The Beast with Two Backs in the Spider’s Web

Darkness.

We are engulfed in it.

We can only hear the sweet, passionate sounds of pure love being made. Thrusting. Clawing. Biting.

Talking.

“Yeeeah you like this?” “Mhmm.” “You like this DYUCK?” “Mhmm give it to me daddy.” “I’m bout ta... bout ta give you AWWWWWWLL of this THANG.” “Do it daddy.” “Hooool' up I'm bout ta... drop these white kids off at the abortion clinic... HYUUUUUUUUUNH!”

A lamp switches on.

Randi Dick lies on her back, lighting up a cigarette.

Rolling off of her and onto his own back?

“You crazy bitch,” Lowell says, snatching the cigarette out of her hand and giving it a puff. “I fucking love you, you crazy bitch.”

“Linus baby,” Randi says, lighting up a second cigarette. “This meeting between Clamflower Inc. and Gross Penis LLC was strictly BINNESS. You agreed to terms.”

Lowell doesn’t say anything at first. He tries to kiss her but when he makes the kiss shape with his lips, spiders tumble down from his head and into the bed like crumbs off a plate.

Randi either doesn't mind, or doesn't notice.

“Yeah,” Lowell says. “But hasn’t it blossomed into something much more?”

“Nyaaaah,” Randi says. “I gots what I needed—if ya don’t mind I’m gonna invert for a whiiiile and let the baby batter settle.”

Lowell nods, though he curiously lifts what remains of his left eyebrow.

“Did you…? Should I… should I nibble on a tiddy, or… dip a fingey in or something? Do I even care? WTF is aftercare LOL!”

Randi puts a sleeping mask on her face. “I don’t need no help,” she says. “When it comes to fucking, I’m a veteran who’s done four tours of duty in Cuba. You know what I'm sayin’, fuck boy?”

“I get what you’re putting down,” Lowell says. “Well, this is getting awkward so… I'm probably gonna go… I don't know, rob an Arby's for some beef n’ cheddars or something. You want one?”

Randi couldn't care less. She reaches into a nearby drawer.

“No thanks, I'm a vegetarian. Here, take my card.”

Randi hands Lowell a business card.

“This is for a... Health clinic?”

Randi nods. “You're gonna need one, too.”

Lowell smiles sweetly, getting up from bed. “Copy that.”

“Oh, and Lowell…”

“Yes, m’love?”

“Don't let me down on your end of the deal. The only reason—and let me be clear—the only reason I let you leave a deposit in the pussy bank, is because I'm a woman of my word.”

Lowell makes a face. Like, a what-the-fuck-you-talking-bout kind of face.

“Kay?”

“Be a man of yours.”

Lowell sighs.

“I'll bring it to you. By hook or crook, I'll find a way. GOD I FEEL SO IN LOVE RIGHT NOW, BABY!”

“Get the fuck out of my Super 8 motel room, Linus.”

Lowell scampers out of the room. We sigh and look up at the ceiling…

There, a spider has spun a web. In the web, she's spun the words:

SOME PIG.

—

Stomp ‘em in the Nuts

The car sputters and jerks to a stop in front of a dilapidated soup kitchen. Lowell, skeletal and hollow-eyed, checks his sunken cheeks in the rearview mirror. He grins, revealing his crumbling teeth.

He’d been on the run for nearly two weeks, driving across the continental United States, leaving chaos in his wake. He'd hit a woman on a bike, evaded the police, and shoplifted from liquor stores and pharmacies. Surviving on just a few hundred calories a day, he’d slimmed down to a gaunt ninety-nine pounds.

Finally measuring up to his own lofty beauty standards.

The soup kitchen falls silent as he enters through the doorless entryway. The destitute inhabitants eye him from their cardboard box homes.

Walking through the lion’s den, he scans his surroundings, hoping to spot...

“There’s y’are, ya lil’ SHID!”

He spins around quickly to find Fred Dick and STRONK standing behind him—and they look PISSED.

Lowell throws his hands up, backs away. “I know, right?” he stammers with a nervous chuckle. “A man goes out for a pack of smokes and gets kidnapped? Like, whaaaat? Pakistani ninjas, it was! They kept force-feeding me biryani and demanding answers to questions I couldn’t possibly know!”

His eyes dart between the Big Dick Stallions, trying to gauge if his ruse is working.

Fred seethes, reaching into his pants for the switchblade he usually carries, but remembers he left it jammed in a jar of hobo jam at breakfast.

STRONK stares unblinkingly past Lowell; hasn’t registered a word.

