Excerpt from "THE MOJO CHATEAU" by Shannon Frach From PBW Disk Magazine Price: $2 or TRADE. 130 W. Limestone Yellow Springs, Ohio 45387 When you're pinned underneath the weight of a sweating, four-hundred pound lesbian, little else in the world seems to matter. To hell with happy horseshit like self-fulfillment or refining the coarser human instincts, because what you're dealing with in the stark reality of getting away from this immense mountain of woman-flesh that's hunkering over your body like a human forklift. "I want to sit on your face, baby," she says. Christ the King on a life raft, I think. All I came here to do was sell a goddamn vacuum cleaner. Things haven't quite been the same in my life since I started working for the Acme Vacuum Cleaner Company. As far as I'm concerned, the name of the company alone says a lot. I keep having this mental image of a cartoon coyote at the bottom of the canyon holding one of these mutant bastard vacuum cleaners while the Road Runner honks out his two-beep salute and dashes down the highway as if his gonads were boiling. Would it help if I told you that my boss thinks that he's a reincarnation of a foot soldier who happens to be a veteran of the Punic Wars? He often talks of how he bravely met his demise in another life by way of direct, frenetic hand-to-hand combat with two heavily-armed opponents, although I secretly suspect that the pimply little sonuvabitch would have more likely croaked by slipping in a jumbo mound of steaming elephant shit and falling on his own sword. To return momentarily to my own piss-ant existence, I seem to remember that in another life, a few paragraphs ago, I was being viciously nailed to the floor by a dildo-wielding bulldyke with halitosis. Thanks to Cortez E. Beauchamp, my aforementioned boss, the general course of events in my life has taken a number of monstrously shitty turns, but nothing thus far has come close to matching this screwed-up spectacle. I got hooked up with Acme in the first place after having been forcibly ejected from my former position as the shipping/receiving manager for Cuthbert-Halliwell Imperial Dental Fixtures after getting drunk at a company party and informing the boss that his wife dances like an epileptic baboon. Following that splendid career decision, I wandered aimlessly around the Great Pacific Northwest selling fresh, hearty garden vegetables and giving head to truck drivers. One of these truck drivers, a neckless, inbred beast named Boo-Boo Weinstein, informed me about a minute before he splattered my tonsils with a fetid blast of rotten, yellow jism that he had a buddy by the name of Beauchamp who ran an outfit in Arkansas called Acme Vacuum Cleaner Company. I took the card Weinstein handed me with Beauchamp's number scrawled on it, thanked him quickly, and swiftly ran to the back of the rig and puked my goddamned brains out. I hopped the Greyhound to Arkansas and eventually found Acme Vacuum headquarters, where I was forced to suffer through a merciless clusterfuck of questions from Cortez E. Beauchamp Himself concerning why he should give a job in his God-appointed corporation to a man who just days ago was sucking off a bunch of truckers who possessed the collective mental capacity of a duffel bag full of cat turds. Really, it beat me, too, but I got the job. Weighing the possibilities, I supposed that pounding the streets selling vacuum cleaners might rate somewhat better hierarchically than giving blow jobs to redneck idiots with their names stamped on the back of their belts. Maybe. My first customer was a blue-haired great-grandmother who claimed that she had once, in the summer of 1954, squeezed Frank Sinatra's butt. She was a mortal pain in the ass, but she bought a frigging vacuum cleaner, which made having to sit through a course of her special recipe meat loaf and about a dozen glasses of vile, foaming iced tea worthwhile. After that sale, my confidence was bolstered significantly. I sold a shitstorm of vacuum cleaners. When Beauchamp decided that I should begin stomping the rural routes, I cheerfully complied. I figured that country people would be more polite, more willing to entertain the idea of inviting a complete bareassed stranger into their home to sell them products they really didn't need. I began to learn a great deal from simple country folk. I learned, for one thing, that workman's comp won't pay for injuries incurred when a