The Cancer Series

This one is the climax, If you've read Conversion and Leora's Quest, then this last story will tie everything and everyone together. This final story has one major difference, as compared to the other two. There are no cancer fatalities here. That does not mean, that there is no terror of it, however. If you are reading this, you may think "Oh, he's just diminished the story, he's just given a major part of it away," The point is well taken. However, that is a small sacrifice to make rather than finish the series with a predictable, worn-out cliche--where everyone dies. That would be a cheap, uninspired way out; and I refuse to allow that. It is true, I did lose a little element of surprise right there. My resources, however, are indeed formidable. I have worked in enough mind-numbing events, so there is indeed, no need to fret. So, armed with the knowledge that, "yes, I did maintain the quality of shere feminine horror throughout the story,"

complete with a devastating conclusion.

You may therefore go forth now and enjoy reading ---

Vrykolakas

16 August 04

Sharpshooter

Copyright 2004 by Vrykolakas

Every place has its dark side.

It doesn't have to be the Internet, side streets, alleyways, government or religion; sometimes its much closer; the everyday, the familiar, all our favorite haunts.

Kathy Rialto was wasting time, and thoroughly enjoying it. Tall, statuesque, strawberry blonde, and 19, she had finished all her papers, there was no crap work to do; and that meant the weekend was hers. She just began it early. She was humming to herself, negotiating the Metroplex's parking lot. "I hate when they park so close, losers!" She wasn't going to let anything tarnish the day--her day. Max was gonna meet her, the movie would be great, they'd decide on which food later on, and later later on, well (she reddened a little). Who knew? She took a circuitous route, through the cars parked too close together, and because of them didn't see what crunched and squished beneath her feet. "Oh, damn, that better not be dog poop." she grumbled. Fearing the worst for her new shoes, she looked down. She was half an inch deep in what used to be two dead birds. "Oh, yuck, Jesus!" she grimmaced. "Is this an omen? I hope not." Her cell phone chirped. "Hello? Hey, Max. She played with her hair as a soft breeze stirred it. "I got news for you. I'm already here. I'm heading in from the parking lot." She talked a little longer, her smile broadening. "OK, I'll meet you by the concessions. I gotta have a ton of raisinettes. Bye." She practically skipped through the rest of the cars, putting the dead birds out of her mind.

Kathy was eyeing the sweets, torn between NesCrunch and her beloved raisinettes, when a handsome hunk, one year her senior enveloped her. They were a cute couple, his jet black hair to her strawberry blonde, his rugged good looks--Max was filled out in all the right places. Athletic, without being chunky, she always felt safe next to him. "I see ya got your raisinettes," "Huh? He poked her cute little nipples." "Stop it, get away, you don't see me poking your ..." "Maybe during the movie." he teased.

They took seats toward the front, figuring it would be less noisy with figiting muttering people behind them.The last one they sat through was hell, Men In Black Three, yick! worse than one and two--never again for that series. "I don't care what he does, Will Smith is such a turd,"Kathy groaned. "Yeah, he should sell shoes," "Or crack! haha!"

Stolen Moments, starring the two from Jade, Linda Furentino and, what's his name from NYPD Blue, ...ah, oh, Caruso. They're both great, and great together." Kathy sighed. This should be good. They both began stuffing their faces during the trailer and intro.

Soon, the music made its way into the background, and a driving scene began the movie. Then, as the picture slid slowly along, they put down their empty boxes, and held hands. As in the stars' previous movie together, Jade, within twenty minutes, a hot steamy love scene erupted upon the screen. Kathy leaned her head back, stretching, and felt a muscular arm already there. He nuzzled her, she nuzzled back. He kissed her nose. Kathy murmured "too bad we can't get as involved as they are," She squeezed his hard broad shoulders. He leaned into her, sniffing her hair. Above them, from huge surround-sound speakers, the sexy notes of a sax wailed, smooth and soulful. As Max took in her plunging neckline and open jacket, he fantasized about those yummy breasts, perfect little globes. He loved to play with them, tongue and fingers everywhere. She worked out, she ran alot; and that only added to her firmness, nothing flabby or lazy about his girl. Kathy had just decided that tonight third base was going to happen. She turned in the cramped theater seat to keep one eye on the screen, and yet lean her breast into Max, sideways was surely better than noways. Meanwhile, on screen, Linda was purring some of her best. Her partner was a little stiff, kinda lukewarm. She turned fully into Max and was about to ask him what he thought so far. PLOP! Max heard it. Kathy felt something. "What the f..." she started to scream, then remembered where she was. She faced forward, darting from side to side, craning her neck to see what had happened. The hair on Max's neck went up, what had hit her? Kathy, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, began to examine the side of her neck where whatever it was had hit her. Most of it had oozed down to her chest, so she came away with only a film on her fingers. "I don't know what this is." she said. "Could it have come off the ceiling?" Max queried. Abruptly, a loud scream exploded from somewhere to their back left. "Oh! What was that?! "Hey, shut up, bitch!" an urban voice answered her. "Hey, watch your mouth shitskin!" another one answered back. By this time, whatever it was that had splattered on her had crept down about as far as it could go. It was now puddled up on her right breast where she couldn't presently get at it. Then another scream, followed by shrieking women all around them. "I think that's our cue," Kathy decided right then and there, and began to rise. "Tell that heffa you're with to shut her face before I kick it in!" "Your mother!" "Least I got one. "You're right," agreed Max. They both hurriedly made their exit, just as half of the theater ocupants followed suit. The remaining others had started a real nice brawl.

As Max and Kathy exited the lobby as fast as they could, they both looked back. The ticket takers couldn't believe what was happening. "stupid bitch!" "fucking cunt!" "Eat this!" It looked like a bar fight, and it was getting bigger. "Go back where you came from!" "Shut up ya ho!" "I'm gonna kill a tar baby!" "Drop dead you fuckin' bitch!" "What did you call me?" A white guy with long hair picked up a trash can and brought it crashing down over the head of his oponent. A big fat greasy-looking sister, saw this and grabbed his long hair; and promptly got a large workboot in the gut. She crumpled, as two more started up where they'd left off. Shouting and turmoil continued as Max and Kathy hotfooted it to their cars. "I'll meet you at ... hey, we lost the movie, and never did decide where to--" "Shit, that's right. Lets see, what about Trotteria?" Kathy almost started drooling right then and there. "OO, I've heard their good, OK!" "You sure you know where it is?" Max questioned, not wanting anything else to happen to Kathy. "Oh, sure, its yelling distance of my favorite video place." "OK. You follow me, if we lose each other, I'll meet you there."

It was a little crowded, but nowadays, every place seemed to be. No sooner were they both seated, than water and menus were brought. Kathy wanted to run to the ladies' room and get that goop off of her, but Max said, "hey, you drove over here with it, let's order first, then do it. It won't bite you." Kathy nodded weakly, her tummy conspired with her boyfriend and decided for her.

"I want seafood!"

"Well, I don't need a psychic to know that."

"I want, hmmm, something different, not lasagna or alfredo."

A waiter, with a strained look on his face, came over to their table, and proceeded to recite the evening's specials. Kathy settled on some long Italian name, when she heard it had veal, mushrooms and wine in it, that tore it. "Be back in a few minutes,"she purred. Max folded his hands and couldn't stop thinking about the movie they'd been forced to leave; the carnage it had become. What was all that? Somebody had thrown something, several times, at people all over the theater. The breadsticks and little dishes of marinated tomatoes arrived. Max began to nibble, these were refillable. As he munched and pondered, Kathy returned, walking mechanically like a zombie. "Hey, pod person, they outa soap in there or what?" "Max, it was, I got ... he threw ..." Max looked her in the eye, holding a breadstick. "What's wrong, sweetie?" Kathy looked like a trapped animal; "Max, it was semen. Some bastard threw semen at people in there. I had a big glob on my breast!" Max almost choked on a mouthfull. "It, what? Are you sure." She tried to smile, not entirely succeeding. She still looked devastated. "I know what, when we play around. This was it, all funny smelling, with bits of gel in it. Oh, it was semen Max." Max felt sick, but wasn't about to betray it to her. Poker face was one thing Max, and guys in general could do well. He thought of what to say, and gently began laying it out. "Hey, OK, maybe your right. So, did you wash it off? "Of course I washed it off. No, I want it as a souvenir. Oh, I'll never wash there again, of course I waa!" "Hey, Kath, its all right.Let's deal with this calmly. Did you, a use soap and all? "Yes," she said curtly. "Now, did it touch you in any place where there is a break in the skin?" "No, down there? No!" "Good, so listen; this guy's a total perve, he gets thrills from cumming on people. He's a coward, doing that in low lit places, and anonymously. So, listen. Even if he had some, some STD, even if! You won't get anything. We can use alcohol when we get back to your place or my place. Now don't worry Kath." This seemed to be working. She settled back, still not smiling, still feeling creepy. Then she saw the little tent of the drink menu. "I'm getting a drink. A big one." She decided on a daquiri, a double! Max grinned at her. "Now that's the spirit."

