The Pale Surgeon
Cold swamp water, like a bathtub where the diseases meet for bukkake parties.
She is splashing. Skirts low, a floundering mermaid cursed with legs, soon to be hogtied and dipped down and down again.
I can hear the mongrel kicking at the walls of her womb.
Unnatural. What is that smell? Over the sulphur burbles and fetid whispers, what wonders are fettered within this awful apparition of awkward womanhood?
Fecund and freezing.
My claws clack.
My claws clap.
My claws clack, clap and splash.
My claws glisten.
The sheers are calling, but first: a syringe.
Booming, my eyestalks achieve the pinhole focus necessary for this work.
The ants are running off my carapace in silk black rivulets, giving up tiny deaths when they don’t make it to their leaf galleons, fleeing this terrible scene.
They’ve seen it all before.
Check the bracken stirrups and mangrove cells – a sweet hell of claws and gumbo, a pot for the placenta, possibly and what to do with her skin?
The slip-off trade is good down here and I heard that old Guichard is looking for something to fuck, so maybe if I dip an old slattern into this one’s facade, well, the sonofabitch can really get to grips.
Darling, says I. Darling, you look unabashedly a’feared, what say you let your antlers hang out, I can cover where the ache forms.
Tell me where it hurts. What if I do this?
What about this?
How about here?
She coughs twice and the viscous worms dribble like latter day ‘aints down the breasts of Saint Barbara.
Get the golden sword and prepare my sheers.
Where are the forceps? What the fuck do you mean we only have wire and cat guts?
At least tell me we have that unicorn horn I was saving.
Spirals without end and the dust walls crumble. I can hear it howling.
A gentle tap on my shoulder.
I will brook no interruptions!
A second. Less gentle. My mandibles clack clatter snap.
Sir, you raise my consternation to the very ires that bale in hell!
I come apart at the joint where my tail slithers into hip level vertebrate, upper torso twisting backwards while my hard cock, still sleeved in unicorn horn and tied tight with violin strings reaches it’s opus.
His monocle has misted with the heat of rage and gloved hands want vengeance for the soiled finery, my ichor and blood mixing and matting with his fur.
Weirdly, my lower body moves of it’s own accord – drowning ants jeer at my comeuppance.
Then he pulls off my head.