salesman is stabbed in the left cheek of the ass with a pitchfork. I also learned that chickens will often vomit if turned upside down and shaken violently, and that you shouldn't stick your tongue on a pump handle in the middle of winter, ever, regardless of what the nice farmer man tells you. One of the local farmers, Eb Woodruff, told me that I could probably make a sale if I'd get in the car and drive out to Overcup. I could take Highway 9 south just outside of Morrilton, look for a grocery store on the left, and drive about a mile past that until I saw a decrepit, isolated green house on the right with a tar-paper roof. Once there, I would find a beautiful young girl named Evangeline Hopper who lived alone and who just loved having male company drop by. What's more, she had just mentioned something to Eb about her vacuum cleaner giving out. My heart raced. I pondered the possibility of getting my dick wet while simultaneously unloading another Acme Vacuum and decided that it was indeed written in my stars to leap into the car and go screaming down the highway with the full speed and urgency of a goat in rut. I arrived at the place and began feeling most nervous, indeed. After all that time I spent consorting with truck drivers just to keep my miserable carcass alive, the thought of getting my lecherous hands on a female body sent me into a weird emotional hybrid of acute pleasure and gut-wrenching anxiety. While musing over all of this, a giant ham of a fist suddenly began thwacking on the car window. It scared the almighty shit out of me, particularly after I noticed that attached to the fist was a large, pock-marked mutant of extremely questionable gender. "Open up th' gaw-dam CAR!," it bellowed like a wounded moose. I complied slowly, feeling the weird, sinking feeling of one who knows he's about to be screwed over royally by destiny itself. I opened the car door, only to have it slam in a dull, retarded thud against the body of this misshapen creature. It-- the person-- giggled eerily and reached one pimply arm toward the car, opening the door as though it were one of those tiny toy Matchbox cars. "Unh. Sorry 'bout that, hyuk. Now get outta th' car." I did as instructed, primarily because I figured I'd be squashed like an overripe grape if I didn't comply. The beast extended one calloused, chapped hand toward me. I reached out to shake it and felt every pressure point in my hand collapsing into a gelatinous mass under the weight of a godawfully firm, excruciating grip. The thing spoke as I was edging closer to the ground in knee-buckling pain. "Heh heh...pleased t' make yer acquaintance, Mister...mah name's Evangeline Hopper, but ya can call me 'Butch', hyuk hyuk. Everyone else does. Hunnnnh." Deciding then and there that Eb Woodruff had just embarked on a new career as a fucking dead man, I rose and attempted to salvage the situation. "Good morning, Ms. Hopper...marvelous little farm you have out here!...My name's Caine Halliwell, and I'm a representative for Acme Vacuum Cleaner--" "Vacuuuuuuuum cleaners! HooooooooEEEE, boy! Hyuk, I shore do like them vacuum cleaners." I nodded. "Well, then--I'm sure you'll let me demonstrate this new model for you. It's a real gem, ma'am. Picks up everything, to include water." She paused and smiled. "Hunh. Does it pick up afterbirth?" I stepped back, stunned. "Excuse me?" "Afterbirth. Ah got cows, an' they eat th' stuff up right soon as it hits the ground." She dropped down on all fours to demonstrate. "Well, ah think it's disgustin'. Ya don't see PEOPLE doin' like that when they have afterbirth layin' around." "You're absolutely right ma'am... I'll be sure to call up headquarters and ask if the XJ7 model works on, uh, cow afterbirth." She remained on all fours, looking more bovine than human. I resisted the urge to grab a milk pail and throw it down beneath her pendulous, mammoth-sized tits, and silently calculated some way of verbally extracting myself from the whole sordid scene when Elsie the cow lifted her head up from the grass and addressed me. "So, Mister--when ya gonna show me yer fancy-ass vacuum machine?" I paused. "Well, ma'am, if you'll allow me into your house, I can perform a modest demonstration of the three latest models from Acme Vacuum." By that point, I was almost willing to pay HER the price of one of the damn vacuums if she'd just let me get my ass off her farm. She giggled like a brain-damaged