PUNKIN

                   the Nazi Dwarf

           "Hi!" He grinned.
           "Hi...," she answered, turning back to the window.
           She ignored him, and he was so quiet that she almost forgot him.
           He was not reflected in the glass.
           And the night world flickered pass, one hard-edge old building after another, the gritty ribbons
           of sidewalks blurring fast, a few figures bent in doorways, huddled together, or moving as if
           through a cloying, wet ash. Then the street lamps stared at her, exposed, like enormous
           incandescent eyeballs stuck onto tall gray pins.
           Outside, the world seemed a swamp, illuminated now and then by the bodies of lost and dying
           fireflies.
           The noise was faint at first, and she thought it came from the bus. Then it grew louder, the rasping
           noise, like the seat being rubbed hard with something. She ignored it. It grew louder and louder,
           now more like two rough surfaces grating against each other. The noise was much nearer now,
           and Linda it turned around.
           The dwarf, leering at her, was grinding his teeth.
           She felt his hand on her thigh and she looked down at it.
           It was small and hairy, sort of twisted, like a hunchbacked gnome seen from far above on a
           cathedral floor which was her white, cold flesh.
           Curiously, she looked at it. Then the thing slithered up her thigh into the shadowy pit beneath
           the black lace of her chemise. The grinding became louder. With his other hand he was hauling
           a tuber-like penis out of his pants, bending it through the fissure of his zippers.
           But they were both gazing down at her thighs, Linda somewhat abstractedly.
           The thing scurried of sight and snuggled against the soft mound of her silky panties.
           It pressed there a moment, twisting, luxuriating in the feel and slide of the material, the mushiness
           of it, the downy give. Then the thing slid beneath the elastic leg.
           "Stop that, fucker!" Linda hissed.
           He looked up at her, the SS cap perched on the back of his swollen head.
           His eyes were a clear watery blue, with a look that bore through what it saw, that recognized, yet
           paid no heed.


                   the Torturer

           It was a torturer's look, of one who enjoyed the responsiveness of life but did not hear its screams.
           To him she was just a sheath of skin excitingly stuck with meat.
           He grabbed her wrist and Linda braced herself with her other arm against the bus. He was strong.
           Her fists waved powerlessly in his grip and he was laughing at her. His other hand blurred around
           his muddy organ. They fought, surging and slipping on the seat, two arms twisting in the air, grunting
           with effort, panting in heat.
           Then he became rigid, eye glazing, and a pearl of sperm vomited out of his penis.
           Instantly, he released it and plunged that hand into Linda's crotch, so two tiny fingers, fiercely gloved
           in the satin of her panties, punctured into her vagina.
           Her screamed rattled the bus.
           The dwarf, insensitive in his orgasm, bit through his lip and blood streamed over his chin,
           to his leather jacket. Then he was laughing and Linda was screaming and bloody saliva drizzled
           over them.
           The driver slammed on the brakes, sending the bus skidding through an intersection, and one
           of the school girls tumbled backwards to the floor. The man who had been sitting by them at once
           jumped at her, yanked up her short pleated skirt., and swiped her panties off, then sprinted with it
           up the aisle - when Linda shoved the dwarf off the seat.
           "Pervert! Gimme my panties!" The girl yelled . . . And the two men collided.
           He screamed when he saw the grinning, bloody-faced dwarf on top of him.
           The whole bus was screaming and woke the old drunk up who instantly joined in.
           The man jumped off the bus, with the dwarf after him, leaving behind a trail of sweet cologne.
           They ran up the street, he was stuffing something white into his mouth.
           And Linda realized that it was her stop.
           When the bus sped away, the drunk was still laughing, and the couple, lost on their way to the
           movies, were pressed against the window.


