Diener: A Novella

Eduardo Mendez, a hardworking and hard-drinking diener down in Nassau, the Bahamas, is going to send me Anna Nicole's actual tannin-preserved cooz (all the way up to the fallopian tubes) to enhance my viewing of her foldout. It comes complete with pulsating walls installed by none other than great corpse-meister Eduardo Mendez himself. That greaser wants me to pay two hundred grand for it, which is kind of steep for a diener, although since the stem-cell treatments began, my salary is many orders of magnitude greater than it was during the days when I was reduced to slop-moping the guts, eyeballs, entrails, gore and other miscellaneous viscera off the greasy floor of Our Lady of Uncounted Sorrows' morgue. That task was sometimes almost as bad as mopping the detritus off the floor of an MMA cage at the end of a UFC Fight Night beat-down extravaganza, but not quite I don't know how those ring girls manage to wade through the octagon between rounds with their shit-eating grins intact. Must be the seven-inch spike heels, I thought. I would do it if I had heels like that, instead of the low morgue sneakers I was forced to wear per OLUS regulations. Six-inch heels, no way.

Anyhoo, I told Eddie to put the mummified cooz on eBay, to see what he gets offered for it. I told him I would double the highest bid. No way was I going to walk away from a sacred relic like that. He also offered Anna Nichole's mummified tits on eBay as well as on StiffTrader, but only as a matched pair. He didn't want to break up the set. I pointed out that I could only give one gazonger at a time the treatment it deserves, as I needed one hand free to manipulate the organ that most appreciates the beauty and sensuality of the Anna Nichole relics. I hope Eddie will find some full-figured corpse aficionado to spring for the full ten million he was asking for.

But I digress once again.

After we sat against the wall for a while, Seph began to fill both of us in on the events of the previous two months, which we had missed due to my perhaps too intensive scrutiny of several past American Cadaver issues and Hesus' imploring prayers to the great marble statue of the naked Blessed Virgin, the nature of which I did not even want to think about (although a few of these orisons suggested that I should really be calling him Jesus of Oedipal Bliss).

"It all started," the beautifully reanimated Seph said, "with those genetically-engineered stem cells you guys have been injecting into corpses to keep them fresh and youthful. Your real concern is of course the health of all the internal organs to be transplanted, which is a very lucrative business, as both of you already know.

"What you illiterates probably don't know is that these stem cells have brought bring some of us back from death," Seph said. "These stem cells code for a gene called flog'em flagellum."

Those geneticist wags can never pass up a good pun or even a bad one, I thought.

"The flog'em flagellum protein enables the stem cells to regenerate their lost flagella and the corpse to be revitalized, to become what is colorfully called 'walking meat.' That's evidently what I am now boys, walking meat. I sought death, the emptiness, and I found it. But it looks like those transplant tycoon sons-of-bitches ripped it right out of my hands again. However, the flagella in these stem cells, the little tails that enable them to swim about the body, start to decay after a few days and the corpse then dies a second time.

"As it turns out, only way to delay and possibly reverse this process is to introduce live sperm into the empty, longing corpse. The sperm cells somehow temporarily splice the gene for their flailing tails directly into the recipient's genome. That pioneering discovery was made by lay investigators in the realm of erotic funereal preparation such as you guys. Thus, I am denied even this second death." "Gee, that's tough," Hesus said, but his eyes kept roaming over every luscious inch of the statue of the Blessed Virgin that was displayed in a niche of the prep room so the families' loved ones will never again be abandoned by the Lords of Light (which seem to be the same as the Lords of Death in my experience).

"Now here's a crucial fact," Seph said. "If human sperm with their even more powerful flagella genes are directly and naturally introduced into the walking meat's body, the revivication will not only be prolonged, but the walking meat will become what is called a 'silver,' a meat with hypnotizing silver eyes. One look into those peepers and an ordinary mortal becomes our sexual slave forever, although I must say that it appears that Hesus here is more dedicated to his marble virgin mommy up there than to this delicious meat spread before him."

"Hey, I'm just an art lover," Hesus protested. "You're my main squeeze. Always will be."

"Even a silver must acquire more and more sperm, if he or she or it wants to avoid the decay of the second death," Seph explained. "So it's pretty likely that I am going to need to find people who are more than willing to gang-bang me, which by the way I'm going to need pretty soon boys, so don't go anywhere.

