The Whorehouse That Jack Built Read online

  THE

  WHORE

  HOUSE

  THAT

  JACK

  BUILT

  By Kevin Sweeney

  For

  THE WHOREHOUSE THAT JACK BUILT is published in the US and A by MorbidbookS. Copyright for content by Kevin Sweeney, 2015. Original cover art “I Feel Dead Inside” by El Vaquero Muerto, 2012. Stage direction, look and feel by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage. Poorly edited by Steven Scott Nelson. The moral right, such as it is, of this author and his disjointed multiple personality disorders have been asserted. All Rights Reserved. No part of this Tale may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, alien or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, drawing stick figures, seventeenth century printing press, chain mail, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of Kevin Sweeney, or The Reverend. All characters are centered in mythos, although there are many who believe in the existence of these angels, demons, and deities. Any resemblance to real persons, be they living or dead, succubae, demi-gods or the ‘formerly living’ (zombies) is purely coincidental.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

  MorbidbookS is a grotesque Bizarro ballet where the most profane things occur. An impious and perverse dwelling of dark revulsion. A cozy cottage where torture porn and brutal bible tales are devised. A quiet place to relax and spin tales of depravity and wickedness. A halfway house for the disturbed where rules no longer apply. A safe haven for deviant serial killers to hatch their wretched schemes. Bring your pets.

  The tasty ones are always welcome.

  HTTPS://WWW.MORBIDBOOKS.WORDPRESS.COM

  AUTHOR’S NOTE:

  Django. The Quick and the Dead. Blood Meridian. Some of the inspiration for writing this book.

  And porn, of course.

  PROLOGUE

  Nowhere, Undiscovered Country, 1899

  He approached the door of the whorehouse and felt his cock stir alive like a rattlesnake rearing up and giving a warning shake of its tail and at his side his dog Lady whined and that stiffened his cock even more but tonight well tonight he wouldn’t be fucking his dog.

  Clem Tumblety had come a long and hard trail and now stood in a kind of religious awe. He’d heard tell of Musselmen who once in their lives had to make a trip to be a big black stone, a stone called “Mekka”, and he would calculate that the way he felt now stood in the dooryard of the whorehouse was how those Musselmen felt when they finally reach that big black stone.

  Lady at his side whined again.

  “Hush up now, ol’ gel,” Clem told his faithful smell-hound, and he knelt down on one complaining knee with a wince to stroke her patchy fur, “This here is it. We done everythin’ that ol’ nigger done said ta do, and by God here we is.”

  Lady whined again.

  Clem had owned her since she was a puppy, had traded two plugs of tobacco for her at some split in the road whose name he’d long forgot. She was more loyal than a brother and more faithful than any piece of cunny. He smiled down into her old face now, at her drooling toothless mouth; she was drooling because she was nervous, and she was toothless because that was the whole reason he’d bought her.

  Clem had made a scratch living trapping, and that meant living away from what folk called civilization and he liked that just fine. But it got lonely hunting out on the prairies, in the mountains. At night a man needed comfort.

  When she was a pup he’d fed Lady a little whiskey and when she was passed out he had pulled every tooth from her head. She couldn’t fight or hunt after that, but by God she could make a man come hard, could lick and slobber your cock with her big old wet-rough tongue until you shot your fuck hissing into the fire six feet away, just like whipping a snake by the tail so as his brains shot out his mouth.

  Now here they were, stood outside a whorehouse in a ghost town, and it was the end.

  “G’night ol’ gel,” said Clem.

  Lady licked his hand and gave a hopeful wag of her tail. Her tail was a stump, because sometimes he wanted some tight hole action and a tail got in the way. On those days he’d feed her chicken guts, because chicken guts didn’t agree with Lady and she’d spend the whole night shitting and shitting, which lubricated her asshole just right for Clem to pretend he was fucking a tight little Chink.

  When Clem was younger and had spare coin and found himself in the locale of a hog ranch he always asked after a celestial; Chinks were tiny, and their cunts and assholes were nearly tight enough to clip a man’s cock off like a snapping turtle.