II.

Sara was halfway home. Three p.m. was not rush hour, so the beltway wasn't crowded at all. She had just spent a wad of money, if the old plastic could be called that. Now, how to soft-soap it to Walter. They were doing well, however Walter would really choke on $150 in one big lump. She came to a turnoff, where the road split, and slowed. She headed down another three blocks, and prepared to make another turn. A stoplight, of course. And she had missed it. She always missed them--there was no God! she moaned. Oy, I shouldn't say such things. She thought of her newly-bought satin sheets, she always wanted to lounge on satin--God knows that's about all the bed was good for anymore. Walter was about as satisfying as a ...her thoughts broke off as a horn sounded somewhere, interrupting them. She looked left, looked right, back, then seeing no one, rolled down her driver-side window. Some guy was making handsies and asking something. "Whaaat!" Sara yelled, as only a N.Y. Jewess could yell. "Ike canth hear you," she yelled back. Such a nice looking boy, a tie! Mine Godt, she hadn't seen a tie on any of these ruffians in years. Surely, he was respectable. She pulled out at a medium acceleration, when the light permitted; closing the distance on the young man in moments. "I'm sorry, I'm lost, do you know where the convention center is?" he asked her. Of course, convention in town, that was it Sara mused. . Of course, she replied, "its straight for about ten blocks, there'll be a sign saying the name of the place, you just didn't go far enough." She smiled, knowing she'd solved his dilemma. He smiled, he really was a handsome fellow. Sandy hair, must be a Brook's Brothers outfit. He thanked her, waved and started heading north. She continued on, about to make the last turn before her neighbourhood. As Sara encountered the turn up ahead, she took a final look back at the object of her good deed. Momentarily distracted, she didn't notice a car pulling alongside. His window was down, as was her's, so was his passenger window. He reached across the empty seat, raised his arm, and pressed something. "I wonder what the convention is this week?" Sara pondered.

PLOP!

"Hoo! Ick! Whaaaat! was that?" she cawed like a magpie.

It felt like a water balloon, but no balloon.

She twirled in her seat looking for the source.

An old beat-up car was pulling away, she quick looked for the lisence. Oh, scheiss, it was full of mud, she couldn't read it.

Then she felt it slither down the side of her face, then her neck. It was sticky. Oh, her scarf, she hoped it wouldn't stain. She made the turn, went midway through the block, and pulled into a driveway. She didn't care who's, she had to attend to this. She mopped at her neck with her good scarf, before it spread out any further. She casually sniffed, ... it smelled funny. Now where had she smelled that before. Chemical, bathroom, shower, ... she froze. She tentatively poked one finger into the glop that was occupying her scarf. "Oh, God!" she felt ready to vomit. "I've been seminated! Mine scarf is full a schmeckle! Oh, oh God!" Sara clasped her hand to her heart, the hand that wasn't holding the scarf--and felt MORE, it seems she missed some. "Somebody sploofed on me! IIK!" Sara felt lightheaded, her heart pounding. She ripped through her pocketbook for Her cell phone. Quickly she hit the buttons, hoping her trembling fingers got the numbers right.

She gasped as the ringing began. "Ha hello, Walter. I'm only five streets from home, there's been a ... a no, not an accident. I'm allright. Walter, someone did something to me." Walter was trying to understand. Did what? "Oh, Walter, someone hit me with their seed. I got sperm all over me. Oh!" She began to sob. "I can't breathe! Come get me, I can't breathe!" Walter couldn't believe this, sure, something had happened, but his wife, of many long years, did exaggerate; a bit. "I am not coming out there that few blocks to pick you up. Drive home, we'll talk about this." he commanded. "Sara, come home, if it is what you say it is, it won't hurt you, its not acid. Walter thought about the times he had ejaculated on her. He allowed a grin. then a bigger grin.

"Cookie, listen, it probably isn't that, anyway. Just get home here." he chided. Sara stopped crying, and gasping. Funny how that came and went, Walter thought. "You listen to me Walter, she fumed. "I remember nights when you'd get ideas?" "Oh, God, here it comes." He took the phone a foot or two away from his ear. "I remember soaking my beautiful robe in Woolite, shmeckle all over me. I know semen! Two nights later? Three in the morning, trying to get your latest load off my designer pillow cases? Walter, you remember it was all over my Beige Perkale?" Walter flushed, and grew more than a little angry. "Sara, you listen to me," he put his foot down. "If you'd completed what a wife should do, and just swallowed it, it wouldn't have ended up there! Now get home here!" The phone went dead.

III.

Troy was aroused, ready for business.

He was remembering; thinking back to almost four months ago now. Couldn't believe it. It went by so fast, and he'd accomplished so much. The first time, all he'd had in his arsenal was a rubber glove, a raincoat, and a fake mustache. In the mall, that new one in Bricktown. And that young volleyball candidate had felt his mark. He got her good. Its a wonder they don't put plexiglass up, above food courts. Anyone could send down anything on unsuspecting people, hahaha! And he'd done it, then a fast getaway via the skyway. Easy. But crude---it was then that he'd begun to refine his craft. He wanted to improve the experience for the girls involved. In time that was going to be many, many girls.So, with that in mind, he brought together and applied all he knew.

He first designed a delivery system, so much better than a good pitching arm.It could be loaded from a, a reservoir of sorts.

Next,

he designed a belt, and a heavy duty pouch worn right next to his bare skin. That would keep the pint of semen pretty near body temperature. Au natural. This was the colostemy bag approach.

He thought, and laughed.

If you're going to all the trouble of saving up, and pumping out, all your precious emissions, and gracing chosen women with them, then the final moment of experience had to be a warm, lifelike liquidy kiss, not a cold startling intrusion! That was common sense. He needed two more things. His third addition was a set of attachments, christ, like a freakin' vacuum cleaner, he thought. With "the hand" jobber, he could merely flex his fingers, and just like SpiderMan, he could send gooey clots of cum, up to a good 30 feet! Wow, talk about extending your manhood! The fine-point nozzle, much like a hypodermic, would send out thin streams, under immense pressure; for his jism was viscous, so thick some women said they had to chew first. Finally, he needed an extender. He realized that even he, couldn't manufacture, in his balls, all the man juice he was gonna need. He needed something to add, just to help it along. He strove for keeping the bouquet and texture one hundred percent authentic! That was the whole idea. He went on the web, and found Bukakism, a website that sold quarts of synthetic semen analog. It was used in the money shots, the degradation scenes, little frightened third world women, slathered in white man cum! He ordered about fifty bucks worth, reminding himself that he'd still make damn sure that there'd be plenty of his own nut butter in the mix.

So, topping his equipment off with six different colour raincoats, khaki, black, cream, classic opera trench, navy and camo He was, at long last, prepared. The raincoats, all two full sizes larger than he normally wore, each one possessing cavernous pockets as well; concealed everything--the belt of semen bottles, the spritzers, and of course ..., his monsterous erection. He was titalated. He chuckled although his low laughter was more sinister than lighthearted. "I'm ready, let's see if this town is."

IV.

Doctor Avram Stillwater sat in his regal padded wheeled office chair and scratched his graying head. "I do not under stand this, not one bit." he sighed perplexed. He had been e-mailed the cases of severe breast cancer, breast melting that recent Bricktown Tumour Baby, horrible! Of course the deaths too. He was puzzled because with the 21 cases he was seeing, only four of these girls had even had sex. With their figures, not to mention their very lives, at risk, he doubted that they'd lied about that, when questioned. It seems that all the Bricktown horrors, as catalogued by Drs. Savatelli and Togarashi, were the result of a mycoplasm vector. Vector, vector I need a vector here. All of those girls, yeah, even the pre-op transie, had had multiple sex partners, or at the very least, one partner, with numerous rendezvous.

This confounded him. The mycoplasm was present, yet no contact? What could that mean? And, as he rose to his feet wearily, he asked no one in particular, just how many more women out there, that he didn't know about, had it?

V.

Troy couldn't believe his luck. This was perfect. A new setting, unthought-of by him. He was up in a tree, his camo raincoat, along with nature's gift of thick lush greenery to keep him hidden. He had gotten the chance to case this neighbourhood just three days ago---when he'd taken his little niece for the day. They did the zoo, and lots of ice cream, and some pretty tall stories. He loved little Eudora, although why his brother insisted on naming his little daughter after an email program was beyond him. At any rate, she was adorable, and could always make him laugh. So, as they drove around together, he'd spotted this street, nice medium price-range homes, big yards, and trees out the wazoo. "I'll bet taxes are high," he considered. He'd also seen that just four blocks away stood a natural foods store, two restaurants, and a bank. That meant people, people meant women of all kinds, and these trees meant he could perfect his tree-level cum shots. And perfect them, he would. He had a feeling learning to shoot from a tree or a roof would come in handy. He had no idea, just how right he was.