"That's why I am so horny. I am going to have to blow, fuck, or be cornholed by every guy I come across if I don't want to feel this horrible hunger and emptiness. I'm going to have to feed at least six times a day to satisfy my hunger and keep my silver meat body on the prowl.

"It's no good trying suicide. Been there, done that. Some meats have cut off their own heads, only to have them grow right back. Usually the regrown head is the size of a baseball. The discarded head will sometimes regrow a tiny body in which it can waddle around on like a spider for a few days. Who's going to fuck me if I have a microhead or I'm megacephalic spider?" Tears began to run down Seph's cheeks.

I was pretty sure that Hesus and I would totally be up for it, but I didn't give voice to that thought. Seph would only find it patronizing or possibly revolting, and she was the one who was in pain here.

"As you might imagine, some of the meat-fuckers' wives don't take too kindly to our making sexual slaves out of their hubbies, although some are pretty cool with it, especially if you throw an occasional bone to them from time to time, if you know what I mean," Seph said, batting her eyelashes at us, which made her silver irises spin even faster and our cocks harder and harder. I wished I had a towel to bite down on.

"Some of these broads are so crazy that they have formed the Women's Army of Decency, also called WAD, a vigilante group that hunts down and re-kills every meat and silver they come across. In such cases, they of course have to prevent the living fragments of the meats and silvers, such as brain tissue, roving eyes, crawling six-inch worm penises and various viscera from crawling back together to reconstitute the meat (or even, like a hydra or a slime mold, spawn several meats). That's why they burn every body fragment they come across and scatter its ashes in the wind to prevent the re-resurrection of the meat.

"Many of these women also particularly enjoy hunting down and killing the normal humans who have become thralls of the silver meats. Some of them entice their victims, which may include spouses, co-workers, neighbors, casual acquaintances, and complete strangers, with offers of massively depraved sex. But this age-old tactic seldom works, as the bond between a silver thrall and his silver overlord is almost impossible to break. So they generally resort to the tried and true method of picking off their victims one-by-one with automatic assault rifles. This also provides them with the delicious spectacle of the human thrall's head exploding into fragments, especially when the thrall in question is their ex-hubby.

"Before we go out there boys, I've got to go over some ground rules. First don't call them 'meats' to their faces. They find that term very offensive. They prefer to be called 'predeceased Americans.'

"Also, you should know about sunglasses. Silver-eyed meats cannot command or make a human their thralls if either of them is wearing dark sunglasses. Our silver eyes have to be seen directly for us to make a human our slave. That's why you're going to see a lot of people wearing sunglasses when we get up top. They may be meats trying to pass for humans who have not undergone the second birth. They also may be humans whose partners insist they wear they wear shades 24/7 to ensure that they do not enter the thralldom of some silver meat. Some of these poor bastards have 360 degree wraparound shades that are locked on their head like chastity belts.

"At least that's what I've heard. But hell, I'm as new to meat business as you guys are to the meat thralldom community. I only know what I heard on the news before my death.

"These helmeted guys would be pretty easy for even a normal woman to recruit, because their wives are such bitches. All she has to do is flag him down the old-fashioned way, such as pushing him into an alley, ripping off her halter-top, grabbing his cojones, kneeling before him, taking him in her mouth, and then deep hovering him like there is no tomorrow. This is such an obvious technique, it is amazing that there are any lonely women out there at all. But I guess they don't cover that technique in Cosmo. I'll bet they have in American Cadaver, right Iggy?"

I nodded my head.

"So then all such a woman would need to do is grab her guy's hand right after she blows him. Then she'd be set up for life. Ain't no way in the world some guy's gonna turn down a blow job, a full body fuck or a good cornholing every four hours. So we women don't even need silver eyes to totally control a man. Take note, all of you normal, un-reborn bitches, the way to a man's heart is right there in the crotch of his pants. Always has been and always will be. Forget the beauty tips, the gym and the charm school, and just bone up on the basics of jism swallowing and reverse peristalsis.

"All a shy, timid girl has to do is go up to some guy she fancies and ask him if he wants a blow job. I'm pretty sure he will say yes. Try it, you'll see, all you bitches out there."