  He patted Lady’s head. She nuzzled his fingers.

  “I love you, gel,” he said, and broke her neck.

  He laid her gently on the ground amongst the scattered fortune discarded at the whorehouse door, coins and bills shored up like drifts of leaves.

  In his head the old nigger said, once you go through the door, you ain’t comin’ back out. Best t’tek care a’ yours afore you step in.

  He’d met the old nigger whilst he was busy getting himself on the outside of a bottle of forty rod. This was in Spurlock, a once Hell-on-Wheels town long ago that had been a hoot but had gotten itself civilized after the war, as the last vestiges of the Frontier receded. He’d come to town because he could no longer ignore the pain in his belly or the blood in his shit.

  He was getting drunk because the doctor had given him weeks to live. Said he had a canker, a tumour as big as a ‘coons head spreading evil roots through his guts. He’d prescribed heroin for the pain and prayer for the preparation of Clem’s soul, though the way Clem figured the matter, in his sixty four years of life he hadn’t done much to put him in St Peter’s favour... quite the other way, in fact.

  So he hit a saloon and bought a bottle and got to drinking the pain away and next thing there’s this old nigger sat in a corner under a colour lithograph of “Custer’s Last Fight” provided by the Anheuser & Busch Brewing Company, asking and answering a question;

  Y’all ever hear of the Half-World? But a’course you ain’t.

  Clem didn’t even know he was being spoken to.

  Nobody hears of the Half-World until they cross the border of the Undiscovered Country. And you only just set your foot into that country, didn’t you Mr Tumblety?

  That had got Clem’s attention.

  How d’you know my name, nigger?

  And that was how it started, with an old, blind nigger speaking his name without ever having met him.

  A’course the old, blind nigger was not blind or a nigger. That was just the skin that the thing happened to be wearing. Clem figured the old nigger wasn’t human part ways from what it spoke of, from the fact that it was openly petitioning for his soul, and the fact that twice as they talked something like the eye stalks of slugs each as long and thick as a man’s trigger-finger flowed out of the old niggers nostrils to blink shining golden eyes at him.

  And what the thing in the old nigger’s flesh spoke of was the Half-World.

  It was a whorehouse, but not one open to just anyone. To get there you had to be dying or insane. The services offered were all offered for the same price, which was everything you had. There were paths there that only those who had crossed the border into the Undiscovered Country could find, if they knew the landmarks to follow, the signs to watch for.

  Clem followed and watched and two days ago his mule had done died of exhaustion and it was just him and Lady keepin’ on who knew how and finally they came to a dead town with no name at twilight and a whorehouse with a sign above the door that Clem could not read:

  A SOILED DOVE IN A CAGE

  PUTS ALL HEAVEN IN A RAGE

  A whorehouse run by demons. A whorehouse that offered the great
est pleasures a man could ever want... in exchange for everything he had.

  Am I gonna do this? Am I really gonna...

  The cancer in his belly twisted spikes through his impacted bowels and in front of him lay Lady, a sacrifice.

  And Clem pushed that door open and stepped across the threshold.

  *

  (not human none of ‘em)

  The difference between the dying and the insane was that the insane were ready for what waited within the Half-World. But the spell of time between stepping through the front door of the whorehouse and stepping through the bedroom door of the whore he had chosen was all a blur for Clem, and when he saw what was waiting on the bed almost everything he had seen was forgotten. A mind can do such things; a mind sometimes has to.

  He forgot

  (hundreds and hundreds of miles and miles of wood and buildings)

  meeting the dwarf, forgot the “possibles” in the parlour

  (their eyes they all had those eyes)

  Almost forgot about what he had seen downstairs as now he looked upon his ultimate fantasy.

  She stood up from the silk sheeted bed and bowed at the waist, her hands together in front like she was setting to say her prayers.

  Clem barely knew what to do with himself. His cock did though, yes sir, that old boy started getting himself nice and swollen and hard.

