Razor Wire Pubic Hair (4 page)

            "Get off!" Celsia screams, slapping the girl on top of me.  And the young woman slides off of my chest, off my penis and scrambles across the floor.

            "Bitch!" screams Celsia, kicking her away from me, our bodies shiny with sweat and other thick fluids.  "It is my fuck toy, mine to fuck!"

            The tiny girl curls up under the table, my blood running out of her mouth from when she bit into my shoulder, bulge of sun-fried belly jiggling from rapid-breaths, cowering her eyes so that Celsia won’t hit her again.

            The Sister entering, long hair sticking to her chest vaginas.

            "You were supposed to watch them!" Celsia spits at her.

            "I was busy taking care of your baby, as you call it," says the Sister, and Celsia throws herself onto a stack of dirty furs.      She calms, tells the Sister, "The council is only putting up a barricade around the center of town, which means they’re leaving everyone else vulnerable, especially us."

            "What are we going to do?" asks the Sister.

            "Try to protect ourselves," Celsia says, silver mushrooms sprouting from the corners of her eyes.  "The best we can."

            Just before she drilled a fingernail in my butthole, that young girl had told me, "I am Tamu," my toes writhing beneath her. 

            She kept her eyes closed when she fucked me, imagining me to be something else -- the Sister enjoys to do this as well -- a boy or a man.  The girl wouldn’t go near my female parts, pussy sauce boiling out of me, but she would not lick or even touch it.  She called out a man’s name when she fucked me, crying sometimes or laughing out loud, afraid of the rapists coming to the door.  So many emotions for such a tiny person.  There was even the emotion called happy, which spilled out of her just before Celsia came into the room to beat us. 

            The girl is still hiding under the table, even though it is morning and the morning-bugs swirl her face, crawl up and down her mud-sticky limbs. Too scared to masturbate herself awake, as Celsia and the Sister did earlier in the morning.  Crying, ugly with fear.

            The Sister is dancing naked in the garden with the undead, grinding feet into the earth and rubbing steam bodies, while Celsia puts up spiky bars, razor shiny, around the perimeter of the house. 

            Moving in twisty curls, the Sister delirium-dancing, whipping her hair, the long braids hooking zombie meat sometimes, and she splashes them when her body-cunts begin to drizzle.  I still cannot see them, I see only their presence.  I see bushes shifting sometimes, and from the shadows hear growlings when the Sister gets too close to one of them.  They cry out in green-anger, because their cocks are too withered to fuck her.  And they also cry out their fear of the rapists in the village, anxious-stampering to get inside the barricade begging for sanctuary.

            I can see Tamu across the room, hiding, stuck under the table as if she were tied there, as I am tied here, far from my reach.  She’s still crying, her eyes tight together.  Shoving her breasts in my direction with every outburst of air, as if she wants me to touch them from across the room, her dirty body shivering from fright or from lack of sex, lack of a man’s body.

            I am similar to a man.

            Outside during Celsia’s break stepping through icy mud grass crabs with thorns attacking my toenails, watching her frolic excitedly.  All thoughts of the approaching rapists separated from her head and whooshing behind, chasing after, not quick enough to catch her in this manic state.

            Celsia cuts down a chokon tree in the fortress cemetery and empties its meaty center onto the spider pavement.  She smiles in a horrid way, dirty teeth from eating spice roots, waving to me to come let her fuck me in it.  

            The wound on my leg is getting crusty and worms are eating the rotten parts, but Celsia won’t let me swat them away.  She drools on them, watches them devour tiny pieces of me.  Her nails are always stabbing, creeping my boobs.  Her tongue is friendly/sharp, selfishly probing. 

            "Come, come," Celsia tells me, and I step carefully through the prickle-mud to get to her, my nudity shivering nipples hard, bumpy.

            She enters the trunk of the chokon tree, slips into its lips, twisty roots curling around the sides.  And when I arrive to its pulse-opening, the oozing scent overwhelming me dizzy, Celsia snatches my arm in her claw, pulls me deep inside to darkness, to warm meat and fluids, heating me like a womb.  And Celsia fucks slowly, absorbing the tree’s energy, and my energy, shifting up and down through the trunk’s tunnel, pretending we are a giant penis within this long friendly cavity.

            By nightfall, the barricade is finished and Celsia can rest.  Too tired to even fuck, she goes to stand on the roof of her rust-metal castle, towering over the nail-textured fields and tar-red sunset.  Her razor wire pubic hair raised high for all to see, glistening on her shivery skin against the dim war-lighting, fires on the horizon, an armless woman masturbating in the road with her toes, legs curled inward, broken so that they can reach her sex hole.

            The Sister is greased up rot-sweaty from dancing with corpses.  Her dirty wetness sliming over the many vaginas that populate her body, two of which have yeast infections at this moment, eyes focused on the quivering road for sign of the rapists.

            I watch from inside, spying through a hole in the ceiling.  They have left Tuma unguarded and the tiny girl, still beneath the table, looks like she has plans to dart out from hiding, capture me, take me under there with her, rub her cunt all over me.  But she hesitates.  The women might see her from the hole in the ceiling and then feed her to the rapists. 

            The two sisters wait up there all night, battle-ready, touching each other to keep warm, to keep them excited to kill, to satisfy them sexually, hook nails creeping pale scummy flesh, wet flesh.  It is dangerous to be horny with the rapists around.

            They sleep up there together also, close as they were in their mother’s guts, bathing in mind pools.  Celsia picking green snails from her legs and giving them to her Sister for a  Christmas present, and the Sister throws them over the side to pop on the ground, stinky water seeping into the asphalt.