PREPARING FOR BATTLE

"The way I see it boys, our next move is to get far away from here before my funeral, when all hell is going to break out. I assume you guys have cars and credit cards. We'll need to get a shitload of cash so that they can't trace us through credit cards. I'm going to need sunglasses so I can disguise myself as human.

"From what little I remember hearing on TV before my suicide, the sunglasses need have to have a UV rating of 99% or higher to avoid thralldom. There are a lot of guys walking around with low protection glasses to fool their wives into thinking that they will be chaste, while they are actually hoping to run into a silver meat, to gain a greater appreciation of the Atkin's diet.

"Do either of you guys have guns?" she asked us.

I shook my head. Before these revelations, I had never felt that the deceased people I work with posed much of threat to me. In hindsight, I should have anticipated that someone might raid the morgue for transplant organs in an attempt to cut out the middleman. When things get back to normal, I will write a memo about this. Who knows? I might get promoted to senior associate diener or even junior diener. The possibilities are endless.

But I had forgotten one thing. "We've got that car salesman Wild Bob Hitchcock's pearl-handled Colt revolvers in the Museum of Funerary Arts up stairs," I told Seph. "You know, the guy that signed off with a Porky Pig impression at his own funeral down there in Arlington Texas. If I am not mistaken we also have a couple of boxes of silver bullets up there also. Wild Bob kind of fancied himself as the Lone Ranger."

"That would be great if we're going after werewolves, homes," Hesus said. "But we're facing an army of loco human bitches hungering for our death. A set of revolvers might work if we're in 1890. But they're way too slow if you're a tunnel runner for El Chapo or any of the other drug lords or human traffickers." He threw up his hands, "Not that I was, amigos. If they find a tunnel under Shady Pines, I don't know nothin' about it. I just know a guy who knows a guy, if you know what I mean."

"So you got anything better, Hesus?" Seph asked.

"Si, si, boss," Hesus said. "Like any other red-blooded Mexican family, back home we got automatic rifles and crossing ammo belts and sombreros, although I guess I don't need no sombrero if I'm gonna be wearing shades for disguise. We got a lot of other stuff, including machetes, axes, automatic pistols, flame throwers, grenade launchers, antiaircraft guns, Molotov cocktails, military drones, brass knuckles, you name it."

"Jesus, Hesus," I said. "What are you expecting, Armageddon next Thursday afternoon?"

"Ee's tough in the barrio, man. But I guess some pampered gringo like you wouldn't know nothing about that."

"Boys, boys," Seph interjected. "Let's cut down on the testosterone, although we're going to need a lot of it in a few minutes. What kind of rides do you guys have?"

"I drive an SVU," I volunteered.

"What the fuck are you, amigo, a soccer mom?" Hesus asked.

"There's nothing wrong with men sharing the childcare responsibilities," I said. "Get into the twenty-first century, you macho beaner moron. What the fuck you got for a ride, some coyote to take you through the tunnels?"

"I got a Humvee, gringo."

"No offense, Hesus," Seph said, "but it might be a little conspicuous to drive a Humvee around town. What else you got?"

"I can borrow my cousin's jacked-up truck. You can raise the chassis five feet off the ground in that baby. You can drive it into a concrete wall, and the wall's gonna be the one to give. It's got dual flame throwers in the back. I already got the keys, and he don't mind if I take it."

"OK, Hesus," Seph said, "you cram all the weapons and ammo you can into that pickup, and for God's sake cover it with a tarp. Iggy, you go get your SUV. I could try to go home and get my car but it is too dangerous, everybody is going to be up getting ready for my funeral.

"All of us should get all the cash we can. We'll all meet up in the Motel 6 out on Danny Tjelo Road at noon. You know the place?"

We nodded.

"Finally, those WAD bitches are going to be all over the place, and our little army is going to grow in numbers. We may need something to tell us who are the good guys and who are the bad guys," Seph said.

"We could use doo rag colors." Hesus suggested.

"I ain't gonna wear any Mexican doo rag," I said.

"How about badges?" Seph suggested.

All too predictably, Hesus said, "We don' need no steenkin' badges."

"Doo rags it is then," Seph pronounced. "But before you boys go, I'm going to need a little pick-me-up. Hesus has already experienced my ravenous mouth. It's your turn, Iggy. I'm an equal opportunity cocksucker. Why don't you lie down right here, so I can taste that luscious looking cock?"

