Wendlyn, with lewd grin and narrowed eyes, soon found that the American Journal of Psychiatry was quite accurate in their claim. Walt’s cock, despite this freight of human terror, did not surrender one iota of its spongal turgidity. If anything, it grew even more stiff within the damp, excited confines of Wendlyn’s reproductive channel, i.e. vaginal pass, i.e. birth canal, i.e. pussy. Rena, meanwhile, opened and closed the tin snips before Walt’s bulging eyeballs, explicating, “We’re killers, Walt”—snip-snip-snip—”we’re psycho-sexual killers”—snip-snip-snip—”and we’ve murdered over a dozen men in the last year.” snip-snip-snip. “I’ll bet that makes your cock just want to go limp as an overcooked noodle, hmmm?”
Walt’s cock did no such thing, remaining stiff as a polished nightstick. Wendlyn leaned forward in her greedy straddle, accelerating the pace of the congress until her flexing, well-lubricated loins gave way in luscious throbbing thrumming orgasm…
“There,” Rena consoled, smiling down between her unique, elongated breasts. She patted his tummy.
Wendlyn climbed off. “You did it, Walt. You’re a standup guy.”
“Yuh-yuh-you’re gonna let me go now, right?” Walt asked.
“Nuh-nuh-no, Walt,” Rena answered. “We’re going to cut your cock off.”
Walt was quite understandably outraged by this bit of information and he began to snap his ankles and wrists madly, and quite uselessly, against their stainless steel fetters, blubbering: “Buh-buh-but you said if I didn’t guh-guh-go soft, yuh-yuh-you wouldn’t—”
“Don’t be a doe-doe, Walt,” Rena suggested, delighted by his state of prostrate and inescapable horror. “Don’t be stupid.”
Wendlyn’s pretty face grew alight in the knowing grin. “We just got done telling you that we’re killers, and if we’re killers, it only stands to reason that we’re probably liars, too.”
The tin snips slowly opened, like jaws.
Walt began to scream, as Rena began to snip.
Which left them now in their current quandary, at precisely 4:26 in the morning, parked on the old Governor’s Bridge. Rena desperately rummaged through the Malibu’s cargo-hold-sized trunk. Where was it? Where was Walt’s dick?
Rena started crying.
“Oh, now,” Wendlyn tried to soothe her, rubbing her back. “Don’t worry about it. It’s not like he can be identified by his cock.”
This was true, unless of course the police had some secret new system of genital identification. Wendlyn smiled to herself. Perhaps one day she’d open the fridge and see a picture of Walt’s dick printed on a milk carton. There were, however, some other things that Walt definitely could be identified by, thirty-two of which Wendlyn now went to considerable effort to take care of. Before the nursing job, she’d been a dental technician, but that didn’t make the task of extracting Walt’s teeth any less laborious. The pliers were difficult to manipulate in such limited oral space. Eventually, though, she managed to get them all out of Walt’s dead maw, whereupon she placed them all into a small cloth sack.
Rena was still crying, rummaging. She was checking the toolbox, for God’s sake, and the plastic cooler they used when they went to the beach. “Oh, Wendy, I’m sorry! Where could it be? Did I leave it on the dresser with the keys? The kitchen counter?”
“Rena, I told you. Forget about his cock. Here. Help me get him out.”
They travailed then to lifting out the plastic dropcloth in which the deader-than-dogshit Walt had been carefully becloaked. Rena hammered the little bag of teeth against the asphalt with a four-pound sledge, until all were sufficiently pulverized. Wendlyn, meanwhile, removed the glass flask (one of many perks of working in a hospital) and emptied its teeming contents onto Walt’s remaining identifiable features. The concentrated nitric acid made short work of the hands and feet, fizzing away any and all ridge prints, loops, whorls, and bifurcations. Walt’s face, too, bubbled away with equal steaming vigor.
The unappreciated separation of his genitals from his groin, by the way, had not of itself spelled Walt’s demise. He’d screamed loud and hard as a horn on a semi-rig, thrashing amid his Peerless-handcuff trap, but had surprisingly not died. Nor had Wendlyn’s delvings with the Clay Adams brand bivalving scalpel done the trick. It got quite ugly, Walt screaming like that, and thrashing away with no penis. Blood gushed like Great Falls. Eventually Rena had stuck a knitting needle up his nose, driving it back with her palm deep into the meat of Walt’s parietal lobe. She’d jiggled it around a few times, until he checked out.
