The House
Authors: Edward Lee
THE HOUSE
Edward Lee
"The Pig" © 1997 by Edward Lee
"The House" © 2005 by Edward Lee
cover art © 2005 Erik Wilson
this digital edition August 2008 © Necro Publications
first edition trade paperback
ISBN: 1-889186-71-6
book design & typesetting:
David G. Barnett
assistant editors:
Amanda Baird
John Everson
Jeff Funk
C. Dennis Moore
a Necro Publication
P.O. Box 540298
Orlando, FL 32854-0298
previous editions
hardcover
ISBN: 1-889186-58-9
Printed by
Publishers' Graphics
Carol Stream, IL
THE PIG
(I)
Sissy looked at the shot glass full of pig semen and threw it back neat. Without hesitation and in a smooth, single gulp, she swallowed it all, smiled into the camera and licked her lips as though she'd just tasted exemplary cuisine, and then—
"Sissy? What's the...
No!
"
No!
"
—then blanched and threw up on the floor.
"Fuck, Leonard! This is sick!" she sniped, more falling out of her mouth as she did so. "That stuff tastes like...
uuuuck!"
Then she—
uuuuck!"
Then she—
RRRRRRALF!
—threw up again.
Leonard was appalled. Sissy was appalled...
Even the pig was appalled.
««—»»
But more than likely one may pause to wonder how—and more critically,
why
—the aforementioned pig semen found its way into the shot glass.
why
—the aforementioned pig semen found its way into the shot glass.
This is the story of that conjecture, and it's true.
It's called
The Pig.
The Pig.
««—»»
It shimmied and mewled, chortled and spat, jerked its rotund body each time one of the girls tried to grab its...well, its dick.
"Owwww!" Snowdrop yelped. "The fucker
bit
me! It bit me on the back!"
bit
me! It bit me on the back!"
It was not a large pig, mind you, not like the 1200-pound Berkshires Leonard had helped his daddy raise back at his Davidsonville, Maryland, farm so many decades ago. Leonard, in fact, had lost his virginity, so to speak, to a Duroc 500-pounder named Lacie. Boys, after all, will be boys. Leonard would always remember that day, as millions would—the same day John Fitzgerald Kennedy had been assassinated in Dallas, Texas by, contrary to what most believe, a custom-loaded .221-caliber mercury-tipped round fired not from a Mannlicher rifle but a bolt-operated Remington match pistol. The weapon was fired by a man named Jimmy Sutton who worked for another man named Charles Nicoletti. All that aside, Leonard had been 14 at the time, in 8th grade at Sligo Junior High. "Somebody shot the president!" Leonard exclaimed after rushing home from the bus stop.
But daddy wasn't in the house.
"Daddy?"
Leonard had eventually found him instead back in the first barn, kneed right up behind an ever-cooperative Lacie. It didn't take daddy long to finish his curious business before he hoisted up the overalls and got back to work. "Good girl, that's a good girl. Better pussy on ya than my wife, s'for sure. I got sick'a stickin' my pole in
that
hole twenty years ago, but—
Christ,
Lacie!" JFK long forgotten, Leonard followed suit, figuring that a boy should emulate his father whenever possible.
that
hole twenty years ago, but—
Christ,
Lacie!" JFK long forgotten, Leonard followed suit, figuring that a boy should emulate his father whenever possible.
So much for male virginity and sexual innocence.
But that was over 20 years ago, and this was the here and the now, the here being one of Vinchetti's safe houses 120 miles out of Trenton, New Jersey; the now being the summer of 1977. It was a nice area—used to be a farm itself by its looks: plush rolling hills as far as you could see, some busted barns which made for appropriate "sets," given the required "theme" of most of Leonard's, uh, "work." See, Leonard made "cinematic productions" for "the Mob," features which necessitated the compliance of a very special kind of "actress."
"Come on, Snowdrop," Leonard insisted, the Canon Scoptic settled on his shoulder. "Try to visualize your presence."
