Neon Golgotha Read online

  NEON GOLGOTHA

  By

  Michael Faun

  for

  Copyright © 2017 Michael Faun

  Cover art & design by Michael Faun

  Edited by Sophia Faun

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. A violation of anything above will result in legal issues and shitty karma.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

  “NEON GOLGOTHA is a work of art/smut... A decadent, dirty, dark and depraved look into several denizens of New York, and what things they get up to in their specific borough. Once again Faun has brought the filth and the fury to weird fiction. As always I look forward to what he produces.” –DB Spitzer, People's Guide to the Cthulhu Mythos

  “Michael Faun's chapbook NEON GOLGOTHA brings to mind Burrough's 'Naked Lunch' and Gasper Noe's 'Enter the Void' as if run through Dante's Inferno. A trippy tale of decadence and damnation in the big city.” –Nick Cato, THE HORROR FICTION REVIEW"

  OTHER BOOKS BY MICHAEL FAUN

  First Harvest

  Six Pack o' Strange Tales

  Black Heart Metal Monster

  Deep Invaders #3

  X-haustpipe X-tasy #X

  SS Death Simulation

  Cannibal Island

  HÆX

  Drugula

  Red Fingers

  Gillian's Marsh

  Pulp Junk

  Muff-Manic Mermen from Malifanua Bay (coming soon)

  “But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practice magic arts, the idolaters and all liars—they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur. This is the second death.”

  – Revelation 21:8

  “Tell me—after my head is chopped off, will I still be able to hear, at least for a moment, the sound of my own blood gushing from the stump of my neck? That would be the pleasure to end all pleasures.”

  – Peter Kurten, “The Vampire from Düsseldorf”

  Thanks to my friends Nick and Ree, for giving me the grand tour in NYC

  ◊◊◊

  GUESTS

  LAURENT POLLARD:

  MANHATTAN

  JOEL MOSS:

  THE BRONX

  FLYNN WHITE:

  BROOKLYN

  AMANDA KOVAC:

  QUEENS

  BARBARA HASKELL:

  STATEN ISLAND

  ◊◊◊

  MANHATTAN

  LAVENDER BOYS

  Laurent's knees quivered as he frantically jerked his cock. An ecstatic surge tickled his brain matter when the final tug released a thick eddy of cum that squirted over the satin sheets of his bed, into which he toppled over in exhausted bliss.

  He closed his eyes and his junk went flaccid while the muscle boxer gay porn VHS was still in full swing. By the time Greek god Devyn Foster received a mouthful of Donnie Russo's angelic load, the droplets of sweat on Laurent's ripped chest had cooled down.

  He turned off the TV.

  Draping the luxurious purple sheet around his naked body, he was aroused by the cold sensation of semi-crusted sperm against his skin. He purred like a kitten from the ether high still going strong.

  He'd been sniffing it every day now since his partner's demise two weeks ago, and what started out as a substitute for strong drinks had now plunged into a raging dependence on the colorless solvent. One of its side effects, the one he was especially fond of, was the immense eroticism it triggered in him—a level of lust akin to the hedonism practices of Caligula and his devoted followers!

  Death. Decadence.

  Being a wealthy young gay man, these two words meant all and nothing to him. He'd walked side by side with death from the moment he took his first HIV-test, had wallowed in decadence from the moment he made his first million.

  But money and dating “normal” men had lost its luster after Dietyl Ether entered his life. Even typical gay porn did little for him these days, let alone the Manhattan dating scene with its lengthy candlelight dinners that always culminated in a wine-addled stupor and some halfhearted ass-fucking with some narcissistic dandy.

  A headache and a sore ass for nothing.

  He had abandoned all that drivel after the accident...

  When Laurent woke up from his daily ether black out, he took a long soapy shower, got dressed, and phoned his chauffeur Francis, telling him to get ready for yet another excursion into Hell's Kitchen.

  It was an astonishing autumn afternoon to be cruising through Manhattan. He told his driver to take Central Park West just so he could admire the red and yellow-toned foliage on the trees in the park. And though the traffic was massive on that route, Francis obeyed without complaint.

  Twenty minutes of snailing down the West Side streets, the limousine finally entered Hell's Kitchen. At Laurent's decree, Francis wheeled the limousine slowly into the uncrowded desolate corners of the diabolical-sounding district.

  With the meticulous eye of a hungry hawk, Laurent scanned the dingy avenues and alleyways through the dark tint of the limo window. Seeing all sorts of squalor passing the brownstones, a feast of human scum, no one caught his interest even the slightest. There were mainly bag-ladies and homeless people out there. It wasn't until they turned from West 13th Street into 8th Avenue that Laurent's lovesick heart skipped a beat, as he registered the ideal exhibit for his deviant desire.

  “Stop the car, Francis,” he called through the partition and placed his hand on the window button as the limo was brought to a halt. “Hey, you there!”

  Laurent smiled and extended a hundred dollar bill out the window...

  Forty minutes later, inside the luxurious white marble bathroom of his Riverside Park suite, Laurent gingerly scrubbed off layer after layer of stale vomit and caked dirt from the emaciated body of the middle-aged (?) man he'd picked up. A self-professed crack addict. Name unknown.

