Fear and Loathing After the Bomb 7: Gloryhole
Fed up and disgusted by the spectacle that takes place on a daily basis at the gates of New Bunker, I grease the wheels of the machine and pass through it like unwanted shit and fall into the cesspool of humanity that is this supposedly great city. I’m supposed to meet some shadowy figure in a recondite little bar that I will omit the name of for the safety of everyone involved. How this meeting will occur is a puzzle that I can’t quite make sense of. I don’t know who this person is, and as I’ve said before, there’s about as many people who know what yours truly looks like as there are survivors of a zombie bite. The whole thing makes me nervous and has my stomach in knots. As almost an afterthought I realize that I’m actually in a bar. It’s been years since I’ve had the pleasure of imbibing anything other than home-made moonshine. I catch the bartender’s eye with a lazy gesture and order whatever passes for scotch.
It is then when I take notice of the evenings’ entertainment.
Six men are getting the VIP treatment from the establishment. Their every need is being taken care of by six scantily clad young woman. The women alternate between the men, gyrating to the pathetic excuse for music that is playing too loud for anyone to even hear their own thoughts. The whole thing seems to be a slow buildup to something sinister but I can’t be sure. The men are smiling and joking among themselves, but a fear is there in each of their eyes and faces. Smiles through clenched teeth. Eyes shifting around, looking for an unseen danger. The girls do their part to try and calm them down. Hands slide down pants. Faces are pressed into heaving breasts. These guys are living the life, why are they so afraid?
I notice that there is a man at the bar who is watching the spectacle with a knowing smirk. I haven’t put it together yet but that smirk tells me a lot. I know that face. It’s the face of a man who is anticipating a certain type of excitement. A type of excitement where death is on the line. It would be the same smirk that a Holy Roman Emperor would have before two gladiators faced off in deadly combat, the same smirk that a king would have before the bottom dropped out from the gallows and men would dance the hangman’s jig.
There are different reactions to death as entertainment. The novice spectator may be unable to steel himself properly for the display and might exhibit shock and horror. This is the most human reaction. A reaction that I wish I was still human enough to exhibit. More common is the frenzied blood-thirsty reaction of the common mob. Screaming and cheering in anticipation of the kill. The most dangerous is the reaction on display next to me at the bar. The cold, calm response of a man about to take a deeper sort of pleasure in watching one his fellow men die. The more grizzly the death, the more pleasure there is. I risk an interaction with this man who has clearly lost his humanity.
“What gives with those guys?”
He turns and looks at me with an raised eyebrow, his eyes size me up, measuring and rating me in the way a hunter may when deciding what weapons he will allow himself to use in pursuit of a particular prey.
“Oh them? They’re about to play Glory Hole.”
He goes on to explain the rules. The men will be treated like kings for most of the night. Drinks on the house, girls on the house. Every primal desire take care of. After a few hours of this, whether they’ve worked up their nerve or not it’s time for the game. They’ll be taken to a back room (access to this back room as a spectator will of course have its own cost). The men will be stripped naked and the ladies will drop to their knees to felate them to the moment before climax. The women then disappear behind a wall with six holes cut into it, about waist high. Glory holes with a little extra apparatus. The men approach and insert themselves into the hole. At this point they’re sweating, terrified and excited at the same time. The bar’s bouncers will strap them into a harness, insuring that they cannot run from the hole. They’re strapped in and pressed against the wall with their member twitching in the chamber on the opposite side. Five of the women will take positions behind the holes and five lucky men will get their cocks sucked to completion. The sixth? The sixth isn’t so lucky.
As you know, a zombie will have no problem attacking the living if they get close enough. Is a poor soul’s cock hovering a few feet from a zombie’s mouth close enough? You’d better fucking believe it.
The lights of the chambers on the other side of the wall will come up and the crowd will roar it’s approval as they find out which of our rigid contestants will get some x-rated release and which will have his prick chewed off by a half-starved zombie.
The best part, the man tells me, is the amount of blood. With the man fully erect and his adrenaline flowing in overdrive the blood will be a real sight, he assures me. My mouth has gone dry and I sip from the scotch, trying not to let my own fear and repulsion show on my face. This man preys on weakness and I’m not about to give him any excuses to think of me as his hunter’s quarry.
Why do the men do this? They all have their motives. There’s a payoff of course to winners. The most noble (his word) of the participants do it for the ultimate thrill. Imagine, he says, how good a pair of sweet warm lips will feel wrapped around your cock at the exact moment where you think you might die? It is, and now I know he’s talking from experience, the greatest feeling of release in the whole world. Worth the risk, he says.
He asks me if I’d like to watch, I politely decline and finish the last of my scotch. Something is very wrong. I glance again to the man and he’s now looking at me the way he was looking at the men earlier. I look to my glass and the world spins. I shut my eyes and center myself. I open my eyes and surely I am in the pits of hell. The heat is unbearable, I look to the man again and he is most definitely the devil himself.
Something tells me I drank more than scotch. I steady myself for whatever else this cocktail has in store. Skeletal fingers dig into my shoulder, I turn to face a man with no face. A thin toothy smile appears on the blank slate where the rest of his features should be.
“St-Brigid, you really should come watch this.”