Snowdrop sighed, her sunglasses drooping. A tattoo on her left buttock read: WELL USED. Flaccid breasts dangled as she reached under one more time, and then—
"Owww!"
—the pig bit her on the back again.
««—»»
The girls—correction, the "actresses"—didn't generally last long. Most had been drummed out of Vinchetti's revolving prostitution networks along the east coast, and most, if not all, were clinical heroin addicts of considerable time span: ten years or more. To make a long exposition short, Paul Monstroni Vinchetti, aka Vinchetti "The Eye," was a district boss in what the Justice Department referred to as the Lonna/Stello/Marconi Crime Pyramid, an armature of that mythical human machinery known as the Mafia. Quite a bit more powerful in 1977 than, say, 1997, where its resources dwindled considerably, yes, thanks to "rats" fleeing to the haven of the Federal Witness Protection Program and Identity Reassignment. Back then the so-called Mob easily retained much of its hundred-year-old stranglehold on anti-societal supply side economics. But two decades later would prove a different story as tax-exempt Indian Reservation casinos neutered the Mob's grip on gambling profits, while the Jamaican middlemen had completely shut out Italian types from the lucrative crack trade, along with little helpers such as shadowed CIA units and a certain airport called Mena in a certain state called Arkansas which ferried in dozens of tons of cocaine in a peculiar arrangement with certain Nicaraguans and Mexicans in exchange for hundreds of millions of dollars per year payments in order to even more peculiarly provide military supplements to certain well-known
enemies
of the Mexicans and Nicaraguans, the security of which, for greater than a decade was provided by, in exchange for 10-percent net, a certain governor who would later be elected President of the—
enemies
of the Mexicans and Nicaraguans, the security of which, for greater than a decade was provided by, in exchange for 10-percent net, a certain governor who would later be elected President of the—
Well, no need for prattling. In essence, and for a number of reasons, the Mob lost its command of most of the money-making schemes that had made it famous. All that remained was book-making, one half of the national heroin trade (the other half being divided with urban Chinese), street prostitution in heroin districts, and— Pornography.
Depending, however, upon one's definition of such. The Mob's biggest blow in
this
franchise came in the early '80s along with the advent of video cassette recorders. In the wink of a jaded eye, gone were grainy "loops" of yesteryear, the 8 millimeter porno stalls, and the anonymous "stars" of such endeavors. The mass-marketing and hence popularization of VCRs obliterated the demand for the grand old loops. Now, when you wanted to viddie some smut, all you need do was jaunt to the neighborhood video-rental establishment and for a scant three bucks take home the new kings and queens of sexual cinematography. No longer called "smut," no longer known as "stag films" or "fuck flicks," a new day had dawned for the notion of having sexual intercourse in front of a camera. It was an industry now—the "Adult Video Industry"—and it had fast infiltrated hometown America to the extent that the Mob's firm hold on mass-market pornography was all but lost. It was all Hollywood now, with stars, trade journals, and even awards!
this
franchise came in the early '80s along with the advent of video cassette recorders. In the wink of a jaded eye, gone were grainy "loops" of yesteryear, the 8 millimeter porno stalls, and the anonymous "stars" of such endeavors. The mass-marketing and hence popularization of VCRs obliterated the demand for the grand old loops. Now, when you wanted to viddie some smut, all you need do was jaunt to the neighborhood video-rental establishment and for a scant three bucks take home the new kings and queens of sexual cinematography. No longer called "smut," no longer known as "stag films" or "fuck flicks," a new day had dawned for the notion of having sexual intercourse in front of a camera. It was an industry now—the "Adult Video Industry"—and it had fast infiltrated hometown America to the extent that the Mob's firm hold on mass-market pornography was all but lost. It was all Hollywood now, with stars, trade journals, and even awards!
A snippet did remain, however, akin to a crumb dropped from a very large dinner table, and this crumb was referred to, simply, as "underground."