Tyla Katzen was a teller at the First National. She liked her job, people that visited her branch were for the most part, nice. She hated the dirty hands you got from handling filthy, inky, germy money. Oh, she hated germs. They were there, on everything! Everywhere! Worse, you couldn't see them at all! You had to wash, and spray, and wear protection, and pray that it all worked. Ugh! she exclaimed, I don't want to think, so many people handling their money, money that's in their pockets, pockets close to their Things! And how many people must there be that didn't wash up after...yuck! Then they'd hand over money, with those germy hands, to her, to make change! To deposit!

If she hadn't started wearing gloves, she would have quit. The thought of Germs overwelmed her. She got control of herself, and slowed her pace to the restaurant. She was going to enjoy the day!

PLOP!

Tyla spun around, feeling an oozing gunge rolling down her neck and shoulder. PLOP!, another one, on the right side. What was it? At first she thought, damn, the trees; a bird doodied on me!" But this was too much for one bird. And it was, "org!" warm. She got a creepy feeling. She felt around, while at the same time running past the tree line, across the street, and under a store awning. "There, safe!" she gasped, a trifle out of breath.

She turned and faced the wall, out of public sight, and quickly groped for the substance that was sliding down her cleavage. She pulled out one handfull, but missed the second one by an inch. Yucky poo! what was it, it stretched between her fingers like egg whites. It did smell a bit like egg whites. It had drippy clumps in it. She ran into the restaurant a few doors down. Known there as a regular, old Joe looked up and saw her. "Mornin' Miss Katzen." She saw who it was. "Oh, morning, Joe. I need, can you, I got splattered with something. No other soul was around me, it happened about a minute or two ago." Joe saw that Tyla was a little rockie on her feet. He sat her down, and listened to her story, and at the same time, grabbed a plastic laminated menu. "Here, drop it on here, the paper napkins would just soak it up--I wanna look at that." She did as he ordered. He took it back toward the offices, and a young food preparer approached him. "Mr. Jevski, what's that glop? Not some new sauce I gotta work with, is it?" he giggled a bit. "Nope, its something strange, maybe fell out of a plane, I don't know. Tyla yelled toward the back, as she now felt more composed, "I first thought it was bird doodoo, Joe!" "Mighty big bird eh?" the young apprentice spoke up. Joe thought a minute--as Terry got closer, and sniffed it. "Oo, it can't be, yuck!" "What's with you young fellow?" Joe asked, as Terry wrinkled his nose. "A, ... boss? I think, well, its uh, um ... --" he dipped his forefinger into the slop. "Oh, sheee sorry sir, I think its cum a I mean, semen. It sure resembles semen boss!" Joe's forehead wrinkled, just like Terry's nose. He thought about it. Oh, God, it sure did "Sir, are you gonna tell her?" "Wait here, Terry. I think you'd better call the cops. "The police?" Terry's voice rose up two notches. "Why?" As Joe got up, and didn't answer him, Terry hesitated. Oh, is he gonna tell her? From outside the little backroom of an office, a scream pierced the quiet hour. . Terry began dialing.

VI.

Kathy was renewed. Reborn! Gonna start a new day.

Max had stayed over, gentle, kind considerate Max.

She knew she loved him, and that would just grow stronger.

He had, with hands, mouth, thighs and other assorted body parts, drove all the demons of yesterday away. Last night, the veal was yummamundo! The tiramisu after that, was a powerfull weapon, warding off the semen splatter, as well as the wrecked movie. And their lovemaking? That even took care of ill-parked cars and her treading upon the dead birds! Yeah! As Kathy hopped in the shower, scrubbing and cleansing and deep-breathing, she forgot all her cares. Today was the start of the rest of her weekend. She turned off the water, and began to towell off. She did her hair, then another towell for her body. It was a nice, tripple thick beach towell Max had given her. She rubbed and rubbed, then hung it over the shower bar. She opened the bathroom door to let the steam out, and looked at herself in the hallway mirror.

Yipes! She must have scrubbed too hard, her right breast was all red! She looked at her left one--what was this? Tiny little freckles, faint discolourations. Only mildly concerned, she sat in a chair, and proceeded to give herself a thorough self examination. "Nothing, nothing, I'm not worried," she sang. She sang a silly mantra to the walls. "I'm upset, i'm upset, nothing here that I'll regret. I ..."

Her thoughts curdled.

Her right hand, wiggling and probing, felt a lump!

Her little song, died in her throat; replaced by a croaking sound. Now, comparing the two breasts, by closing her eyes, and letting her fingers map all her familiar teritory, she measured the two---right, left, right, left, ...and there, next to her left nipple, as if trying to hide, she found a tiny seed-shaped mass.

She took her left hand away from her left breast, since that lump was firm, and quite pronounced. She pressed both thumbs, both forefingers around the new little mass she'd found. It squashed, breaking up into little bits. "That's good, musta been fat or cellulite or---then a hope-freezing terror choked her. It broke up, the pieces! They're in me. In me! Kathy reared up, knocking the chair over, determined to break the hold this thing had on her. She drew in one breath, shuddered, tried for another. On her third deep breath, Kathy screamed her guts out. She went on screaming! She screamed at this intrusion into her life. She screamed for finding this thing alone. She screamed, herself hoarse!

VII.

Troy Murohy

couldn't believe how luck could change!

One minute, he had just scored a double glop hit on a woman, and off she runs into a restaurant. So, he had decided to stay hidden perched up in his tree, his camo intact. The next minute, after a very satisfying scream met his ears, she and this old guy come tromping out, and they are like, holding a meeting out there. He couldn't stay up here all day. Then he heard the siren. "Oh, great!" he flared. "This is all I need." Looking across the street, a police car had vomited forth a man and woman team. Then an animated discussion ensued, this was not good. He wished he'd brought one other thing with him. Note to self, he intoned, "include small binnocular in arsenal." Better yet, he ellaborated, I need something to hear, as well as see for long distances. He would be sure to procure these items, for next time.

He was mulling over, just how long this little coffee klutsch might take, when his revery was broken by excited talking and running feet. He craned his neck in different directions to locate the source. Then, he found it! "Aha!" he postured, "This could get interesting." He checked his equipment and amunition. People poured forth from sidestreets, the curious did what human nature dictated--inquiring minds wanted to know. Three guys, mid 20's or so, two women, ah, who could tell, or cared for that matter, and an old retread wheeling a stroller, appeared. "Now this, is gonna be entertainment." He lined up a shot on one of the women. This one had to be just right, he dared not give away his height advantage, or his ass was cooked. Slowly, carefully, he squeezed forth the flexible reservoir, full of this morning's sensational climaxes. He lined up on a blonde, back of her neck was about right, especially with two guys right behind her. Oh, the suspense, the danger. Troy loved the moment---fire! A wet exit sound much like a soggy match being struck, burst forth. Then the damn blonde moved! No, no! He clenched his firing hand, where would it, Oh, Christ," It got the right ear of the police woman, got her full on. All of it. "Oh, this is it," Troy thought. He sat back to see the drama unfold, a sick feeling expanding outward from the pit of his stomach.

Christine Pedorsky felt the wet slap on her right ear, and was disoriented for a minute, she had lost her hearing in that ear. She whirled around, and saw ... two guys laughing, a blonde, a grandma, a baby. She yelled for her partner. Cooper, don't let any male leave this area, I'm calling for another car!" Cooper, a big fat street cop gave her a questioning look. "Any male, what do you mean?" "I just got slimed, and obviously a woman didn't do it, just keep anyone from leaving this little crowd. We've got the bastard who slimed the bank teller; and now me. And he's gonna face assault charges, and anything else I can dream up!" Christine wanted to shake this stuff off, to get it out of her ear! She tried to keep her professionalism intact, that was getting hard to do. The sludge was slowly working its way down to her collar bone. She felt goosebumps, and started to clap a hand to the slop. She couldn't let it travel any farther. Cooper radioed for additional help, then went outside to pace off the perimeter. He slowly made his way away from the throng of people, all milling around now, all gaping and wondering. Well, fuck, let 'em wonder. He walked past the cars, the sidewalk, across the street. He glanced down the street to the trees. Troy thought he'd shit for sure. The big doughnut-filled dildo nose was heading his way. Oh, wouldn't that be great, yes that was it. He could just shit right on the guy--nice giveaway. Pathetic! Whosis cop just walked around, circled, scratched his butt, looked at the buildings, looked up at the trees, back at the crowd, up the road for a car, across at a plastic bag blowing. Troy felt better, this guy had no concept of where the cum attack had come from. He was safe. Soon, another police cruiser came barreling along. They took everyone concerned, downtown. Troy wondered just how they were going to find a perp. Get all the men to do a ... a what? Load in a cup? That was rich. How would they possibly solve this little gem. He waited around up in his tree, and dug out a Clark bar. He wanted to make sure even a stray cat didn't see him climb down. That was close; as close as he ever intended to get. Boy, clark bars were great. He began trying to mentally tell the dif between Fifth Ave, Butterfinger and Clark bars. He'd have to buy all three at once, then compare. Yeah, why not? I can do that while I'm out getting the sound pickup and binoculars. He licked the chocolate from his fingers. There was so much more to come.

