BUT BACK TO THE Cult of Bloody Sputum, otherwise known as the Menstruation Pagans: It was now 1962, Mother Kralik was thirty years old, and the Sisters of the Rag (another name for the cult) was basically a bunch of island whores who’d meet every night in the Menstrual Hut, brew up their foul concoctions, sing their idealistic songs, and cast spells harking back to the long gone Whore Army. The object of their hatred, of course, was the Mormish—who, preying upon the weakness of the fretards (the retarded freaks) had recruited half the islanders and turned them into godfearing citizens.

It was therefore time for Mother Kralik to step it up with a good old fashioned sacrifice, and a human one at that. Because what good’s a cult if all it does is sit around and chant a bunch of secret songs? As everyone knows, if a cult is to rise above the status of some club and have any huevos at all, there’s gotta be blood, there’s gotta be abuse, and lots and lots of mind-control.

Knowing that most priests are stern-stuffing assbandits, Mother Kralik ordered the mother of Little Tommy Hairlip to bring him up to the base of the Black Tower, which was now nothing more than a pile of rubble covered in poison ivy.

So she did, hauling her seven-year-old bastard up the hill in his custom-made basket, because Little Tommy Hairlip had another affliction that was even more severe than his obvious facial deformity—he had what’s termed Phocomelia: meaning no arms and no legs.

“Listen up,” Mother Kralik told them when they entered the steaming stench, “you people ain’t worth shit! All you are is a couple disposable keister cakes taking up space and weighing us down! You suck up all our fucking scrod and you don’t give shit back for shit! And it’s all your fucking fault, you limbless little faggot! You can’t even wipe your own ass, so why don’t you just kill yourself!?”

Little Tommy’s mother swallowed hard. She looked at her human torso of a son, who began to sniffle.

“SHADDAP!” Mother Kralik ordered the boy, searing her hawkish glare into him. “I’ll tell you fucking why! It’s cuz you fucking can’t do shit for shit! Except be a little crybaby, stumpy! Cuz that’s all you’ll ever be! A snotnose slab of knobcheese being a drag on the rest of us! Am I Right? Am I Right!”

The defiant little shit shook his head, just like she knew he would.

“Come on!” Mother Kralik snapped, picking at a scab on the inside of her nose. “Fucking say something or fucking shut the fuck up, you fucking doormat!”

“No!” he shot back. “I’m Special!”

By the tone in Little Tommy’s voice, Mother Kralik knew she had him by the balls. Since his mother was just as much a meekling as him, Mother Kralik also knew that they’d do what she told them to—just to show her they could think for themselves.

So she started in on the brainwashing—which wasn’t much different than all those lovely evenings she’d spent tête-a-têting with Madame Skeeza, back when the old crone would shove shit in her, then tell her what to fucking think, then tell her what to fucking believe, then tell her who the fuck she was—which wasn’t Fucking Shit!

Mother Kralik, however, knew how to step things up a notch, so she started terrorizing Little Tommy by stuffing stuff up his cobhole and slapping him around like a two-fart whore. Proceeding this way, it didn’t take long to ingrain him with the knowledge that—

“You Ain’t Nothing But A Chode-Stroking Goob-Lubing Nutbrushing Knobjob,” Mother Kralik told him, “Just A-Cockbobbing For A Dob Of Gobcheese! Because That’s All You’ll Ever Be, You Scrotum-Scruffing Nad-Snacking Crud-Huffer! You Shitnubbing Gobslob Dobber Always Chunkmunching For Nutbutter! You Pus-Guzzling Duff-Snuffing Curd-Gurgling Knob-Goblin!”

And on and on like that, for two long days—until Little Tommy Hairlip, being the “Couch-Cushion Knob-Slobber!” that he was, agreed he didn’t have no choice, so he might as well just give it up for that “Pudthumping Dobjobbing Knob-Kabobber!”

Because being a “Nut-Busting Spunk-Punking Tube-Noodling Chodehead!” he was destined to start “Cumguzzling Nadgas Ass!” and “Shitnubbing Gobslob Dob!” in order to get those “Knobnostic Chowder-Chugging Chudfuckers!” the Fuck off Mother Kralik’s Fucking Island!

