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     | |      c   o   m   m   u   n   i   c   a   t   i   o   n   s     | |
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  ...presents...                  The Flesh Man
                                                         by Richard Avis

                      >>> a cDc publication.......1989 <<<
                        -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
_______________________________________________________________________________


        The whore rolled over, pointing her broad backside at the Flesh Man,
and without needing further invitation he guided his potty-plunger into her
gaping glory hole.

        "You like, yes?" she asked, using three of the five English words in
her vocabulary, the other two - "Pay now" - having begun their meeting.

        "It's okay," he grunted, "but Jose said there was going to be something
special."

        "Si, si, senor, en un momento."

        "Make it quick, I won't last much longer.  You've got a pretty tight
butt-hole for a whore your age."

        "Gracias, senor."

        Suddenly, the Flesh Man felt a warm sensation at the head of his cock,
and a blast of hot air enveloped his shaft.  He came with a shuddering jerk,
grabbing the whore by her prodigious love handles and thrusting his spurting
tool into her, fighting the seemingly endless blast of air that blew his cum
back out of her ass.  Finally spent, he plopped out of her and collapsed back
on the bed.

        "That was pretty good," he said.  Then, lest he drive up the price next
time, he added, "for a local whore."

        "Gracias, senor."

        Tired of talk, the Flesh Man pulled on his pants and stained Guyabera
shirt.  The whore hurried to the bathroom, turning as she switched on the
light.

        "Hasta la vista, senor - Oh!"

        For the first time she saw his face illuminated by the bathroom light. 
The narrow, nearly closed left eye, the two misshapen holes that passed for a
nose, and the bloated, puffy lips that seemed in a perpetual sneer and were, as
always, decorated with a fine lace of spittle.

        "Hey, I said lights out, you bitch!"

        He lunged for her, but the working girl darted behind the door and
bolted it.  Then the other door flew open and Jose entered, a machete that
meant business gleaming in his right hand.

        "Que paso, senor?"

        "Your whore turned that light on."

        "Oh, pardon, senor.  Marta, she makes a mistake.  Please do not hold it
against her," he said, slipping the machete into its sheath and extending his
arms to his best customer.  "Perhaps you satisfy her so much, she forgets
herself, eh?"

        "Cut the crap.  I've got about as much interest in satisfying her as in
marrying the bitch and opening a taco stand."

        "Does she satisfy you, though?" the burly pimp asked.

        "Not bad, not bad."

        "From you, an afficionado, that is high praise, senor," Jose replied,
guiding the Flesh Man into the waiting area.

        "How does she do that, anyway?"

        "Well, same as we all do, you know," the pimp laughed, stirring a
vile-looking pot of refried beans.

        "Sure, but that much?"

        "Well, senor, Marta has always been prone to gaseousness.  It was a big
problem with the customers, and I was going to fire her, when I thought of a
way of taking advantage of it.  Now she makes me many pesos and gets to enjoy
her favorite foods!"

        Jose tasted the fetid concoction, offering some to the Flesh Man.

        "No thanks, Jose.  Anyways, tell me about this girl from Arabia. 
What's so hot about her?"

        "I myself do not know much, just that she is good, very good and very
expensive.  Her name is April.  She travels by private jet, always with
bodyguards.  Today she is in Los Angeles, tomorrow, maybe London, Paris, Hong
Kong.  They say every man who has her wants to keep her as his concubine or
marry her, but she is strictly on a one-time basis."

        "How much?"

        "Oh, senor, she is out of your range.  She is for the jet set, Arab
sheiks, Greek shipping tycoons, even American politicians.  You could never
afford."

        "Cut the crap, Jose, just name a price.  Ten grand?"

        "Oh, no, senor, much more.  You could never...."

        "Just tell me how much!" snapped the Flesh Man.

        "One-quarter of a million dollars, American, payable in cash - in
advance.  As I say, she is a dream, a fantasy."

        "Call her.  I gotta run now, but I'll raise the dough."

        "But senor, where will you...."

        "I'll find a way."

        "Of course, senor, I should have known.  I have never met a man who
craves the women as you do, and this is why they call you the Flesh Man, eh?"

        "Yeah, right."  If only he knew, thought the Flesh Man, stepping out
into the sultry Acapulco night.  If only he knew, it would turn even his
chili-hardened Mexican stomach.