            Sometimes there are worms in the sewer eating brains away from rapists and the living dead, sometimes they get into my brain and dance around.  But Celsia is strong.  They never get into her brain.  Her armor has spikes and razor-sharp knives.  She stares black-eyed at the moon as it smears into the color black.  She sleeps against her sister, and the Sister sleeps against her. 

            The night goes on for days and not even the rapists can do anything to stop it.

            The other day Celsia told me about how they used to breed dogs with windmill blades, creating a sort of spinning/teethy creature with a violent urge to bite at the wind, barking and squeaking.

            They must still be around somewhere, barking through tunnels in the ground, eating scraps from the people living in the under world, their garbage or maybe even bits of their limbs.

            Sometimes Celsia hears dogs growling in the fields nearby, or whimpering, perhaps they are memories of the time when people claimed pets out of nature.  Perhaps they are looking for a way back into homes, hoping their windmill blade features will not send their masters screaming.  Perhaps the dogs now prefer their wind to Man, the wind is much stronger, much more important.  Something to look up to.

            When the windmill/dogs are fucking, you can hear their orgasms through the trees.  You can hear them in everything, on the particles carried by wind, and if you’re lucky you can see them spreading their legs in the cold dirt, waiting for the wind to penetrate them.

            The rapists have yet to come and the nights are crawling like rubber smoke, so slowly and not letting us get any sleep, barbed tension, ugly mops dizzy in the cellar. 

            On cold days, one or two of us runs from the fortress to the abandoned section of town for supplies and food, knowing the rapists can never handle the cold.  They bury themselves deep underground, wrapping their bodies into warmth, making sure the cold doesn’t make their sex organs shrink.

            Today is the Sister’s day to go for food, and -- decided by Celsia -- I’ll be brought along for exercise.  I’ve been getting soggy, Celsia says.  And nobody wants that.

            Outside, the world is frozen. 

            Everything is cold and hushed.  Only the wind crawls in the blue-scented moonlight. 

            There is a twat-frog hopping down the road beside us.  The Sister watches -- pubic razor wires make slice-clashing sounds as she walks -- the frog’s plump hairy body jiggling as it goes.  The rapists love to eat twat frogs -- twats with legs, they’ve been called, miniature hoota beasts.

            The rapists must be close to have them on the run.  Normally they are in holes hiding from rapists and from little girls who might want to stick dildos or twigs into them. 

            Little girls are so cruel to small animals with vaginas.

            We stop at an aviary of glassy birds manufactured to tweet and bounce upon plastic branches, shimmering in the cold morning, ice sparkles on their feathers, plastic feathers.  The audio boxes on their necks have deteriorated, making their chirps a gargle-muttering, a uniform clicking song that echoes the paper hills.

            The Sister hides us here for a break, stepping deep into the frosty pond where our reflections come out clearer than reality.  She had no idea she could look so clean, amazed at herself and touching her parts to see if it is really her and not some other vagina-covered woman starring back at her. 

            Seaweed clothes dangle off her shoulders, salty-flavored and maybe fishy.  The glass birds hopping from branch to branch.

            I can see her breath dripping out of her, icicles want to form from her wet holes.  When she pulls me to the glassy floor to fuck me, her holes warm me up, even her razor wire heats the skin as it rips the under section of my belly.  But afterwards, her juices soaking my body begin to freeze in the wind, giving me shivers, like fucking her had given me an illness.  And her sickness has a smell that crawls through me like blood, and I want to go back home to Celsia and fuck inside of chokon trees.

            Her eyes averting, the Sister pulls me along the road until we get to the town.  We get there.  My nerves chill-sharp.  The barricade is a gigantic hollowed out centipede, stories-stories high, curled so that its mouth kisses its tail, encompassing all of the town.  So mighty and purple-powerful to the eyes, but it’s actually not much for protection.  One could easily just crawl between the centipede’s legs and enter the town.

            So we crawl under the legs of the giant beast/barricade and find emptiness, empty except for a few glass snakes and wooden feet.  The whole town disappeared, sucked into the earth. 

            We see the other side of the centipede far off in the distance, hovering out of the mist.  And the wind carries a whipping sound, it whips red lines across my back legs, torso, neck. 

            It makes both of us feel alone.

            Walking back in hunger, failed mission, so alone inside and out. 

            The Sister stops us in the middle of the road to put tiny versions of Jesus Christ inside of her twats.  She just loves to feel them inside of her, wiggling around.  You can find them crucified on the flowers all along the path.

            I watch her as she runs excitedly through the field, snatching the Christs out of the flowers and stuffing them head first down the cunts, and she keeps grabbing them until every vagina has one under its lips.

            Sometimes the vaginas swallow him, digest him.  Sometimes they spit him back out, mutilated and covered in goo.  We continue to walk and I hear one or two crying in a slight muffled way, the Sister with a BIG smile on her face.  She is no longer alone inside.

            It’s all darkness as we return, night squeezing its legs around us.  The moon aches. 

            We smell dinner in a far off place . . .

            "Rapists came and gone," Tuma says from a butthole window above the threshold.

            Inside, Celsia confirms the information with a nervous nodding, flickering fingers at us, pointing to four dead bodies hanging from the ceiling in the living room, blood dripping from headless necks, drying into a film on their coarse tits.

            "I fought them off," Celsia tells us, "but they’ll be back with more in the morning."

            "What are we going to do?" Tuma asks, curled up behind my legs.

            "Let them come," Celsia says.

            The Sister nods, noting, "And we’ll rape them back."