SO A FEW DAYS later, Little Tommy Hairlip began acting out in class, just like he’d been programmed to do.

“Assbreath!” he shouted out. “Anal Crabs! Supersonic Sewer Sauce!”

“Excuse me?” Father Yodermond asked.

“Assrag!” Little Tommy mouthed off. “Anal Leakage! Meat Sleeve! Pussy Lips!”

“Eh?” the priest replied, going pale. “Ye have never spoken such words before, Tommy!”

“Crotch Crickets!” Little Tommy kept on talking smack. “Fart Jelly! Ass-Ripping Dribble-Shits!”

“Ye used to be such a sweet sweet boy,” Father Yodermond replied. “What has happened to ye?”

“Ramcrack! Cock Custard! Rimjob! Crab Ladder!”

“Tommy, that is enough out of ye! One more word like that and ye shall receive a paddling.”

“LICK MY FUCKBUTTER!” the boy shouted out. “YOU NUT-SNUFFLING NAD-NUZZLING ASS-TAPPER!”

That did it! Father Yodermond picked him up by his strap and hauled him down to the basement of the church—where Father Yodermond pulled down Little Tommy’s pants. And to the Mormish priest’s surprise, the boy wasn’t wearing any underwear.

“So,” Father Yodermond remarked, “I see ye have been free-balling. Tis an awful sin, Little Tommy!”

As those bright buns shined up at him in the damp dark dingy air of the subterranean Mormish church, Little Tommy gave them a wiggle, just like he’d been instructed to do.  Then he began lifting his butt and shaking it like queerbait.

Because, as Little Tommy Hairlip knew, he wasn’t nothing but a “Turd-Snurdling Groin-Grubbing Knob-Noshing Bag-of-Fuck!” who’d never go “a-Furburglin!” because, being the “Gooch-Goobing Shit-Shagging Buttnug Snuffer-Upper!” that he was, he could just forget ever “Buffing Chuff For Muff,” the little “Cumdumper!”

Hence, Little Tommy kept shimmying his shimmering buns. Because clearly, Father Yodermond reasoned, this homolicious little faglet had no respect for authority, so needed to be disciplined!

And since no one was around, and since no one in town would ever take the word of a poor pathetic crippled feeble over that of the town preacher, Father Yodermond lowered his paddle and raised his rod. Nobody would ever know.

One thing led to another and it didn’t take long for the hand that spanketh to turn into a probing proboscis. Of course, one brown thumb led to a wiener. In seconds flat, Little Tommy Hairlip was thoroughly turdburglized, then told to slurp the dirty eel.

This led to a Holy Anointment, followed by a Knob-Bobbing Facial Frosting—after which Little Tommy Gobcheese Gobbler was told to keep his hairlip shut—

“Or else!”

“Or else what!?” the boy demanded, jism dripping from his chin.

“Or else ye shall be used for third base!” Father Yodermond scolded Little Tommy, then wiped him off, adjusted their clothing, and hauled the bugger back to class.

TWENTY-SEVEN SODOMIES LATER, Father Yodermond, being the poo-pushing pederast he was, was whipped to shit over Little Tommy Hairlip’s Bosco Boulevard:

“Bloody Aunt Flo!” the boy shouted out, showing no urge to curb his cussing. “Ragtime! Cram Chowder! Pinch A Loaf! Whoreslop! Wetnap! Ass Pump!  Faghag! Fuck Puddle!”

Little Tommy was hauled down to the pitch black darkness again, where his pants were yanked down to the bottom of his stubs again.

“Beef Bayonet!” the boy went on. “Douche On A Stick! Ass King! Spanking Frank! Beaver Eater! Blood Week! Lesbo Lunch! Hey Everybody, Aunt Rosie’s In Town And She’s Riding The Cotton Pony!”

“Ye still refuse to learn I see,” Father Yodermond told his joyboy. “And for that ye shall answer to the Lord!”

“Lord Lickspigot!” Little Tommy shot back. “God of All Limp-Wristed Meathounds! Savior Of All Mattress-Munching Rear Gunners and Brownie Burglars and Rump-Riding Rimadonnas!”

“Enough!” the preacher replied, flopping Little Tommy’s fuckbag of a body down on the chair before him like a sack of flour. Then lifting up his vestments, Father Yodermond positioned his meatroll right in Little Tommy’s bullseye.