                                      ****


        The Flesh Man entered the dingy back room of the Caballo Loco cantina,
where Poco, a fat Mexican, was talking to a depressed-looking young American in
a leather flight jacket.

        "Hola, Flesh Man.  Meet my friend the pilot, Keith Felcher.  He was
just telling me his troubles."

        The young American shook his hand, trying to hide his revulsion at the
Flesh Man's face, and almost succeeding.

        "Isn't there a chance the airline'll find you innocent?" Pocco asked
the fly-boy as the Flesh Man sat down.

        "Pretty unlikely.  These investigations are just a formality.  Everyone
knows I caused that crash.  I'm out of a job.  Lucky for me, they're so short
of decent pilots they've got me flying until then."

        "One little mistake, your career's over," sympathized Poco.

        "Fuck my career.  I don't give a rat's ass if I ever fly.  I'm up to
myh ass in debt.  I'm in hot water with some badass dudes if I stop making
payments."

        Inside the Flesh Man's devious mind, an idea was taking shape.

        "What size planes you fly?" he asked, casually.

        "DC-6s, mostly," answered the pilot.  "Small stuff, 50 to 60 passengers
tops."

        The Flesh Man smiled and asked, "When's your next flight to this area?"

        But before the pilot could answer, the Flesh Man's pager beeped.  He
sprang up and, without a word to his puzzled companions, bolted out the door.


                                       ****


        He arrived at the site before any medical vehicles.  This was not
uncommon; he had sources at all the hospitals, and his Land Rover could take
the steep mountain roads much faster than any ambulance.  He could tell as he
pulled on his blood-stained white lab coat that it would be a good night.  The
bus had burned, but several bodies had been thrown clear.  He adjusted his
official-looking hospital ID as he hurried over, lugging a carrying case. 
Nimbly, the Flesh Man darted past the moaning, bleeding survivors, dodging as
they grabbed at his legs, ignoring their pleas for help.

        He reached his objective, a half dozen lifeless bodies bearing no signs
of damage.  "Severed spinal cords," he thought, "the best kind; sometimes the
heart is still beating."  He knelt down among them, opened the ice-lined case,
took out a gleaming scalpel and went to work cutting, probing, extracting with
the quick efficiency of a master surgeon.

        The first ambulances arrived on the scene just as he had filled his
case.  The Flesh Man snapped it shut and strode purposefully past them, waving
his ID.

        "Dr. Morgan, American Hospital, Mexico City.  I'd stick around to
assist, but there's an orphan in Guadalajara who needs a kidney."

        He threw the case into the back of his Land Rover and raced down the
road, weaving through the onrushing parade of emergency vehicles.

        Three hours later, in a grimy back office in Acapulco, Raoul the Turk
tossed a wad of hundereds at the Flesh Man, who counted them.

        "This is 19, Raoul, a grand short."

        "No, one of those livers was not good.

"       "Bullshit, Raoul, those bodies were undamaged."

        "Not in the accident, Fleshie, cirrhosis.  Alcoholism.  In six months,
he would have needed a transplant himself."

        "People should take care of themselves," grumbled the Flesh Man.

        "If they did, we'd be out of business.  But since they treat their
bodies like toilets, wreck their livers with booze or their lungs with smoke,
we can sell them replacement parts and pay for our own vices, eh, Fleshie?"

        The Flesh Man smiled, pocketing the bills, then leaned forward, a
conspiratorial gleam in his eye.

        "Yeah, but this is nickel-and-dime stuff, Raoul.  Say I got 50, 60
complete bodies, unmarked, no trauma, no burns, refrigerated from the instant
of death.  What could I get?"

        "All organs fresh?  This would be very valuable.  The genitals, for
instance, spoil quickly, and the demand for them in Scandinavia is always high.
You could do nicely, perhaps a half-a-million American dollars.  Why, do
you...."

        But the Flesh Man was out the door.


                                      ****


        "So let me get this straight," Keith said, sitting at his regular table
in the rear of the Caballo Loco, "I just depressurize the cabin, fly around
'till everyone asphyxiates and freezes back there, then land?"

        "Exactly," said the Flesh Man.  "I'll make it look like a crash, and as
far as anyone knows, you went down with it.  I do a little business, you walk
away with 200 Gs."

