Who doesn’t love evil floating heads. Not you is the answer to that question. Here’s an exceptionally evil specimen with news that you can preorder John Wayne Comunale’s DEATH PACTS AND LEFT-HAND PATHS on Amazon (officially released on Oct 3rd).
Coming this October from John Wayne Comunale and Grindhouse Press is the tongue-twisting title DEATH PACTS FOR LEFT HAND PATHS!
by: John Wayne Comunale
I’ve always liked my women a little on the trashy side. The ones with elaborate, unnecessary makeup, boots that are way too high with skirts that are way too short, and piercing eyes glaring from beneath dramatically cut, Betty Page bangs. Throw in a few tattoos for good measure and I’m a happy man. Naturally, I included this bit of information when I signed up for the new threeway app, Thrinder. I was surprised by the quick response shortly after posting my profile, but I went with it.
The message I received said to meet at a bar called The Tri-Corner Hat for drinks and conversation before getting down to business. The couple’s names were Greg and Terry, and according to our correspondence, they were very excited to meet me. When I walked in, I was thrown off by the total darkness of the place, but I figured when you’re meeting up with someone you met online for a threesome the last thing you wanted was an abundance of light. There was a man sitting at the bar sipping a drink that I recognized as Greg from his picture. He was wearing a ratty, black ball cap pulled down over his eyes, which he also wore in the picture I saw.
“Hey there,” I said walking up to the bar. “You’re Greg I take it?”
“Oh yeah,” he said, smiling wide. “That’s me. You must be Larry.”
“Guilty as charged,” I answered, immediately regretting my corny quip. “Nice to meet you. Is Terry here somewhere?”
“No, actually, she’s not,” he said. “She likes me to meet the other person first to make sure it’s a good fit for us. You understand?”
“Oh yeah, man,” I said. “Totally.”
“So,” said Greg, “you like ‘em trashy, huh?”
“That’s right,” I said, trying to be as casual as possible. “That’s just always been my type.”
“Well, you’re gonna’ love Terry. She’s as trashy as they come.”
“Sounds great,” I replied. “So when do I get to meet her?”
“Soon,” he said. “First, I need to ask if you’re cool with some pretty kinky shit.”
I’d had my fair share of interesting sexual encounters in my life, so I felt I could answer confidently.
“Oh yeah, man,” I said leaning into him, “the kinkier the better.”
I didn’t really have a proclivity for kink, but I wanted to set him at ease and get the show on the road. I was excited for this, but didn’t want to waste my whole night.
“That’s good,” he said, “real good. Terry and I like to get a little weird sometime, if you know what I mean.”
“I sure do,” I said, elbowing him playfully in the ribs even though I had no idea what he meant. “I’m down with the get down.” Another cheesy line I regretted.
“Fuck it then,” said Greg slamming his drink. “Let’s get out of here.”
I followed him out of the bar and turned toward the street, but Greg grabbed my shoulder and spun me around.
“It’s this way,” he said, pointing down the alley between the bar and the abandoned building next to it.
“Oh, uh, okay,” I said, following him into the darkness.
“Terry’s gonna’ be so jazzed to meet you man. We’ve been looking for someone that really clicks with us, and I have a good feeling about you.”
“I aims to please,” I said, seemingly unable to not speak in groan-worthy quips.
The alley was typical as far as alleys go. Bare brick walls lined either side, and piles of garbage sat atop mystery puddles of trash-water.
“So where are we going anyway?”
“To meet up with Terry,” said Greg without looking back at me. “You wanna’ go meet Terry right?”
“Of course,” I said. “Just curious that’s all.”
“It’s not much farther,” he said, attempting to be reassuring.
Ahead, I could see a dumpster with light peeking out from the other side of it, and the closer we got, I began to hear voices. The light turned out to be a trash barrel fire, and the voices belonged to two bums warming themselves around it. They stopped mid-sentence to gawk as we passed.
“Hey there,” said one of them. “You going to see Terry?”
The grizzled bum smiled, revealing a single black tooth in the center of his top gums. His right hand moved from the fire to his crotch, where he began to rub awkwardly while licking his scab-covered lips.
“I bet he is,” said the other bum whose tooth count doubled that of his counterpart. “He’s got that look.”
They both laughed, and rubbed at themselves. I could see the bulges in their pants reacting to the stimulus.
“Shut up, you degenerates,” spat Greg. “Why don’t you two go fuck yourselves!”
“Sounds good to me,” said the first bum as he reached over with his free hand to grab his friend’s face and guide it to his own. The two began to sloppily make out, which sounded like someone kneading wet dough.
