by: Zoltán Komor
My wife wants a baby, but I’d prefer a remote control drone with HD Wi-Fi camera, so I figure out an intermediate solution: I’ll knock up my wife, let her give birth to the child, and after a couple of weeks, when she gets bored with this whole motherhood thing (because yeah, I know her too well, it will come to that real soon), I’ll build a drone out of the infant.
Okay, I’ll admit, maybe I should have told my wife a tiny bit about this little plan of mine because she doesn’t seem too enthusiastic when one day she finds me in the child’s room above the bloody crib, sawing down one-month-old tiny Tim’s bald little head with all my strength and a sharpened electric bread knife. But I believe she’ll get over it soon—true, she locked herself in the wardrobe two days ago, yelling and screaming inarticulately, and yes, she’s still in there, hiding between the clothes. But a few hours ago she stopped making those ugly, gurgling sounds. In fact, she’s quite quiet now, so she doesn’t bother me so much that I can’t focus on properly boiling the bones of little Tim on the gas stove in a big bowl of water. The smell of meat broth fills the kitchen. The whirling bones in the bowl are soon stripped of the softening flesh. Pale little organs rise to the bubbly surface—the stomach emerges too and pops open like a giant pimple, leaking my wife’s morning breast milk into the boiling liquid. I realize I should have disemboweled the baby. There’s really no need to cook his organs, but oh well, it’s no use crying over spilt milk. Using the infant’s two tiny palms and feet I make four little bone propellers, which I then attach to his thighs and upper arm bones. These run into the main structure, the drone body, that I fabricated from the child’s chest bones and round little skull. After this is done, I install a battery and the GPS inside the bone cabinet, cover the whole construction with the infant’s tender flayed skin, and then I crown his little head with a high resolution camera using a strong electric screwdriver. This whole procedure takes a day and a half, but it’s worth it: tiny Tim turns into a wonderful drone, so now I can film breath-taking HQ videos of our residential district from the air, and I can also make a few recordings of that sexy little nudist chick, who lives three floors above us, and always enjoys the sun on her balcony a la nude.
All right, all right, I know what you are thinking right now: surely I’m not the father of the year just because I sawed off my baby son’s head, and I use his tiny little corpse to spy on my own neighbor, but believe me, if you could see how nicely the little infant drone flies, you would be simply amazed that I’m the very first person who ever created one.
I feel like the king of the residential district as I let tiny buzzing Tim into the air, and I turn toward the laptop screen, where I can monitor everything that turns up in front of the drone’s lens. Soon the nude neighbor chick appears on my screen—yup, she’s there, lying on her deck chair, not wearing a bikini, her swollen tits gleaming from the suntan oil. But when she notices that a dead baby is flying above her, she starts to scream, grabs up a long broom leaned against the railing, and begins to hammer the airborne intruder.
I can’t imagine what kind of person is able to hit a one-month-old child with a broom. Anyway I maneuver tiny Tim back home with the remote control to assess the damages. Unfortunately, the crazy bitch managed to break off one of the baby’s propellers—I don’t know how I will explain to my wife that our son has lost one of his hands. But as it turns out, there’s no need to worry—when I break down the door of the wardrobe, I find her lying there dead. Somehow, she managed to tear out her long hair and strangle herself with it. I could have just thought that she always overreacts to everything, but as I look at her corpse, I squeeze out a few salty teardrops from my eyes. Then I dismember her body too. Well, not just like that of course—as it turns out cutting up a grownup is much harder work than chopping up a baby. An infant is so fragile, their bones are so soft, and while an electric bread knife is enough to make decent portions out of a baby, it just makes a bloody mess when it comes to a grownup body. So I use a fire axe, but it’s hard work, I can tell you. It takes hours and my arm and shoulders hurt like hell after I finish, but when I’m done, I portion the pieces into big bowls of water on the gas stove. My plan is to build a much, much bigger drone that cannot be scared away easily with a broom. That way I can record the hell out of that crazy slut’s sweaty little cunt.
After a few days, not only tiny Tim, but also my wife is flying and floating in the room. I’m watching my delightful family—they are so ethereal, airy and graceful, like beauteous bone-and-skin dragonflies. I feel like the king of the residential district as I let my buzzing loved ones into the air. Look at my hard-working little bees carrying the sweet pussy recordings to me like honey!
Well, the nudist chick isn’t too happy when she sees that this time not one but two dead people try to spy on her fucking ass. Her enormous tits sway left and right as she tries to attack my human drones with her broom. The thought that she could break my little son again raises an overwhelming anger-wave inside me that carries my brain away. Poor tiny Tim, I had to replace the missing propeller with some bones of my wife, but I won’t let that bitch hurt again my family, oh no! An idea suddenly pops into my mind, and I direct my wife’s drone-body against the girl and she hits the nudist bitch’s head real hard. The crazy whore takes a few unbalanced steps backward, but she doesn’t have time to hide because tiny Tim is there right behind her, and he crashes into her nape. This goes on for a while. My wife and my son keep bumping her in turns until the nudist slut can’t take it any longer and drops down to the balcony floor, which seemingly hasn’t been swept properly in a long time. Fucking whore. Blood oozes out of her damaged skull. I can already see what a neat little drone she’s going to be.