“I-I just… I just want to say I’m so happy to be home!” Lowell stops backing up, extends his arms for a group hug.

Them Rare Boys are, to say the least, unimpressed.

“The fact that I’m safe and sound is all that matters, right?” The Shillin’ Villain locks eyes with Fred, desperately mining for any sign of compassion or empathy—and finding none. He knows he has one last card to play, which he pulls from his pocket, holding it up for Fred and STRONK to see.

The Precious. 

The Muggsy Bogues bobblehead.

“LOOK! I brought it back! I… er… was gonna get it cleaned after picking up the Marlboros, but… again… Pakistani ninjas.”

The Big Dick Stallions advance on Lowell, who suddenly realizes he’s backed himself against a wall.

STRONK, still silent, takes the cursed bobblehead from his manager’s hand and returns to Fred’s side.

“So, all’s forgiven? Not that there’s really anything to forgive, me being the victim and all… right?”

His anxious laughter builds in intensity as the BDS narrow the small gap between them.

“I’ll tell ya whut, Lloyd,” Fred says, wringing his hands, practically licking his chops with revenge in mind. “STRONKY Baby and Mama Dick will welcome ya back… but we’re gonna have to stamp yo nuts, son.”

“WHAT!?”

“Gonna have to dance a fuggin’ jig on them shids, ain’t that right, STRONK?” Fred says.

“STRONK DOES NOT DANCE. STRONK DOES NOT KNOW HOW TO DANCE.”

Fred ruffles STRONK’s hair. “Don’tcha’ worry yer purdy lil’ head bout nuffin’, STRONK. When yer dancin’ on Lopez’ nads, ya just gotta mooOOove to the rhYThm of the musICCcccc. This ain’t the fuggin’ foxtrot—ain’t no wrong steps as long as your crunchin’ BAWLS.”

“OKAY.”

“Now, hold this lil’ fugger down so Mama Dick can cut a rug!”

Lowell accepts his fate with a solemn nod. He kisses his fingers and touches them to his nuts. He pats his chest to sike himself up, then points skyward toward God (or rather the pentagram spray painted on the ceiling…), and lays on his back on the ground.

He quickly strips off his belt—which he’s had to bore new holes into in order to cinch it tight around his emaciated waist—, wraps it around his neck, and beckons the Stallions.

“Let’s see if CBT is one of my many kinks...”

—

Ghost Pepper Sauce > Hawaiian BBQ

As soon as Fred felt like Lowell’s taters were sufficiently mashed, he choked out Lowell, then demanded more of the “Calming Cocktail” that Lowell had been administering to them. Lowell, in a death-anxiety-induced frenzy, reached in his pocket for the syringe, and stabbed Fred in the ass with it.

Fred began convulsing euphorically, screaming, “OoOooOooOoOOOOOOOH YEEEEAH THAT’S THE STUFF RIGHCHERR!! STAB STRONKY IN THE ACE NOW!”

Lowell did.

Which brings us here.

Back in front of that roadside, blue curtain.

Them Rare Boys stand before it wearing pit viper sunglasses and booty shorts cut from what were once pairs of skinny jeans.

STRONK paces around, breathing heavily, his arm bent at the elbow, his hand balled up into a tight fist.

“STRONK SAID IT WOULD HAPPEN! YES! STRONK SAID IT WOULD HAPPEN AND IT HAPPENED JUST AS STRONK SAID IT WOULD HAPPEN! THE WALL OF MEAT AND PAIN AND SWEAT AND BONE CRASHED INTO THE IDENTICAL HUMAN SIBLINGS AND THEN STRONK CHOKED ONE OF THEM AND SHUT OFF THE MALE HUMAN’S THINKING MUSCLE AND SO STRONK AND MAMA DICK WON! WHICH IS VERY GOOD! MAMA DICK SAYS IT WAS ONLY CLOSE BECAUSE MAMA DICK AND STRONK HAVE NOT RETURNED THE SMALL THING TO THE SMALL WET! BUT NOW SKINNY MALE HUMAN THAT IS DYING HAS RETURNED WITH THE SMALL THING! THE LARGE PENIS PONIES WILL RETURN IT TO THE SMALL WET AND THEN NO LONGER BE CURSED! AND THEN THE ENORMOUS MANHOOD STEEDS WILL DESTROY THE BARBECUE BOYS THE SAME WAY THE MASSIVE SHAFT CHARGERS DID THE FIRST TIME! OHHHHH YES! OKAY! A CURSELESS STRONK AND MAMA DICK WILL NOT LOSE EVER AGAIN!”