  The hot steam in the shower space worked wonders for sucking out years' worth of excrement from the homeless man's pores. After this rather arduous task, Laurent proceeded by treating his date to a gentle oil massage using his favorite product: De Mamiel Lavender Body Oil.

  It wasn't long before the semi-bald, unnamed derelict (after shaving off his grizzled Santa-like beard) looked somewhat like a starved version of Alec Baldwin.

  Make-over accomplished!

  “Ever made love on satin sheets before?” Laurent teased as he led the naked bum into his bedroom, casting tempted glances at the vagrant's groin. Though his generously sized penis hadn't gone unnoticed under the soap and lather, it looked five times bigger now after the purge of its piss-ridden bird's nest of pubes.

  The bum grunted something inaudible in reply. His dead black eyes flickered nervously around the lavish bedroom, like the eyes of some wild animal that had by accident wandered off into a metropolis.

  “Just relax, big boy. I'm pretty good at this.” Laurent ran a gentle hand over the man's limp cock. He removed the towel wrapped around his own fit thighs and brought out a cloth and a bottle of ether from his bedside drawer. “Some sniffs of this and you'll be in seventh heaven. So will I if you deliver what I paid you for.”

  He soaked the cloth and inhaled deeply before passing
it over. “And remember, there's another hundred waiting if you make the angel's sing for me...”

  The vagrant eyed the cloth with suspicion, squinting from its pungent smell before he covered his florid nose with it.

  “Oooh, that feels so good,” Laurent moaned as the ether kicked him in the head, a million brittle fingers digging into his gaseous brain. He threw his naked self over the glossy blue bed sheets, his hand massaging his clean-shaven balls in anticipation.

  The vagrant went into a coughing fit and dropped the ether soaked cloth on the carpet. Doubling over on the bed, he shook like a spastic dog for a while before he relaxed, breathing heavily.

  Time to saddle!

  Fires lit up Laurent's eyes as his erotic gusto geared up from playful to resolute. He frolicked on the bed before his mouth latched onto the vagrant's scrotum, and he began sucking him off with fervor. The lavender oil tasted bitter on his tongue.

  “Hnggh!” griped the startled Baldwin look-alike, his hands clenching the smooth sheets.

  “You like it, huh?” Laurent looked up, gobs of shiny spit on his lips. “More tongue, big boy?” He licked his left hand while stroking his own erect cock with the other, then slowly inserted his wet index finger into the vagrant's soapy anus.

  Then came the blow. Like a speeding train of bone, the vagrant's fist struck Laurent square over his nose and sent him flying over the edge of the bed, escorted by a bouquet of blood roses.

  Laurent heard something snap in his head. A bone or a part of his brain he supposed was of great importance. Perhaps his neck had broken? Perhaps he had died? He didn't know yet. It didn't matter anyway. For as he lay bleeding on the carpet, unable to move a muscle, the unnamed drifter rose on the bed, wild eyed, and plummeted down both feet onto Laurent's throat, severing his neck vertebra with a nasty crunch.

  Laurent's eyes splurged red. A short hollow gasp sounded as he tried to draw breath before his brain stem, thalamus, and cerebral cortex succumbed to acute brain failure, releasing him from the labor of life.

  †

  An electric discharge stirred up bubbles from the bottom of cessation.

  Laurent shot up from the dark water like a submarine missile, his lungs pushed to the utmost limit of their capacity before he broke surface.

  A loud splash rose and fell and rings on the water faded away in perfect sync as he tried to get his strained breath back. He couldn't. His neck was collapsed and his head slumped against his shoulder like a heavy saddlebag.

  But it didn't matter. He didn't need to breathe.

  Laurent eyed this new unknown milieu he found himself in: a Romanesque bathhouse with water so blue, it lit up the entire golden cupola ceiling.

  “Are you ready to be taken to your room, sir?” asked a deep gritty voice.

  Dressed in piccolo garb, the badly seared skin on the demon's face creased as it leered at Laurent through red glowing slits. The bellhop walked over to the edge of the pool and handed Laurent a towel and a lavish purple kimono.

  “Thanks...” Laurent climbed out of the basin. He accepted the towel and dried himself before draping his clean body in the silky robe. He noticed a monogram on the chest:

  Neon Golgotha.

  “Follow me, please.” The demon turned and led the way through an archway exit and into an Otis elevator.

  Laurent's curiosity climbed a notch. His bold eyes traveled down to the bellhop's crotch, and the sight of the abnormally big bulge beneath the coarse red costume pants made him quiver.

  Ping!

  The elevator stopped and the bellhop opened the iron grille doors.

  “This, way, sir.”

  Laurent followed the demon bellhop through a neon blue corridor with warped doors lining each side. They stopped before one that held a gilt plaque that read 7681.

  “Here's your room, sir.” The bellhop produced a large gold key with which he unlocked the door. “Enjoy your stay.”

  Hesitating a moment before turning the door knob, Laurent then entered the dark room. He was met by a waft of lavender and musk—just like the smell of Andrei's body.

