S.T.uD. The 2014 World Horror Con Gross Out contest 2nd place winner

OK by popular demand…My second place gross-out contest story. A few notes and I’ll set the stage. Each year for the last 24 years Horror professionals from all over the world gather for the world horror convention like a family reunion. This year it was here in Portland. So we have 200 or so people who have a grim sense of humor gathered in a ballroom, 5 judges and 11 authors with 3 minutes to gross everyone out. After 3 minutes the audience decides if the author gets another 2 minutes to finish, with a roman coliseum style thumbs up or down.

As someone who sat in the audience for the contest in the past I had an idea of what I wanted to do. My favorite Gross-out story was in 2005 Cody Goodfellow’s “Lydia’s liposuction.” It functioned as a story. So I wanted it to not be misogynist, be funny and have a hint of political leanings and themes expressed in my satire “The Vegan Revolution…with Zombies.”

Just know this story was designed to be read out loud with certain voices, pauses and breaks built in and based on audience reaction…

S.TU.D (2nd draft)

Frank hadn’t worked his way up from infection -laden stud to head chef of La Maladie without an attention to detail.

This particular penis, a delicacy harvested after months of careful tending, was the restaurant’s most expensive item. Paired with red wine, this meal would be the thing for the rich dying foodie. The penis had to be severed at the perfect moment so that the muscles would harden to a rigor as the cast iron pan hit the right temperature. If one waits too long, the skin of the penis will release stored calcium ions from the sarcoplasmic reticulum of muscle fibers. No one wants the penis to soften before the garlic oil can add flavor.

And, the pan should not be too hot, lest the source of the flavor, Frank’s secret ingredient, be sizzled away: not just Frank’s scabies, his babies. Millions of his eight-legged microscopic babies would be burrowed into the dermis of the penis, laying their eggs for a generation that would live on in the gourmand’s digestive tract. The scabies’ eggs created a crunchy, yet rich mouth feel, and the noted food critic, Roger Flonge, of the New Kok Register swore they were bread crumbs.

Tonight’s penis would be Frank’s culinary masterpiece. When the meat walked into his shop, Frank had no idea how special it would be. The meat begged, as his family was starving. The meat dropped his pants before Frank could turn him away. His penis was dotted like a ribbed condom with cancerous moles. The customer would chew through a creamy outer layer of pus that oozed out like an egg- rich aioli. His thighs were covered with the moles, which resembled capers, cooked by hacker chemo . Each achingly rich dot of cancer had grown into a pus-filled boil which lead the eager foodie to move to the meat’s crotch like a flashing neon arrow.

The meat’s sack dripped pus from the dead moles, and looked like a decapitated head hanging in a plastic grocery bag left out in the jungle for the summer. The mass of them impeded his ability to walk. He had nothing left except for the chance to be meat.

“The moles will fetch some credits, but to feed your family, I need a penis fit to eat,” Frank explained. He held the bumpy pus-dripping organ in his hand as it hardened, the erection causing a few of the dying moles to pop as the skin stretched, leaking a cottage cheese-like pus onto his hand. “This penis is dead; what it needs is to crawl with life. I offer a countless array of mites, lichens and disease that will make your penis valuable enough to feed not just our customer, but your family.”

“Yes,” the meat whispered. He had no choice.

Now that he was in service of La Maladie, the meat only had to stay in bed. Discerning customers would dine on his sexual organs first, but no flesh on this meat’s body would go to waste. So the meat was fed every forty-five minutes to maintain the prospect of on-going harvest. The meat scarfed buckets of fall-off-the-bone tender welfare baby legs, deep-fried and dipped in butter-cream. Desert was spoons full of cookie dough. The only exercise allowed were the disease-entry fuck sessions with Frank.

Frank needed to inject his babies. The scabies’ babies crawled from the skin of one penis to the other. S.T.D. studs came certified with everything from penis mites and pubic crabs, to testicle worms. Life was hard in this age of ritual suicide by fine dining, which was often initiated with a mite-infested penis, or a mold-flavored vagina. Eating human is so last century, but eating people’s privates is more hip than mustaches on ladies.

The meat could hardly stand or support his girth. Foreplay commenced when Frank folded rolls of the meat’s fat belly over his penis, lubricated by bacon grease. If he wanted to escape, he didn’t have the ability. Frank kept the bucket of butter-creamed chicken parts at the end of the bed. “Daddy will feed you when the sphincter is scabbed,” Frank cooed in the meat’s ear.

Frank warmed the meat’s room first so he would be moist with sweat, when he rubbed up against him. He felt his mites jumping onto the meat as their pubic jungles ground together. The meat cried, but Frank assured him softly as each thrust transmitted another egg. “Dinner is almost served.”

After that, Frank never saw the meat sexually again. The med droids would update his server with photos. Within two days, the eggs would hatch in the meat’s pubic hair. He would be restrained so he wouldn’t rip his own pubic region to shreds. On the fourth day, the penis skin that wasn’t cancerous would turn purple. Frank waited until the meat was sleeping, and scraped a sample to taste. The penis was ripe. It took two droids to flip the meat. Frank would use a spoon to scoop the anus clean of the fecal pack that had accumulated during the previous weeks of immobility. Harvesting the fecal pack was an important step, and the asshole of the meat would not be ready until the sphincter had swollen to the size of a baseball. Only then could it be sliced into rings, battered and fried.

When the meat was ripe, the bolt pistol would render the last moments painless, dare I say humane. The meat could know that the money he’d earned had fed his family.

It is all about presentation in this business. The last step would be placing a single wisp of parsley across the pan-seared penis, two snail-stuffed, beer-battered, deep-fried testicles at its base. Served with a side salad - croutons made with shredded pubic lice and freshly cut herbs. The sphincter rings were fresh, and often, the diner could sniff the toothpick they were served with, and faintly smell the aroma of the meat’s last bowel movement.

Bon appétit.