“Dipping Into The Fudgepot! Fishing For Brown Trout! Greeking Down The Chocolate Speedway! Making Poundcake! Bending Ham!”

“Little Tommy!” the priest cried out, pressing prick into him. “Ye Have The Devil In Ye, But I Shall Force Him Out!”

Sliding it up his rectal runway, Father Yodermond started thumping pumpkin.

“BUTT BUTTER! ANUS FLAKES! SHIT KABOBS! BLACK BANANA BODY WAX!  THE B.M. BOMBER! BOBBING FOR ASS APPLES! BUNSUCKING BUMNUGS!”

“OUT! OUT! OUT WITH THE DEVIL IN YE!”

“SMOKING CIGAR FISH! CANNONBALLING CREAMY CORN! BUTTCRUSTING CROTCHBUTTER! GOBJOBBING UNCLE GRUNTY! HORKING DOWN A HEINI HO HO! GRINDING OUT A PRIMAL JUICER! MUDBUNNY FUDGE! WITH ENEMAS LIKE YOU, WHO NEEDS FRIENDS!? POTTY PUDDING! A TURD-TUNNELING STINKY PINKY! HAM SAUCE! CHODE CHOWDER! SPORTING MONTEZUMA’S SOMBRERO!”

“OUT SATAN, OUT I SAY! OUT WITH YE!”

“BACK THE BIG BROWN CADDY OUT OF THE FART GARAGE! BAKING BROWNIES! COOKING BEANS, DOING THE DOG! SHITTING BRICKS IN THE PORCELAIN GOD! HANGING A RAT, DUMPING A DEAD GRANDMA! LAUNCH A STINKIN LINCOLN LOG!”

“OUT OUT OUT OUT OUT!”

The lights flashed on and Father Yodermond was caught red-handed by the Cult of Bloody Sputum. Yep, a cellarful of angry hags and sneering bags of pissitude were gathered all around him, and Mother Kralik was right in the center of them all, brandishing an actual broom.

“So,” Mother Kralik laughed at the flustered priest fiddling with his frock, “when it comes to little faggots, you sure like shoving shit uphill, dontchya? Well, it’s time you get a taste of your own fucking medicine, cockmongrel!”

“Ye would not!” Father Yodermond objected.” For I am a pious man and it would be a sin to lay a hand—”

“Listen Shitdick,” Mother Kralik interrupted, “we’re all sinners in this shithole, and those what say they ain’t are either in denial or just plain fucked in the head! Now drop trou and bend yourself over that chair! It’s time for us to clean up your fucking act!”

Mother Kralik motioned with the broom, knowing that his Mormish ass desired absolution. His demons were practically screaming this, but Little Tommy had reported this as well. Because whenever Father Yodermond popped a nut, he’d always shout out stuff like “Forgive me, oh Lord” and “Oh Holy Father, have pity on the weak” and other such predictable tripe.

Thus, the Menstruation Pagans watched while Father Yodermond did as he was ordered and Mother Kralik greased the stick, then jammed it up his Mormish hole. And as she worked it like a butter churner, a cackling laughter crackled through the room:

“Hail Mary Full Of Lice! Now I Cleanse Ye Of Your Sins! Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck!”

“Yes, Yes!” Father Yodermond repented. “Oh Hossanah, Deliver Me To Paradise!”

“Cuz you ain’t nothing but a Chocolate-Channel Chewing Chicken-Choking Chudnutter!” Mother Kralik expectorated. “Am I Right? Am I Right!”

“Oh Jesus, Oh Lord, Cleanse Me Cleanse Me Cleanse Me Cleanse Me! Cleanse Me Immaculate!”

“And hold the mayo!” Mother Kralik blew a snotchunk out of her left nostril.

“BEEF CURTAINS!” Little Tommy howled. “JIZZ STAIN!  PANTY PYTHON!”

“Oooooo, oooooooo!” Father Yodermond ejizzulated.  “And The Meek Shall Inherit The Earth!”

“Inherit This!” Mother Kralik quipped, and pulled the broom handle out of his ass. Then poking him with the brown tip right on his upper lip, she gave him a Dirty Hitler.