                   the Neon Hill & the Rich

           she started walking down the hill, toward the bright neon lights in the distance, and the dance
           palace where she was to meet BB and Womba. Also nestled on the hillside, the Montfair Hotel
           brooded like a fortress, made of cyclopean stone, with a façade deeply stained by rains leached
           through the droppings of pigeons at home on the gargoyles and cooing in the dark niches of the
           masonry. Linda, approaching the carriage entrance, decided to go in.
           She had to look somehow rich, or shocking, and since the two were almost the same to her, she
           unbuttoned her overcoat and exposed the black chemise she wore as a dress. Her spike heels
           clicked pass the startled doorman and into the lobby mutely illuminated by the bronzing light of the
           chandeliers and the elegant lamps which stood about like so many old dowagers lost in some rigid
           dream of the past. Everything seemed to be brushed with the thinnest hint of gold, on the old wood,
           on the brass, even on the very coolness of the veined marble, and on the pale blue cheeks of the
           man at the registration desk.
           I'll watch awhile, Linda thought, sinking into a couch.
           She dropped her head into its softness. She lit a cigarette and flicked the flaming match to the
           Oriental carpet, singeing the nap, and a string of aromatic smoke curled up. She glanced at the
           registration desk: he was busy with something, immobile in the light of the lamp beside him.
           She looked up to the ceiling, her head resting back, feeling herself sink. The couch was like a
           tawny cloud.
           An old couple walked in.
           The desk clerk immediately stepped out and went ahead of them to the elevator.
           He pushed the button, then - with the slightest nod of his head and murmuring some pleasant
           greeting - he returned to his station. The elevator came, they stepped inside, and disappeared.
           Linda sighed loudly. She scratched her knee, scraping something dry off it.
           Probably the dwarf's sperm, she thought.


                   the Hole descends

           She was about to get up and leave, when the elevator door opened again and a young man walked
           out. She thought the desk clerk would be furious. But he was not. He glanced up and returned to what
           he was doing, unperturbed.
           The young man had a handkerchief tied around his head, that appeared to be stained with blood.
           He wore a sleeveless T-shirt that was too small for him, being nipple tight across his chest and
           falling loose above his naval. His pants were inky, with the zipper exposed like a silver scar going
           up his crotch. A tuft of leather balls dangled from his belt. The carpet absorbed what sound his
           stilleto-pointed boots made so he moved like a ghost, vanishing through the door.
           Linda looked back at the desk and now the clerk was appraising her, his eyebrows arching up over
           a probing glint in his eye; and he glanced at the door just closing.
           He stared at her.
           She got up very slowly and walked circuitously, going round another couch, stopping at a lamp,
           blowing at its tassels. At the door she dropped her cigarette on the carpet. The doorman held it
           open for her, and the clerk rushed from the desk to save the smoking old weave.
           The young man was gone.
           Linda shrugged and continued her walk to the bottom of the hill.
           She wondered about him being in Montfair, going through the lobby as though he lived there,
           the doorman smiling at attention as he passed.
           Well, the door was held open for her too. Linda took a deep breath, sucking in her cheeks.
           In the glow that came from the neon sea, she looked like a sexy doll whose rouged cheeks had
           just suddenly crumbled, blown away as dust.