  She was a daughter of Joy, a celestial; both were ways of saying she was a Chink whore, the tiniest slitty eyed Chink whore he’d ever seen. Barely four foot tall, tiny as a child, she wore a lily silk gown that fell around her body in a way that told you she was naked under there. Her face was severe and delicate, her mouth a lotus bud and her eyes

  (like theirs oh Gawd what was wrong with their)

  and she had those weird feet Clem loved so much. Chink women seemed to think that tiny feet were the fanciest things, and when they were babies their mommas would bind their feet up so the bones didn’t grow right, turned them into stumpy trotters the size of fists. Clem loved those messed up feet. But her size, her beauty, and even her feet weren’t the most striking thing...

  The most striking thing about her was her hair; her head was scraped bald except for a braided pigtail that Clem thought only men Chinks had. Chinks always ran the laundry’s in town, and you only ever saw that bald head and pigtail on the men. Hers had to be damn near fifteen foot long. She had been lying on the bed when Clem stepped in with her hair coiled behind her like a snake on the sheets, and when she had got up to receive him that coil had paid out behind her.

  “Greetings most honoured guest, and welcome to my chamber."

  Clem raised a grimy eyebrow. High class Chink whore had her language all smoothed out, all her “r” and “l” sounds coming out right.

  “Wel, gleetings and werrcome yerself darlin’,” said Clem, thinking his humour charming, “You must be good, earnin’ enough to be able to pay for elec-tro-cution lessons ‘nall.”

  All the strangeness suddenly didn’t matter, what he had seen already in the Half-World forgotten, the fact that he was never leaving dismissed from mind. Now there was just Clem and the most toothsome little piece of Chink cunt he had ever seen.

  “Please, Mr Tumblety, I wish to bathe you,” she said, and with a graceful, stylised motion of her hand she indicated a copper bath across the room stood in front of a black lacquered screen, full of water which steamed slightly, “For your pleasure.”

  Some whores could be fussy. Mind... Clem pinched the front of his bib and took a whiff. Pole-cat, and long-time dead too; well, a bath’d be a treat.

  “Well okay darlin’,” he said, “I’ll allow that I’m a mite ripe. You gonna scrub me pink ‘n’ shiny from asshole to appetite?”

  She smiled a small, perfect smile and made a graceful gesture towards the bath again.

  Grinning, Clem started shrugging off his clothes... or peeling them off at least. The Chink whore helped him as he went, her fist like feet somehow spirit silent and sure, and her hands ghost butterflies that helped slide his filth stiffened trail clothes off as if they were no more effort to remove then the breath-thin skin of an onion. Clem stopped struggling and let her do the work, and by the time he placed one crusty foot into the bath somehow the whore had stripped him bare.

  She helped lower him in nice and slow, her hands under his armpits all of a sudden. For a moment Clem was surprised, wondering how someone so slight could be so strong, but then the oils and creams in the hot water slid across his grubby flesh and bore the thought away before it could settle.

  The hot water was so good. He felt his muscles unwinding, tight cords easing, knots being loosened. He groaned.

  “Unnh, uhh, oh darlin’, that’s sumthin’ alright’, that really is sumthin’...”

  Clem’s eyes were closed. Tiny hands slid onto his shoulders and kneaded them.

  “Relax, honoured guest, relax. Let Fuk Yu take care of you.”

  Clem chuckled.

  “That you’r name, Fuk Yu? Naw, not tonigh’ darlin’, tonigh’ you’re goin’ to be... Lady. And I am gonna fuck yoooouuuuu...”

  A hand dipped into the water and brought scoopfuls up to pour down Clem’s body.

  “Please, and then tell Lady what honored guest will do to her,” the whore murmured in his ear.

  “I’m gonna fuck you, whore. I’mma pound you so hard you’ll never walk right again. I’mma give you everythin’ I got. I’mma split you, make you bleed, make you beg me to stop poundin’ my huge cock into your tight little slit.”

