Utter Rot

The figure shambled up to the open passenger side window and Simon saw with a wave of unease that, beneath the overcoat, there appeared to be something unnatural in the stranger's stature -- the head was weirdly thrust forward, the back stooped below a sizeable hunch.

Unease gave way to revulsion as the creature reached the open window and peered in. Beady, sunken eyes leered out at him from a face so twisted it might have been beaten into form by a crowbar. Its eye sockets seemed unevenly spaced, its crooked nose -- if you could call the mangled mess of burst capillaries a nose -- skewed crazily to one side. Its thin lips were turned up in a wicked grin, revealing teeth like toppling tombstones.

With an involuntary exclamation of disgust, Simon recoiled, pulling his foot from the brake pedal. Before he could accelerate away, though, the thing's gnarled hands leaped out and seized hold of the window's edge.

"Hold up there, boss. Hold on jes' a minute," it rasped. "You look like a fella could use some action."

Simon paused, held as much by his repulsion of the thing as by the creature's odd observation. He saw that it was fishing around in its coat, muttering, still grinning at him with lunatic good humor.

"Here we are," it said, pulling a smartphone from the depths of its person. "Jus' a minute now..."

It fiddled with the screen, then thrust the phone towards him. "How'd ya like a piece of this, huh?"

Simon dropped his eyes from the thing's leering face to the screen, and felt a sudden sweat break out across his body.

On the screen was a girl, a blonde, dressed in the kind of class uniform that no school could ever sanction but that sleazy sex-shops might carry in bulk. The blouse was open, tied up under swelling breasts to reveal a mouth-watering glimpse of cleavage, thin fabric clinging to pert nipples. Simon's staring eyes lingered for a moment, then slid down her slim, curving waist, over the tiny cardigan skirt riding low and tight across her hips; down, at last, along the long, slender legs to the white platform heels -- stripper shoes, he thought vacantly -- binding her feet. The girl's face was as flawless as the hunchback's was flawed, red lips parted, wide dark eyes staring into the camera with an expression of nervous uncertainty. The girl's long, blond hair was pulled up in twin ponytails, the style of a high school cheerleader. They added to her look of innocence, of vulnerability.

Simon thought she was the most stunning thing he'd ever seen.

"What... what is this?" he managed.

"Why, this is a prop-a-sition," the hunchback exclaimed. "To wit: you put money in my hand valuin' one-hundred American dollars, and I'll let you spend some quality time with our lil' sweetheart here."

"Quality time?" Simon asked, his voice sounding faint and detached in his own ears. He couldn't take his eyes off the screen, his gaze crawling down her body, slipping back up again, lingering on the smooth curves of her cupped breasts.

"Aawh, what are you, dim?" the hunchback winked. "Lemme spell it out for you, champ: For a hundred bucks, I'll let you fuck this pretty slut's brains out."

Simon's mouth dropped open. "That got your attention, didn't it?" the hunchback smirked. "Well, how's about it? We got a deal?"

With an effort, Simon closed his mouth. He licked his lips dryly. "What is this, some kind of joke?" he asked shakily. "A set up? I'm not looking for trouble."

"Nah, no trouble. Just a businessman lookin' to grow his bottom line." The hunchbacked straightened up, dropping the phone back into its pocket. "Course, if yer not interested..."

"No!" Simon yelped. Then, restraining himself, "No. Wait a moment."

Simon Borowitz did not consider himself to be a bad man. He worked sixty hours a week as a mid-level administrator in a city agency; provided for his ailing mother, the last of his surviving family; and attended synagogue nearly every Shavat. Money was a vice, perhaps -- he certainly thought a lot about it, occasionally blew huge sums of it on vane pursuits -- but if that were a crime, most of the country was guilty. No, Simon thought, he was on the whole an average, law-abiding citizen, the kind of guy your eyes might slide over in a subway car, unremarked.

Only sometimes, he got these urges.

He was unmarried, had given up dating after several early, disastrous attempts. Women were, to him, a source of both confounding mystery and unmanageable longing, and as a result he tended to to go quite to pieces when faced with any female he deemed attractive. Like many men, his frustration with women stemmed in large part from his desire for them: Simon lusted constantly after the nymphs he glimpsed beyond the edges of his mundane life. The fact that this lust went unrequited only sharpened his desire, warping it at times into hostility.