Fred Dick pops a bottle of hot sauce out of the back pocket of his booty shorts. He shows the label. It reads: GHOST PEPPER HOT SAUCE

Fred grins, “YA KNOW SOMETHING STRONKY, WE'VE BEEN HEARING ALL THE TALK FROM ALL THESE stupid fuggin’ marks, JACK, AND THEY ALL GOTS THE SAME STUPID SHID TO SAY!!! THEY SAY HAWAIIAN BEE BEE CUE, IS TOO DAGGUM SPICYYYYYYYYYY FOR THEM RARE BOYS, THEM STALLIONS WHAT WITH THE BIG OL’ COCKS!”

“YES,” STRONK says. “YES THEY DO, MAMA DICK!”

Fred opens up the hot sauce. “BUT GUESS WHAT??? I WAS BORN IN THE SPICY! I WAS MADE. TO FEEL. THE BURN. LET ME DEMONSTRATE FOR YOU HAWAIIAN BEE BEE CUE DUMB ACES, HOW MY EYES SEE THE SPICE!!!”

Fred pours the hot sauce in both of his eyes.

He screams in a shrill, high pitched voice: “AAAAAAAAAAAGHHHHHHHHH!!! THAT DON'T… FUUUUUUUCK!!!!! THAT DON'T BURN AT ALLLLLL BAYBAYYYYY!!!”

Literal tears of hot sauce and blood start pouring from Fred's eyes.

“I AM A MYSTICAL MAN! I DON'T HAVE JUST ONE EYE!!! I HAVE A MYSTICAL THIRD EYE, A BIG OL’ BROWN EYE THAT CAN SEE BEYOND THE HEAT!!! …and… fuckitburnsohmyfuckinggodthisfuckin’ BURNS, AND GUESS WHAT??? IT WANTS A LITTLE TASTE TOO.”

Fred drops his shorts and bends over. He pours the hot sauce into his butthole.

“YEEEEEEEEEEEEAHHHHOOOOOWWWWW!!” Fred screams. He writhes on the ground as blood tears stream down his face.

STRONK sticks a funnel in Fred's butt, opens up a gallon of whole milk and pours it in.

“Oh yeah, oh yeah, oh YEAAAH!!” Fred says, crying and moaning and groaning. “SO YOU SEE, HAWAIIAN BEE BEE CUE… WE LOVE THE SPICE!!! AND YOU JUST AINT GOT ENOUGH SPICE, TO BURN THE BIG DICK STALLIONS!!!”

Suddenly, and without warning, Fred begins vomiting and shitting his pants on account of the Scovilles.

“GID OUTTA HERE STRONK,” Fred screams between juicy fart shits and vomits. “I DON'T WANT YEW TO SEE MAMA DICK THIS WAY!!!”

But STRONK isn't abandoning his mama. He's the type to go down with the ship.

“I WILL DIE WITH YOU MAMA DICK!!!”

“NOOOOO STRONKY NOOOOOOOO STRONKY NOOOOOOOOO NOOOOOO NOOOOOO STRONKY NOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!”

But it's too late. STRONK is chugging the ghost pepper hot sauce.

He chugs it down. Belches.

“THE HOT, THICK WATER WAS DELICIOUS, MAMA DICK.”

—

Return of the Bog King

It wasn't long after that Dr. Lowell had bandaged both of Fred’s bleeding eyeballs with pieces of a tattered Rolling Stones shirt and a roll of gorilla tape.

Then BDS hauled ass towards the nearest swamp they could find.

Guided by STRONK’s precious, the duo found themselves back where they were so long ago.

The Bog.

Only this time? This time they had company.

“Whuuuuu… goezzzz… derrrrrreeeee?”

We look up from the murky bog waters to a Watery Throne on its bank.

And there, sitting upon that throne?

No…

“Naw, just fuckin’ ‘round! The prophecy foretold ‘bout y’all! Couple handsome fuckin’ puss-crushers y’are. Bet the insides of yer thighs are bruised up and chaffed cuzza’ all the swangin’ and bangin’, uh huh. But enuff’a all that…

“Gots just one question for ya…

“Y’all come to return my muhfuckin’ property…”

STRONK clutches the bobblehead tightly in his hand.

It can’t be..

“Or y’all come to get dem asses WHOOPED by Ol’ Joe?”

Joe.

The.

Plumber.

THE BOG KING

Former NFW World Champion. The Filth Fiend. Left the wrestling business years ago with severe brain damage, a displaced hip, and chronic arthritis. Used to smoke crack before matches; considered it a PED (it was).