hyena. "Well, shore, Mister--whyncha SAY so? Ah'll even letcha vacuum up mah bedroom." She picked herself up off the ground and suddenly grabbed my hand with that monstrous grip of hers, marching me into the house as if I were a wayward child. On the whole, I'd rather have been roasting in hell with a pitchfork shoved up my ass. I skidded along the grass as she dragged me along behind her like a toy. "Whaddya say yer name was, Mister?" "Halliwell. Caine Halliwell." I paused, then added, "I', not listed in the local phone book." She brushed a greasy, cheese-like string of brown hair out of her eyes. "That's awright with me, bub--I ain't got no damn phone." Her grip on my hand tightened. "Did anyone ever tell ya you had a nice ass?" I blushed and felt my dick shriveling in sheer panic. I tried to come up with a response but wound up just staring into the distance like some thorazine-dazed moron. "Ya don't hafta be shy, Caine--can I callya Caine, honey?" She turned, suddenly whipped an old, greasy Texaco handkerchief out of her pocket, and belched into it. I shrugged wearily. Hell, by that point she could've called me Charles Fucking Atlas and it wouldn't have made any difference. She continued talking as she steered me into the house. "Well, sugar...I don't usually say this t' most people, and ya prob'ly wouldn't even figger it out right off, but...heh, heh...well, most of th' time when I got somethin' romantic-like goin', it's usually with women." I walked into the living room and stared at this savage, flaming bull dyke in wide-eyed amazement. "Really?" She grunted affectionately and threw me down onto her ripped turquoise-colored sofa so hard I thought my ribs were going to come tearing through my chest. "Yep. I'm an honest t' Gawd lesbeen, except that I've been thinkin'--well, maybe I oughtta try men just one more time afore I give 'em all up as a buncha no-good swine." She turned to me and winked. "Anyways, you're close enough to a woman fer meeeee..." Her voice trailed off in deep thought. I sat upright on the couch as I fully absorbed this affront to my masculinity. "What do you mean, I'm close enough to a woman for you?" She smiled. "Aw, shucks, hon...don't be gettin' yer undies in an uproar. You're every bit a man--all's I meant was that, hyuk, yer kinda, well...sneaky an' mysterious like a woman." She pried the door of her ancient brown refrigerator open and started preparing two glasses of tea. I took a slow look around the place as she busied herself with the ice cubes. It really wasn't too bad inside--even kind of homey, in a weird, psycho-country sort of way. I stared at the handmade quilt draped across the couch and addressed the beast in the kitchen. "So what makes you think I'm sneaky and mysterious?" The adjoining kitchen and living room were filled with the sound of ice cubes suddenly snapping out of an old fashioned metal tray. A spray of ice shards filled the air and looked like crystalline needles in the filtered sunlight. She turned and faced me. "Because you just are. You have what's called an...aura. And it's an aura of mystery. I'll betcha you're full of surprises, Caine." I crossed my legs, bemused. "Is that so, Ms. Hopper?" "Butch," she corrected me. "Mah friends call me Butch." "Well, I'm honored that you count me among your friends--um, Butch." I paused and prompted her for more conversation. "So, you say my aura is sneaky and mysterious." "Shore is. Like I say, hon, you're a man of surprises. And I guarantee yer fine little ass I'm a woman of surprises." I smiled. "I daresay you are." "You want yer tea sweetened or unsweetened?" "Sweetened, please." A loud belly laugh rolled throughout the kitchen. "Good damn thing. It's th' only kind I got." I could hear the popping of the ice cubes as she poured tea over them. She waddled into the living room clutching two glasses, then handed me one. I thanked her and took a sip. The tea was sweet enough to take my breath away--just the way I like it. Butch plopped down beside me on the sofa clumsily. She took a loud, slurping drink and turned to face me. "So, Caine. I guess ya might be wond'rin how it is I can read yer aura so good. An' how I knew ta put extra sugar in yer tea." I looked up quizzically. She stirred her glass slowly with her index finger. "Well, that's how yer mamma useta fix it, ain't it--I mean, afore she died and all." I turned to her, shocked. "Wait a minute! What do you know about