For the remaining sick fucks who could not be satisfied by the more tame offerings of the "industry," and such ever-recurring names as Marc Wallice, Peter North, Chaisy Lain, and Debby Diamond; and such titles as
Mr. Holland's Penis,
Backside to the Future,
and
Desperately Humping Susan,
a demand, too, remained. The unmentionables. The stuff that, be it by design or by provisions of Section 18 of the United States Code, could not be found at the local Metro Video Center. "Underground," it should be added, was the term used, in parlance, by federal law enforcement officials, and this phenomenon is cited by those same officials to represent a couple hundred million dollars per year in gross monies. A good half of this is taken by child pornography—ultimately nefarious and heavily pursued by all forms of law enforcement.
Mr. Holland's Penis,
Backside to the Future,
and
Desperately Humping Susan,
a demand, too, remained. The unmentionables. The stuff that, be it by design or by provisions of Section 18 of the United States Code, could not be found at the local Metro Video Center. "Underground," it should be added, was the term used, in parlance, by federal law enforcement officials, and this phenomenon is cited by those same officials to represent a couple hundred million dollars per year in gross monies. A good half of this is taken by child pornography—ultimately nefarious and heavily pursued by all forms of law enforcement.
But back then, in '77?
It was a
smorgasbord
of underground, and our friends from Sicily controlled it all! Things that hometown America scarcely even knew existed.
smorgasbord
of underground, and our friends from Sicily controlled it all! Things that hometown America scarcely even knew existed.
"Scat" flicks.
"Nek" flicks.
"Snuff" flicks.
"Freak" flicks.
"Wet" flicks.
And—
««—»»
The German shepherd copulated with the woman in a manner that could only be described as frenetic.
Great, great!
Leonard thought, zooming in the Canon Scoptic 16mm for a from-behind crotchshot.
Rocco'll love this one!
The dog's penis, like a glistening pink bone, fired in and out of Sissy's vaginal ingress. "Cut!" Leonard loudly announced.
Great, great!
Leonard thought, zooming in the Canon Scoptic 16mm for a from-behind crotchshot.
Rocco'll love this one!
The dog's penis, like a glistening pink bone, fired in and out of Sissy's vaginal ingress. "Cut!" Leonard loudly announced.
Snowdrop, who was
supposed
to be rubbing the dog's testicles from behind, was out for the count. That quarter-gram of skag had zapped her; she'd be unconscious for a good four hours. The street stuff Rocco and his soldier brought up every week or so was sometimes deceptively potent; sometimes it wiped the girls out for a full day. Not that unconsciousness forestalled action—dogs would copulate with unconscious girls, as would men—but this week's dupe order called for action, and this was to be the last cut before Leonard put it on the editor, it being a neat little ditty entitled
Dog Day Afternoon,
and you can rest assured that the names Al Pacino and Lance Henriksen would
not
appear on the credits.
supposed
to be rubbing the dog's testicles from behind, was out for the count. That quarter-gram of skag had zapped her; she'd be unconscious for a good four hours. The street stuff Rocco and his soldier brought up every week or so was sometimes deceptively potent; sometimes it wiped the girls out for a full day. Not that unconsciousness forestalled action—dogs would copulate with unconscious girls, as would men—but this week's dupe order called for action, and this was to be the last cut before Leonard put it on the editor, it being a neat little ditty entitled
Dog Day Afternoon,
and you can rest assured that the names Al Pacino and Lance Henriksen would
not
appear on the credits.
Other books
Bridgehead by David Drake
The Price of Love by Rosie Harris
Fervor (The Fervor Chronicles Book 1) by Lynn Carmer
The Chevalier by Seewald, Jacqueline
The Rest is Silence by Scott Fotheringham
Under Different Stars by Amy A. Bartol
Deep Surrendering: Episode Four by Chelsea M. Cameron
The XXX Files Season Two (Episodes 5-8) by Maxxwell, Lexi
Max Arena by Jamie Doyle
Walkabout by James Vance Marshall