Sunday, February 14, 2010

HOW MADAME SKEEZA BIT THE DUST THEREBY CREATING KRALA INTO THE MONSTROUS MOTHER KRALIK (Fiction) by Mark Spitzer


HOW MADAME SKEEZA BIT THE DUST THEREBY CREATING KRALA INTO THE MONSTROUS MOTHER KRALIK
by Mark Spitzer

"Kralik! Kralik!" the other kids shouted, dancing circles around the homely half-breed with the hawklike nose while her secret mother Sister Orca watched from the Menstrual Hut, bleeding from her jumbo soul.

It was 1942 and the Whore Army had been abolished over a decade ago—when Lolo, who hadn't been able to keep from bragging, ran straight to the other bangtails laughing about Jimmy Seattle just up and dropping dead.

This news, of course, had reached Madame Skeeza instantly. And since Jimmy's demise meant the economic collapse of the failing island, she'd summoned her forces within minutes of the crime. Then glaring daggers and marching up and down their ranks, she finally came to the smirking little Lolo. And since the hag could tell that the girl was guilty as shit, she forced the strumplet to fess up. And she did, indicting — "That fat jizzbag Sister Orca!"

Who, when confronted by Madame Skeeza, blubbered up her intentions to shitcan the Whore Army by gaining control of Jimmy. Which is why the biggest fucking fuckhole in the world had to pay the fucking price.

Rather than slaughter her, though, or torture her to death like Lolo (who was crucified and left for the ravens), Madame Skeeza ordered Sister Orca to be taken down to the Dirty Dogfish and spread naked upon the bar. A funnel was then inserted into her central salami-hole into which all the sluts spit the jism collected from the most massive handout of free blowjobs ever made available to every fudge-packing bastard on the island.

It started with the thirty-six sailors in the saloon, but then the whores went door to door, sucking cum like it was going out of style. Until all in all, three quarts of international helmet broth went squishing past Sister Orca's feta-flaps.

Since Madame Skeeza had been able to stare into the fuckhole's mind and see that she was ovulating, the idea, of course, was to fill her jizztrap with so much semen that she'd get preggie by someone and have no idea who the lowlife father was. Plus, pumping her full of sausage sauce lowered the odds that Jimmy's splooge would make it to the grail-egg first; since this spur-of-the-moment baby lottery had taken place within fifteen minutes of Jimmy's death.

"You Stupid String Of Rectal Slime!" Madame Skeeza had informed Sister Orca before her peering peers. "You have committed High Treason, and for this fucking fuck-ass offense, you shall suffer a punishment worth than fucking death!"
"No, pwease," the blubbersaurus had begged, "don't do dat. I'll do anyding!"

"The shit you will! You're gonna have that little shit and then you're gonna watch me fucking raise it as my fucking own! Just like I raised your hippo-ass! And if you ever even try to speak to it, I'll fucking douche it to death while you fucking fucking watch!"

Hence, Sister Orca was taken back down to the dungeon she had come from, held in a cell for the next nine months, and fed rotten scrod until her little shit got born.

And that little shit was Krala, who Madame Skeeza fucking hated more than any-fucking-thing from the moment she bitchslapped it into the world. Because judging from the baby's semi-Squamish features, Jimmy's jizzcheese had made it first.

And so, ten years later, the playground was resounding with the scoffing laughter of the other little faggots and bleeding bleeders:

"Kralik! Kralik!" they repeated, dancing circles around Krala, who was wiping her eyes and trying not to cry because her name was the greatest shame on the island, the blackmark of their history, and the most profane word someone could utter in the Arctic.

"Kralik! Kralik! Kralik — "

Every time that word was pronounced, Sister Orca (who was watching from the Menstrual Hut, where she'd been confined for the rest of her life) wanted to die.

But every time she wanted to die, Krala wanted to die twice as much. And when Krala felt that way, she wanted to fucking kill some motherfucker.

"Kralik! Kralik! Kralik! Kralik! Kralik — "

"Go Fucking Fuck Yourselves, You Fucking Dicklips!" the child finally broke, retorting with the same snarling inflection of her guardian.