  The door slammed shut behind him and the oriental-style room lit up as warm candlelight brought life to the red glass walls inside. Laurent instantly recognized the place.

  Buddha-Bar Hotel, Budapest!

  He was standing on the mezzanine in the Tower Suite with a champagne flute in his hand. Stepping forward, he leaned against the black balcony rail overlooking the grand bed downstairs, where a sexual show was going like a house on fire.

  Starring: Laurent himself and his Czech lover Andrei. Both dressed in racy lady's lingerie—the latter handcuffed to the bedpost.

  Though a tad trying, given his broken spinal cord, Laurent settled into a leather armchair and sipped his drink while watching the death scene from their lost weekend in Hungary unravel below...

  “Pineapple! Pineapple!” Andrei wheezed as Laurent, astride his lover's crotch, pulled the purple front-laced corset on Andrei's boyishly built body even tighter.

  “No!” Laurent retorted and slapped Andrei over the zipper-mouth of the bondage mask. “Not yet!” He wormed closer to Andrei's rubber face, masturbating.

  “God you look so fucking hot in that corset!” Laurent pinned Andrei's bobbing head to the mattress in a chokehold. “Like... like my own Betty Brosmer!” He stroked his cock faster, ignoring Andrei's violent death spasms.

  “Oh yeaaah!” A jet of turbid sperm blasted over the black mask on the expired Czech lover known as Andrei.

  Up on the mezzanine, the fatal sex show received a standing ovation.

  “Bravo! Bravo!” Laurent placed the emptied champagne flute on the balcony rail and clapped his hands with fiery gusto.

  Calling for room service, he was aglow with the anticipation of watching the show all over again, and again, and again.

  THE BRONX

  SKAG JOJO

  B lack worms swarmed out the needle tracks on Joel's arm the moment he spiked up. The repulsive sight expelled the scarce bits of food in his stomach in a spray of pallid vomit.

  Joel screamed as he frenziedly tried to pull out the worms, his bloodshot eyes wide with fright and his skin sheeny with cold sweat. But no matter how many of the vile creatures he yanked out, more kept pouring out of him like charred beef through a meat grinder.

  Overpowered by fear, the fetid air inside the abandoned Hart Island women's asylum teemed with ghosts. The occult graffiti on the walls seemed as though smeared onto the peeling 1800s wallpaper by the dirty fingers of unhinged patients.

  Joel gasped for air as their messages spoke to him, pulsating in neon blues. He scrambled to his feet and staggered toward the stairs but slipped and fell squealing as his body pulped a mass of the black worms simmering in a puddle of his hepatitis infected blood.

  Curling up in fetal position, tears welled his bugged eyes as the nightmare crawlers spouted from his mouth and nostrils.

  Childhood memories cluttered the groves of his rotting brain. His mind's eye flashed images of the shitty 11” Portable Faux Woodgrain TV playing porn in the smoky living room all day. He envisioned

  the creaky coffee table and the fetid plates festering with moldy food... and the flies that came along.

  Mom lay on the brown couch, passed out from the booze, a cigarette butt smoldering between her yellowy fingers.

  Mommy's little angel...

  Convulsing in overdose tremors, Joel desperately extended his skeletal fingers toward the arched staircase by the end of the ward, when he noticed the black worms had little faces on them, staring at him with childish curiosity.

  That was the last fucked up sight Joel had to endure in his tormented presence on planet Earth before his tired heart ruptured like a dirty bomb.

  †

  W hen Joel awoke it was midnight and he was sitting in an alley that reeked of piss and vomit. Black worms were still crawling out of his orifices and his heart had ceased to beat. At the end of the alleyway loomed a crumbling brick church l
ike structure with a blue neon cross flickering atop its crooked steeple.

  Joel scrambled to his feet and headed toward the building, guided by its harsh light, and entered the void of the unknown.

  “Welcome to Neon Golgotha, sir,” greeted a husky voice from within the dark foyer. A crimson skinned one eyed demon in piccolo garb emerged from the shadows, grinning reassuringly. “A home away from home.”

  “Home?” Joel echoed and scratched his honeycombed arms, confused yet comforted by the gloom inside what appeared to be some kind of dingy hotel lobby.

  “Please, sir, this way.” The demon porter ushered Joel through a small corridor adjacent to the cobwebbed, unmanned reception. After trudging through endless passageways with what must have been hundreds of bizarrely shaped doors, they stopped outside a brown door.

  Room 9982.

  “Your room,” croaked the porter, and unlocked the door. “Enjoy your stay.”

  The moment Joel set foot inside, he was hit by the familiar stench of squalor so prevalent during his childhood years.

  A bulky Faux Woodgrain TV showing low budget porn sat in the center of the small living space, creating a racket behind a coffee table on which sat stacks of plates infested with moldy food—feeding a colony of flies. Mom was in there as well. Passed out from too many drinks, she lay on the tattered brown couch with a smoldering cigarette between her yellow-stained fingers.

  Even now, she looked irresistibly sexy.

  Joel grinned coyly as he unzipped his corduroys and once more peeled off her soggy blue lace negligee...