When his hunger became too sharp he would sate it with pornography, with webcams, the occasional sex line. He found that the anonymity of these mediums let him tap into another side of himself, a darker, more commanding side, and occasionally he shocked himself with the demands he made of the voices on the other end of the line. More and more, his taste in pornography trended towards kink, the hardcore, the taboo. He supposed that, even if he had been more handsome, more confident, he still might not have been satisfied with an ordinary sex life, bland and sanitary as such a thing had come to seem.

But still, there were the urges.

They came upon him without warning, without a pattern, driving him out into the night streets of Chicago's seediest neighborhoods. These escapades always led to different ends, all of them dangerous, none of them fully satisfying. One time he'd found himself crouched behind a dumpster, pawing feverishly at his crotch while a teenage girl undressed in an upstairs window; another time he'd watched as an overweight couple, clearly drunk, engaged in lurching intercourse in a backyard hot tub. Only once had he come close, on one of his midnight sorties, to engaging a prostitute: he'd rolled up to a group of scantily dressed women, gone so far as to roll down his window, then -- as a heavyset black woman in fishnet stockings waddled up to the SUV -- sped off away from the curb, sweating like a pig.

He had felt the urge again tonight; had been drumming up his courage to make a move, to do something to take the edge off the raging storm brewing inside him -- when he'd spotted the hunchback.

"So waddaya say?" the pimp lisped, tapping the edge of the window. "Time is money, friend."

"You're telling me, for a hundred bucks, I can..." Simon swallowed. "I can sleep with her?"

The pimp looked aghast. "Why the fuck would you want t'do that? I said you could fuck her. You know, wank wank, spank spank, fire a load off in 'er tank. Tell you what," he said, spreading his gnarled hands magnanimously, "For a hundred bucks, I'll give 'er to you for an hour. Anything you want." The hunchback grinned, his expression sending a shiver down Simon's spine. "The little cutie's real accommodating."

Simon's head was spinning, his breath coming short and fast. He sucked in a mouthful of air. "I need to stop at an ATM," he managed.

"Sure boss, no problem. Listen, you gotta drive -- we're goin' a little ways outside of town."

Warning lights flared in Simon brain but he pushed them aside. "Ok," he said. "Ok, you can get in. Just... just one thing."

"Wazzat," asked the hunchback, opening the passenger side door.

"I want... can she..." Simon cleared his throat. "Can she wear that outfit?"

"Why not? Whatever you want," Lester grinned, sliding in. "At th' Boggs Brothers' House a' Pleasures, the customer is always right."

They pulled into a twenty-four hour gas station off the Interstate, somewhere in the city's meandering southern boroughs. As Simon was getting out of the SUV, the hunchback reached out a claw and clasped his shoulder.

"Might want to grab an extra hundred, pal. Ye never know, maybe an hour won't be enough for yas." Shuddering at the imp's cackle of laughter, Simon did as he was told.

Several miles south of the city limit, the hunchback directed him off the interstate and onto a confusing web of back roads and dirt tracks. They drove for another hour, till Simon was fully lost and more than a little terrified. Had he had the courage, he probably would have kicked the hunchback out and sped home. As it was, he simply followed the thing's rambling directions and prayed to god that he would only be robbed.

At last, they drew up outside a chain-link gate topped with spools of razor wire. The hunchback pulled out its phone and dialed, and after a pause there was a click. Simon could hear a low, rumbling voice on the other end of the line.

"Yeah, it's me, Shitbrain. Gotta client. Get her dressed -- fella's lookin' for an educational experience. What? No, fuckface, think third grade education. Yeah? Well, fuckin' clean it up! And put some fuckin' drawers on, this ain't a fuckin daycare."

He snapped the phone shut and swung out the passenger side door. Watching him shamble towards the gate through the beams of the Escalade's headlights, Simon was hit by the sudden and disquieting impression that the imp was naked under its filthy overcoat, flashes of raw, rubbery skin showing through the flapping cloth. He came a hair's breadth from throwing the SUV into reverse, but the image of the girl flashed into his mind again and he paused, uncertain. Get her dressed, the thing had said. It didn't sound like an ambush. At any rate, he thought, if I leave now, I'll never find my way out. He sat still, sweating, as the hunchback dragged open the gate and returned to the car.

"That girl..." Simon started as they rolled forward again. "Have you... have you ever, you know..." he searched for the word and settled on the one the hunchback had used: "...fucked her? Yourself?"

Lester looked at him like he'd just suggested the car's steering wheel were cheese and its engine ran on alien technology. "Christ jesus, you fuckin' serious? You saw the picture, right?"

Simon swallowed and nodded.

