Someone’s been painting nightmares upon my dreamscape. I don’t believe it’s had the desired effect. Fear is both a physical and psychological condition. Then again, anything psychological is also physical to the degree that brains exist. Trust me. I’m not a doctor, but I’ve touched a lot of brains. Same reason I’m qualified as a proctologist. I’m working on being a gynecologist, too.
Here’s the deal. The physical response is the part that either paralyzes you or activates the flight or fight response. Adrenaline starts pumping, dulling pain. Things speed up. Your heart races. In order to make the human body quicker, it sometimes dumps waste like urine and excrement. That’s why people pee themselves when scared.
The physical response is hardwired in and usable. Some parts of it are the same thing that happen whenever people play sports. It’s good. That scared response of not knowing if you’ll win and desperately wanting to.
The physical response is the bomb. The psychological aspect is the trigger. Timed, proximity, motion sensor, radio detonator, phobias, darkness, the unknown, spiders. By far, the unknown is the best one to abuse. People’s imaginations can scare the crap out of them far worse than some specific threat created by someone else.
That’s why Spinetingler’s nightmares didn’t bother me too much. It made it hard to sleep when I spent the night trapped in a dark sarcophagus with a catheter and feeding tube stuck in me. That was the dream, not the reality, by the way. My bedding arrangements aren’t usually so elaborate. Time moves differently in dreams. Spinetingler left me there for what felt like days.
A taste of his own imprisonment in the Rubik’s Cube.
The next night, he sent a clown after me in my sleep. A smiling, laughing one with blood trailing out its nostrils and the corner of its mouth. I ran from it through the remains of a children’s birthday party. Then I asked myself why I was running from a clown. I’m not scared of clowns. It prompted a lucid moment from me and suddenly I realized I was dreaming.
Oh dear, a lucid dream with a clown in one corner and me in the other. He died slowly, but I brought him back to do it all over again. My head, my rules, and I hoped Spinetingler felt or saw it.
Speaking of feeling sawing it, I got rid of my toilet tentacle infestation. I needed more damage. Sometimes, my own fists just don’t work, and those slimy flailing limbs avoided my energized fists or absorbed the blows. I damaged them, but not how I needed to. Sure, the effects of my energy sheath blew Pink Pixie’s mind, but a skull is much more rigid than pervy octopus leg and my fists aren’t inside the tentacles.
Now that’s a new combination. Fisting tentacles. Porn artists, get to work!
That’s right, a tech-savvy fellow like myself knows about porn. And that brings us back to my thinking when I took on the toilet tentacles.
See, I figured I’d go mano-a-mano. Or, in this case, tentacle-a-penis. If you think about it, there’s a lot of similarity between the two limbs. Both are used to stab people’s sexy body holes and insert either eggs or slime to make someone pregnant. Readers, feel free to save this paragraph for when you have curious kids asking where babies come from.
So that’s why I strapped a chainsaw to my crotch. I ran into the bathroom holding one of those two-pronged grill forks and a pair of nunchuks, yelling like a maniac. I switched the nunchuks into my right hand and started swinging them around safely away from any of my vulnerable body parts. With my left hand, I skewered a tentacle and swung my hips.
You wouldn’t believe how fucking awesome it felt when those teeth bit through the grey flesh of the tentacle and left it flopping impotently on the floor. I smacked a tentacle away from my face with a nunchuk, then speared it and gave it the hump of death. “Eat vibrating doooooom!”
And I do mean vibrating. When I told you it felt fucking awesome, I meant the vibrations. Oooooh, yeah. It reminds me of a book I read. This one recon marine told the embedded reporter to lay belly down on the ground as a tank rolled by because of how it felt. Good book. Most people have this view of battle as something orderly, fought by heroic men of valor who know exactly what to do. In reality, warfare is actually a lot closer to what y’all read here: a man with nunchuks using dick-mounted heavy machinery to saw through his enemies.
The tentacles didn’t just grow smaller offshoots like when I shot them. Uh uh. Something roared from below. The tiles warped and buckled. The toilet strained upward as something emerged to join the remaining tentacles. The great throne of all business dirty quaked, then shattered. A jagged piece almost hit me, but for the nunchuks. They caught the piece in the chain and fell to the floor, leaving me nunless and chukless.
It came from beneath the shitter. The body of the beast from under the butt emerged, oval-shaped. Its mouth opened not like a human’s, from side-to-side, but from top to bottom, with folded grey flesh at the top. A portion of that slide up to show off an orb the color of the infinite void to stare into me.
I’d heard stories of men encountering creatures that drove them mad. The angles, the writhing mass, all of it created some sort of deep existential terror that left them gibbering wrecks. Somehow, such abominations could never be described fully because some aspect of their appearance drove men mad. Like Cthulhu.
No, that’s what it looked like to me. A grey, moist vagina. Sure, it drives some men crazy in a different sort of way, but I wasn’t about to lose my mind over it. Maybe Lovecraft’s characters just never went down enough.