“Heil the Cult of Bloody Sputum!” Mother Kralik said, throwing her arm into the air.

“Heil!  Heil!” the Menstruation Pagans shot back, jutting their hands ceilingwards.

But Little Tommy couldn’t be stopped—not after being brainwashed like that—so he kept on shooting off his sausage-hole:

“K.Y. COWBOY! BETWEEN THE CHEESE! FEED THE GOLDFISH! FILL THE POT! FREE THE CHICKENS FROM THE COOP! SPROUT A TAIL! DUNKIN DONUTS! MAKE A DEPOSIT IN THE DROP BOX! MISFART, MURDER A SHIT! SMOKING A DOOKIE DOOBIE! PARK A PAYLOAD! STOCK THE POND WITH ASSBASS! DOING THE AZTEC TWO-STEP! BUTTPISS! COLON BOWEL! ASS BURRITO! THE GRIZZLY SHITS! MUDSLIDE, OILSPILL, RED ANAL ROVERS ALL OVER! BALL SWEAT! ASS-HAMSTER! NADSAUCE! FUCKATHON! CLUB SANDWICH! OFFAL ORGY! TEAM CREAM! YANK PARTY! NUMBER TWO ALL OVER YOU! — ”
Et cetera et cetera. Little Tommy kept flapping his hairlip. Because the only time he ever shut it was when he was playing Father Yodermond’s skinflute. And he just kept going and going:

“SIT IN WITH THE SCREW CREW! MOBJOB MAZOLA FEST! GLORY-HOLE DOUBLE-HEADER! GO SOUTH, EATING OUT! FANNING FUR! TONGUING TUNA! MUFF BARKING! FACE JOB! LOVE LOTION! BOX LUNCH! SLOB THE KNOB! PIPE JOB, PISTON FUCK! DIVING FOR PEARLS! CLEANING THE KITCHEN! STIRRING THE FUDGE! WHITEWASHING THE BACK FORTY! BANDAGE FLAG! DITCH DIGGING GUT-FUCKER! ON THE BUN! MUFF MITES! FANNY RAG! CLAMJOUSTING MENOPAUSE SAUCE! SADDLE UP SALLY CUZ WE’RE GOING FOR A RIDE!!”

“Are you finished?” Mother Kralik calmly asked when Little Tommy stopped to gasp.

“NO FUCKING WAY!” he replied, and took a big breath to start in again, but—

“SHADDAP!” Mother Kralik whalloped him. “YOU FUCKING FLOTATION DEVICE! GET A FUCKING FUCKING LIFE!”

And that’s what finally shut him up.

A WEEK LATER, OUR friendly neighborhood pedophile was totally forgiven—not to mention totally brainwashed into unconditional servitude to Mother Kralik, who progressed to the next logical step of wiping out the Mormish scourge.

It happened on St. Ratfish Day 1962 as Father Yodermond, dressed as St. Ratfish, ascended to the pulpit and took in the numbers. It was the biggest turnout for any event in the history of all Mormishness. Not only was the entire congregation present, but so was every member of the community, down to the dumbest dumbfuck and chromosome-damaged creep on the island: 616 in all.

One child, however, was not to be seen: Little Tommy Hairlip—who was underneath the podium, as Father Yodermond soon discovered. And as the stumpboy got to work snorking cock for God, Father Yodermond burst into the most blazing sermon of his life.

“Ye Must Be Free!” he howled to the people. “Ye Must Be Free Of The Flesh To Step Into The Heavenly Unemployment Line! For Ye Must, I Say, Be Pure Of Mind When Ye Stand Before The Boss! For He Has All Your Records On File And Will Review Them Before Ye Are Hired Or Fired! And There Are No Negotiations! And If Ye Are Fired, Ye Shall Not Retire On His Holy Pension! So Woe Unto All Ye Adulterers, Money-Lenders, And Those Who Lay With Beasts! And Woe Unto All Ye Who Refuse To Kneel Down Before The Almighty, For His Flames Shall Cast Their Light On Ye . . .”

Thrusting and thrusting into the enclosure, Father Yodermond beat his fist upon the pulpit. He was so caught up in the Evangelistic rush of it all that he failed to notice that the false back of the structure beneath him had fallen open, exposing Little Tommy Hairlip choking down a Mormish load.