"Fuck yeah I've fucked her. I mean I have fucked her. Shit, things I've done to that little girl, my own mama'd be ashamed." He leaned in conspiratorially, leering. "I fucked the shit out of her less'n four hours ago. Right after I took that picture. Ripped the little slut uniform off'n her an' took her right there on the dining room floor. Wooo-eee, my balls are still throbbin'!"

"Ugh," groaned Simon. He was struggling to keep his thoughts straight, to block out the image of the hunchback, nightmarish in his nakedness, coupling with the girl he'd seen in the phone's display. "Did she.." he croaked, "...did she like it?"

"Fuckin' right," the hunchback spat. "She's a slut, ain't she? They all love it."

"Course," he added, his voice dropping, "They may not say-so. Prude bitches, right?" He punched Simon's shoulder, making him jump. "But then we just fuck 'em harder, right? Show 'em who's the fuckin' boss-man. You a boss-man, foureyes? Or you a little faggot bitch?"

"Boss-man," Simon croaked. Hot droplets of sweat slid down his temples.

They rolled down a meandering track, skirting mountains of scrap metal and garbage that loomed precariously into the night sky. After a few minutes the Escalade's headlights swept around a bend and Simon saw, ahead of them, an open swath of earth with a dilapidated two story house towards the back, hemmed in by cliffs of debris. A huge monster truck sat off to the side, garish purple flames running along its frame, weirdly incongruous against the uniform wreckage of the dump.

"Alright," the hunchback said. "Pull in here." They came to a halt a dozen meters from the house and the imp hopped out. "Hey shitbag, get 'er out here!" the imp yelled, shambling towards the sagging structure. "Time t'earn a fuckin' livin, you useless sack 'a fat!"

As he exited the vehicle Simon heard the front door creak open and, looking up, he saw a huge figure duck under the door's lintel and step out onto the porch. The man was a giant, over six feet tall and wide as a barn, and the porch creaked precariously under him. He was wearing -- Simon had to blink to make sure he wasn't hallucinating -- what looked like an ill-fitting policeman's uniform, the cap perched crookedly atop the bald head. Shiny gold shirt buttons strained over his massive stomach, and as he twisted back towards the house Simon saw one of them pop off and go winging away into the night.

The giant reached back through the doorway and, as Simon watched, pulled another figure -- slender, and so much smaller it appeared almost child-like -- out after it.

It was her.

Oh Mother Mary, he thought. It really is her. And she's wearing the costume.

Lit in the glow of the porchlight, the girl was heavenly, angelic. Beneath the revealing uniform light and shadow mingled to show off the curves of her perfect body, pooling in her cleavage, accentuating the length and smoothness of her thighs. As the giant tugged her along she stumbled a little, trying to keep her balance on the high platform shoes, and he saw her breasts bounce in a way that made his groin ache. The giant pulled her forward, half leading, half dragging, and she hurried to keep up.

"Not bad, fatty," Lester said appreciatively, looking the girl up and down. "Even did her make-up. You do pretty good on short notice."

"I was gettin' her ready to play a game," the giant grumbled, his tone morose. "You got back early."

"Well them's the breaks, fuckface. It ain't called hustlin' for nothin'." The hunchback took the girl's arm from his brother, not gently. "Come'ere, lover. Got someone I want you to meet."

Somewhere in his mind, Simon heard a note of warning. There was simply no way such a beautiful girl could be here by choice, it screamed, sounding far away. There was no way any girl would willingly subject herself to the twisted whims of this mutant duo, or prostitute herself to line their pockets. Something was wrong here, way wrong, and Simon had to get out now, extricate himself before he got caught up in this freakshow circus.

She was looking at him, and he could read fear in her wide eyes; yet there was something else as well, just a spark -- was it desire?

No, he realized, his heart turning cold. It's revulsion.

She's repulsed by me. Just like the rest of them.

But... but what if? She's a slut, ain't she? the hunchback had said. They all love it.

And wasn't it true? Hadn't he known, in the darkest corners of his mind, that the women who moved around him -- tempting him, driving him mad with their prissy walks, their tight, swaying asses, their pert tits -- were, at heart, nothing but a pack of wanton sluts? Why else would they make themselves so desirable to him, only to push away his advances -- puny as they had been -- with a tittering laugh or a pitying stare? Maybe that was why he had never succeeded with women, because he approached them with respect when what they really needed, what they wanted, was to be ravaged, to be controlled, to be bound and traded among beasts. Wasn't the proof of that here, in this very lot?