        "I like it, but I'm not a murderer."

        "Keith, the people I work for ship organs to hospitals all over the
world.  Now they're underground, but that's just because of the red tape. 
They're still saving lives.  For every person who dies on that plane, many
lives will be saved - a kidney here, a heart there, maybe a pair of eyes so a
little blind girl can see, or a set of ears so some old deaf woman can hear her
son play the violin."

        "Yeah, but...."

        "Look, all these people will die eventually, right?  So why not have
them die in the right place, at the right time, so the gift of life can be
passed on?  The way I see it, you'd be a murderer if you didn't kill them."

        "I never thought of it that way.  I guess you're right."

        "One week from today, then," the Flesh Man replied, rising to leave. 
"Don't screw it up, and I'll make you a rich man."

        Back at Raoul's, the Flesh Man told the Turk just enough to convince
him he meant business.  He hated to tell him anything, but a deal this size had
to be set up in advance and only the Turk could supply the refrigerated truck
the job required.  While he did some calculations, the Flesh Man called his
pimp.

        "Listen, Jose, I can have the money in a week...."  But the Mexican cut
him off.

        "Bad news, senor.  I call my connections and they tell me April, she is
retiring.  She has one last job in Moscow, and then she is no longer in the
business."

        "No, there has to be something you can do!" screamed the Flesh Man.
"When does she leave for Moscow?"

        "Day after tomorrow."

        "So get her here tomorrow!"

        "But, senor, this is impossible.  She must have the money in advance. 
You tell me you will have it in a week."

        "You'll have it in an hour."

        When he hung up, the Turk was already shaking his head.

        "No, Fleshie, I know what you will ask me, and it is impossible.  I
work cash-on-delivery; you know that."

        "But, Raoul, I know you loan-shark.  You've lent money to every lowlife
in this town; so why not to a guy you've done business with for years?"

        The Turk leaned across the desk.

        "Flesh Man, we are friends, we trust each other.  These people I lend
money to, I don't know from Mohammed, and I would not trust with their own
sisters.  But they pay me back because they know, without a doubt, that if they
do not, I will find them, or my people will: here in Acapulco, in the interior,
anywhere in the world.  No one has even missed an interest payment and lived to
see another sunset.  If I lend you money and something happens, I have to kill
a friend.  And I have too few as it is."

        "Don't make me cry, Raoul.  Here's the deal, take it or leave it, and I
bet you can't leave it.  Lend me the 250 now.  In a week when I make the
delivery, it's all yours.  Half-a-million bucks worth of bodies, fresh as a
truckful of daisies."

        Two minutes later, the disfigured Anglo was running down the street
toward Jose's, clutching a bulky satchel like a tailback carrying a football. 
Everything was going perfectly - well, almost.  He could no longer afford to
pay Keith and would have to kill him.  But that was not all bad; the pilot
talked too much, and killing him would take care of a loose end.


                                      ****


        The penthouse garden suite at the Hotel Del Golf was dark when the
Flesh Man walked in, which pleased him.  The last thing he needed tonight was
to become impotent, as he had in the past when women gasped at his gnarled
face.

        When his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw the slender figure of a
young woman no older than 18.  She had soft olive skin; slender legs rising to
a perfectly proportioned butt; a dark, downy bush whose subtle perfume he could
just smell and a tight stomach with just enough silken baby fat to give her
youthful navel a sensual pout.  This was topped by a pair of breasts that would
have made a master architect throw down his drafting pen in despair.  Though
full and rounded, they seemed to float before her of their own accord.

        But what struck the Flesh Man were her eyes; eyes of a deep tranquil
blue that seemed to gaze into his soul.  As he stood transfixed, a shaft of
moonlight streamed through the glass roof onto his hideous face, but to his
amazement, her eyes gave no hint that she was revolted by what she saw.

        And then she was on top of him on the huge, satin-covered bed, pulling
his clothes off, covering his body with kisses, licking and nibbling every
inch.  In his hurry to make the final arrangements, he had neglected to bathe. 
As a result, his body carried several days of accumulated stink, but she seemed
not to notice.  Her nimble tongue darted into dark corners even the crustiest
Acapulco whores shied away from.

        She continued like this for what felt like an age, seeming to know his
body better than the American himself did.  He shut his eyes, and it seemed as
though three or four young girls with the curiosity of children, but with the
understanding of women, were caressing and adoring him.

