“A Town Called Disdain”, Episode 109: Testicle

Our author Larry Winchester leaves for the nonce our primary band of heroes in their unpleasant scene in the flying saucer, and returns to planet Earth and to another bad scene:

Enid and Hope have taken the Motorpsychos’ leader Moloch prisoner, and are barreling along in Enid’s '54 Dodge truck on a dark desert road accompanied by Moloch’s hog-riding band of cutthroats, five or six miles from A Town Called Disdain...

(This episode rated NC-17, for excessively purple prose.)

Testicle wanted to do something for his lord and master.

It was not right that Moloch should be held prisoner by that bitch in her truck, that bitch and her little, her little oh-so-fucking delicate sub-bitch. No, Moloch should be free and wild with his men -- with Testicle -- on his glistening mighty black Black Shadow. (And was not this fierce brave romping leaping roaring black Black Shadow kept black and glistening by none other than bold Testicle himself? He loved to do things for his lord, as much as he knew deep down inside how little, indeed how less than little, his lord cared for him.)

How dare those bitches! And where were they now riding but inexorably toward that benighted flyspot Disdain, where doubtless the Queen Bitch would turn Moloch over to that fat pig Sheriff Dooley. Who would at the very least lock up Moloch -- perhaps he would even shoot him; hadn’t he said he would shoot Moloch if Moloch showed his ravaged but noble face in Disdain again? Well, all right, Dooley probably wouldn’t shoot Moloch. But he would lock him up. Him! He! Moloch! Locked up in some backwater jail cell! Never! Testicle could not bear the thought -- unless, unless, perhaps, perhaps, he, Testicle, were himself to be locked up with Moloch, in the same cell…


Testicle had allowed himself to long for something. Something precious: Moloch’s callused fingers touching tenderly Testicle’s pocked and scarry face and dipping into the oily and wiry filthy bush of Testicle’s beard, making an opening in the bush around Testicle’s dead-wormlike chapped lips so that Moloch could bring his own scarred thin cruel lips, puckering like some dry hungry flower, to Testicle’s: such were Testicle’s dreams of love, or at least some of them. There were others, featuring bold and merciless manly buggering and lusty firm-gripping fellatio, but his mind durst not go there now, lest he perhaps lose control of his hog and wind up breaking his bullish neck.

And so as he roared alongside the hated truck through the desert night Testicle wondered: what should he do? He was used to having Moloch tell him what to do, especially when on a “run”. While out on a run Testicle would literally dare not even stop to defecate without Moloch’s permission.

Agonizedly he gazed at his captive lord’s head in the window of the truck. If only Testicle could read his thoughts!

But then Moloch’s head turned, his mirrored shades seemed to look at him, at Testicle!

Testicle could feel Moloch’s one good eye looking into his eyes. And then that ravaged noble visage lowered ever so slightly, and it, he, Moloch, seemed to be looking down and ahead, in the direction of the right front wheel. And then that oft-broken aquiline nose rose and turned again to point directly at Testicle, and its nostrils flared once and briefly.

Testicle’s heart swelled. His lord had spoken. And commanded.

Testicle raised his sawed-off full-automatic Remington 7188 shotgun in one hand, drawing his bike closer to the truck, so close to the steely mirrored gaze of Moloch that he could feel his gaze pressing warmly against him.

Testicle aimed. And squeezed the trigger.

And the report of the gun was one with the complete and pure explosion of the right front wheel of that Queen Bitch’s fucking truck.

Joy!

(Ecstatically continued here; third-place prize-winner of the L. Ron Hubbard Award for Religious Fiction.)