Or master, rather. Who was now 148 extremely wrinkled wart-years old, thanks to her unrelenting will to see Sister Orca kick the bucket first.

But before that happened, Sister Orca would toil at the lowliest job on the island—which was that of menstrual-mucous mopper. A position which allowed her to observe her little shit get a beaver beating every night by Madame Skeeza personally.
Who'd stuff stuff into Krala. Like fish hooks, broken glass, bottle caps, hermit crabs, you name it! To teach Sister Orca a lesson for what she'd fucking done to the island!

Not only had the prostitution trade suffered because of Jimmy croaking, but the scrod commerce had dropped off just as much as poverty had risen—due to less contact with the outside world, a rash of dripping chlamydial diseases with no doctors to treat them, and more and more domestic disputes sparked by lack of bling. Which, in turn, had made the entire island dependent on the fucking Mormish—who we'll get to in a bit.

"Kralik! Kralik!" the girls continued circling Krala. "Kralik! Kralik — "

"You Fucking Goat-Blowing Slotjobs!" Krala yelled, unable to hold it any longer. "Don't Fucking Act Like You Ain't Fucking Kraliks Too, Cuz We're All Kraliks In This Shithole!"

"Maybe we are," the freckly leader got in her grill, "but you're the one whose name says it all! So what's your middle name? Ear Infucktion?"

Krala grabbed the girl by the pigtails and yanked her face toward hers. Then shooting a blazing gaze straight into her brain, Krala let the girl know that she could read her demons just like Madame Skeeza could. Because being the recipient of this stare at least 10,000 times before, Krala had learned a few things from the old hoebag.

The thing was, though, the fear provoked by Krala was even more effective than that created by Madame Skeeza—which was totally convincing in convincing people that their brainwaves were being scanned. Because Krala wasn't just some hack hamming it up. Nuh uhh, her glare was glaringly real.

Because deep within the terrified eyes of the little bitch she gripped in her glare, Krala beheld the reflection of a younger crueler Madame Skeeza, who was a lot more likely to strike like a viper. And this scared the piss right out of her captive.

"That's Right!" Krala sneered at the urine running down the girl's leg. "That's My Name, Don't Wear It Out! Cuz Yours Is Vaginal Bloodfart, Bitch!"

Then shoving her backwards, Krala swung an uppercut which hit the girl right where her skull connected to her jaw. And as the girl screeched and all the kids scattered, Krala picked up a handful of dirt and jammed it down her tormentor's throat.

"That'll Fucking Teach Your Fucking Ass!" Krala snapped. "You Cock-Eyed Two-Shit Bitch! Now You Ain't So Tough Anymore, Are Ya!? Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck!"

And as the girl fled coughing and crying, Krala suddenly realized that she could be the bully now. And not only that, but she could do it better than anyone else on the island, because she had reason to be meaner than all those other fucking fucks, since she had suffered at the hands of the very worst. At her very worst. In public, in private, up the bung, in the snatch, in gangbangs and pulling trains. To the extent that she could always laugh at her own degradation.

Which Krala saw as a type of art form. Because she had seen what other fuckers couldn't face—without wasting themselves. And if she could take shit like that, she could take anything.

So from that point on, Krala was transformed. She wouldn't run or cry anymore! Fuck That! Because now she knew what to do: she'd project her own murderous bile right back at those little shits!

# # #

By the time Krala was thirteen years old, a quasi-Christian fundamentalist sect had set up shop on the island. They were a semi-Pentecostal strain of Evangalistic Amish Mormons known as the Mormish, invented in 1827 by Joseph Smith himself in preparation for his later Latter-Day hoax.

Anyway, the 162 Mormish missionary settlers, with their austere nineteenth-century duds and their twentieth-century Colgate smiles, had come in 1933 to reform the declining population of 412 islanders going straight to hell in a handbag. And since there were hardly any sailors back then to hump the hookers of the island—except for the dirty Japs that came to pick up loads of dogfood, but hardly gave a yen—Madame Skeeza had welcomed their aid.