        Just when he would have cried out that he couled take this teasing no
longer, she took his shaft in her mouth until its head was well down her
throat.  To his amazement she even got her lips around his bulging, cum-filled
balls.  The slightest motion would have brought up a torrent of hot jizz, but
she didn't twitch, just held his manhood motionless in her mouth as he writhed
at the brink of ecstasy.  Occasionally she would swirl her tongue around his
balls, always stopping before they released their load.  She somehow knew just
how far she could bring him without pushing him over the edge.

        Then, deep in the back of her throat, she began a slow swallowing
motion that playfully tickled the very tip of his cock, and he strained to bury
it deeper inside her.  The swallowing motion increased, and soon her whole
mouth was alive, swirling and sucking as he shot thick jets of semen down her
throat.  The whore swallowed like a hungry baby getting her first taste of
mother's milk, and she didn't release his member from her mouth until she had
gently, lovingly, milked it of its last precious drop.

        Usually, he needed half an hour before he could get another erection,
but his cock was barely dry when it was rock-hard again, ready to be pleasured
by her two other fuck-holes.

        First she guided him up her tight little ass, which tugged and teased
his helmeted intruder just as her mouth had - only for twice as long - pumping
back and forth in an ever-increasing crescendo until he exploded inside her.

        The writhing sex machine seemed to adore the ass-reaming as much as she
had cherished the liquid lunch the Flesh Man had treated her earlier.

        No sooner had he eased out of her rectum than she took his cock in her
mouth.  Within moments it was stiff once again.  She spread her slender legs,
and he knew it was vagina time.

        He slipped easily into her slick, swollen cunt - gaping and red like a
cut on a boxer's face - and they fucked for hours.  Her twat seemed to have an
endless supply of pearly lubricant that dribbled in shiny rivulets down his
cock, around his balls and along the crack of his ass, collecting in large
puddles on the king-size bed.  Finally, she picked up the pace; her pelvic
thrusts becming more urgent, his breath coming in short bursts.  As she clawed
her way up through layers of pleasure, finally breaking through, her loins
slapped his as they strained together toward orgasm.  But even as she came, the
high-priced prostitute managed to hold him back.

        Then, with a smile that told him the best was yet to come, she split
her legs like a gymnast and began to revolve on the end of his tool, propelling
herself around with her hands, spinning faster and faster on her
well-lubricated vulva.  This drove the Flesh Man even closer to the brink and
kept him there, helpless, a prisoner of her masterful cunt.

        Finally, when he felt his heart could take no more, she let him come
and gratefully, shuderingly, he climaxed inside her; his powerful, jerky
thrusts bobbing her still-spinning body up and down on his pulsating pink
pivot.

        A few minutes later she broke the silence.  "You are not like the other
men I have been with."

        "What do you mean?" he snapped, thinking she was talking about his
face.

        "I have never met a man who takes pleasure like you.  The other men,
they strut, they preen, they try to impress me; always asking, 'How do I look? 
How does it feel?  Do you mind if I do this or do you mind doing that?'  But
not you.  You are not afraid to just enjoy me."

        "You - you like that?" stammered the Flesh Man.

        "Yes, it is so honest.  I am a whore; my job is to bring people
pleasure, but most of them, they try to satisfy me.  They never could, and they
insult me by trying."

        "But, just now, you..."

        "Yes!  With you, yes, because you are the first honest man I have
fucked in a long time."

        "but my face - it doesn't bother you?"

        "I am sorry, what do you mean?"

        "You can't honestly tell me you don't find me ugly."

        April pulled her head back from his shoulder.  "I see I can have no
secrets from you."

        The Flesh Man had seen a lot of strange things, but nothing could have
prepared him for what April did next.  She reached up to her beautiful blue
eyes and deftly pulled them out, setting the turquoise glass balls on the bed.

        "The man who trained me from birth to be his concubine, live in his
harem, did this to me.  He caught me looking at a servant boy and swore I would
never look at another man again.  So one night as he climaxed I killed him. 
The servant boy helped me escape.  For the past five years, I make my living
the only way I know how."

        "So that's why you have the plane, the bodyguards, the privacy...."

        "Yes."

        "And the way you seem to know things, to know when...."