VIII.

Officer Christine Pedorsky was feeling nauseous. She wanted to run, not walk, into that restaurant's facilities, and get this godamned jizz off of her body--yes, nice tidy evidence bag. She didn't have the opportunity however. To carry all the people from the incident location, they had needed both cars, and one more. So, as she was running them all downtown, she was forced to ride with her partner, while the goo made its way, lower and lower. God, there was so much of it! she thought. Christine thought she'd halted its advance downward, by clapping her hand to her uniform. But when she did that, she felt a squirt, and the stuff went from her collar, taking the exact direction she didn't want it to go. "Determined glop," she muttered. "This guy must be a real animal," said Cooper to no one in particular. "He must really get a thrill from this," Christine said. "This type either can't get a girl, or wants to brand them for some reason. "I disagree," "Oh?" she questioned. "It may not be either of those things. I still think that he loves the excitement. He gets off on the shock value. It creeps out his victims so they go into screams and fits." "Yeah, which I suppose supports the guess that he stays around to witness his success?" "Probably." Coop asked her "So you still think then, that we've got him scooped up with the others?" "If he shot that stuff, he'd have very little time to hoof it; and besides, he'd want to suck up all the mayhem. Just like the fire starters, they usually are on the outskirts, in raptures of what their work has done. They get aroused by it, right?" "Sure, some do, some don't, but in this case, I am not sure we got him." "I think right now," officer Pedorski trumpeted, "he's heading for the precinct as we speak, at a nice 35 miles per hour." Poor, officer Christine! On top of being completely wrong, she was also completely unaware of just how much trouble she was in. It just wasn't her day.

It was a circus. Timing is everything--and this was some bad timing. Sara and Walter Fineman, stomped in, complaining that "Sara had been humiliated, assaulted, soiled beyond imagination!" Between the Finemans, the nine people from the latest sliming incident, and one ornery police woman, strutting around demanding answers, the fracass couldn't stay contained. Well, the story leaked. It leaked to the press. It leaked like a plumber's nightmare. The press, all three nets, and stringers that would sell to Fox, WB, UPN, and anyone else who'd pay, were there--storming the police station. Max saw the story on his computer, and called Kathy. They met, and headed downtown. He wanted some answers, and she was in no shape to go alone--they'd just come from her doctor, earlier that day. Kathy had undergone a biopsy, and the results weren't in yet. So, he vowed to take care of her. Parking was always a bitch, when you got downtown, but this was worse than usual. Cars were everywhere" A convention coming to town, reporters, policemen everywhere. They parked two blocks away, and trotted the distance, entering the station. It was a free-for-all. Near as they could tell, there had been a major knock-down drag-out at the very theater they been to last weekend. Then this latest sliming; that was the word traveling around the mumbling reporters. There was a girl, talking to one of the reporters, Max and Kathy gave up looking for any authority figure, and wandered over, listening in. It seems that her name was Melissa, and she'd been dumped on by this horrible glop, months ago! What was this? Max got the loud middle-aged woman's attention, and asked her what had happened to her. He gained her trust by explaining that his lovely girlfriend here, had been spattered upon, as well as half a dozen others in a movie theater. That seemed to placate the woman. "Oy, it was terrible!. I was driving, and stopped to give this boy directions. Then I was heading home--and I got squirted with goo, right through my open car winda! I felt so abused!" The guy with her, apparently her husband, looked like he'd had to endure her story a million times already. What was all this?" Max wondered. Then, as if a switch had been thrown, a hush began soaking through the crowd. Kathy took Max's arm, and they walked off, to try to find the reason for it. They did. Three lawyers, a police chief, and someone from the mayor's office had just arrived on the scene. This was major. "Let's go home, and watch the outcome on TV, I think you'd do better relaxing through all this shit," Max said to Kathy. "Yeah, I think my nerves wanna get off the roller coaster. You got any good drinkables?" "Na, but we'll go raid the store, how's that?" "That, and some Chinese food, really sounds good." Turning their backs on the whole mess, they left. Max's last glimpse of the whole scene included that whining soiled woman, wanting justice. If she smelled lawyers, and if they smelled money in it, he was sure she'd take that instead. Those people always did.

IX.

He almost lost it.

"There really is a God, and he likes me!" cried Troy.

Troy was reading the day's paper, and there was his story. " SLIMER SPLATTERS CITIZENS!" it read. He was barely able to contain himself. He read on, yes, yes, the woman, the other woman. OO, even the girl from months ago showed up, great. And the Metroplex. Oh, the assaults, battery, injuries!" He couldn't believe it. He threw down the paper, ran for the remote. He surfed the stations, clicking around--good, it was coming up on the hour. Then, there it was! He dove for the kitchen, this was going to be a three beer story. He found the bottle opener, and brought in some paper napkins, and three beers. Don't wanna run back out for the other two later on," he thought. He prepared to veg out in his Tempurpedic recliner, his new favorite. There was a talking head, then a news action reporter, then a ... he froze! A doctor? From the clinic? What the fuck was that all about? He eased down, putting down the two beers, upending the first one down his throat. "Our findings indicate that this anonymous man, and his unsavory practice of deluging women with his ejaculate, is in reality, spreading an extremely dangerous disease."

Troy almost spit beer.

"What shit!"

He was clean. He had no, no discharge, lord, he hadn't done a woman in, how long was it?" He stopped his fuming, listening further. Every woman who has been hit with his bodily fluids is, in fact, developing growths, as I speak." Growths? You can't give somebody growths? Then it struck him, oh! Of course! A trick, it was a ... and not very clever, either. It was a trick, to get him to turn himself in, or to get checked out by a hospital. Then they'd match his cum up with the evidence he'd left behind. Damn, he was good. Of course, it would match, it was all his! He wasn't falling for anything like that. He was smarter than all of them.

Doctor Stillwater felt as light as air, and at over 258 pounds, that was quite an accomplishment. But, the news had been good. No, great! All those women, at least the ones here in his charge, were benign. No danger, none. They all had growths, and it would be a little disfiguring for them, unless they wanted surgery, but at least their systems were not compromised. And now he knew why. It seemed that the mycoplasms had to be introduced Internally, for the growths to take hold and turn to cancer. So, no matter how much glop this individual threw at women, they would not develop any serious condition. He was elated! Now, he had to develop an agent to counteract it. Cysts and fat nuggets could be dissolved.

Troy was on his third beer, and was surfing channels. The more perspectives he could get on his handiwork, the more fun it was. He noted that on one station, they were profiling him--ha! Imagine, trying to figure out what made him tick." They said he despised women. One woman said ye had bad teenage years. What a crock. A pshrink insisted that he was groping with gay issues. Fuck that! A bloated oprah cow look-alike insisted that this anonymous objectification of women was the only way he could become aroused. "Yeah, bitch, if you weren't a fat brown cow, I'd find you and show you different!" he snapped, they were all wrong. He was in it for the thrill. It had nothing to do with sex. He just loved to hear the screams, and imagine the total outrage, the turning red, the violation! "My body, oh, he got me!" That's what he craved.

Troy was coming to the end of the station choices.

Slamming down his remote, he picked up the paper again.

"Have ta save this," he mused.

As he thumbed through it, he happened to glance at a local news spot, some commerce garbage. What was this, city planners got their drawers in a knot again? He read down, and saw---! "Oh, Jesus fuck!" "Holy cuntmeat!" he exclaimed. This was it--the living it--the ultimate quintessential it! The ABSOLUTE IT! Yes, Right then and there, he decided;

There is a God, after all!

X.

It was a collective scream that no doubt, any good psychic could have heard across town. Sara Fineman had gotten up out of a troubled sleep, her tortured soul roiling from the night before. Such treatment! She was gonna sue the city for this outrage. What kind of world was it that you couldn't drive down the street, in broad daylight without getting pelted with goo from some polluted individual. She sought an atourrney right then and there. The one she found, Cohen, wouldn't take the case. He said that they'd be laughed out of court. She left the police station, Walter yelling at her all the while. So, that was that, a great opportunity wasted. What else was there to live for? Sara drew a nice hot tub, stepped out of her night clothes, and sunk into a nice, fragrant bath. That would calm her frayed nerves.