So the Mormish built a church which doubled as a school. But it was also a soup kitchen used to recruit anyone soft enough in the head to sit there and listen to Father Yodermond sling his brimstone bull.

Meanwhile, the Mormish brethren back in Minnebraska kept sending shiploads of clothes, food, tools, books, medicine, and pamphlets. But most importantly, candy. Which was used to control the little shits.

Krala was only a kid at that time, but her seething scowl could curdle the blood of any fucker on the island. The Mormish, of course, figured she was cursed, so they gave her whatever she demanded: toys, shoes, gum—anything to keep her evil eye pacified and off the Mormish children.

Who were used to Father Yodermond instilling the fear of God in them. And the newest generation of indigenous bastards on the island wasn't very far behind, since the natives were sending their little bastards (including the freaks, but not the tards) up the hill to go to school with the Mormish kids to keep them out of their fucking hair.

Until eventually, almost all the little faggots and bleeding bleeders on the island were indoctrinated to the max with exactly what the fanatics wanted: enough terror to lead to the establishment of the first religious holiday on this island of infidels. A holiday the Mormish elders figured the locals needed more than anything, because all they were were a bunch of sinners requiring a special day of their own to make them moral.

So they whipped up St. Ratfish Day and the idea was pretty much like Christmas. Dressed in a festive ratcod suit with barbely whiskers and a padded gut, Father Yodermond would go to church on St. Ratfish Eve as jolly as a drunken uncle bearing gifts for little shits. Who'd sit on his lap and tell him what they wanted for St. Ratfish Day, and he'd only fondle a few of them. Because, in essence, Father Yodermond was a ham-slamming heinie-pilot who was always jackballing his jizzhammer for jerkbutter when it came to little faggots.

Meanwhile, the children were told that some ratfish guy had died for their sins and that if they didn't bow down before his fins, then they couldn't have no Juicy Fruit. To which Madame Skeeza never objected, since this third-rate St. Nick only gave candy to the good little shits—which pretty much made them all button their lips, at least for a bit.

Still, Krala hadn't been as easily suckered as the others had and she found it more annoying than an open-sore gashrash to sing those boring Mormish songs and listen to their total shite. And for what? Gum? Fuck Gum!

Such that, by the time Krala turned eighteen, she hated the fucking Mormish fuckers just as much as the goddamned scrod trade. Which had picked up some, thanks to the Japs, but it kept them living in third-world conditions.

# # #

Until 1951, that is, when Krala, at the age of nineteen, found herself running the whole fucking shithole, because Madame Skeeza was on her deathbed with rat poison running through her veins.

"You... fucking... nad-lapping... bitch," the butt-ugly old bat (now 157) gasped to Krala. "I... should... a... fed you... to the... fucking crudfish... when you... were fucking... fucking... born."

"There's a lotta fucking shit you shoulda done," Krala laughed. "But there's more fucking shit you shouldn't a done!"

"I... fucking... made... your ass!"

"Bull-fucking-shit! I made my own fucking ass! And what's so fucking great about that!"
"You... are... me..."

"You're fucking nobody! You're a fucking jizzwagon! What I got from you is a pathetic fucking shame! Who gives a fucking shit if I can scare the fucking shit outta fuckers!? What the fuck good is that!?"

"You'll... fucking... see..."

"I already do fucking see! I fucking see me doing to you what you fucking did to me! I see a bunch a sorry-ass fucktards who ain't nothing but a heap a shit, and I'm the fucking cherry on top! Who gives a fucking shit!? Hurry up and die, you Fucking Hagfish Bitch!"

"Kill... me..."

"You never showed me no mercy. All you ever did was shove shit up my cunt and glare into my fucking head with that bitch-ass look of yours you can't even fucking pretend to use on me, cuz it can't do shit to any-fucking-one and you fucking know it! You can't see peoples' demons for shit! And you know you fucked me up! So now I'm gonna give you the Filthy Onion and watch you die like the fucking Anal Whore you are, you rancid old Granny Rag!"