        "Yes, this too.  When you are blind, the other senses, they get
better."

        Listening to this, the Flesh Man felt sensations he hadn't felt in
years, sensations like pity, even love.  It was April who noticed he was also
growing hard again.

        "Perhaps you would like to do something I have never let any man do."

        The Flesh Man lay there amazed as she moved her head down to his
crotch, eased the head of his cock into her right eye socket and began bobbing
her head gently up and down.  This new fuck-hole had a soft, spongy warmth, and
soon he was ready to come.

        "Do you midn if I...."

        "Come in my brain?  No, not at all.  Please do."

        As she spoke the words, he fired one last salvo of semen, which
dribbled out of her other eye socket and onto his tired balls.  She hungrily
licked it up before lightly kissing his cheek and falling asleep beside him.


                                      ****


        A few weeks later, the Flesh Man drove the shiny, silver refrigerator
truck the Turk had lent him up to an abandoned airfield he had staked out in
the mountains high above Acapulco.  He wlaked to the runway and sat down to
wait, thinking about April.  She had been gone when he awoke, and he had not
forgotten what Jose had said about her belonging to no man.  But he would never
forget that night, and he resolved to track her down in her retirement and
marry her.

        His reverie was broken by the reasuring whine of the DC-6 as it broke
through the clouds in a steep descent, then bottomed out into a perfect
approach over the cracked, weathered strip of tarmac.

        Not until the plane was a couple hundred feet off the runway did the
Flesh Man realize what was wrong.  He started waving franticaly.  But Keith
just waved back, a half-empty bottle of tequila in his hand.  "The drunken
fool," the Flesh Man thought.  "He forgot to lower the landing gear."  The
plane touched down with a sickening scrape, spinning sideways, catching a wing,
flipping over and bursting into flames.

        The Flesh Man spung to the truck, reviewing options as he ran. 
Acapulco was out; the Turk would be waiting for him.  He would drive up the
coast to Mazatlan, board a freighter for the U.S., raise some money, get a new
identity, and head for - wherever.

        Only after he had climbed into the truck did he see Raoul, and the gun.
 "He must have been hiding in the back," thought the Flesh Man.  The game was
over.

        "I warned you, Fleshie.  I told you not to do this.  But the Flesh Man
must have his flesh at all costs, hmm?"

        "Look, Raoul, just get it over with.  Do you want me to step outside so
I don't mess up your nice truck?"

        "Don't be silly, Fleshie.  You are worth nothing to me dead.  I still
aim to collect my half-a-million dollars."

        "But didn't you say...."

        "The principle, I can wait a week for."  It would be hard, but somehow
he could raise the money in a week.  This seemed too good to be true.  It was. 
"But you are not off the hook, Fleshie.  Your first interest payment is due
now, $10,000."

        "I can raise it in an hour once we get back to town."

        "Now, Fleshie.  Cash - or merchandise."

        "Merchandise?  But - you saw the plane.  Those bodies are history."

        "I'm not taling about those bodies, Fleshie."  In a blood-curdling
instant, he understood.

        "I got a call from Scandinavia.  They'll pay $10,000 tonight.  One way
or another, your... equipment will be on board.  It is up to you whether the
rest of you will be alive, or dead and in the freezer down in my office."

        Several minutes later, in the refrigerated compartment of the truck,
the Flesh Man made the first incision and tried to look at the bright side: he
would survive.  This trick with the planes could be a gold mine if he chose his
pilots more carefully.  A few hauls and he could pay off the Turk, maybe afford
to track down April.  He would temporarily be incapable of enjoying her
talents, sure, but perhaps this place in Scandinavia could attach a new set on
him.  Unlike their other clients, he could choose his own donor, and he might
even move up a size or two.  The possibilities were endless.  He was, after
all, the Flesh Man.

  _   _   _____________________________________________________________________
/((___))\|The Convent..........619/475-6187  The Dead Zone.........214/522-5321
 [ x x ] |Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362  Greenpeace's IGB......916/673-8412
  \   /  |PURE NIHILISM........517/337-7319  The Toll Center.......718/358-9209
  (' ')  |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194  time centre...........312/377-0359
   (U)   |=====================================================================
  .ooM   |1989 cDc communications by Richard Avis.                06/26/89-#110
\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away.