Flash Fiction Friday: Kreepy Krawly pt. 4: Kreepy Krawly Gets His Goddamn Comeuppance
by Robert Devereaux
Way off in some distant woodland, in a cozy little hut on the edge of nowhere, there lived the purest young lady who ever graced a planet. Here name was Vesta Virgin and her mother’s name was Matronly Mama.
They sustained themselves on milk from their cow Crumplehorn, who, except for her left crumpled horn, was otherwise perfectly formed. Crumplehorn lived on sunlight, neither pissed nor shat, and lowed with sweet contentment all day long.
One morning, Matronly Mama said, “High time you found a man with a tasty cock, took him to bed, had babies, and lived happily ever after. I get to fuck him too. I’ve been hungry as all get-out since your papa had the nerve, the just plain goddamn temerity, to up and die on me. It’s cruel to be cockless.”
“Where might I find such a man, Mama?”
“Sit, girl.” Her mother uncovered a table-groaning crystal ball as large as the moon on one of those gusty, leaf-scattering autumn nights, swept her hand over it, and brought up the creep she had picked out for her daughter. They watched him whale the tar out of some hapless shithead dumb enough to venture out alone and then they watched his prey pour out his life’s blood in an old dark alleyway.
“That piece of crap? Really, Mama? He’s repulsive, a killer, he lacks body hair, and his face is weirdly wired. What’s more, he wades through pools of shit, pulls instruments of violence from them, and ends precious lives for no good reason.”
“Surface flaws merely. You’ll see.”
So Vesta shrugged, slipped into her prettiest dress of white linen and lace, knapsacked a thermos of Crumplehorn’s milk, and set out through the woods toward the hell hole known as suburbia.
As she walked, the sunlight swiftly dimmed to dusk, then dusked down into night. Paved roads rose up beneath her feet, bordered by gray swaths of sidewalk. Like surreptitious toadstools, homes and buildings popped up, then a seedy dance hall, a bar much too full of itself, and random squalid places that reeked of loneliness, blue-funk sexual frustration, and slit-my-wrists despair.
No one was about. Then that Kreepy Krawly joker from the crystal ball showed up.
Before the fucker shat a single drop of shit, Vesta recoiled at the odors rising from his body: rotting meat, roadkill, the vomit of a thousand lepers, cesspool swill, the stench of self-righteousness, six bigots’ worth of holier-than-thou, and wafts of vapidity like a miasma of slathered-on cologne steaming off the brainless, the mindless, the not-quite-there-and-never-would-be.
Then the fucker unloaded onto the asphalt a shit puddle that put to shame all those preparatory smells.
Jeepers and phew-eee!
But Vesta steeled herself.
Repulsive dude plunged his arm deep into his shit pool and pulled out a sword with a razor edge. Whick-whack went the sword and away fell Vesta’s clothing. But nary a drop of shit stained her nor was a drop of her blood shed. Blush-perfect skin, yummy breasts, nips that perked and peered, a superb cunt with the softest, most golden pubic hair that any Rumplestiltskin could hope to spin.
Gloriosky, what a gal!
Down he went again, pulling a blowtorch from his cloacal cache. Huge the flame and menacing his approach. But her virginal body remained untouched. Neither her scalp hair nor her silken private hair caught fire. Her eyelids remained unsinged.
A third time the sumbitch motherfucker known as Kreepy Krawly reached for an instrument of violence. A chainsaw. Such a tired choice. It revved up, flinging shit everywhere and closing in on her body. But its teeth broke on her virtue, it silenced to a halt, and the flung shit fell off her as if she were Teflon-coated.
The power of virgin purity never ceases to amaze!
Now it was Vesta’s turn. As she squatted, sweet fragrant love juice dripped from her sex. Her nipples grew hard. A milk not unlike Crumplehorn’s spurted from them. For good measure, she added three drops of cow’s milk.
This pure pool of liquid held promise. Vesta’s right hand and arm dove into it. Out came a dainty sword that cut clean and true.
Whick-whack! Vesta sliced open Kreepy Krawly’s forehead.
Whick-whack! Vesta sliced open Kreepy Krawly’s gut.
Double whammy: Shit for brains and leaky bowel syndrome, a lost cause in his present state of awful.
“Dude, you are so fucking full of shit,” she said. “Time for a bit of the old Heimlich, Mister Yucky Fuck-Ass Wretch!”
As though he were a toothpaste tube, she squoze Kreepy Krawly, deshittifying him until he was as limp as tired spaghetti. Then she wrung him out, twisting his flesh as tight as a wet bedsheet or as if it were bread dough elongated and braided.
She wove the spell her mom had given her, shoved his body deep into her sweet love-puddle of virtue, and pulled out a transformed man, one handsome dude, baby-soft body hair, a hefty dick, and a blond beard well-trimmed.
“I dub you Crispy Clean. I could see you inside Kreepy Krawly,” she said. “Now let’s you and me am-scray. This ain’t no place to raise a family.”
And Crispy Clean said in the richest baritone that ever was, “For a turned-on woman like you? Anything, snookie-wookums.”
She led him back the way she had come, tugging him by his cock as the landscape rose up green and grand around them. To him she said, “We’ll have babies, cute little tykes we can screw when they reach the age of consent. And my mama? She’s gonna love you whole heaps. You’ll see.”
Now you may be wondering if Vesta Virgin and Crispy Clean lived happily ever after, or some such storybook crapola.
I suppose it all depends, does it not, on how pure this newborn fellow Crispy Clean actually was. Did Vesta really have her way with that big bad rotter Kreepy Krawly, decomposing him in the acid bath of her liquid love, pulling out the pure guy locked inside that lousy fucker? And is she now headed for a future of endless bliss, kick-ass humping, and rainbows up the wazoo? Or did the violent deadener of souls known as Kreepy Krawly burrow deep inside this new man, so well hidden that even Vesta, with all her purity, cannot detect him, one day emerging when she’s snoring dead to the world and making sure her sleep turns bigger than big?
My dear sweet darling Inconstant Reader, light of my life and the finest apple in apple land, that’s really your call.
Conjure up your deepest terrors or your sweetest dreams, impose them on an imagined future for Crispy, for Vesta, and for Vesta’s mama. Then either cower and quiver in your fear, or revel in that zippy-dippy wonderland.
The outcome I leave to thee!
Author of Slaughterhouse High, Deadweight, Santa Steps Out, Santa Claus Conquers the Homophobes, A Flight of Storks and Angels, and others. www.robertdevereaux.com has the full story. I’ve lived in a multitude of places. And I’ve had the good fortune to have published five or six novels and a few dozen short stories.
Art “Shadow Games” copyright © 1993 Alan M. Clark