And that was it. Krala rolled Madame Skeeza over, fistfucked her up the ass, then ground a bunch of knucklefudge into her withered mug, causing the jerkied crone to hemorrhage in her head. And as black blood from her brain burst forth from her nose, the expiring skag began to gag.

"That's right," Krala smirked hawkishly, "fucking die you fucking Rectal-Breath Dick-In-Mouth-Syndrome Cottage-Cheese Crotch-Infection Bitch! Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck!"

But Madame Skeeza got the last word in—even though she didn't say it. Because all she had to do was think it and it went straight into Krala's brain, proving that she could see demons! And hear them too! And speak to them as well! Because what the ancient warthag didn't say as she bit it was the answer to Krala's biggest question:

Sister Orca... Bitch!

"NOOOOOO!" Krala lost it, grabbing Madame Skeeza's neck. "Not That Fucking Fuckapotamus! No Way In Fucking Fuck!"

But it was too late for Krala's fingers to do anything more than snuff the gurgle of Madame Skeeza's death rattle, a sound she'd been waiting almost twenty fucking years to hear.

And as soon as the news spread that Madame Skeeza had finally croaked, who should come lumbering out of the Menstrual Hut in an elephantine swabby smock, then go lunging up the street to Krala with outspread varicose arms?

"Finawy!" Sister Orca cried. "Da wicked witch is dead! Dead dead dead! Oh Kwawa... now we can wiv happiwy ever after! You see, dare's someding I must tell you — "

"Shut The Fucking Fuck Up You Goob-Spuming Hogbitch!" Krala replied, staring her bio-mother down. "I Fucking Know, And I'm Not Fucking Jumping For Joy to Hear It, You Disgusting Fat-Ass Gobbleprick! So Just Go Fuck Your Fucking Self... Since You've Got Enough Fucking Cunts To Fucking Sink A Battleship!"

And as the graying pile of blubber blubbered, sobbing like a sieve, she threw herself at Krala's feet, sniveling:

"But Kwawa, Madame Skeeza said she'd muwder you if I ever ever spoke to you! She pwomised! Dat's why I could never teww you!"

Krala, however, didn't give a flying fuckfish—so immediately ordered the fatwhore's execution. Before half an hour was up, Sister Orca was chopped into chunks and ground into scrod along with Madame Skeeza, then canned and bound for Slantyland (Madame Skeezic for Japan) to form doggy doo in poodles.

This fate, however, was a common one that had befallen quite a few before who'd washed up on these shores. Like a crew of Soviet submariners the year before, who'd gone off course and ran into a storm. And a boatload of vacationing Liechtensteiners who wrecked their yacht on the reef that summer. Because it didn't matter what got thrown into the mix, as long as it had fat in it—which Sister Orca had plenty to spare.

And so, with Madame Skeeza ground into chinko Chihuahua chow (another popular Skeezic term), the island entered a brand-new era. In which Krala, like other sadistic dictators feeling the malaise of post-war peace, decided to create a personal cult. Focused, of course, on the glory of herself.

# # #


By 1952 the cult was going strong and Krala was running with Commandant Scheissenheimer, who was a Nazi war criminal seeking asylum on the island and chuffnutting her muffbutter.

Not that Krala enjoyed having sex, but she did find comfort in getting raped, because this meant she was hoseable.
Because, of course, Krala was insecure. And with her sharp tits, skinny butt and raptor-face, she wasn't exactly hot. But since she had all the necessary equipment down there, most fudge-packing bastards would do her if they got drunk enough.

After a while, however, her reasons for letting Scheissenheimer stick his one-eyed semen demon in her fungus jungle changed. You see, she was shooting to get preggie, so as to pump out a little bastard of her own to order around like a personal slave. In a word, she was starting to feel "fucking maternal."

Thus, Krala embraced getting raped—as well as the Jolly Roger. Meaning he'd pull out while getting a humjob and blow a load in her eye, causing her to squint and curse like a scurvy one-eyed pirate.

And speaking of pirates, she was also partial to the Angry Pirate, a deviation of the above in which, after she got an eyeful of cramcream, he'd kick her in the shin and cause her to hobble around growling "ARRRRRRRRRR!"