He looks deranged (as expected) and is wearing a soup can crown.

“I don't know who the fuck Ol’ Joe is on account o’ I can't see on account o’ I had to prove I’m a tough guy,” Fred says. “Who the fug is Ol’ Joe?”

Joe the Plumber sweeps back his scraggly, thinning mane, revealing a patchwork of deep forehead scars. “Who the fuck is Ol’ Joe? Ol’ Joe’s the sadistic muhfucka that lords over this ‘ere bog and who’s really fuckin’ pissed y’all took Muggsy!!”

“Hey Joe,” Fred says, reaching out in front of his face for someone or something to feel with his hands, but finding nothing. “Fug you, dude. My name is Fred fuggin’ Dick, and this is my partner STRONK Godson. Fug you! Your Muggsy been fuggin’ us every which way since day one. So sayeth the prophecy. And we didn't cometh here to returneth it, by gawd. We cameth here to destroyeth it.”

“Hm,” Joe says. “Ol’ Joe didn't find nary a word of that compellin’ or interestin’ at all, and so Ol’ Joe ain’t pay it no attention. But tell ya whut. Based upon y’all’s bein’ here and havin’ my Muggsy, Ol’ Joe takes it y’all intend on becoming the Bog King, that is to say dethroning Ol’ Joe. Is that what this is? Ol’ Joe’s brain is piss-soaked mashed potatoes, so forgive a man if he ain’t readin’ the sitch-ee-aye-shun quite right.”

“Hell fuggin’ no,” replies Fred. “We wanna break Muggsy. That’s it.”

“Well, you ain't gonna break Muggsy. You gon’ gimme my Muggsy ‘n then we gon fist fight. Winner take all.”

“Well, I’m fuggin’ blind so tough tids.”

“Ol’ Joe wasn’t talkin’ to you, Fred. Ol’ Joe was talkin’ to the biggun’ right hurr!”

Joe the Plumber stands face to face with STRONK, his fat, blubbery stomach pressed against Godson’s chiseled, rock-formation abs.

“You wanna fight Ol’ Joe, STRONK?”

“OKAY.”

“Well, fair warnin’. Ya wanna whoop me? Ya wanna whoop Ol’ Joe? Ya gon’ hafta shove yer foot up my ass, put yer balls in my face, and gimme a tombstone piledriver on a dildo.”

“WHERE IS THE DILDO?”

“It's over yonder. Past the used-condom statue of Ol’ Joe in his fightin’ prime. Y’see it?”

“YES.”

“Then LET’S GEDDIT ON!!!”

—

The Coronation of King STRONK

Slimy, bloody snot foams from the crusty nostrils of the Bog King, whose cracked, bulbous nose shows the wear of downing liters of grain alcohol daily while roasting under the hot summer sun like a strip of drying venison.

The ugliest tongue imaginable extends from chapped lips just as the nose blows hard, sending a torrent of snot onto the tongue before it retracts back into the mouth.

“Muhfuckas…”

Heavy panting fills the bog, now eerily silent after the battle between the Big Dick Stallions (even a blind Dick got some snots in) and…

The mouth smacks loudly, savoring the salty, blood-soaked boogies.

Joe the Plumber plants a hand on the soggy ground to steady himself as he pushes to his feet.

“...Now THAT?” JTP says, reaching down to grab his soup can crown before stretching his hands out wide at his sides. “… That’s whuh we callz a gudd ol’ fashion FIST FIGHT! Ol’ Joe ain’t been in wunna’ ‘doze since… uhh… `bout a week ago when this fizzureman thought to step to the Greasy fuckin’ Goblin, tryna’ press me about some SLURS I whuz usin’! This the muhfuckin’ BOG LIFE, SON! Y’all don’t wanna be called a [REDACTED], then get on back to your fuckin’ [REDACTED]-ass, grab-ass existensh with all dem other fancy fuckin’ [REDACTED]s! Muhfucka didn’t even wunna scrap neither! Wunna START some shit… but don’t wunna FINISH t’shit! He just let Ol’ Joe give ‘em dat Bingo Wing Lariat and then fucked off back to his car like a little bitch! HAHAHHhahaahaAHA! Only to find out Ol’ Joe cut a zesty turd directly into his muhfuckin’ GAS TANK! Anyyyyywaaaay, Ol’ Joe thanks yas for not bein’ no bitches. Ol’ Joe knows when he’s been bested… and today… wuz that day.”

Joe the Plumber solemnly steps toward the Big Dick Stallions, who have started to rise to their feet.

