mouth, as if he’s a piece of electronic equipment that’s been damaged. His eyes widen, whether in pain or surprise, I don’t know, and I think of how Liana misled me, if not intentionally. Flesh and blood the Spindlekin might be, but that’s not all they are.
He stands there sparking, limbs rigid as if electric current is flowing through his body, causing his muscles to convulse. I expect his erection to subside, but his dick gets even harder, skin swollen purple-tight, and I wonder if it’ll soon pop like an overblown balloon.
Another man comes out of the bedroom then: Metal-Face. He’s also naked, his skin covered with dark tribal tattoos, rock-hard penis included. He’s pierced all over, too—rings, studs, spikes…so much metal that he jingles as he runs. His tattoos swirl and roil like storm clouds on the verge of becoming a tornado. As he comes down the hall, his piercings extend outward from his body, lengthening, growing sharper, terminating in wicked-looking points. He’s become a nightmarish thing, a human pincushion with the pins pointing outward instead of in. He raises his hands, hated-filled gaze fixed on me, mucus-slick mouth twisted into a grimace, and I know he intends to go around Mr. Mustache, gather me into his deadly embrace, wrap his arms around me, crush me to his chest, and hold me there, pierced and bleeding, until I die.
Mr. Mustache is still vomiting sparks. They sting like hell when they strike my skin, burn tiny black craters into the carpet where they land. The sparks give me an idea. I ram my shoulder into Mr. Mustache’s chest and knock him backward toward the rapidly approaching Metal-Face. Mr. Mustache is impaled on his brother’s spikes, and he throws back his head and howls in agony, a gout of sparks shooting from his mouth like a fireworks finale to spray the ceiling. Metal-Face screams as electricity coruscates across his body, his metal spikes making excellent conductors. Still screaming, he grabs hold of Mr. Mustache’s shoulders, clearly intending to shove him away, but both of their bodies are convulsing from the electricity, and Metal-Face can’t find the strength to free himself. I don’t know how long they’ll remain like this, so I don’t hesitate. I step forward and swing my hammer. Good thing it has a rubber handle.
I do Metal-Face first, then Mr. Mustache. When I’m finished, they lay sprawled on the carpet, blood splattered around them, dicks wilted like tiny flowers someone forgot to water. Their heads are smashed, pulpy ruins of bone, blood, and brain matter. Wires are mixed in with Mr. Mustache’s muck, bits of metal and a thick black substance like tattoo ink in Metal-Face’s. Mr. Mustache’s sparks are done, and Metal-Face’s body art has gone still, the designs beginning to fade, as if they were somehow tied to the lifeforce of their flesh canvas.
Two down.
I smile grimly and wipe blood splatter off my face with the back of my hand. There’s so much gore on me, though, that all I manage to do is smear it around. I barely notice, and I don’t care.
I head for the bedroom.
I expect Gray-Hair to come running out of the room and attack me, but he doesn’t. The walls of the hallway are covered with the same brown-black alien letters as the living room, and I’m not surprised to see them in the bedroom as well. The Spindlekin’s clothing lies scattered around the room, some of it torn in its owner’s haste to get it off. Liana’s clothes are there, too. Liana is lying naked on the floor, feet flat, knees drawn up and pointed toward the ceiling, legs spread to expose her sex. Her vagina yawns open wide, and her pubic hair is wet and matted, her thighs slick with a clear sheen of mucus. I expect to see Gray-Hair on top of her, pounding his penis into her cunt, or maybe straddling her chest while she fellates him. But he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her, naked. With one hand he strokes his stiff cock, and with the other he
He stands there sparking, limbs rigid as if electric current is flowing through his body, causing his muscles to convulse. I expect his erection to subside, but his dick gets even harder, skin swollen purple-tight, and I wonder if it’ll soon pop like an overblown balloon.
Another man comes out of the bedroom then: Metal-Face. He’s also naked, his skin covered with dark tribal tattoos, rock-hard penis included. He’s pierced all over, too—rings, studs, spikes…so much metal that he jingles as he runs. His tattoos swirl and roil like storm clouds on the verge of becoming a tornado. As he comes down the hall, his piercings extend outward from his body, lengthening, growing sharper, terminating in wicked-looking points. He’s become a nightmarish thing, a human pincushion with the pins pointing outward instead of in. He raises his hands, hated-filled gaze fixed on me, mucus-slick mouth twisted into a grimace, and I know he intends to go around Mr. Mustache, gather me into his deadly embrace, wrap his arms around me, crush me to his chest, and hold me there, pierced and bleeding, until I die.
Mr. Mustache is still vomiting sparks. They sting like hell when they strike my skin, burn tiny black craters into the carpet where they land. The sparks give me an idea. I ram my shoulder into Mr. Mustache’s chest and knock him backward toward the rapidly approaching Metal-Face. Mr. Mustache is impaled on his brother’s spikes, and he throws back his head and howls in agony, a gout of sparks shooting from his mouth like a fireworks finale to spray the ceiling. Metal-Face screams as electricity coruscates across his body, his metal spikes making excellent conductors. Still screaming, he grabs hold of Mr. Mustache’s shoulders, clearly intending to shove him away, but both of their bodies are convulsing from the electricity, and Metal-Face can’t find the strength to free himself. I don’t know how long they’ll remain like this, so I don’t hesitate. I step forward and swing my hammer. Good thing it has a rubber handle.
I do Metal-Face first, then Mr. Mustache. When I’m finished, they lay sprawled on the carpet, blood splattered around them, dicks wilted like tiny flowers someone forgot to water. Their heads are smashed, pulpy ruins of bone, blood, and brain matter. Wires are mixed in with Mr. Mustache’s muck, bits of metal and a thick black substance like tattoo ink in Metal-Face’s. Mr. Mustache’s sparks are done, and Metal-Face’s body art has gone still, the designs beginning to fade, as if they were somehow tied to the lifeforce of their flesh canvas.
Two down.
I smile grimly and wipe blood splatter off my face with the back of my hand. There’s so much gore on me, though, that all I manage to do is smear it around. I barely notice, and I don’t care.
I head for the bedroom.
I expect Gray-Hair to come running out of the room and attack me, but he doesn’t. The walls of the hallway are covered with the same brown-black alien letters as the living room, and I’m not surprised to see them in the bedroom as well. The Spindlekin’s clothing lies scattered around the room, some of it torn in its owner’s haste to get it off. Liana’s clothes are there, too. Liana is lying naked on the floor, feet flat, knees drawn up and pointed toward the ceiling, legs spread to expose her sex. Her vagina yawns open wide, and her pubic hair is wet and matted, her thighs slick with a clear sheen of mucus. I expect to see Gray-Hair on top of her, pounding his penis into her cunt, or maybe straddling her chest while she fellates him. But he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her, naked. With one hand he strokes his stiff cock, and with the other he
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