“Don’t mind them. They don’t know shit,” said Greg pointing to a door up ahead. “Almost there.”
I nodded and sped up to be next to him.
“So, what’s Terry like?” I asked. “I mean, you haven’t really told me too much.”
“What’s to tell?” he answered. “She’s extra trashy, just like you like ‘em, she’s into freaky shit, and she’s down to fuck. What else do you wanna’ know?”
“Uh . . . well, I guess that’s good enough for me.”
The amount of trash lining the alley now was stacked over five feet high in some places, and the smell was unbearable. Greg grabbed at the lever on the door and turned to face me.
“Oh yeah,” I said, more ready to get out of the smothering trash than anything else.
Greg pulled the handle up and pushed in to open the door. It screeched like a cat being drug beneath a city bus, and I guessed it hadn’t been oiled since its installation. The room was dark but Greg stepped in, hit a switch on the wall to his left, and a single light crackled to life from the ceiling shining down on the center of the room. It was completely empty save for a giant pile of trash bags, which the light shined directly on. Greg crossed his arms and smiled staring at the pile.
“What is this?” I asked.
“That’s Terry,” he said, pointing to the pile. “Ain’t she a beaut?”
I scanned the room to make sure I wasn’t missing something.
“A beaut?” I said. “She’s a pile of trash.”
“Exactly,” he said. “You like ‘em trashy don’t ya’?”
“Yeah, but . . . “
Greg walked to the pile he called Terry and I followed. The smell was worse than in the alley, and I could see most of the bags were ripped, spilling rotten food, used diapers, and other unidentifiable, greasy trash innards.
“What are you waiting for?” asked Greg. “Let’s do this!”
He dropped his pants, exposing his very erect, very large penis, which he promptly buried into the side of Terry. I’m not sure what came over me, but I was instantly aroused and, not wanting to be outdone, I dropped my pants to show off my considerable endowment as well.
“Now we’re talking,” said Greg. “Get on in there. She’s nice and wet.”
Before I knew it, I was humping along with Greg at a furious pace. I grabbed at lumps of wet garbage that came away in my hand as I tried to find purchase on top of Terry. I rolled around her, sticking myself into any opening I could find, and they were all wet with anticipation. I found myself so engrossed in what I was doing that I forgot about Greg until I heard him cry out.
“Oh man, oh man,” he called from the other side of Terry where he was thrusting away with reckless abandon. “I’m gonna’ cum!”
I eased up and repositioned myself, thinking it was kind of soon for him to already be cumming, but I wasn’t going to say anything.
“Oh yeah, baby. Oh yeah, baby,” he said, panting as he reached climax. “Oh yeeeaaahhhh!”
I watched as Greg shook with the intensity of his orgasm, savoring every last quake. At the height of it, he threw his head back, and his cap fell to the floor behind him. Something was wrong with the way his head looked, but I didn’t want to believe it at first. The top of Greg’s head was a garbage bag with bits of paper, coffee grinds, and other trash spilling from it.
That was all I could muster before Greg’s face fell off and more trash spilled out from behind it. I watched in disbelief, while still pumping away of course, as his body fell apart in front of me, revealing more lumpy, leaking bags of trash that fell into Terry, becoming part of her. I was shocked, but I did come here to fuck, so I pounded away until finally finishing. I stepped away from Terry, zipped up, and took one final look around. I walked over to where Greg had been to find all that was left of him was his hat. I picked up the dirty, black thing, dusted it off, and put it on, pulling the brim down firmly over my eyes. I walked to large steel door, opened it, and took one last look at the trash pile.
“Thanks Terry,” I said. “It was fun. Hopefully, I’ll see you around.”
John Wayne Comunale lives in the land of purple drank known as Houston, Texas. He is a writer for the comedic collective MicroSatan and contributes creative non-fiction for the theatrical art group, BooTown. When he’s not doing that, he tours with the punk rock disaster: johnwayneisdead. He is the author of The Porn Star Retirement Plan, Charge Land, and Aunt Poster as well as writer/illustrator of the comic-zine: The Afterlife Adventures of johnwayneisdead. John Wayne is an American actor who died in 1979.
Submit your bizarro flash fiction to FlashFictionFridaySubmissions@gmail.com.
Coming soon from Rooster Republic Press and John Wayne Comunale comes the tale of a modern day legend in the making, JOHN WAYNE LIED TO YOU. It’s half autobiography, half creative nonfiction, and an extra half of good old fashioned lies, and will be available for purchase soon. Keep an eye out!
