The job went smooth enough, we got the jewels, and Ed didn’t even kill anybody. I’ve spent a buncha time with the freak on the problems that creates. Figured I’d get him laid as a reward, but the only way that was happenin’ was a whore. Ed’s ugly as a boil on a leper’s ass.

Frank said it was the best whore house around, but that was like sayin’ diarrhea on your cheerios would lead to a lovely morning. You know how a whore will put on an act about likin’ it and you don’t give a shit whether they do or not? These girls seemed like they’d won the lottery and gettin’ a dick rammed up their ass was all part of some carnival-like atmosphere assigned to whoredom. Frank’s always been full of shit and now he fits the image. His mouth looks just like his asshole ‘cause I knocked out his front teeth and the stitched-up lips have a nice puckery effect.

The door was dark mahogany and had etchings of women doin’ weird crap to pigs. In one they were fuckin’ ‘em and in the next, they were eatin’ ‘em. This bothered me some, but the two twits saw it as some kind of good omen —like pig sex was erotic or would lead to bigger and better things like hog-sex for instance. We knocked and the door was opened by the tallest bitch in the world, red hair down to her ass, and her tits were living globes of flesh; they moved as she breathed, and I could imagine each possessing an internal lung. Those fuckin’ titties deserved their own birth certificates.

Things went OK for awhile as we went to the business of pickin’ out pussy. Succulent young flesh so creamy-smooth, you coulda licked ‘em to death. They did all the right shit, but when we were done, it was clear they weren’t done with us. That ain’t supposed to be how it works and I knew the turd had dropped when Ed started screamin’ like a moron at a physics convention.

“She bit a chunk of my dick off! Goddammit, look at her!”

Ed’s whore somehow managed to slough off her skin and looked like a million weeping pustules interlaced with snot. She made rat-like sounds as the head of Ed’s dick was macerated by razor-teeth and ran from the corners of her mouth like dribbles of raw sausage. Then we noticed the other girls weren’t too good either. Looked like somethin’ that dipshit Lovecraft would stick in a horror story.

There we were; successful crooks stuck with zombie whores that didn’t have the sense of a bump on a hump. Their eyes were insane strobe lights, and their insectile maws chittered as they moved at us. Ed pinched his dick to save a little blood and lunged at ‘em like a shit-eatin’ dog at a lump of crap. He didn’t last long. Two of ‘em lapped his spurting blood while the other tore his out throat in one bite. Frank and me decided we had enough of watchin’ and ran for the door. Problem was —more of the Dead Girl Gang flooded the joint like slime gushin’ through a septic tank.

The guns were in ratty suit coats thrown about in haste when we were getting’ ready for pussy. We got to the Glock 18’s just when they were turnin’ their ugliest and we squirted ‘em with hot lead. Wherever we hit them, that part kinda just fell off and kept movin’ around on its own. The joint had zombie parts jitter-buggin’ around —little pieces of zombie crap that begat other pieces of crap.

Frank screamed, “Jesus Christ Jimmy! You can’t kill the fuckin’ things.”

I replied, “Just shut the fuck up and keep shootin’.”

We blasted ‘em until they were fly-sized and vibratin’ around on the floor like bugs sprayed with deet. We bolted for the door, I opened it, and standing on the other side was the most fucked-up lookin’ zombie whore of all. Her eyes festered with maggots, lips looked liked dried liver, and her tits were black, empty flaps that hung to her knees. There were intestines oozin’ shit wrapped around her legs and gray noodle-shaped guts stuck between her toes.

We had to use Ed for bait and while it seemed weird, I got over it real fast. I smashed his skull with the television and the brains spread across the floor like a glop of oatmeal with night crawlers wigglin’ through it. The dead whores gravitated towards the stinkin’ mess with the grace of octogenarians walkin’ on marbles. Then they fell face first and started slurpin’ up that crap. I watched the one that had just sucked up my juice and it did nothin’ for my personal happiness. We saw this as our chance to get out and moved like projectile vomit at an outhouse wall.

I said, “So, that’s your idea of a good whore house? How about sharin’ where you came up with that shit?”

Frank replied, “John Barlow told me it was the best place around. He said he went there all the time.”

“Yeah, and he’s a bigger dipshit than you and Ed put together. Jesus Christ Frank, you got the brain of a mongaloid idiot.”

Frank got a funny look on his face and said, “Fuckin’ Ed is dead and you got no business sayin’ that kind of shit.”

He was gonna hit me and I rammed the barrel of my gun through his pie-hole. His top lip dangled over the toothless gap in his yap like a sticky piece of shit danglin’ from crotch hair. Then I hit him again. The idea of an oral asshole came to mind and I said so. The wind howled like a banshee from hell, Frank grumbled, and the jewels were still in the trunk of my caddie. Ed no longer needed them, and Frank could take up shittin’ out his mouth for all I cared.

Kevin Atherton has a recent post on the Flash Fiction Offensive, has been published in anthologies and on-line magazines. He’s been known to frequent a whore house or two.