“Ashame about his face,” Rena lamented now, looking down in the moonlight. “He could’ve been on the cover of GQ.”
“Not anymore. Fangoria, maybe. Say goodnight, Walt.”
They hefted up either end of the dropcloth and rolled it over the rusty metal bridge rail. Ka-SPLASH! The moonlight rippled spectacularly.
Then they were driving away, off into the warm, star-chipped night. “Wendy, look!” Rena celebrated, bending over in the passenger seat. “I found Walt’s dick!”
So she had; somehow, Walt’s severed member had found its way to the footwell. “Now I remember. I brought it along to diddle with while we were driving out.” Rena picked it up and, ever the comedian, slid back her blue-leather skirt and held Walt’s now seriously shriveled cock to her clitoris, spreading her trim legs. “Look, Wendy! I’ve got a penis! I’m a man!”
Wendlyn rolled her eyes behind the wheel. “You’re so silly sometimes. Honestly.” She took the wizened thing and flipped it out the window, where eventually it would be eaten by possums.
Wendlyn expertly plunged the dual Doc Johnson vibrators in and out of Rena’s off-pink vulva and rectum, licking the swollen clitoris. Rena squirmed, sighing through her grin, as Claudius, the largest of her three pet hognose snakes, slithered about her belly and pointed breasts. Rena was possessed of some rather left-field eccentricities, several of which Wendlyn was hard-pressed to tolerate: Heineken douches, Bull Frog Stuffing, electric ben-wa balls up her ass whilst in public. Plus snakes. They’d met at North County General, where Rena was a floor receptionist. Wendlyn, a Class I nurses’ aide, caught Rena masturbating in the janitorial closet one night, with a polypropylene Bacti-Capall culture tube and hemostats clipped to her nipples. “Ooops,” Rena had said. Instead of filling out an employee negligence report, Wendlyn had sealed their friendship by immediately planting her big blond pubis in Rena’s face. Their careers, though, had ended rather expeditiously. Rena had been fired for stealing an array of controlled pharmaceuticals from the nurses’ station, while Wendlyn, shortly thereafter, had received her walking papers for “gross sexual misconduct upon the hospital premise.” A staff doctor had pulled back a privacy curtain in an end ICU cove, to discover the ever-curious Wendlyn fastidiously fellating a male critical coma patient. “I wanted to see if a brain-dead person could come,” she’d explained. “You’re fired,” the doctor had replied.
Oh, well. Nevertheless, their friendship remained, and to make a long exposition short, they soon found a vivid compatibility in their ravenous sexualities as well as their sociopathies. In no time at all, they were murdering men at about a rate of one a month, through all manner of demented imagination: gastric lavage with Clorox, non-anesthetic live dissection, brain surgery with power tools, and acts of genital mayhem that could only be described as “bigtime.” Once they’d catheterized a bartender and filled his bladder with 5W 30-grade motor oil, then ice-picked his lower abdomen to watch the oil ooze out. Another time Wendlyn was blowing some dolt they’d picked up at the races; Rena had clipped off his testicles at the precise moment of his climax. Once they’d even dissected a penis, on a living “patient,” removing all the skin and the entire scrotum, after which Rena had clipped off the raw shaft a quarter inch at a time. This guy had screamed so loud they’d had to put cotton in their ears! One pickup had gotten rude with them, actually hailing such invectives as: “Bitches! Lesbos! Psychopaths!” Wendlyn had opened his anus with a pair of rectal retractors stolen from the hospital, while Rena, with more than a smidgen of difficulty, had inserted Tiberius, one of her pet hognose snakes, into the offender’s bowel. Tiberius had churned away for quite some time in there, before finally giving up the ghost, while their unmannerly companion had screamed shock-eyed and blue in the face. “Poor Tiberius,” Rena regretted. She’d finished the man off by carefully drilling a shallow hole in his skull with a l/4-inch carbon bit, then slowly inserting long carpet needles and autopsy pins into the hole. Genital electrocution, ground-glass and/or boiling bacon grease enemas, ice picks in the ears and/or eyes, Coca-Cola blood transfusions, total body flensing, and, of course, what Rena referred to as “dick-scarfing.” Nothing would get a fella screaming faster and louder than having his pride and joy and family jewels nimbly chewed off by a pair of crazier-than-shithouse-rats militant feminists. No, sir. You name it, Wendlyn and Rena did it, much to the disconsolation of many a man, and all in the name of their righteous ideology, to vindicate roughly seventy centuries of subjugation.