Driver's Side Airbag #45

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Peel and Eat Buffet
By V.W. Sakowski

Suit enters the cell. Black on six sides. With a duplicate door across from him. Illumination of a sort filtering down. Dull yellow glow like cancer consuming a lung. Straight back stainless steel chair before him. In front of the chair: a small raised wooden platform. Also black. Soap box for an audience of one. Otherwise the room is empty. Hollow. Dull.

Door clicks shut behind him. Locks slide and snap into place.

For sake who’s?
He wonders nonchalantly. Smiles. Lipless. All teeth. Sharp. Glistening. A new shark in these waters. Sits. Molds. Crosses his leg: left over right. Checks the crease.

Perfect. As always. And not a hair or a bit of lint to be seen anywhere.

Leans back. Laces his fingers. Waits.

But not for too long.

Lights dim.

Door before him opens.

Silhouette takes the stage, as the door swings shut, and it too is locked.

Fade up.

Eyes meet. Business is pleasure.

Vision holds.

Pleasure is.

Now Suit surveys the rest: soft, full-figure - just curvaceous enough, but well-muscled underneath. All natural. Almost shocking in its’ rarity. Skin as pale as Suit’s is tanned. Powder dry as he is slick. But like him: plastic, elastic. Covered in film. Literally. Gray-brown reels wound tightly. Occasional tiny images flash out of focus. Even with his sharp, beady, dead eyes, Suit can’t distinguish one frame from the next. Not that he cares too much, anyway.

He nods. Once.

To a song that only she can hear, she begins to undulate and slowly turn on the platform-- her body in constant motion-- but every move deliberate. Sensual. As she turns, her hips gyrating, she begins to pull at the film, working the knots open. Stretching out scenes. Letting them fall. Editing in her own way. There is only the crinkling of the film to be heard as it unwinds and she crushes it underfoot.

Suit remains motionless, but interested. Waiting. Expectant.

Her breasts exposed, she takes one up in both hands, alternately twisting and flicking the nipple with her thumbs. Then bending her head down, she takes the nipple in her mouth, sucks on it once. Hard. Baring her teeth, she grips it tightly and bites it off without uttering a sound. Whipping her head up, she spits it at Suit. Blood runs down her chin and squirts out from the hole in her breast.

The bloody nipple bounces off of his chest, and into his open palm. Suit rolls it onto his fingertips, then he holds it before his eyes, admiring it like a fine jewel. He is also acutely aware of the stain on his silk tie, but he will live with it. Almost worth the price of admission. So far. After a moment, he brings the ravaged nipple up to his lips, giving it a quick flick of his pointed tongue, then pops it into his mouth. Sucking. Savoring. Chewing it lightly. Playfully. Rolling it on his tongue. But he does not swallow. Yet. And in the meantime, he continues to observe.

Iron is in the air.

Silhouette sways before him, missing a beat or two, probing the bleeding hole in her breast. Meanwhile her other hand wanders down between her legs, and peels away the film. But it is more of the same-- until she is naked and standing with a minute’s worth stretched out in her hands. Rotating her wrists, she takes an edge and runs it across her soft belly.





A thin under layer of pale yellow fat like cottage cheese.



Intestines exposed, she stuffs her hands with the film inside herself, and pulls out a length of her entrails. Taking small steps, she continues to try and dance. Twirling her entrails like a key chain one moment. Stumbling. Wrapping them around her like a boa the next. Knees buckling. Running them back and forth in between her legs. She lunges forward into his lap.

Suit catches her, knowing that since his tie is already ruined, the rest will have to go with it anyway. Silhouette holds her intestines out for him, a silent appeal in her eyes. She tries to squirm seductively, grinding into his lap, but she doesn’t have much strength left.

Suit holds her as she dies, feeling the anticlimax, and he brushes her lids with her fingers as she draws her last breath-- no longer wanting contact with eyes that now match his own. Curious, he reaches into her abdomen for the minute of film. Digs around ignoring the odor and ooze, but it is lost.

Suit wonders as he hears the locks being replaced on the door before him. Fascinated. Raises an eyebrow.

Finally, he swallows the nipple.

What’s next?
Suit smiles. All teeth. As always. What’s next?


i'm hanging out in my favorite club
a holdover from the 1930s
this is lounge culture at its' most depraved
you can buy blowjobs from the
old hag waitress
or get the geriatric bartender to
jerk you off with a latex glove
i love this place
every ancient loser in town
eventually crawls here to die
i'm always the youngest person in the house
nobody fucks with me there
nobody's got the time or desire
they're all too busy trying to croak
there are jazz musicians here every weekend
they're dying too
blasting their cancerous breath into
pawnshop saxophones
while yesterday's scabby pinup queens
bump & grind for all they're worth
which ain't much
that's the joy of this place
we're all fucking worthless here
the competition is finally over
everyone is at peace
the washed-up whores & salesmen
ancient queers & mummified junkies
i order a cocktail that
went out of fashion thirty years ago
& enjoy the evening
as i watch a sixty-year old drag queen
trying to be seductive
& blissfully failing
she'll probably die in here &
so will i
with any luck at all

Shannon Frach

Originally appeared in Halo of Sleaze. $2 from: Shockbox, PO Box 120, Fayetteville, AR 72702-0120.

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