A parade of flashing images filled his head, twining, pulsing bodies, a lifetime of imagined acts, all unfulfilled. Fucking limp dick Simon never gets any, he thought deliriously. Never gets to fuck suck slap lick bite fuck bitches they're all bitches and they ALL deserve what's COMING...

He didn't know what she was doing here, and suddenly he didn't care. The hunchback pimp was right -- they were all sluts. All that mattered was that she was here, she was his, and he was done wasting time.

"Hurry up," he grunted, grabbing her arm and yanking her towards the SUV. "Don't keep me waiting -- I'm paying for this shit."

Lester watched the two of them disappear into the car, then lit up a cigarette. From inside came the rustle of shifting bodies, a thump, the sound of tearing cloth. Then the SUV began to jiggle, just a little at first, but quickly gaining speed until it was pitching and rocking, the suspension squeaking in protest.

"Shit," said Lester, flicking his butt away and lighting another. "I didn't think the little four-eyed kike had it in him."

"Guess she jus' brings it out in 'em," Merl rumbled. "Guess it must be her gift."

"She's talented, our little girl," Lester conceded. "You know I still gotta lube up like a fuckin' grease monkey 'fore I fuck her up the ass? Talk about tight."

"I was gonna do that," Earl said sulkily. "I had her all pretty and willin', ballgaged and every'thing. We were gonna play Bad Cop."

"Well, fuck nuts, if you hadn't blown our cut of the 1.3 mill on bondage gear and truck parts, we wouldn't be havin' to share, would we?" Lester mused. "Anyway, she ain't goin no-wheres. That rubber-neck pencil pusher paid for an hour, but I bet he don't last 15 minutes."

It took less time than that. Moments into the hunchback's third cigarette, the SUV began to jolt in crazy rhythm, and from inside the brothers could hear tortured wheezing and a short, gutteral groans. Then there was a sharp, strangled cry and SUV fell silent.

They eyed the vehicle, waiting to see if their John would emerge. He did not, and after a long minute the rocking began again.

The brothers chainsmoked while the clock ran down, eventually settling onto a pair of stools and passing a jug of evil-smelling hooch between them. The motion of the SUV stopped and started half a dozen times, each climax more raucous than the last.

Finally, Lester stood up, stretched, and yawned.

"Guess our boy got his money's worth after all," he belched. "But all good things must end."

He crossed the yard and hammered on the SUV's tinted rear window. "A'right Romeo, time's up! That's yer hundred bucks!"

The interior grew quiet for a moment, then Les heard the ruffle of cloth, perforated by a string of muttered curses. The door swung open and Simon was standing there in his underwear, sweaty and disheveled, belly hanging out of his open shirt.

He thrust a wad of bills towards the hunchback. "Here!" he snapped distractedly. "Here's the other hundred. Another hour. Take it!"

Lester noticed that the girl's panties had somehow found their way around the man's neck, his head thrust through one leg. He could see the pieces of the schoolgirl outfit scattered around the interior of the SUV, her bra hanging like pair of cupped dice from the rearview mirror. Behind Simon's sweating hulk the girl was a faint, luminescent glow against the dark leather of the interior, eyes closed, hair loose. She lay across the back seat, breathing shallowly.

"'Aight, champ, ok," Lester said, taking the money. "Just don't put any marks on her, got it? You damage the goods, we'll fuck you up, hear?"

"Sure," Simon snarled, starting back into the SUV.

"Wait, hold up a sec." Lester caught the door as it was closing. He fished into the depths of his coat pocket and produced a grimy jar. Written across it in block print were the letters V-A-S-E-L-I-N-E.

"If you were thinkin' a' fuckin' her ass, you're gonna wanna lube up with this," he said, winking evilly. "Case you ain't noticed, the bitch is tighter'n a fuckin' drum."

Simon stared at him for a minute, mouth agape. Then he snatched the jar out of Lester's hand and jerked the door closed with a bang.

Not long after, the SUV began to rock.

An hour later, the rear door creaked open and Simon stepped out, hands shaking, one shoe gone, pants on backward.

"A thousand dollars," he said.

"Huh?" Lester looked up, drunk and bleary-eyed. Earl sat slumped on the ground by his stool, the bottle of hooch cradled in his arm.

"You bring her to my place. Tomorrow, noon. I'll text you the address. You bring her to my place and I get her for as long as I want, till the sun comes up. That's the new deal. Do that, and I'll pay you a thousand dollars."