She’s here with us now. Her chopped-off and sewn-back tits draw her down a bit and make it a bit hard to control the whole flying whore-structure, but I think most men would agree with me: big boobs are far more important than aerodynamic stability. She became a real teat-drone, and when my wife doesn’t watch, I pour suntan oil on her giant breasts, and while I’m at it I begin to tease her cold nipples using my tongue. Unfortunately the wife-drone always buzzes around me, humming jealousy. But apart from this, we’re living a nice, quiet, cozy life. My little family drones croon around me happily. I’m their proud and fair queen bee. They record me from every angle, and when the sun goes down and the clouds turn into angry blood-blisters above the city, the dear skeleton drones like angels raise to the sky and begin to circle around the area with their gleaming lenses. They are searching for new drone components.
I’m the king of the residential district, the Big Brother, almost like God. Yes, I see them all, all the neighbors, all the trespassers, everyone. And I will not rest until I weave a spider web on the sky made of always-curious dead bodies.
Zoltán Komor lives in Nyiregyhaza, Hungary. You can read more of his surreal bizarro fiction in Flamingos in the Ashtray: 25 Bizarro Short Stories, Tumour-djinn, Urethra Ballerina, and Turdmummy.
Send your weird little stories to email@example.com.
by Zoltán Komor
Spell of the Game
I witness a pervert insulting a young girl on the bus. Opening his long, black trench coat, he shows the girl the Rubik’s Cube between his hairy legs.
“Solve it, you little bitch!” he hisses at her. The girl takes it as a challenge, and begins to turn the sides of the magic cube. As the colors roll, the guy moans in pleasure. After a few minutes, he climaxes, and tries to button up his coat. But the girl is so lost in the game, she smacks on the pervert’s hand, and tears open his coat again. The other travelers get closer, giving advice to the girl on how to solve the puzzle. Then they join the game; taking turns they roll the sides. As more and more hands begin to touch him, the pervert begins to feel quite awkward. He tells the travelers that he wants to get off at the next stop, but no one’s paying attention to him. As he tries to break through the passengers, they grab and throw him to the ground. A few people hold down his arms and legs, and the game continues.
“God damn it, I almost got it!” yells a middle aged woman, ripping out the toy from between the guy’s legs in anger.
Since then, the cube travels from hand to hand. The rule is that everyone can roll it five times, then he or she must pass it to another gamer. The bus driver almost solved it, but then a dumb teenage boy messed up all the colors. Later, the young girl even handed the toy to the pervert, hoping maybe he’ll know how to finish the game, but he didn’t take it, the guy just lay there, bleeding, begging for an ambulance. He was blocking our concentration, so we threw him out at the next stop. Then we went back to the game.
In the morning, a salesman greets me at the door. He’s not willing to leave until I watch what his vacuum cleaner is capable of. Eventually, I let him in to do his work. He carries a giant suitcase; I assume the machine is inside. But when he opens the case, a wounded woman crawls out from it. Her head is bleeding; the left arm hangs motionless beside her injured body. She looks like someone who got hit by a car.
“Please, call an ambulance!” the woman whimpers, but the salesman kicks her in the ankle.
“It’s the newest model, you’ll see what it’s capable of, watch! Come on, clean!” What could the woman do? She begins to crawl on the floor, moaning painfully as the broken bones crack inside her body, and puts every shag pile she finds into her mouth. She chokes and coughs, while trying to swallow them. Blood is dripping onto my carpet.
“That’s enough, I’m calling the police!” I say.
“There’s no need for it, if you don’t like the product, then I’ll just leave!” he stutters, grabbing the woman by her legs, dragging her out from the house. Outside stands his car its front is damaged. I know there’s only one way now to save the woman.
“Wait, I’ll buy!” I yell, and the salesman begins to smile. As I give him the money, I curse myself for falling for the good old “hit a woman, and sell her as a vacuum cleaner” trick. The car drives away, and I call the ambulance. As they put the injured woman on a stretcher, the ambulance man asks if I got a warranty card. When I say no, they shake their heads and leave.
Returning to my house, I watch the blood stains on the carpet. How will I clean all this mess up? Soon, someone rings my door. It’s the salesman again, this time offering a stain-remover. As I give him the money, I curse myself for falling for the good old “hit a woman, sell her as vacuum cleaner, who will mess up the carpet, so we can sell our stain-remover” trick.
Slaves in a Closet
The girl discovers that the boy she moved in with is secretly a slaveholder. While hovering, she finds a coffee plantation under the bed. And when she wants to iron the sheets, she discovers thin, beaten Negros in the closet. She realizes this is something she must discuss with her boyfriend.
Soon, her lover arrives home – riding a muscular thoroughbred, a whip sways back and forth on his side.
They sit at the kitchen table to drink their coffee, and the girl tells her boyfriend about her discovery. She also says, that she can’t commit her heart to a slaveholder; her parents raised her as a liberal. The boy listens for a while, then he asks: “But the coffee’s good, isn’t it?”
The girl wants to say something, but she can’t deny that.
“Maybe they would do the cleaning and the washing too, if I would teach them.” adds the boy. The girl doesn’t say a word. She just drinks her coffee. She stays mute for the next couple of days. She shuts her ears at nights, when her boyfriend crawls out from the bed, and disappears in the closet. But still, she can hear the crying, and the cracking sound of the whip.
In the morning, she pours fresh beans into the coffee-grinder. It must be her imagination, but she sees the coffee beans as tiny crying Negro babies. Her eyes glimmer with tears, when she turns the machine on. Then she begins to cry, as the sound of bone cracking fills the room.
Zoltán Komor is 27 years old and from Hungary. He writes surreal short stories and which have been published in several literary magazines (Caliban Online, Drabblecast, The Phantom Drift, Gone Lawn, etc.). His first English book, titled Flamingos in the Ashtray: 25 Bizarro Short Stories, was just released by Burning Bulb Press.