Satan Burger by Iii Carlton Mellick Read Free Book Online Page A

scenes get her sweat glands drip-drip-dripping.
    Gin says that sometimes she’ll let out a BIG  Ho!  Ho!  Ho! when she climaxes on him.  "I think I like that," he says.  Christmas is a happy time for Gin too.
    The strangest part of Nan’s Jesus-sex fantasies is that she gets the most aroused by visualizing Jesus going to the bathroom.  She likes to picture him on a toilet, or crouching down in the bushes, or peeing over a balcony onto a crowd of his followers.  Sometimes she imagines dropping a log on Jesus while he is being crucified (Richard Stein says that when you drop a log of sexual excrement onto your partner it is called a Hot Carl or sometimes a Dirty Sanchez , if you were wondering) or even squatting over his face to pee in his mouth. 
    Richard Stein said that the whole process of digestion and egestion of waste material is considered sexually stimulating to many people, even though it’s socially unacceptable to admit.  However, very few people dare to watch that kind of thing and even less dare to participate in the act.
    Nowhere does Stein mention anything about Jesus Christ being actively involved in sexual performances with excrement or being dominated on his crucifix.  It’s not a very common topic for discussion, I am guessing.

    I go to the inside of an autocar:
    Stag – a shirtless guy with spiked hair and a tattoo of his own face on his face – is indulging in his favorite pastime: drunk driving.  The road is empty and Gin in the passenger seat changing through radio stations and nervous-sweating over it, as if it’s dangerous to leave one on for over a second.
    "Watch this," Stag says, a grumpy-goof voice.
    He lets go of the wheel and begins to slam a beer, with the autocar leaking into the left lanes.  But before the autocar goes over any curbs, he finishes the beer, crushes it into his skull, slam-seizes the wheel, and straightens the autocar back out.
    "Pretty Mr. T, eh?" he says.
    Gin’s buzz is wearing him down to sarcasm.  "Yeah, great."
    "I can do it every time.  Never fails."
    "Impressive." 
    "How many beers are left?" Stag asks the back seat.
    "One," says the back seat.
    "Who drank ‘em all?"
    The back seat burps.  "Sorry."
    "You asshole.  I paid for twelve of those, not five."
    "Sorry," says the back seat.
    "Give me the last one."  Stag claws his hand over his shoulder.
    The back seat reaches the last beer over Stag’s neck, but the autocar hits a bump and the beer rolls out the window.
    "DAMN IT," Stag cries.
    "Sorry."  The back seat is too drunk to care.
    The brakes slam.  "I’m still gonna drink it."  And he jumps out of the car to look for his crippled beer.  Instead of a beer, Stag finds a dead jogger.
    "Whoa . . . Fuck yeah!" he exclaims to the dead person, but the dead person isn’t listening. 
    Gin gets out of the autocar in response to the whoa . . . fuck yeah , asking, "What is it?"
    "A dead guy."
    "Did you kill him?"
    "Maybe."  Stag daze-smiles, kind of proud.  "What should we do with it?"
    Gin’s gut kinks up. "There’s gotta be all sorts of Mr. T stuff we can do with a dead guy."
    They pause to think about all sorts of stuff .
    "We can give it to my uncle," Gin says.  "He’s a taxidermist.  We can get him stuffed and mounted on the front of our stage at the warehouse."
    Another pause.
    "What I think is . . . we should strap it to the roof of my car and drive around town so we can pick up goth chicks."
    "Yeah," Gin says.  "Dead bodies turn them on."

    The warehouse is asleep now.  It was very tired and told all of our guests to leave immediately.  Normally, a crowd of tough guy skinheads would not give in to the threats of a warehouse, but our particular warehouse can be rather intimidating when it’s cranky.
    Now I am alone in my own room, watching a Grim Reaper poster jingle-dancing up the walls, striking cello strings like a drum.  Grim Reaper and other butt rock bands are very popular these days.  Back when they were touring you’d