Christine was wolfing down her third pastry of the morning with her coffee. She knew she had better stop fulfilling the cop stereotype, doughnuts and cops--otherwise, if she kept this up, she'd look alot like her partner. Coop would have been nice to put the moves on, if he wasn't so, so huge. Ah well. she sighed. Christine went to pour some milk into her coffee, and it was at that moment that the cardboard carton betrayed her with a mind of its own. A torent of milk got her right in the midriff.

"Oh, damn, first powdered sugar, now this," She rose up from the table and shed the soiled clothes. Nothing like starting over. She started a quick shower, another one, and stepped in. She had to plan another outfit for the day. She lathered up with Caress, her new favorite, and the fragrance began to sooth her. That is, until she noticed funny-looking things on her right breast. She took a washcloth, and began to soap the marks away. That was when she felt the lump.

Sara was applying great volumes of scented oil to her pampered skin. She did her arms, those dry elbows were always a problem. She began massaging it into her breasts, after all, you simply had to keep ahead of mother nature. Then she found, IT!

Simultaneously, both women began a low wail--that built into a noise from the very depths of their being. The now reverberating shriek echoed off their bathroom walls. It kept building until they both each threatened to strip their vocal cords. Christine Pedorsky was a little more rational and composed herself. She quickly began examining herself in minute detail, looking, praying, looking. Oh, at least it was just one. No more. She would get dressed, call in sick, and run to her doctor. Sara on the other hand, wasn't as composed. She jumped out of her tub, suds and oil going everywhere, and ripped open the medicine cabinet. She took a dixie cup, filled it from the sink, and began scarfing down red pills, blue ones, another couple of tranquilizers, a total of nine in all. She would ride this out and self medicate, until her doctor's office opened in two hours. She held and nurtured her right breast. Then it dawned on her. "That was where his seed touched me!" Sara immediately brought up all the pills.

Christine was getting dressed, again, when a light went off above her head. "Ick! That breast was where that creep's STUFF went." She, much like someone else across town, a someone she didn't even know, also lost all her morning's pleasures to the toilet. It was "bye bye breakfast" for both ladies.

On this fine, clear morning, the cause of both women's despair was stretching, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He had fallen asleep smiling, what a great dream. Now he came fully awake, and realized that it wasn't a dream. It was a once in a lifetime chance. That article he had spotted in his newspaper, oh happy day! Within three weeks, something major was coming. And he was going to meet it. The question was, "How?"

Promptly at ten, Sara Fineman hurried into Memorial hospital. She had a sick feeling, her tummy was still in knots. Her throat was still sore from throwing up. She dared not take more pills. She couldn't stand to bring them all up again. "Hello, Mrs. Fineman," called the receptionist. She knew her well. "The doctor will see you now, please go down the hall to his outer office." Sara never understood that, why was it always "the doc will see you now," if all you did was go from one room to another, while the doctor finished up something? There were three other people in the waiting room, when she opened the door. Sara found a seat, and began eyeing the magazines. Her hands trembled a bit. She kept trying to erase the worried look she knew she was projecting. She clutched her breast, absent-mindly, that one! the one He soiled! "Are you all right?" an unfamiliar voice asked politely. Sara looked up. There sat a bright-eyed younger woman, next to her. "I, oh, I'm just here for a che che checkup." Christine didn't quite believe that. Then she felt her woman sense go off, and noticed how the other older woman, favored her right breast, must like you would surround and cuddle a frightened pet. "Are you in here for a, an exam?" Christine cupped her hand around her right one as well. "Why, yes I am! You too?" "Oh, I think so, I hope its nothing. I found a ... this morning and I'm not sure." "So did I, I was in the bath and I felt it and I'm so scared, and my pills didn't help and oh God why me? That awfulperson threw glop on me and I ..." Christine froze upon hearing this.

"Hold on, wait a minute. She sidled nearer, and spoke in confidence. "You said a person threw--? Did by any chance, something, a hit your, something warm and gooey, go down your, a , bra?" "Oh my! Yes, I was driving, and got socked by this huge glob of..." Sara couldn't say it. "Through my car window, it violated me!" "That's almost what happened to me, I was at a possible crime scene, and splok! I was hit, I first thought it was bird poop!" She couldn't believe it. "Now we both have, oh! Do you have a la la lump too?" Christine cringed, but managed a nod. "We're unclean, he marked us, this is the end for us," Sara wailed. That was the one thing Christine Pedorsky did not need to hear. Then she had a great idea. "Listen, I know. I can go in with you, instead of both of us being by ourselves. We're both here for the same thing, I'm a police officer. I would be more than happy to stay with you for the ... whatever happens." Sara looked up, she liked the sound of that. "I'd like that, oh, I don't want to get the news all alone. My husband (she frowned, not good) thinks I'm imagining all this." "Ok, we do this together." Christine said, and felt a little better.

How, in whoever's name, was Troy going to manage this? This one wasn't an engineering problem. He couldn't solve this one by building something. Hmmm. He paced and thought. The mother of all concerts, all female artists, was coming to Palladium. That was only 30 minutes away, at a moderate clip. He had a mission. So many women! It was calling out to him. He had to go, he had a duty to perform. He was gonna humiliate as many women there as his amunition would allow. Three weeks, eh? He had to prepare. He paced more. He thought; "all female acts! Dykes, bi-women! So much tuna in one place. Oh the screams, this was gonna make even more newspapers! He had to be there. They all had to feel the touch of his manhood! He was sketching out the delivery problem. He couldn't just whirl around firing shots, that would surely get noticed by say, the tenth barrage. No, this would mean going there, hours ahead. Staking out a hiding place, and then cutting loose.

There had to be a way.

Three days went by, and Troy Murohy wasn't a quitter, not by a longshot. He drove out to the Palladium, and began assessing his options. This was not going to be easy. He had to deliver a nice big cum shot to at least a hundred women. Even if he could acrue that much ammo, how to deliver it on target? He walked through the vast spectator arena. It had tiers, like a movie theater. But it was huge, he couldn't pull the stunt he pulled two months ago at the Metroplex. Shit, how was he---?" He looked up. Lights, beams, speakers. Then he saw them, pannels. Not quite the same as sound proofing tiles, but some kind of panels. That meant a drop ceiling, and where there were drop ceilings, there would probably be a crawl space. Now, how to get to it. Fifteen feet or so up? Hmmm. Stairs!

Troy ran for the hallways, there had to be bathrooms, maintinance closets, etc. He ran down a hall, nope, offices. He ran back, tore ass down another one. Bathrooms, well, that was a start. He doubled back. He was running out of directions in which to go. "Oh, fuck! Where's a stairwell?" he growled. Then he thought of it. "Its been blocked off. They must have done renovations, and nowadays they use scaffolding, the idiocy of modern America, shit!" OK, stay calm. This is just a temp setback. He thought of finding a huge ladder, dragging it into one of the bathrooms. He ran into the facilities. Oh, Christ, no panels in here, its all solid ceiling! He ran out, this was really keeping the pounds off. He saw a little door, like a miniature fire door, grey metal. Hmm, where's that go. He opened it, or tried to. Stuck. He looked for a lock. Ah, a lock. But not a dead bolt. He took a credit card from his wallet, and within two minutes, it surrendered to him. He pulled, when he felt the latch give, and it squeaked open. What was this? He inhaled some dust, sneezed. Musty, not used much. That meant low traffic. Very low. He saw a dim-lit bare-bulb, room with breakers, fire extinguishers, a terminal box, ah! He saw what he had been drooling for. A narrow staircase that went nowhere. Or rather, it went up, up to the false ceiling. Oh paydirt!" This was it. This was one of those times that Troy thanked the cosmos that he was average, nondescript. Not too tall, not heavy, forgettable in a crowd. He pushed up at the ceiling panels, they moved! Oh, happy happy, joy joy! He pushed two of them back, they clattered overhead. Oopsie! he laughed. He eased himself up, damn he needed a flashlight. It was out in his car. Oh, just a look for now. He waited for his eyes to adjust. Then he began crawling, evenly distributing his weight, along the fixed metal supports, carefully avoiding the panels that would bring him and themselves cascading down, a good fifteen feet or more, to the hard chairs below. He didn't need a broken back, not here, not now.

He went about ten feet, and slowly, quietly, raised a panel. Ah, hallway, a little more. He went out another ten feet, different direction. He pulled back a panel, judging by the curving permanent walls he was looking at, he was almost there. Oo yes, the back of the arena! He crawled straight from here, pulled one back. Yes! He'd found his golden opporrtunity. Now, how to fine tune it. He took a notepad and a felt tip, and began to draw a map. It was a very detailed map.