In the meantime, Comunale has created a new podcast, John Wayne Lied to You, to promote this book and recount his insane real life adventures. Listen! Purchase! Read!
Hello future residents! Welcome to Charge Land. We’re excited to have you here and hope you join us permanently, but first watch this orientation video to find out all you need to know about our fine land. Also, don’t forget to pick up your official handbook. It is mandatory . .
John Wayne Comunale–writer, artist, musician, and not a cowboy movie star–has just released his latest book, Charge Land, which looks like some high-octane shit. Check it out here.
Jim Charge is in charge. He’s coming through the door with a big dick and a smile, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it! In an attempt to outdo his overachieving father and grandfather he’s taken over the makeup counter of a local department store as his first step on the road to complete domination. With the help of his trusty Number 2, the disembodied head of a shoe salesman, and his never-ending wardrobe of designer suits he’s barreling through any and all adversaries who would dare to challenge his leadership. Not even the President of these fine United States can stand in the way of Jim Charge and his quest to one-up the Charge men who came before him. Put on your lipstick, spray some rose perfume and salute your new flag suckers! Welcome to Charge Land!
by John Wayne Comunale
I went to a party a few days ago where I didn’t know anybody. I mean, like I literally knew no one. I guess most people would call this crashing but I didn’t see it that way. I was driving by and saw a ton of cars parked around a house with a bunch of people standing around drinking and talking. I thought; hey, I like drinking. I like talking. I mean, why should I let these assholes have all the fun just because I don’t know them, right? So, I parked a few houses down and walked up the party house.
I nodded a greeting to the people standing in the doorway, which they reciprocated without a break in their conversation. Once inside I made a b-line for what I assumed was going to be the kitchen. I was correct in my assumption and found it to be crowded with strangers gabbing away oblivious to the complete ‘unknown’ who was roaming amongst them.
A door opened leading in from the backyard and I saw that the guy coming in was holding a semi-clear plastic cup filled to the brim with exactly what I was looking for, beer. I headed for the door doing my best not draw unwanted attention my way, but just as I touched the doorknob a hand slapped my shoulder and clamped down.
“Hey dude,” said a voice that belonged to the who the hand was attached to.
I slowly spun around to face him raising an eyebrow as my only form of acknowledgement. He was beefy, tall and blonde. He was wearing a Dave Matthews Band t-shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. Standing next to him was an equally stocky fellow with the exact same haircut, but in a slightly darker shade of blonde. He also wore cargo shorts and flip-flops but was sporting a polo-style shirt with what looked like a tiny seagull emblem just above his left tit. They each introduced themselves to me as ‘Chad’, which seemed about right.
“You gotta’ do shot with us dude,” said Chad.
“Yeah man,” said other Chad. “Do a shot with us dude! You gotta’.”
“Well,” I said, “your logic is sound. Set me up.”
“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Chad. “What was your name again dude?”
“Chad,” I said without a missing it a beat.
“That’s right, that’s right,” said Chad. “Here you go dude.”
He handed me a tall double of what smelled like cheap, low quality tequila that was probably purchased due to the cleverness of its ad campaign. I held the glass waiting for Chad to pour the other shots and used the opportunity to take in my surroundings. The kitchen was filled with nothing but guys wearing cargo shorts in a variety of colors all with eerily similar haircuts. An alarming amount of them also had freshly shaven arms. My eyes rested on one of the guys wearing the exact same Dave Matthews Band shirt as Chad.
“You ready dude?”
Chad followed my sightline and saw what I was looking at.
“Oh yeah, Chad over there showed up wearing the same shirt as me, which is not cool. He thinks he’s a bigger DMB fan than I am, but that’s bullshit.”
“Isn’t that right Chad you fuckin’ douche? Huh?” Chad called across the kitchen.
Chad responded only by laughing while shooting Chad the bird before chugging his beer.
“Nah, he’s a cool guy though,” said Chad, “alright, let’s do this. What should we drink to?”
Neither myself nor other Chad had a response.
“I got it,” he said. “Let’s drink to you dude. Let’s drink to Chad.”
“Indeed,” I said clinking my glass with Chad and other Chad. “Let’s drink to Chad.”
I left shortly after our toast.
I don’t crash parties anymore.
John Wayne lives in Houston Texas where he wiles away the days writing ridiculous stories, and slinging lattes for a bunch of jerks. When he’s not doing that he’s touring with his bands: johnwayneisdead and Letters to Voltron. He also writes and illustrates his own zine: The Afterlife Adventures of johnwayneisdead.