“Ain’t no two ways ‘bout it: Ol’ Joe’s been beaten. There’s been gangs ‘a teenagers, lil’ kids, fuckin’ the KKK was down here once fuckin’ about and wanted to fuck on Ol’ Joe ‘cuz he was crusted with muck and shit, couple ol’ geezers with hunting rifles, a fuckin’ alien, FBI agents—they all wanted to take Ol’ Joe’s spot as Bog King, but nunna dem had the heart. Heavy is the cock that wears the ring, y’know. Had to sliiiide on some muhfuckas and teach ‘em this ain’t wrasstlin’; Ol’ Joe’s retired and ain’t nothin’ say I can’t chew yer fuckin’ nose off and blow me some bubbles widdit! But the prophecy was foretold or some [REDACTED] shit like that! Ol’ Joe was trippin’ on bog air and toad venom and a naked fat guy, white as a ghost, told Ol’ Joe a couple’a sexy muhfuckas would thieve on Ol’ Joe, but then return his stolen property and kick the fuckin’ shit outta him. Well, boys, Ol’ Joe’s pants are FLOODED with shit. You made that shit. You put it in Ol’ Joe’s pants. It stinks, don’t it? Smellin’ like… uhh… I’unno, SHIT maybe? That shit that’s streamin’ down my legs into my bog shoes? That’s Ol’ Joe’s reign as tyrannical Bog King comin’ to a greasy end. But… there must always be a Bog King because, uhhh, them’s just the rules. Some muhfucka gotta keep the lizards and woods people and fuckin’ SWAMP GHOULS in check. But that’s a young man’s game...”

He looks at the dented soup can crown in his gnarled hand, his grip tight… but gradually loosening. He reflects on his time in the bog since being ousted from a homeless encampment for wanton sexual deviancy (and also stabbing a pregnant woman). Eight years—a long, foggy stretch of time. His short wrestling career is a distant memory. He’s not Joe the Plumber anymore, hasn’t been for quite some time; no, he’s Joe the Bog King… and now… he’s not even that. The title and crown must be passed to a worthy successor.

STRONK and Fred look confused as they stand there licking their wounds from the Bog Royale. And they look even more confused as JTP walks toward them, standing first in front of Fred.

“Fred,” Joe says, “y’aint Bog King. Y’just ain’t. And that’s okay. Bein’ Bog King fuckin’ sucks an outhouse toilet’s worth’a post-anal dicks, y’understand? The crown ain’t yers. Maybe one day ya wrestle this big muhfucka and git yers; maybe one day ya fuckin’ cave his head in with a frying pan, I dunno, can’t see the future. But Ol’ Joe does have something fer ya…”

Joe takes out his legendary plunger, with which he’s unclogged many a shitter and plunged into many an opponent’s face and asshole. He hands it to Fred. “This yers now, Fred. Ain’t never been cleaned. Smells the way it smells. Use it wisely.”

JTP goes and stands in front of STRONK. Godson has forgotten why they’re standing there.

He takes the soup can crown and regally places it upon STRONK’s big head, then moves a step back to take it all in: the Coronation of the new Bog King.

“Y’look just like Ol’ Joe did when he bludgeoned that hermit widda tire iron and sat my fat ass upon the Bog Throne,” JTP says, as he begins to well up, then bursts into tears and catches more snot with his tongue. “Ol’ Joe’s off—no point stayin’ ‘round ‘ere. Not needed no more. Irrelevant. No responsibilities. Finally.”

Joe hastily strips off his crusty overalls and stands bare-ass naked beside the bog.

“Yer fuggin’ dig is FUGGED, Joe,” Fred blurts out.

It is “fugged”—it’s an insane person’s idea of what a demon’s penis might look like if it were beaten with a meat tenderizer.

Suddenly, the perspective shifts and we’re seeing everything through the eyes of an alpha predator as it creeps on all fours toward the bog. The eyes of a jaguar, a lion, a tiger perhaps—

A… dude in a filthy catsuit?

Mittens.

T.

Motherfuckin’.

Cat.

Joe’s old nemesis / reputed lover.

He slowly walks toward the naked Joe the Plumber and, without uttering a word, scoops his hefty, ill-proportioned body up into his arms. He carries him off into the dense forest like a new bride, mewling hornily as he goes.

Nothing else is said.

Nor need it be.

BDS go home.

Free of curse.

Character developed.

Kinda the same dudes—but diff’rent.

Better.

Future PRIME World Tag Team Champs.

“BIG DAWGS” blares from their car as they speed off not wearing seatbelts or realizing the E-brake is still on.

fin.