Pain did not exist in her world. It was something that came with being raised by Madame Skeeza, and something that led to getting it on. That's why she was always willing to take a beating—which was essentially a form of foreplay on the island that could put a gal in the family way.

Half the time, though, Scheissenheimer would waste his paste by giving her a jizzslap. Which, of course, is a sharp WHAPP to the side of the face with a palmful of tubegoob spat in the hand following fellatio.

But she also liked the Hot Plumber, which meant getting her shit plunged with an actual rubber plunger, which Scheissenheimer would then employ like a nightstick, conking her upside the head.

Once, however, after a crate of bananas washed up on the island, they did the King Kong. Meaning Scheissenheimer stuck a banana in her filthpod, after which she beat her chest like a giant gorilla.

But the Kentucky Snowplow was also a favorite. Meaning that while he was dogfucking her, he'd ram her head into the wall.

Of course, the Albuquerque Fire Hydrant was always good for a laugh or two. Basically, she'd be all schnoggered up and driving the porcelain bus, and then he'd sneak up from behind and shove it up her fart chimney—since he was mad for those crazy-ass ass-contractions every time she barfed up her guts.

Then he'd give her a Dirty Swirly.

Or, on more tender days, he'd opt for the Kamikaze. Yep, taking Krala from behind, he'd get it going good. Then sweeping her arms out from under, he'd plunge her face SMAKKK into the floor.

But it was the Jamaican Bobsled that brought everything to a screeching halt. Krala was knocked up and four months preggie and down on all fours at the top of the stairs getting her can rammed, when suddenly the Commandant decided to shove her over the edge, then jump on top and hold on tight and ride her down whooping all the way.

Krala didn't mind getting her tits and hips bruised up, nor the fact that he jizzed in her while her chin and pelvis went KRAAKKKing and SMAAAAKKKing down the steps, leaving her with permanent boob burns. But the next morning when she let loose a vart on the shitter, the bleeding head of some contorted creature popped out of her tunaworks—and Krala was Pissed as Shit!

First, because it was a tiny ossified gargoyly thing with a big old floppy schnozzer, and secondly, because this wrinkly crinkly seizurer was squealing like a piglet, going —

"GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH — "
"WHAT THE FUCKING SHIT!?" Krala shrieked back at it, and tried to yank it the fuck out.

But her cheeseflaps refused to release it. So she stuffed the spastic bastard back and went scream-hobbling through the house, yowling:

"FUCKING FUCKING SCHEISSENFUCKER, I'M GONNA FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING KILL YOUR FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING ASS!"

She found a ratbass gaff with a razor-sharp barb on it and howled "GET THE FUCKING FUCKING SHIT OUT!!" Plunging it in, she twisted it, hooked it under its lizardly chin, and tugged its slanty-ass snakehead out. Then yanking again, out came its clutching claws. And then she yanked one last time, giving herself a total abortion.

And as it SLAPPPed down on the floor like a slippery eel, she saw its tiny slimy slit covered in amniotic goo. It was a premature bleeding bleeder, twitching epileptically.

"GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH GUH — "

"Well felch my filthy crudhole!" Krala muttered, picking it up and storming upstairs. To the Commandant, who she abruptly woke up by WHACKKKing him in the noggin with it. Then she got all in his face and KAA-SPLAPPPed him up some more with it, before ordering him to —

"GET THE FUCKING FUCKING FUCK OF THIS FUCKING FUCKING ISLAND BEFORE I FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING KILL YOUR FUCKING FUCKING CRY-WHACKING ASS BECAUSE YOU JUST FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING MURDERED YOUR OWN FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING LITTLE SHIT, YOU FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING PIECE OF NAZI FUCKING SCUM!!"

Krala then went out on the balcony stark-fucking-naked and raised it high into the sky for all her subjects to behold. And oh yeah, she was still umbilicalled to its bashed-up little demon bod.

"YOU FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING SEE THIS!?" she wailed at the fucking fuckworld. "THIS COULDA BEEN MY OWN LITTLE SHIT FOR ME TO BEAT THE FUCK OUT OF! BUT NOOOOOO! THAT FUCKING FUCKING HITLERSHIT FUCKING FUCKING WASTED IT!!"