XI.

That was horrible! It took days for the results to come through. It was days of waiting! What if, what then? Both women were tearing their hair out, biting their nails off. A lump, both women had them. And it was all that bastard's fault, Sara just knew it! Christine wasn't sure, at least not until an additional doctor conferred with her own doctor. Both doctors had called, and sure enough, all the women that had been spewed upon, had odd malformations in their breasts. Every one of them. The good news was that in all of the cases, the "phantom glopper" as she called him, only produced benign cysts. Those could be dealt with.

Sara wanted more. She demanded that her insurance company pay for therapy as well. The jury remained out on that one.

Troy was back at his improvised workshop. He loved to be creative, he loved working with tools. Making things, fitting things into place; using things already made, for unimagined uses, that was even better. He was taking mouthfuls of different herbs now. He was hoping to increase his seminal output, for the big day! Damiana, salt palmetto and yohimbine, all showed promise, yes! He could feel the difference, in just five days! If a light breeze touched him, he was up and dripping precum. This was going to be fantastic. His explosive climaxes, all stored for safe-keeping, would fill every women in range, with embarrassment, outrage, and dread! OK, that part was humming along nicely. Now, for improvements on his motus aparandi.

First, he decided on the inconspicuous approach.

He'd go to the event as a woman!

He could do the closest shave of all times, makeup, anyone could stuff a bra. That shouldn't be too difficult. "Beauty" was comin' out. Next, he needed to arrange it so that his supplies would be hidden away, ready to use, in his little alcove. So, two days before the concert, he would go there, raincoat stocked with everything he could possibly need, and hide it all away. There was no use in showing up at a clit-fest, as a raincoated dorky guy.

The days crept by.

Troy had trippled his "output", it was humongus!

He had over two dozen vials, each one could deliver two large gloppy shots apiece. Then he began cutting his ejaculate with the new artificial jizz-wizz It was going perfectly. Within an hour, he had enough amunition for about a hundred women. That was the number that struck a chord. He was also in luck inasmuch as the synthetic cum contained a light preservative, keeping his real man-juice fresh and stable. Good. He looked up the program of acts online. Oo, he cooed. "Shakira was coming. Belly dance hey? Like ta plop one on her, right on her bouncing belly all right!" Liz Phaire, Debbie Harry, that old has-bin! Poor tired Sarah Mcclachlan, Shawn Culvin. The big question was, during whose performance, did he want his performance? hahaha! He closed his eyes and imagined fans yelling, and catching a couple, right in their yelling open mouths! Now that would make the week! Troy still didn't believe the medical propaganda they had released. He was pretty sure that he was clean. Just the same though, he thought; wouldn't it be the ultimate scandal, the ultimate marrow-freezing horror for a woman, all those women--if he did have something infectious? That would traumatize some of them good. Maybe for life!

Officer Christine was applying sunblock, even when she didn't need it. After this little trist, she wasn't taking any chances. She saw the morning paper, and oh wow! A huge concert soon--nearby to. Hmmm, she perused the different acts. "I might just go to this," she mused dreamily. Then her mind rolled back to her little sliming event. You don't suppose He'd show up there, and try that? She thought; He did do his thing to people at our own Metroplex. She picked up her phone, and called her captain. They had some things to discuss.

One day to go.

Troy had practiced, taking Beauty out for two test runs.

The first, was to a nice restaurant. The pumps were uncomfortable, but he needed the practice. All went well, he even got away with using the ladies' room, and sitting down to do his business. He'd almost forgot--a loud masculine standing pee would have raised the hackles on every hole within fifty feet. He didn't need that.

The second recon was to a straight bar. Jesus, is this how it really was. He was brushed against, hit on, whistled at, and had five drinks bought for him. Hmmm, I guess I passed the test. "Hi, I'm Nelson." Oh, great, a huge, hairy muscle-turning-to-fat, athletic looks-going to-seed dude sat next to him. He thought fast. "I'm Trina," not a bad corruption of Troy. "So, ever been here before?" "Oh, I'm new in town--I just found a job here." "Well, we'll have ta get acquainted." Nelson said, as if from a script. Great, wrong thing to say, new in town. Oh, shit. There was only one thing to do, and it was a shame to cut the evening's practice run short--but this did prove that he could bring it off. "A, excuse me, I have to say bye bye to these last three drinks, a woman's bladder you know--haha!" He got up, grabbed his ... bag. Yuck, he still couldn't do the "woman-think" and call it a purse. It had everything he needed. Off to the l-room he charged. With in ten minutes, a raincoated, slightly red-faced (from the shaving plus rapid makeup removal) dude cautiously opened the ladies' room door a crack, and peered out. "Come on, hurry up your fat-ass, now!" He stealthily padded out in his sneakers, and melted into the hallway. Upon arriving back at the bar, he saw the empty stool, and Nelson, looking like a nine-year-old waiting to lick the cake batter bowl.

He ignored him, and sat three stools away, and ordered a Coors. It was all perfect. He rooted around and found three singles. His beer arrived. Yes, it was going to work.

XII.

"You want to what?" Captain Woods raised his voice, his favorite technique. "And do what, may I ask? If you show up there, in plain clothes, you could get spewed on again, need I remind you?" "Well, if I show up in uniform--" Christine began

"Ahem, if I recall, you were in uniform, and had just gotten out of your car when you got belted with it the first time, right or wrong?" Damn him. "Well, what do you suggest?" She refused to be diminished by him. "I still think we should cover the event, I have a feeling." "Maybe so, but we'll do it a different way, with no cowgirl heroics. I'm assigning two officers to cover it." Christine's heart jumped, she drew in a breath. "Two, male, officers." the captain clarified. "Oh, I see. Well, I suppose so." "Besides officer Pedorsky," the captain stretched and extended a forefinger, "we don't even know if he's going to show up. He has always stuck close to home--our town. This may not be important to him." "I just know it is," she answered. I just feel it is.

The big Friday had finally arrived.

Troy was charged up, ready to go. This would be his greatest achievement. He had, two days earlier, stashed his canvas bag of supplies in the crawlspace, under an old dropcloth. Nobody had been up there since his first visit. Better to let two days go by, than try going up there on the day of the concert. His moving around up there might be noticed by some roadees or techies or whatever the fuck they were called these days--setting up lighting, and doing sound checks. Christ, imagine accidentally breaking through his nook, sending a ceiling panel down on the head of a young Clearasil-faced grunt? No sirree! He needn't have worried. The early afternoon snuck up on him, and soon, an attractive Trina was driving along, heading for the big event. There was going to be a big turnout. This was going to be huge. No one could have guessed, just how huge.

Parking was a bitch. And she was having puppies.

Trina parked blocks away--oh well, at least he'd converted to flats, no pumps today! He/she went in, masking the cold calculating apraisals with smiling casual looks and stares. He was rummaging for his ticket, when low and behold! what was this? A policeman. No, two, three! There was some nice security here tonight. Hmmm, he wondered if there was indeed, more security than usual. She went up to one of the keystones. "Hello, is there, like, some problem here tonight?" "Oh, no, said the officer. Just the usual. We don't want any drugs or drinking here," he lied through his unbrushed teeth!

Shit, Troy got a cold, creepy feeling.

He could always go directly to his seat and enjoy the---no! He was not sitting through Nellie or Natalie Embrolia whatever the fuck. He turned and, instead of knowingly going there, he asked instead--"Um, do you know where the a ... the ladies' room possibly is, I drove in and should've well, you know." Trina giggled and batted her eyes, oh, if she'd only had some gum to snap. She gave him that "I'm just a mere little grrl in distress, you big tough officer/guy/man you," look, and he was putty! He melted for her. I can show you darlin'. Oh, he could've won an Oscar. Off they went, the cop never imagining that he was aiding and abetting what was to come. "I could come in there and help you," the cop joked, smiling. Wonder if anything was indeed, on his mind? Troy thought. Instead he piped up, "Oh, you silly, I'll bet your like, married and everything. You go outside." Troy couldn't resist. "I'm not that kind of girl!"

The officer tried to save, no, recover, face.

"Oh, I'm sure you're not." He loped off.

Troy laughed in his natural voice. "Truer words were never spoken."

Troy had decided to strip off all the womanhood so as not to get anything dirty. How would he explain that. So, off came Trina, and, in jeans and a t, he crept down the hall, carrying bag number two. All his disguise-ware for the final exit was in there. Into the cruddy utility room he went, this time with flashlight. He grabbed a trash can, and right before he closed the door, he slid it almost in front of the doorjamb. He smeared grease all over the door, so no one would want to touch it. Better yet, any curious cop or whoever, would think that no one else had touched it---for a very long time. He had disposable gloves, for that.

