Sex and Murder Magazine

By Alexander Zelenyj

“Did you know he brought the apocalypse? It’s true. Just like that: the end of the world. It’s true, and so is this: I’m bringing it right back to him. I’m going to carry it in my hands and drop it at his door. Tonight he’s going to understand what he did. He’s not answering his phone but I know where he’s at. If you talk to him could you tell him this for me? I’m going to bring it to his door. Tell him to wait for it. It’s coming.”

The tinny voice inside the receiver implored her: “Miss, calm down. Can you tell me why you’ve called 911? Is there an emergency? Can you tell me where you are? Are you confused? What’s wrong? Miss? Are you still there?”

Angela sought to replace the telephone receiver in its cradle but it fell and battered against the plastic wall of the booth. She watched it swing by its thick steel cord as if mesmerized. The tinny voice exiting the mouthpiece sounded robotic and unnerving. She went to leave the booth but found it difficult to navigate its dual doorway. She barrelled her way through angrily and arrived in the cool nocturnal air, refreshing following the congestion of the booth. Into the silence of the early morning fields to the north and nearby forest to the south, a voice:

“Are you finished?”

She followed the thread of the words. Like a fish on a lure she felt her eyes drawn across the uneven asphalt of the gas station’s lot, overrun with weeds rising through the countless cracks; through the alcohol-haze fucking her vision to the immense bulk of the man rooted tree-like at the small lot’s periphery. In the moonless dark she could just discern a suggestion of his leering yellow grin and intimate appraisal. Mostly only the immensity of him reared from the shadows, limned in moonlight: his swollen belly draped over his belt like a great whale carcass, his thighs like tree trunks, his stout ankles thrusting from his shoes, his large womanly breasts and shuddering jowls.

She smiled, and nodded, and staggered a wavering line towards the voice.

She’d found him at neither of the three county trash bars she’d visited that night, where she’d looked foolishly for men to wield like vengeful knives; this man she’d found, as if preordained, thumbing his way down a little-frequented farm road past 4:00 A.M., a mile or so from her home at the precise moment when she’d resigned herself to a fate of aloneness following her night of flirting with every trucker and biker and farmer she’d come across without a lick of success.

In him she’d found something much more powerful, speaking in terms of weaponry. The distinct sensation filtered through the fog of her inebriation that she’d pulled this one from some deep place, like a figment of childhood nightmare, to fill her current night’s life of unabated misery and bitter fury with his sheer size and potential.

She’d pulled the car onto the gravel and watched in the mirror as he lumbered forward. Moving less like a grossly obese man than a great bear, shaking all over, flesh swaying in all directions at once. Clambering in, his weight groaning the vehicle. She’d seen his eyes clearly then: black and narrow and slicing through the dark with their intelligence. He was everything she’d wanted to find that night, and much more, too, she realized. Before the man could speak she’d said, “Do you want to come to my house? I’m lonely.”

His beady eyes had widened, revealing yellow spots like pustules sunken in the white. Realization seeped into them, and then a devilish pleasure: maybe he’d understood his own great fortune in that moment, too.


Turning from an examination of the camera on its tripod where it stood before the bed, he murmured in his voice of gravel, “You’re a dirty one, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she told him from her place seated on the edge of the mattress, unbuttoning her shirt and tossing it to one side. Her bra and pants and underwear followed.

He appraised her from top to bottom.

She saw the saliva bubbles forming in the corners of his mouth. “You like kinky,” he grated matter-of-factly, and finished with a confidence and excitement which caused his voice to rise, “I got kinky for you.”

He tore the shirt from himself with one great hand, scattering its buttons across the floor. He unzipped himself and let his pants drift like a massive tarpaulin about his feet. He turned around so that his immense ass was level with her eyes. Beneath the tautly-drawn silk of his powder blue underwear she watched the undulating mass first with revulsion and fear, and then with a sickening determination rising up inside her. He peeled the underwear from himself with measured theatricality and his tail lay revealed. It was stout. It was fish-belly pale. It was pimple-covered. Its root was forested with thick greasy pubic curls. It curled and lapped on the air like a thirsty tongue. She saw with equal parts revulsion and titillation that it glistened with a sexual moisture in the dim light. She was revolted. She salivated. She hated her Bobby, who was no longer her Bobby and nor would he nor could he ever be hers again – a god of her own naïve and optimistic invention become an everyday whore and traitor.