The coochie creature spread its lips, revealing uneven fangs on either side. Somebody spent a little too long tapping into latent male fear of female anatomy.
“Vagina dentata, eh?” I pivoted the crotchsaw around toward it. “Well, you’re about to be vagina dented.”
The poon monster roared. I leapt onto it, grabbing the roots of two tentacles above the eye, and thrust the blade deep. “Fuck you!” I yelled as it shook. Grey tentacles whipped at me, cracking against my armor. I wiggled my hips the opposite direction of the side-to-side shaking, feeling just incredibly as the blades met resistance.
Finally, two of the tentacles squeezed between its body and my armor. They threw me off. I crashed into the sink and slid to the floor, the weapon between my legs slowing, then turning off completely.
I started punching the thing, then tried tugging on the cord to get it started again. “Hold on a moment,” I told the voracious vulva in front of me, “I swear, this never happens. Give me a moment and I’ll be ready.”
Don’t you hate when your weapon breaks and leaves you feeling impotent?
It didn’t give me a moment. I’d have to finish it off by hand. I hoped I’d be able to find some sensitive spot I could abuse. Tentacles lashed out and yanked at my head, pulling me toward the loathsome labia that opened wide to welcome me with their pointy teeth. No way was I sticking my head in that.
As horror fans have known ever since Lovecraft, never stick your head in crazy. If you do, you’ll likely get a nasty surprise.
Did I say nasty surprise?
The minichainsaw burst through the other side of the tentacle around my neck, roaring to life. The flesh of my attack sloughed to the floor and I got my feet under me. More tentacles reached for me. If this demented donghole wanted me so bad, who was I to argue?
I ran, dodging blows when I could and pitching my weight around to maintain my footing when I couldn’t. The maniacal maneater opened wide for me, drooling. I shoved my fist and the Nasty Surprise blade inside. Fangs clamped on my arm, but I kept swinging away wildly. Finally, I drove upward, hoping it had a brain somewhere behind that eye.
With wild abandon, it whipped the walls, the floor, and me. Then, it shuddered and laid still.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, Carl nearly popped a shot off at me. He and Moai waited behind a barricade made of the couch, worktable, my stool, scrap metal, and some of the appliances I used for parts. They’d dragged the TV back inside to watch while I was occupied in the bathroom. Carl had his minipistol trained on the door; Moai had the double-barrel bazooka nearby and a cricket bat within reach.
“Anyone got a light?” I asked, patting at my belt. Carl looked around and grabbed a lighter off the floor. He tossed it to me. Damn, I thought we had some matches around, but Carl didn’t smoke. Neither did Moai and I. I projected a cigarette into my hand and acted out lighting and smoking on it for a puff. Then I opened the door of the restroom and waved the lighter around a bit before throwing it in there. “Nobody go in the bathroom for at least thirty minutes. That was a doozy in there. Quite a strain. I had a little bit of bleeding, but in the end, I put it down. It’s going to stink for awhile, though.”
That’s true. The monster voided its bowels when it died. Very nasty. What? It’s not like humans have a monopoly on that sort of thing.
“So, y’all brought the TV in. Any word what Spinetingler’s up to? I know he didn’t stop by just to give me fun dreams and a lesson in paranormal plumbing. This is a distraction while he does the things he needs to do.” I pointed to the TV, which had one of the all-day news channels on, but muted.
Carl shook his head and started righting the sofa. “Nope. People been noticin’ that heroes are disappearin’ though. Venus is still patrolling, but a lot of the other guys are missing.”
Hmm. I figured I might need to send out some of my nanite minions on a quick search around their homes, see if they could stumble over anything. And if they did stumble over the wrong thing, I could humiliate Spinetingler by having some civilian escape or somehow kill whatever pet monster he sent out. Better yet, I could look up local folklore about haunted sites and send in the drones instead of risking myself.
His reliance on the narrative ties his hands somewhat. He could kill lone people connected to a group, but most stories have a way for at least one person to survive and escape. It doesn’t guarantee it, but there are a lot better odds than if it was two people. Especially if one’s a man and the other is a virgin woman.
I’ll have to see how it works out.
“You sure he’s after somethin’, boss?” Carl asked. He grabbed a bag of potato chips off the barricade and settled down to eat them and watch TV.
“I think so. He’s got something planned that he’s worried I’ll disrupt. I’ll show up at the wrong time, destroy the wrong artifact, blow up the wrong building, kill the wrong hostage, maybe all of the above. If the TV looks at you the wrong way, shoot it. We can always steal another TV.”
I decided to ease back into things. Try some things that reflect but aren’t mirrors. After all, he didn’t bother to send maggots crawling out of my eye or anything like that. What better way to keep an eye on a reflective surface than to project entertaining moving pictures through it?
As for me, I’m considering writing a book about my experience fighting the toilet monster. It’s got it all: action, drama, humor, chainsaws, whipping tentacles, grey vagina monster. I think I’ll call it “50 Blades On Grey”.