He slung the Trina disguise bag over at the beginning of the gridwork to mark his place. Then he very quietly, got into his armada-firing mode. All that semen within the flexible reservoirs, eek! it was cold, had to warm up next to his body. He had plenty of time. He actually relished being away from the noise and clammer of what was about to begin. He saw, for the first time, a ridged metal hollow cable, the kind that old houses had in their basements for the 220-voltage current. Hmmm, he crawled to it, and oh my my! What had we here. It was a, what was it. He brought out one of his eye pieces. Holy shit on a bun. One of the lights had a bulb out, and this eyepiece was looking right through the hole where the bulb should have gone. He could use this. He rooted around and found what he'd dare not hope for. A second one. He was in heaven. One hole for the eyepiece. The second for his squirter system. It was almost too easy. He peered down, getting a general lay of the land. There was his dorky cop. There was a pair of dykes. Another cop. Two straight couples on a double date or something. He changed angle. More women. Oh, so many women. Well, little fillies, prepare to get branded.

He had one last idea before the major crowds started piling in. He crept back out, and down those narrow stairs. He placed an old piece of railing in such a way, that it would be impossible to pry the door open, even if somebody guessed where he was. Kinda like the chair under the doorknob trick.

Actually, Troy was so calm, cool and collected, he decided to dose off. Like anyone would hear him, fifteen feet above all that chaos.

He started awake--a thud! Where was he? Oh, of course, then a rhythm developed, thud thud thud. Ah, the show begins.

He didn't remember who the first act was, he didn't even care. He primed his apparatus for the first test firing. He focused his eyepiece, and then it hit him. How was he to coordinate the two? He couldn't aim like when he was up in his tree, or the Metroplex. Shit, all this work! Now what. He couldn't give up. He sent one of his finger nozzles slowly down the hole in the light fixture. He fired. Woa! He could do general ball park, but not a fine aim like he was used to. Well, at least he landed his very first one on some guy's head. And the dufus didn't even notice yet! He even thought of moving to different panels, raising them and firing. That wouldn't work. If he raised a panel, without seeing below it first, some idiot could be looking up at that very moment. Then the alarm would spread, they'd find him. All that work! He sighed, and really felt like just sending the heavy panels down on every clit present. No, he had control. He was better than all those below him right now. There had to be a ... way. Troy crawled over to the far wall, almost out of range of the arena itself. This was something new. He dusted off the metalwork with his gloved hands. Ho! A fire supression system. Now what can I do with this? He located the smoke detectors. No good. He located the alarm system, too loud, even up here. He ripped that apart. No good. Then he was struck by Satori! a True enlightenment, in one momentous flash! The sprinkler system! No aiming necesary here. He dashed back and brought out of his bag, into the dim light, every drop of amunition he possessed. All of it. He scooted over to the now, slightly compromised fireproofing system. He found the hoses, must led to water valves somewheres. He unscrewed these, and began to get a spray of water. Oh, fuck, if this drips down, they'll know I'm up here. He hadn't planned for this. He improvised. He followed the hoses, and bingo! Faucets. He turned them, their squeaks sounding like tortured mice. Now, he resumed his tampering. He undid all the water hoses, and connected his, well, thicker, richer alternative to h2o. Now, this would be good. He could technically be in two places at once. He once again, foraged around in all his supplies, and found what he needed. Maps, yes, burnable! A butane lighter, perfect. Matches. He hauled out some medical tape, the stuff he used to tape his balls in place when he went for the woman disguise--an old old dragqueen trick. It was so very convincing, I'm sure! he teased. He taped the tore-up paper, the lighter and some dried lint he found up there, to the fire-detection system's sensor array. Then he unrolled a lot of strips of paper, this took time, he had to tape them all together. Two feet. ... four feet. damn this was drudge work! Six feet. He had to do more, he needed a delay-action, a long one. He needed time to get out. Another act began, this one screechier than the first. Oh, yucko! who the hell was that one? Fifteen feet of paper and trash, he got going in a straight line. Now, he ran back, checking one final time, all his goop was ready for when the sprinkler valves were informed of the raise in temperature, i.e., fire. He struck one match. It went out. He struck another, it lit.

Troy touched it to the paper.

It caught.

He spread both gloved hands over his work; in an all-encompassing mockery of Genesis. "It is good," he intoned. Let there be light. And there was.

XIII.

His heart was pounding. This had never happened before.

Now, this part was crucial. Everything had to fit together, he had to get out of this crawl-space. He had to get unobserved, into the ladies' room, change, head out, and leave, as if dissatisfied with the show--before the rain of terror began to fall. He really wanted to change back into Trina, up here, that way if the ladies' room was occupied, he'd be dead, going in as a man. Yeah, he'd better do that. This sucked. He was cramped, bad lighting, and he couldn't allow any of his female garments to get soiled. That would rip credibility from him, but good! He got his jeans and t-shirt stowed away, now. He slowly transformed. The makeup, ah, shit. That, at least, he could reapply downstairs. He already looked three quarters like a woman. It all worked, he crept down, removing the metal bar. He inched the door open--just a crack. No one. He inched it open, more. He reached out, slowly sliding the trash can away from the door. Easy as pie. all the while, up above, seconds ticked by. He got into the ladies' room, it was full. Christ, his god was with him. He redid the face completely. Ah, she stared back. Beauty was ready to leave this veil of tears. Or rather, veil of sperm.

He went back in, and damn! if he didn't run smack into that insipid oaf he'd encountered before going "upstairs". "Hi, there darlin". (I'll darlin' you!) he thought. "Oh, I have ta leave, there's been an accident, and my mother's a, well, I have to get there!" Trina snuffled. "Oh, sh I mean that's a bummer, the show's beginning." (It certainly is, you fool!) Troy thought. He shambled off, out the door, and headed for his car. Troy assumed that the police presence was only scrutinizing those people who were arriving; not anyone leaving the crowded venue. He was right. Leaving the scene, therefore, was incredibly easy! He didn't want to be there, within that mess, when it began. He might get pulled in, just like the police did once before, while he was up a tree. No thanks. Better to see it on TV. Coverage was just so good these days!" he sighed. He smiled. As his car door slammed and locked, and his engine started, he roared. Yeah, you're all mine now, let's see you cops get a handle on this. He drove to a small diner along the roadside. He ran into yet another ladies' room, stripped off the disguise. He put purse into canvas backpack. Clothes came out of backpack, dainty things went in. wreaking men's cologne went on, oo that stung. He'd forgot about his close-shaven tender skin. Yowie! . He looked in the mirror, perfect. Where one tall but "decent-looking" lady went in, one average height guy came out--carefully, and ordered a burger, large drink and fries, to go.

Sensors heated up, the paper was sizzling, and disappearing fast. The flames got closer and closer, bridging the distance to the fire system. Troy's car was humming along, he was enjoying the fries. The lint caught. The lighter got so hot, that it began to glow. Then it hissed its load of gas. Up roared a pyre, right within spitting distance of the fire sensors. The automated apparatus began cycling through the three tasks it had been programmed to do. It tried to ring the fire alarm--but it couldn't know that there was none. So, silently, it sent instructions to the auto-dialer to alert 9-11. Alas, this too failed ... wires had been ripped out. Lastly, it opened its end-nozzles, and began building enormous pressure. It could at least, send liquid where it should go. Too bad it wasn't water.

XIV.

Troy raced in, throwing everything down, tearing off his coat, heading for the TV. Any moment now. Surely something would happen. He just didn't know exactly what.

The first spurt began.

Troy munched his burger.

As he ate, miles away, seven huge globs rained down upon cheering, throbbing women. One in the face, one in the right eye, two on the back of the neck. Then more goo proceeded to drizzle down upon the gathering. Another fifteen women got it. The target count was now at twenty-two, and five began screaming, grabbing their faces and necks, repelled at what they felt. Three women felt invading clots oozing down their plunging necklines. Two what looked like drag-kings, got pelted by cakey masses, which began flowing down to their boobs. Troy finished his burger. Miles away, the officers stationed there began hearing screams--and these had nothing to do with the performing musical acts. They dashed into the crowd, looking for whoever was causing it. Christine, in plain clothes, had sneaked in, and was rewarded for her efforts by yet a second encounter with a great warm mound of man-slime. "Oh, Jesus yuck!" she spurted, as she wiped her face. Not again! She whipped out her radio. "He's here somewhere, the bastard's here. Get backup, now!" She didn't care if it was an unsecured frequency. Her fellow officers came running. People were getting plopped upon, their numbers growing. And growing. Where's it coming from?" "I got cum on me!" "Who did that?" Lesbos were yelling "some man did this, I know its cum!" How would she know? Then, like something sweet, slowly changing its nature, the crowd turned, fermenting into something very, very sour. "Shut up, bitch, sit down." "You're blocking the stage!" "Fuck you!" always a good comeback. "Lemme outa here, its jit!"

