-- by Gene Ross
Once upon a time Max Hardcore was tried in a court of law and sentenced to jail. You may have read about it in the newspapers. If not, you probably saw something on the Internet.
Max, a man in his Fifties with hair resembling that of Larry Fine of The Three Stooges was, likewise, distinguished for his compelling need to assume western attire both in embarrassing and trite social circumstances.
For if one can matriculate the language in simpler terms, it was the look of a man who had spent years in the attic with old trunks and cobwebs as his only friends.
But debauchery of fashion is not what he was accused of. No. Max, a known pornographer, you see, was on trial for making movies. And not just your ordinary kind of fleshpot cinema.
In something resembling modern day Grand Guignol, Max would style his films gruesomely by depicting young girls with eyes that looked dark and beautiful and shining. And in dire Perils of Pauline circumstances, he would assume them in virginal costuming for sacrifice only to make them appear much younger and seductive than their wary years.
For it was Max’s long-held belief and constituency that there were many annoying women such as them in the world, and they all needed to be punished in one way or another. And this was his manner.
By making movies featuring their shattered minds and bodies washed upon the harsh, endless shores of an eternal hell, this was Max’s way of accomplishing his schemes, and because the eyes of the girls no longer appeared dark and beautiful and shining once Max was through with them, this is what his trial was ultimately about.
Max had been creating these movies for many years and, with them, acquired a reputation which afforded him wealth and riches beyond the measure of kings. But it was only fear of the final retribution and what awaited him in the dark howling woods that brought Max to his knees finally to beg the court for leniency.
Except the judge and jury had seen his handiwork. Aye. And if the semen-stained underpants of defiled altar boys had been presented to them for final judgment, they could not have been more abjured or repelled.
For there was almost a nightmare quality to the scenes which featured Max’s power to transpeciate a young girl into a howling anal beast. Possessed of the ancient secrets to endless nights of erotic pleasure handed down by the fakirs, Max could strip a woman bare to her soul with forbidden knowledge of her anus first acquired by the mere passing of his long supple talons over her as though Spring’s first flower. Nosferatu!!!
Initially she would breathe faintly in spasmodic gasps, then the vibrations of the victim’s screams would become so violent as to seem almost a friction against the nerve terminals. It was a sound that freezes the living flesh- the fearsome shriek of the tortured dead- and a totally odd circumstance for a man capable of such delirium to be garbed in western attire.
With his manhood clogging her passageways, breath came thick as it rattled deep in the throats of Max’s victims, this, while he clawed their backbones with icy hands. A ghoul feeding in a charnal house was the best way to describe what had just transpired.
The entire act was of packing an animal in a wooden box with no means of air or escape. So, while upon witnessing a woman writhing in agonized contortions, squirming and wriggling like a worm upon a hook, allowing cries like that of a demon caught in the folds of a fat man’s pant seat, the jury- with a devastating nausea gripping them- fell over one another like wild beasts in a burning forest to let their outrage be heard.
Max was given due means, and, perforce, was left with a conscience soaked with the blood of wolves. His time was coming, but it was not yet at hand.
Meanwhile, in another part of the world, Melissa, a young lady of modest means and virtue but with a hellish and perverse addiction to the repellently and fiendishly abnormal, was preparing for Halloween.
Her mother, remembering the year before when Melissa brought home candy apples with razor blades spiked stealthily inside them, pleaded with her daughter not to repeat her folly. But Melissa was a stubborn, foolhardy sort.
“A bargain!” cried her mother, fearing the cold, menacing beasts of the swamp possibly again attacking her daughter.
“I will take you to a place safe,” she told Melissa. In her mind, Melissa’s mother was countenancing the sheltering haven of Altadena. And so it was decided that Melissa, dressed not unlike a cheerleader, would go there.
The moon was behind the clouds, and the night resembled shadowed men riding dark wagons as Melissa approached the house. Death crept in like a snake. The air was cold and quiet as a cemetery of forgotten rectum, and Melissa’s mother waited in a madness born of a horror unendurable for her daughter’s return.
At once, she heard the sounds of torment echoing along dismal corridors. And Melissa’s mother knew. Or thought she did.
“My child!” she screamed in a voice knocking upon death’s door.
“Mother?” said Melissa, approaching her from the deep recesses so as to startle her cold-blind. And Melissa showed her trembling mother what the man in the house had given her.
“He had the rictus of death,” said Melissa, describing him, “… if you dressed The Grim Reaper like a cowboy. I thought it was pretty clever.”
Proudly, Melissa, a freshly consummated urine stain on her blouse, held up what appeared to be her door prize…yes, it was … a bag of … vomit !!!
And Melissa’s mother offered a quiet prayer to God and the saints. At least it wasn’t one of those apples with a razor. Or rubber dog poop.
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