my mother?" "Now don't get all upset, Caine, honey. Relax. Have a sip of tea." She put one huge hand on my shoulder and I shook it off. Nobody in that geographical area could possibly know anything about me, much less my personal history. I could feel my blood pressure rising. I had spent all this time running from my past and now this acne-spangled ox was telling me about it in her living room in the backwoods of Arkansas. "It's okay, Caine. You're safe with me. It's just that--well, I've been kinda like a psychic all mah life. I could see ya months before ya ever arrived. I know what ya useta do to them truck drivers out in Washington and Oregon, too--" "What in the almighty hell ARE you?" She gazed at me with an air of superiority. "Butch Hopper--gypsy, psychic, practitioner of The Craft. And I might add, yer guru." "My Guru? You're out of your fucking mind!" "Go ahead and doubt, hon. But it's gonna happen. It's fate. Right after yer little ole sex initiation, we can begin--" "My WHAT?" She held me down with one hand. "Yer sex initiation," she explained calmly. "You ever read Aleister Crowley? Cause if ya did, you might've heerd about this li'l ritual called, hyuk, hyuk...Eroto-Comatose Lucidity...hunnnh." I squirmed like an eel on speed. "Get me out of here, you inbred cow, or I'm gonna--" "Yer gonna what, boy?" She grabbed me with lightning reflexes, and deftly shook me like a rag doll, subsequently jamming my face against her right knee. "Ya sit there talkin' like you got a big dick or somethin'--what're ya gonna DO? Huh?" I struggled against her but felt two giant hands jerking me back up on the couch by the back of my belt. "And don't you EVER call me inbred, you little communist big-city bastard, or I'll kick yer ass up between yer shoulders that you'll hafta part yer damn HAIR to take a shit, you hear me?" I nodded as her hand gripped my shoulder so hard I thought my arm would pop from the socket. Her other hand started loosening my belt. I yelped in pain and tried to stop her, but it was impossible. "Now, I really like ya, hon, but if you don't behave, you're gonna get your fancy little ass whupped, you understand?" She shook me for emphasis. I nodded and she released my shoulder. My cramped, aching muscles danced in a spasmodic twinge of agony. She forcibly turned my face to meet her insane gaze. She spoke softly, but with an air of demented intensity. "Now, let's go into th' bedroom, Caine. Just you an' me. C'mon." She rose, took my left hand and slowly, lovingly led me toward the bedroom. She carried my belt in her other hand like a prize she had won at some sinister carnival. The sense-numbing smell of sweat, leather, and incense poured out in an intoxicating rush from the opening bedroom. The room itself was blacker than the heart of a whore. The tiny ray of sunlight that managed to bleed through the leather-curtained window illuminated an ultra-thin, prismatic gathering of dust particles and the glint of hard, cold steel. I looked up to see manacles of various sizes suspended from the ceiling. Butch suddenly shoved me face-down across the bed. As I contemplated the sharp pain in my wrists where her fingernails had been digging like demonic talons just seconds ago, I heard her turning the key in the door, locking it with an echoing click of impending doom. She returned to me, rolled me over, then grabbed my wrists and forced them into a set of ice-cold, steel manacles. I agonized over this new turn of affairs as she grasped both my feet and lashed them to the lower posts of the bed. Butch roughly reached underneath me, jerking my pants down to my ankles. Her voice began slowly intoning an eerie, hissing Latin chant. I closed my eyes and realized that, for the first time in my spectacularly ill-fated life, I was rendered completely powerless. I physically resigned myself to this turn of events while mentally making a note of the worst ending to this twisted affair. Forget the powerlessness, the resignation, the doomed feeling, the sexual revulsion and my complete humiliation at the prospect of being bested psychically and physically by a woman, and forget the sheer, gut-chewing terror that began to rip through my spine like a jackhammer. A single, damning thought blasted through my tortured brain as I felt a firm, wet tongue and hellish, jagged teeth gripping my neck in a painful, erotic caress: I still hadn't sold the lard-assed bitch an Acme Vacuum.