shit sludge.
I scream. I sit up fast and run face-first into Carrie’s ass. There is an audible splat, even through the plastic wrap in my ears. All the sludge on my head does what gravity forces it to do and begins a horrifying landslide down. I can’t tell where plastic stops and excrement starts. I can’t see anything either. I run into the wall and bounce off the doorframe in my mad dash to the bathroom. I slam into the sink, hike my shin against the toilet, fall to my knees and reach frantically for the faucet in the shower. Hot, cold, I don’t care. I’m nearing a state of hysteria, as well as oxygen depr
i
vation.
I think I’ve lost my mind.
•
I have no idea how long I’m in the bathroom, lying half in, half out of the tub, letting the shower water course over my head. I could likely stay here until I drown. I’m not clean enough yet. There will never be clean enough. Eventually, Mongo comes for me.
He pulls me out from beneath the stream, hauls me to my feet and slaps me a few times.
“Fuck, alright! Stop hitting me!”
He wipes me down with a towel and when I open my eyes, he inches from my face.
“Time to finish this.”
I shake my head. “No. I got nothing left, you sick bastard.”
I mean that in an emotional sense, that I’m a hollowed husk of a human now, that I can’t possibly go on. That I’ve reached the limitations of what I can endure and I feel that I speak the truth, but my own rumbling innards betray me. A new wave of pressure in my bowels makes me nauseous.
Mongo grins. “Sounds to me like you have one more left in you.”
I feel like crying and then I feel like screaming. I want to lean forward and bite the nose off his face and spit it out. I want to drive my thumbs into his eyeballs and then ram my still hard dick into his empty, bleeding sockets. I want to remove his head with a dull serving spoon and deposit this new wave of shit directly into his chest cavity.
He grips me tightly by the neck and leads me back to the room, announcing, “Alabama hot pocket time!”
Carrie, trembling and still a little green, tosses a soiled towel into the corner of the room and says, “What in the name of fuck is an
Alabama hot pocket
?”
Mongo tells us.
We look at each other and then reply in unison, “I’m not doing that!”
My colon growls. Mongo repositions the cameras and says, “Now is time. We do this and we win. Game is over, million dollars is ours. Don’t you want to be rich?”
I say, “Not anymore. I’d rather you stab me than go through with this.”
“I’d rather you stab him, too,” Carrie says.
Mongo chuckles and reaches into his pants pocket. He pulls out a photo and holds it up for both of us to see. It’s Carrie’s little Chinese baby. “What about this little one?”
Carrie’s face hardens and I see death flare in her eyes. “If you touch my little girl, I will never stop tracking you down, you sick piece of shit.”
He turns to me and says, “Or maybe I pay visit to little peeing whore? Tricia is her name, I believe?”
I want to respond, but I’m overcome by another wave of nauseous intestinal pressure that buckles my knees. The lingering smell of shit inside the room doesn’t help. It smells like a nursing home exploded in here.
Carrie grabs my arm and pulls me toward the other bed. “Fuck it, let’s get this over with.”
She l
ies
back with her ass at the edge of the bed and spreads her legs as far apart as they’ll go. I shake my head.
“I can’t do this.”
Before Mongo can say anything, Carrie screams at me, “Come on you fucking pussy! Be a man and do what you have to do. Just get it over with.”
She spreads her vaginal lips apart and looks away at the wall.
I turn and point my ass at her. I can’t hold it much longer.
I can’t believe I’m going through with this. I focus on Mongo. I direct all of my thoughts and energy at him. Anger burbles out of me as powerfully as the shit that blasts from my ass. Instead of thinking about what I’m doing, I concentrate on how I’ll make him pay for this.
When I’m done, I turn and look at Carrie. She’s staring up at the ceiling with a look of anger mixed with horror. Her voice is barely a whisper as she says, “Please just hurry up and get this over with.”
I nod and slide into her. I close my eyes and try not think about the hot slop enveloping my crotch and sticking to our thighs, the sickly stickiness as I slap against her. I block out the odor, the texture, everything. I have one focus: Mongo’s bloodied face. On his knees. With his hands tied behind his back by barbed wire. I conjure the image of a hot poker in my hands. I imagine the kind of revenge to be had with such an implement. I can hear his screams, pleading for his life. Begging me not to hurt him.
I pump harder, determined to finally finish this. I’m lost in the fantasy of revenge. I’m thrilled by the promise of torture. I’m near climax when, in my mind, I rear back with the glowing poker and give Mongo one more chance to plead for his life. I relish it. Then I plunge forth. I finish it.
Carrie is beating against my chest and sliding away from me. She’s saying something but I don’t understand her. She points behind me. I turn and realize that the sound of Mongo’s pleas for mercy are still in my ears, very real.
But he’s not begging me to stop. He’s pleading with the two gorillas who have him flat against the plastic-covered floor, his arms pinned behind his back and a handgun pressed deep into his cheek.