I quickly assumed the supine position, with my genitalia fully locked in the upright position and exposed for easy access. She lay down on me, her body T-boning mine. She plunged down on my cock with her eager mouth, and said to Hesus, "My mont you make me from meehind?"

"What? Hesus asked.

She pulled her mouth off my shaft. "I said, why don't you take me from behind," she repeated. "Cornhole me. My poor ass is neglected, throbbing and dripping wet. I want you to ass-fuck me like I'm Rock Hudson and there is no tomorrow. With the Women's Army for Decency on the prowl, I'm going to need all the strength I can muster. So fill my colon with jism, my favorite undocumented bandolero."

She raised her ass to him, and he was on it in a Tijuana minute. He grabbed both of her boobs and rammed his shaft into her like a picador shoving a lance into a bull, ascending all the way up her descending colon on the very first thrust.

Hesus began pounding into her harder and harder, and her head plunged up and down on my tool in time with his thrusts. She ran her left arm down my legs, stopping to tease and squeeze my balls every now and again, which caused my body to spasm. Her right hand roamed over the hard muscles of my chest and arms (you try lifting 300 pound floaters on a daily basis, it's way better than a spa). Her left hand ran up my thighs, parting them to tease my balls one more time, as Hesus plowed her as though he was an undocumented Beverly Hills gardener providing full implantation services to his delight of his sexually deprived housewife employer.

With each of his thrusts, Seph's mouth dragged my tool from side to side like a metronome at a Santana concert. She increased the pressure of her lips on my shaft along with the frequency of her bobbing. Meanwhile, Hesus was ramming into her like Generalissimo Santa Ana battering through the front doors of the Alamo.

Simultaneously, we all cried out, like lobos howling at the moon, and our bodies collapsed upon each other, spent for now. I never wanted to move from this position of total bliss.

But move we must. Such is the fate of the living, and as it turns out, the reborn dead.

DOWN AT THE MOTEL 6

After a few enchiladas and aguas at Hesus' favorite taquería, we sprawled on the bed to watch a little postcoital TV. (Seph had chosen this particular one-star hotel for its cable offerings).

Seph lay over our naked bodies on the queen-sized bed. Her cooz covered my lap and I stroked her lovely ass and fingered her while she sucked on Hesus' root and played with his balls. Neither of us could get soft in the presence of Seph. She wrapped my own throbbing shaft in the lips of her cunt, which actually seemed to suck it in a way that no human cunt could.

I stroked her crack as her cunt teased me. Somehow she was able to know I was about to come before I did, and her love tunnel surrounded me every time, drawing the precious sperm deeply into her body. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her head bob up and down on Hesus' immense chimichanga, swallowing him deeply and squeezing his cojones each time he came, while I ran my fingers down her ass crack and into her anus and cunt as she screamed out with every orgasm. I ran my palm over her sweet ass cheeks and up and down her back as she trembled in orgasm after orgasm. I squeezed her buttocks in time with the percussion of Hesus' eruptions, and she bucked and slid her nonhuman grasping crack up and down my throbbing cock, swallowing it as I came in torrents, pulling my essence straight from my balls.

After she had emptied both of us, I retrieved the TV clicker from the bed. We had already finished the Robert Rodríguez film festival, so I turned on the local news to see what was happening.

BOOB TUBING

Blond Anchor: "Well, Fred, it appears that the Great Awakening has now found its way to Yorba Linda. A woman who sources say is Persephone Jones was a no-show at her own burial today at Shady Pines Funeral Parlor. Also AWOL are Igor "Iggy" Stiffpounder and Hesus Gonzalez. Stiffpounder was a funereal cosmetologist at Shady Pines and a diener, which is some type of morgue attendant, at Our Lady of Uncounted Sorrows Hospital. Gonzalez is a decontamination specialist at Shady Pines, which seems to be a fancy name for janitor.

"As most of you undoubtedly know, there has been a troubling rise in the number of reanimated corpses, sometimes called "walking meats" or "zombies," prowling around in the Southern California area. These reanimated corpses themselves prefer the term 'predeceased Americans.'

"Here's our scientific consultant on the Great Awakening, Dr. Josef Mengele, who is a professor of regenerative medicine at Stanford University.

"Hello, Dr. Mengele."

"Hello, Tracy. Please just call me Dr. Joe."