"Its that awfull man!"

The cops were chattering back and forth on their radios--and that was what tore it. Reporters with scanners, scanners in newsrooms, and scanners in the hands of the curious and the hobbyist, came alive; conveying the message--something big was happening. And reporters, by their very nature, wanted in on it. So, cameras converged upon the concert, which was now erupting violently into chaos.

Troy was looking for some cake. He liked cake. He'd remembered buying some. Then the story broke. "We're in route now to the femfest concert, TV crews are arriving now. Troy closed the cupboard, this was it! He sat, fondling the remote.Come on, baby, let's see some footage. He primed a tape in the VCR, his work deserved documentation. He jumped up, ran into his bedroom, turned on a second tv and vcr, and programmed it for another channel. He wasn't gonna miss a single moment of this. Crews were overrunning the parking lot. They weren't close enough yet, but it didn't matter. A major riot was going on. People were slugging it out, and those were just the ones on the outside. They were mad that their show, that they'd paid for, was fucked up. So, might as well break some heads over it. Now the scene changed, as Troy ran between the two TV's he got a good view of things. Women with disheveled hair, gunk all through it, were crying, screaming and running. The men they were with were trying to shield them from people behind them--all pouring forth, out of control. Glass was breaking somewhere. The Palladium was now spewing forth its occupants, trampling, kicking and shrieking, gunge landing on them, even as they fled. He had done it good. Women were falling, unabled to get through the chairs and bodies, legs and arms fracturing, breaking. Then, on one of the channels, Troy saw one of the performers herself, her face one big glob of what looked like dippity-doo, crying, furious. One of her bodyguards came forward, all set to whisk her away in his powerful arms, only to get an eyeful.

As he bowed his head to get the hot sticky intrusion out of his eye, a chair, from somewhere off-camera, cracked over his back. Women were being soaked with his semen cocktail, then crushed underfoot as more women tried to flea. Large mirror tiles, the purpose of which was to enhance the stage shows, began slicing through limbs as people panicked. Troy was running between the two TV's, in order to keep up with the carnage. Oh, this second channel was covering a real spectacle. A huge amplifier was smoking and sending forth flames; the mad rush of terrified women had gotten entangled in the electrical cords which had begun shorting out. Men were kicking and slamming other men out of the way; in order to get their women out. The cops were yelling, stripping their throats ragged, trying to instill some order to chaos. From what he could see, nobody was having any luck.

What Troy could not have known about, for no camera present could transmit it, was that up in his crawl-space, high above the arena, a real fire was now blazing in full swing. The dry lint, paper, rubber from his personal apparatus--all conspired to light the old wooden beams of the upper floor. The building's roof soon caught, and toxic smoke began to spread. The fire alarm had been destroyed, and the sprinklers had been disconnected. And so, slowly at first, but inexorably picking up speed, the fire began to consume the building, the rioting crowd below totally unaware.

Feona Apple was fit to be tied--"My show is canceled, what happened?" No one could give her a straight answer. Reports were still scrambled, rumours and accusations were still rampant. Some guy spurting his sex on women? How could that be true for hundreds of women? She shrank back into her limo, and closed the window.

With the sight of smoke billowing out the upper story, the police sent an emergency message of fire to their dispatcher. Ten minutes later, siren and airhorns blared--engines were arriving. They had a little problem; they couldn't get close enough to do any good. Overcrowded parking and hysterical people were an effective barrier. There was still plenty of assaults and glass breaking going on. A pair of women, one with half her hair ripped from her head, were chasing some dude they thought had contaminated them. The chase was interrupted by a deep rumbling explosion. Troy couldn't take it, he dragged the bedroom TV toward his livingroom. As soon as a commercial break occurred, he stopped the tape, found an extension cord, and plugged it in. Now he could watch both TV sets in the livingroom. What was that explosion? he wondered. He saw a bubble headed blonde yapping about the decision to bring in riot gear. Oh, that should mix well with the firemen! On the other TV, he got his answer--somebody's cam panned upwards toward the top of the building, just in time to capture the hall windows imploding, and the roof caving in. Any minute, he thought, and the upper floor would come creaking and crashing down upon anyone left inside. Surely, he didn't plan on this. All he wanted was to mortify women with a concert they'd never forget. He glanced up, oo, this was inventive. Somebody's bright idea--instead of waiting for any riot squad; the firehoses began spraying people, drenching them; forcing them to run away from the building. Maybe it was just as well that the building burned--the evidence of his firing-and-delivery apparatus would be melted by now--beyond recognition, he hoped. Their plan did seem to be working. Folks were running for their cars, with reporters scurrying after them for some sound bites. Just as television number one closed in on a redhaired woman, television number two bore witness to the colapse of the arena.

Cars were tearing out of there. On the one hand, the cops wanted to block off the area, they needed witnesses and information. On the other hand, they needed room for the fire engines. It was total chaos. Then the car pile-ups began.

That poor besieged police station.

First came the fallout from the brawl at the Metroplex.

Then came the outdoor sliming.

And within less than a month, this!

Irate promoters and producers, hysterical women casualties, hundreds of injuries all being carted off via ambulance! The onslaught broke the back of the police force. With cops out at the venue, more cops were called out to escort the 41 ambulances needed. That left a skeleton crew to deal with regular crime matters.

The mayor was furious.

A real people draw, should have been great for his city--destroyed! The concert, a three day extravaganza! Over! The arena, trashed!And this demon, walking the streets--his streets! spewing semen on women! Intolerable. How had he done it? Dozens of girls, over two hundred and twenty three! He'd pelted them with enough ejaculate to, to what? Christ, that was inhuman. He refilled the glass of Scotch, for the third time. What kind of creature?--- According to his aids and advisors, this fiend's ... emissions caused growths in any woman they touched. What was this? he thundered. And what was he?

Every hospital in town was packed. Every doctor's office was backed up to the street. Hysterical, clammering women! They wanted answers, they wanted asurance.

Word had not yet spread to the entire medical network, that all their manifestations were benign. The offices were full of the concert victims which had been tainted, while the hospitals were jam packed full of the seriously injured. Dozens of broken arms, fractured legs, crushed ribs, poked eyes, squashed noses; scores of both men and women punctured, and abraded by broken glass--and s--everyone had something that demanded attention!

Troy was the focus of everything--people just didn't know it. With the passing of each new day, the Palladium story became an ever-changing mosaic. Talk radio picked up on the story, local news gave nightly reports, every new development chewed on by the media. Everyone had questions and issues to be addressed. Was this guy the same phantom slimer of previous attacks? Did the phantom slimer start the fire? Were the riot and the fire connected? How were the attacks carried out upon so many women? Was this attacker nonhuman? Were all these people covered under insurance? Would the insurance companies succeed in billing the city for all the medical costs? All they had was a bucketful of questions, and no answers. Every few days, an article or TV story would appear, stating that yet more women were suffering from malignancies, and appealing to the culprit to please come into a clinic or hospital for tests. Fat chance. He wasn't falling for it.

Doctor Avram Stillwater had his hands full.

If this kept up, he would probably have a stroke or something. He ran between hospitals, counseled dozens of women, dozens! He had six laboratories culturing biopsies. Women, numbering in the hundreds, were developing growths on their breasts, ranging in magnitude from small fatty sacs and odd little colorations, to large soft pockets of unchecked material. From little marble-size lumps, to large formations that pushed their nipples off to one side. Most were coming back benign, he prayed that this would continue. It still meant, however, that the majority of these women wanted surgery. they didn't want anything growing in there, knowing that it was a product of some fiend's secretions.

Once again, insurance companies as well as HMO's were socked with the bills. They were insensed!

The weeks stretched into months, and the trail was growing colder by the day. Fire experts said that "maybe," the arsonist and the mad slimer, were one in the same. Although they would confirm that the fire had started by "suspicious means" they would not say much else. The investigators had found remnints of something unusual, they could only guess as to what it was. The sprinklers had been manually shut off. That was about it. The mayor was not happy.

And so, the Palladium Incident, as it was coined, became rooted in the town as official history--case unsolved. Troy discovered a goldmine on the internet, and moved to another state. There was never again any incident of public semenations by anyone in the besieged town. Some reporters still asked the question, every now and then; when nothing much was going on, they'd flash back and ponder the bizarre incident;

It seemed that physicians agreed. All the tests conducted confirmed it. It was all one man's doings. "How could one man do so much? How could he successfully spunk so many women? How?"

All of their questions went unanswered.

Vrykolakas