She watched the tail stir on the air, mesmerized by the undulating patterns it wove: she hadn’t even entertained that such a weapon might exist for her.

“I’m Angela. What’s your name?” she asked distantly.

“Well, sometimes they call me Mister Filth, baby. Sometimes they call me the Big Old Big Dick. I’m always the Cheapest Trash Available If A Woman Needs It Bad Enough. I got an eternity of names, sugar-tits. What do you want to call me tonight, honey?”

He licked his swollen, smiling lips.

She told him without thinking about it at all.

“Revenge. You’re my Revenge.”

He turned about and faced her. His man-breasts swayed at the motion. His nipples had hardened and jutted towards her longingly like long brown bullets. The stink of him wafted from his immense cock and permeated her airspace. She reeled within its pungency. His testicles, bloated and shiny beneath their thin covering of ginger hair, appeared fit to burst. He proceeded to fall onto all fours. He shook himself in a queer, canine-like manner. He rippled everywhere. She examined his stout toes, yellow-nailed and hoof-like. Unlike his gauzy-haired pubis, prodigious back-hair carpeted him from shoulders down to buttocks. His wet tail wove an ever more excited language in the air.

Looking up at her from where his chin nearly grazed her bedroom carpet, he grinned his yellow grin.

His voice was eager, its pitch higher than ever. “Angela. In case you want to know the truth. My name’s Angela, too. I got teased in school for it, but I’ll prove I’m no sissy, honey. See? See? We’re the same, you and me. We’re so lucky to have found each other. A lot can happen on a dark road at night. We’re so lucky we found each other.”

Bile rose up in the first Angela’s stomach. Her senses swooned. Through her revulsion the anger rose, parting it and making clear the path before her. Her nipples hardened. Her stomach turned. Her resilience hardened, too. She slipped a hand between her thighs, testing her wetness. She rose from the edge of the bed and went to the other Angela. He knelt closer to the carpet, draping his fat tongue across her calf. She clambered onto his back, sighed as he straightened himself and she was lifted from the carpet. The other Angela – snorting and bellowing like a great bull – pranced about the small bedroom with the first Angela straddling his bulk.

The first Angela felt a moist touch coil across her bare buttocks. She lifted herself from the other Angela’s back, allowing the barbed-tipped tail to slip beneath her. She let herself settle on top of it. The tail explored her. It found her wetness. It slipped inside and settled deep inside her. The first Angela groaned. She cried aloud, louder than she used to permit herself during sex with her former lover of five years cut short. She screamed and howled like the animal without restraint she’d always been hesitant in allowing herself to become.

“Oh, revenge…you feel good…”

The other Angela craned his neck and found the first Angela’s eyes rapturously watching him. They locked feral glares and held on, and on, and on.


Bobby, seeing her handwriting on the large envelope he’d discovered tucked inside his mailbox, felt hope seize him. Perhaps Angela had found it in herself to forgive his callous, foolish ways. His apology – heartfelt and written in a flurry of desperation the day before – maybe, just perhaps, had found her heart of hearts and swayed her initial fury with him for his transgression and betrayal. Maybe she’d see him again. Maybe she could – one day – forget all of this.

He tore open the envelope and seated himself on the bed, his heart crashing madly.

He leafed frantically through the dozens of photographs of the hideous fat man fucking his once-girlfriend. Positions she and him had never tried, though he’d wanted to (asked her fervently on many occasions, in fact, but, frustratingly, never been able to cajole her beyond her bashfulness).

He realized then, while examining with revulsion the final photograph of the collection – his girlfriend of a half a decade crushed beneath the blood red-skinned bulk of the grotesque serpent, her mouth filled with its tail, her eyes angry and defiant and staring directly into the camera lens with the beast’s black forked tongue flicking beneath her eye as if emphasizing her resolve – just how beautiful she was, and had always, always been. Her hard, volcanic stare, utterly lucid as she looked out from the grotesquery, in this way showing that she remained miraculously untouched by the blasphemy crawling on her, but was ruined utterly inside by him and the crime he’d committed upon her.

Bobby replaced the photographs in the envelope and left it on the bed. He sat for several minutes in stunned silence. He thought about the different kinds of evil and wrongfulness living in the cracks of the world and sought to rank himself among them. He stood and crossed the room. He slipped into the bathroom and retrieved a naked razor blade from an old plastic shaver. He laid down in the bathtub and filled it with his blood.

Somewhere, a woman – broken but remade a queen – knew the truest and mightiest of closures while looking out from her new kingdom.