Fast Fiction #1: Kamp Nekro (Audiovisual)
The first instalment of Fast Fiction sees the psychopathic Dr. Ludwig Stein deep in Treblinka concentration camp, debating just how to treat his new, delectable patient.
Sharks in the death trade call rigor mortis the gas guffaw. Say the corpse is a lay-down vaudeville of death imitating life. Reckon when the body groans its final throng, the sphincter releases a mistake of sweet air. Say there’s no sadness to any of it.
He’s had a haircut since we last met. Now, he fashions a close crop, bristled and textbook to the touch, forlorn and formaldehyde cold. His thick mane of greasy wool, irresponsible and wild with coffeehouse life, gone.
Sylvestre ain’t the breed to mark his body, but a Fibonacci of numbers piss a Treblinka green across his forearm. His uniform buckles my joints. Forty-nine percent cotton mimics his sinewy frame, tattered material contouring the ribcage, standard issue stripes leading the eye from his anorexic face. An ugly face ghosting deeper in fog, withering from labour camp strain.
His eyes dangle, pupils surpassing the sum of soul’s creation. Shades of acrylic innocence borne within Krakow swirl and old town wisdom.
Panting, I unbutton his shirt, scratching my fingers over his collapsed breastbone. One rib, two ribs, three ribs, four. Exposed and blatant. My liverwurst breath cavalcades his torso. My thumbs hook his sternum. He is beneath me.
Two zealous Aryans shove him through the chute. My body creaks and tingles, kissed by nausea. The burst of noxious chemical as he slides onto the pile lingers a disconcerting potpourri. A skinlab. Intoxica.
My technique is sloppy. Every incision crooked, every extraction autistic. The prison of my synthetic denial decayed. I maintain my professionalism and continue to execute my role with bitter integrity. A clenches sphincter will only chastise my sociopathy for so long. I must have him.
My eyes find his. Bulbous membrane melting a delectable tease. Astride his navel I burlesque a cabaret fatale, writhing my pulsating asshole along his manubrium. I grind my crotch across malnourished nipples, flicking his leathery lips with my reflex hammer. The time is now.
Dutiful relief manifests in goosebumps as I claim his mouth. The caveman machismo of hurling him onto his stomach, the animal sly of angling his buttocks, the skittish awkwardness of disjoining his stiffening limbs, all virtues unto sweet pride.
I prime his asshole with frothing fingers for maximum impact upon entry. His dignity diminishes in discreet regurgitation, the corruption of his tightening muscle tissue devours any surplus grit I possess. A gnaw. a savage bite. A glance over my shoulder. Not a soldier in sight.
In a purgatory of torment I delay gratification for throbbing moments, finishing in a light-headed bashfulness. The afterglow wreaks of overripe apricot. Two more eyeballs for the cookie jar.
Yes, sharks in the death trade call rigor mortis the gas guffaw. Sockets empty. Soul’s creation.
No salt required.
© Chuck Hagen