The boy gagged and the masses gasped. And as Father Yodermond dicksmacked Little Tommy’s hairlip to shake off the last drop of spoo-goo, Mother Kralik, underneath the stage, lit a wick traveling up and into the basket where Little Tommy’s swaddlings were soaked in gasoline.

“FATHER YODERMOND!” the boy cried out, spitting out a mouthful of whizcheez, “YOU’RE A CUM-GUZZLIN HOMO-RAPIST WHO TOOK MY ASS-CHERRY AND ALL YOU GAVE ME IN RETURN WAS A BUTTFUL OF THE HERSHEY SQUIRTS! SO FUCK YOU, YOU GOOBTUBE-BUGLING NUTGOB-GUZZLING QUEEFBERRY-SQUEEFING KNOB-BOBBING ASSFAIRY!! AND BUTTSNUFF MY GROGCHEESE SHARTS ALL THE WAY TO FUCKING HELL!!!”

FOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMP!!! the catamite combusted, singeing the pubes right off the priest.

And as Little Tommy went up in smoke, and as Father Yodermond stumbled backwards all lit up by the blaze, and as the dumbstruck multitude watched the fire rise toward the rafters, Mother Kralik screeched the signal:

“DIARRHEA!!”

Out came the hatchets and cleavers and clubs.

“FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING MORMISH!” someone screamed. “LET’S FUCKING FUCKING CHOP OFF THEIR DICKCHEESE!”

The next thing the Mormish knew, the islanders were swinging and slashing Barbarian-style, then hacking and gutting and yanking random organs out.

“FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING,” arose the chorus, “FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING—”

Gunky gore all over the pews! Innards uncoiling! Children chopped to Reese’s Pieces! Dismemberment! Castration! A Total All-Out Blood-Fucking Frenzy!

“FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKERS, FEEDING US YOUR FUCKING GODSHIT!  FUCKING FUCKING FUCK YOU!”

“YEAH, FOR FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING WITH OUR FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING HEADS, YOU FUCKING FUCKING FUCKING FUCKS!”

“FUCK YOUR FUCKING FUCKING MOMS, FUCK YOUR FUCKING FUCKING DADS, FUCK YOUR FUCKING FUCKING BALD-HEADED GRANNIES!”

“FUCKWIPES! FUCKSMEARS! FUCKFACE FUCKING FUCKS!”

This went on for five fucking minutes, while the indigenous children ran from corpse to corpse, sticking the Mormish fuckers like pigs.

But then the shrieking storm abated. But not for long, because suddenly Mother Kralik was up on stage with her white-hot orbs ablaze. And singling out Father Yodermond, she yowled:

“CHOP THAT FUCKING FRUITCAKE UP! CHOP HIM INTO FUCKING SCROD!!”

The Sisters of the Rag rushed forth, followed by the manic mob:  mongoloids, midgets, lepers, palsies, snakemen, hermaphrodites! Generations of genetic mishaps, incest, eczema, tumorous protrusions, Genitals Gone Wild—all of them shriekilating the battle-yodel of the genocided Eel People:

“YIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!” the whole harried horde raged, heading straight toward Father Yodermond.

Who, in a matter of seconds, was sliced and diced like an infocom tomato, then left on the floor for the hounds to slarf up.

And as Joseph Smith’s little experiment got flushed down the shitter, and as the Mormish creed vanished from the planet forever, and as the natives regressed to their natural state of primitive dystopia, an ethereal audience among the Damned laughed like hyenas, Hyucking Hyucking Hyucking Hyucking─

The mutineer who started it all! His gator-faced heir of boyfucking terror! Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck! His daughter in delirium begging for a boneride! Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck! Her fecal freak of a flounder pounder! Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck! All of them clapping and cheering and stomping, Hyuck Hyuck Hyucking for more—like completely shitfaced hockey fans pudthumping chodishly—Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck Hyuck!—in the Nadfest of Forever.

Mark is the author of ten or fourteen books, including Season of the Gar, CHODE!, Age of the Demon Tools, The Pigs Drink from Infinity, Chum, Bottom Feeder, Riding the Unit, From Absinthe to Abyssinia, Writer in Residence, and After the Orange Glow (Monkey Puzzle Press).