                   the Dance Palace

           She was crossing the street to the Nick Dance Palace when a taxi halted in front if it and he jumped
           out and went inside. She paid the entrance charge and rushed upstairs after him; the banister was a
           chrome-plated chain that dipped up to the dance floor and snaked around an oval bar which was
           tended by bare-chested men; a woman was in the oval with them, with a beehive of hair and
           undulating, singing and waving a glass of milk.
           Linda squeezed through the people who stood in the darkness like interlaced weeds or clustered
           stumps of rough bark. A giant jukebox towered over everyone, flashing vermilion red, orange, blue,
           hot white. Within its head, behind glass, the disc jockey was dancing. In the cycles of light his bare
           skin flashed through the shades of jaundice, and the floor swarmed, buzzed, oozed, hummed with
           an insect energy, tense, ticklish, mindless.
           Now the people seemed transformed into prowling, brooding monstrosities, with tumblers of liquor
           in their claws. Linda let her coat fall open. She passed a fat woman who was wearing a plastic
           shower curtain with big yellow flowers winding round her and her breasts pouring out like old mushy
           soap. She was dancing in front of two young men holding hands, flirting with them, oblivious to
           everything but the music and their eyes. They said things about her and laughed at her and she did
           it more. Men asked Linda to dance by pulling at her sleeve, touching her wrist, her waist, her shoulders,
           flicking her hair behind her. One just grinned in her face, thinking he was irresistible, with long black
           hairs sprouting from a mole at his lip.
           Finally, she found him - the one from the Montfair - by himself.
           Just as she saw him, in a spot of light, he blew his nose on the floor.
           She walked up to him.
           "You wanna dance?"
           He wiped his nose, glanced at her, and shrugged; but he started to undulate his hips up and down,
           first slowly, then faster, so his leather pants squeaked; and she moved her knees, spreading and
           closing her thighs, the black lace of her chemise sliding on her flesh like a living tattoo.
           This was the dance, going nowhere, in one spot, vibrating like a piston, sliding like a camera shutter
           gone mad, they did not look at each other, or talk.
           Then he said, "you got nice pussy."
           She flushed. Yes, she nodded; her knees touched.
           "Heyyy!"
           "Hhhheeey!"


                   Womba & BB ascended

           She turned and Womba was there with BB, dancing.
           "I agree with him," grinned B.B.
           "Agree with what?" Linda said.
           "You're a nice pussy."
           "Well, so are you," she said.
           Womba punched him in the stomach.
           "Shit! YUh nevah tell me dat, facker!" she danced away.
           "These your friends?"
           "Yeah."
           "My name's Hole," he said.
           "You Whole . . .?"
           "Hole, Baby. H-o-l-e."
           "Oh. I'm Linda. That's Womba. The creep's her boyfriend or something, B.B."
           Hole continued to fuck the air, and she enjoyed it. She liked to spread her legs, to close them,
           to move like this, to do anything. The freedom intoxicated her. And the music went on without a
           noticeable break, leaping smoothly into another track. The leviathan jukebox blinked, seemed to
           wheeze, then it spit ribbons of hammering, nerve burning, boiling sounds. It vomited out private,
           surging melodies that jabbed, kicked, fingered, screwed, sucked, choked, and died and then
           rattled to life again in a hot, mindless fury.
           The dancers strutted on their Calvary, giving in to the Last Temptation, throwing their bones around,
           as though bargaining for their own vision of the end of the world.


                   the Murder

           A fight erupted between two man about a girl.
           They shouted at each other, faces furrowed with how much they cared, angry creases, running sweat,
           showing how much they cared. A shirt was torn and the other had dusty hair, while the girl watched
           nervously between them. A black man, scratching his cheek with a hand heavy with silver, asked her
           to dance.
           "No, thank you," she mumbled, terrified.
           He put an arm around her, pulled her close to him; she was limp with fear. As she moved, she held to
           his shoulder, peering over it. The one with the dusty hair suddenly thrust his arm into the other's
           stomach; then the arm drew slowly back and the other felt where the numbness was and looked at
           the blood and he walked forward then, not knowing what to do and no longer angry; he sank down.
           But the dusty-haired one was still angry, spat at him on the floor, and walked quickly away.
           Then he began to feel bewildered; he had won.
           The girl peered at the twitching body, and silver rings on a black hand held her waist.

           Linda leaned against the wall, exhausted with dancing; Hole French-kissed her.
           "Let's go," she said, pushing him, "I'm getting bored."
           B.B. and Womba caught up with them on the stairs. B.B. had parked in an alley.
           "Go to a bar," Hole said.



                                                        feedback

                                                          top

                                                         next page

                                                            literature directory

                                                      hotpiehot's next dream




     © hotpiehot@hotmail.com