People opened their doors and windows to see Krala dripping bloody crud. Like Michael Jackson fifty years later, she was dangling her little shit over the edge of the balcony.

"I COULDA BEEN A FUCKING MOTHER!" Krala yelled. "BUT THAT FUCKING FUCKING FUDGE-PACKING FUCKER ROBBED ME OF MY FUCKING RIGHT TO FUCKING FUCK A FUCKNUT UP!!"

Then hurling the gunkbag down to street, she ripped the placenta right out of her self-abortion hole, then stood there heaving all glaringly while a pack of starving mongrels tore into the smorgasbord.

In the meantime, Scheissenheimer made for the nearest boat, paid the captain, and got the fuck out of town—only to be bludgeoned to death on the streets of London a few years later.

But at least all this drama was enough to earn Krala the title of "Mother," which always gave whores more power to inspire more horror on the island—as it had with Madame Skeeza, who'd benefited from a similar word.

# # #


Anyway, after that, Mother Kralik's penchant for getting gangfucked increased exponentially. For the next ten years, she just loved getting raped—and not just by one or two or three or four rapists, but by a clusterfuck of fudge-packing anus-faces who had no respect for her or themselves. Because she was in a jizz frenzy, always looking for a Cumshot Carnival to gather around and dickslap her, then spray hot yogurt in her face.

Plus, she was a fool for the Chicken Rotisserie, in which she'd get skewered in both ends, then swiveled around like a rotating meatslab cooking over the barbecue.

She was also partial to the Norwegian Squeegee, an act so unspeakable that it behooves the delicate sensibilities of this humble narrator to go into any further details.

One thing she never did, however, was take it in Old Mossyface. Nope, not after that last time! Hence, every pound session she experienced was basically a Brown Derby. Either that or a Gaza Strip Gangbang, which she always seemed to hobble away from like a bowlegged Texas cowpoke dripping like a Pearly Dragon.

And Krala's backdoor was always open. So whenever a gang of sailors got puking drunk enough to fuck her, they could always come barging in, then shove her around and make her go down like a truffle-snuffing pig.

"Haw Haw Haw!" they'd laugh at her, spewing creamcheese out her noseholes. "Look at you, you fucking crock of cuntbutter!"

And she loved it. She loved getting raped and beaten and laughed at. She loved getting mocked and humiliated and spat at. But most of all, she loved getting slapped the fuck up while someone shoved her shit from behind.

In fact, these were the only times she ever felt truly alive. Unless she was beating the buttdrool out of some bimbo or jamming something up someone's jamhole.

Because that's the kinda gal she was, and that's the kinda life she led, and it ain't for nobody else to judge. Unless, that is, you're some sort of hypocritical mung-sucker pushing your fascist bullshit others. And if that's the case, why don't you just go fuck yourself, you Fucking Piece of Kralik Shit!

FUCK!

Author bio:

Mark Spitzer has has nine books out and two on the way: Chum, a novel by Zoland Books; Bottom Feeder, a novel by Creative Arts; Riding the Unit, a collection of creative nonfiction by Six Gallery Press; Age of the Demon Tools, poetry by Ahadada Books; The Pigs Drink from Infinity, poetry by Spuyten Duyvil; From Absinthe to Abyssinia, Rimbaud translations by Creative Arts; The Collected Poems of Georges Bataille by Dufour Editions; Divine Filth, Bataille translations by Creation Books; The Church, a CĂ©line translation by Green Integer; CHODE!, a novel forthcoming from Six Gallery Press; and Films without Images, a Cendrars translations forthcoming from Green Integer. Other publications include work in The Oxford American, Ecotone, Minnesota Monthly, Black Warrior Review, and hundreds of other literary journals and magazines. Spitzer was recently featured as an alligator gar expert on the Animal Planet series River Monsters, and he's currently a professor of creative writing at the University of Central Arkansas, where he's the Managing Editor of Andrei Codrescu's Exquisite Corpse Annual.

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