  “Whatever honored guest wants. Everything tonight is for him.”

  Because there will not be another. Honoured guest will not see another night.

  Clem, eyes still closed, frowned. He didn’t know what ‘subtext’ meant, but he knew it when he heard it. The unpleasent reminder was there that he had

  (price, every drop of seed and blood and marrow)

  agreed the ultimate price for

  (ecstasy they know not even in Heaven)

  this.

  One of Fuk Yu’s hands slid down over his belly, slid down right over where the doctor had told Clem the tumour was growing, like a rotten potato sending out tuber growths into the rest of his guts, making it hard for him to ever take a shit, meaning he was always constipated. For a second there was heat, incredible heat... and then the gnawing pain which had become the background of his life for the past year was gone.

  The hand slid lower and cupped his balls, hefted them. That hand was so tiny he didn’t fit into it, spilled out. He felt huge in that hand, and in a moment his cock was stone-stiff.

  “Uhhn...” he moaned.

  “Yes, oh, most honoured one; you are so big, so strong, so male...”

  Her hand gently squeezed one of his balls and then the other, unable to cup them both together, and then travelled up along the bottom of his shaft in soft strokes, like her fingers were paint brushes.

  She murmured in Chinese into his ear as she began to wash his hair, that sing-song talk he loved to hear, though usually it would be gasped begging he could choose to mean anything as he pounded into a tiny little Chink whore.

  At his crotch her hand began to twine around his cock, and Clem had no idea how she was doing it, how her fingers –like paint brushes, horse hair brushes- twisted around and around his shaft, but it was a feeling like none other and he just sank into it.

  (washing your hair)

  Yeah, warm water running across his itchy scalp, fingers working up dead skin and trail dirt mixed with sweat that had dried and formed crusts at the roots of his thin iron and silver hair.

  She was wrapped around his cock and gently, gently squeezing, starting to pull so slow it almost wasn’t happening.

  (your hair)

  Her hands running through it, gently pulling through knots.

  And playing with his stiffy at the same time.

  What in Hell...

  Clem opened his eyes.

  Fuk Yu’s fingers continued to massage his scalp, scoop
ing up water to wash through it. Both her hands were at his head. He stared down at what was fooling with his genitals.

  Around and around the copper bath a black snake had coiled, rearing up over the side to dip into the water, into his lap, where it was curling around and around his red bulbed meat. Its head split into five equal lengths, and Clem realized why it felt so good, like paint brushes... the snake was the coiled length of the Chink’s huge queue ponytail, which was moving on its own, a serpent- tentacle made of hair.

  “Sweet Jesus...” he whispered

  (has no place HERE)

  The braided length of the ponytail split at the end into a star shape; this star was what gently tugged and squeezed him like paintbrushes.

  Clem’s mind was suddenly very clear. It was as if his mind had been cocooned, like a fly in a web wrapped up for the spider’s larder... and now it was dinner time. He’d been in a fugue since the doctor had first spoke his death sentence, had first become a pilgrim in the Undiscovered Country.

  Had he been sleep walking this whole time? Had he really met that nigger who wasn’t a nigger... had he wandered the prairies by moonlight with madness singing from the cold and empty sky... to a ghost town called Nowhere and a whorehouse filled with...

  Clem had never been a spiritual man. He was a man who lived in nature, understood how blood ran beneath the hot surface of life, fuelled muscle, how everything was just appetite lashed together with bones and veins. He was a hunter, a skinner, a pelt trader. But now he felt himself to be more than just meat.

  He had a soul and he’d sold it.

  Inside he ran cold, cold, cold.

  His cock shrank.

  “O, what is this?” murmured the Chink whore in his ear, a note of mockery there in her voice, “Where is the huge cock that Lady was promised? Honoured guest promised to make Lady bleed, make her beg for him to stop...”

  “I,” Clem said, and somehow his mouth was dry, so dry he could barely speak, “I don’t, I can’t...”