Warning: Do not read this if you are easily offended or nauseated (though this episode is really light). Please read part one before this. I offer episode 2 of my transgressive psychosexual blog soap opera: All My Hungarian Children 2 – Sexual Stench: unapologetic, brazenfaced, shameless and unblushing. I am so repulsed by normal soap operas where everyone is rich (even the poor people), living perfect lives, everyone is beautiful and has great careers. I reject the norm as the norm is actually more far fetched and absurd than anything I write here. This is set in the sea side town of Long Beach Mississippi–where everyone is either poor or struggling middle class. People are often ugly, do horrific things and wear a mask of Christianity to hide their perverse drug addicted nature. This is the putrid underbelly–the netherworld most normal people fail to see–while it thrives in every city festering like repugnant rot. Now for episode two:

Sexual Stench

All I could think about was how the Meszaros family must be perceived by the public–not to lessen my own family dysfunction; but we were hidden, a guarded bunch besides what a few friends knew of. My seventy year old father, the perverted old crab–watching his Miley Cyrus and Jamie-Lynn Spears videos–Britney being too old for his taste. I took my father’s name, Robert or Bobby for a nickname . . . Bobby Rezneck Jr. The house wreaked of unwashed genitalia, the putrid stink of morbid sex hung–stalagmites of blistered stench wreathing fabric, skin, hair. My poor mother spread slabs of Vick’s Vaporub beneath her nostrils to tranquilize Dad’s omnipotent flavor

“Son . . . come here.”

“What’s up dad?” I replied walking in the living room with my buddy Jonathan Zaren–redeyed from smoking hash–spiritually violated by the little paper towel wads around dad’s recliner; some stuck to the burnt orange carpeting, glued down by ejaculated fluid . . . better watch where you step.

“You seen Hilary Duff’s new look . . . Jesus H. Christ . . . oh me oh my. The only thing could make her look better is my crusty old scrotum draped across her chin.”

Jonathan and I cracked up–it was difficult to not be embarrassed by professionally framed posters of young girls all over the wall. I mumbled, “Don’t tell anyone my dad has all these posters . . .  a disgrace to humanity.”

Jonathan smirked, “No worries. Hey Mr. Rezneck, yeah . . . Hilary Duff has gotten fine.”

Dad took a hit off his bong waving his finger to say hold on, “What the fuck are you talking about? She’s always been fine. Better enjoy it now before she gets old.”

“Well, I like women to be at least twenty-one . . . preferably. Bobby told me you like Miley Cyrus.” I punched Jonathan in the shoulder blasting a scowl at him.

“I’d fuck her. I fuck her three or four times a day in my mind heh,” dad said kicking one of his jiz rags with his big wrinkled toe–thickened yellow nail snagging it or maybe it was still wet.

I said, “Dad . . . she’s only fifteen. You disgusting old pedophile.”

“Oh get outta here you freaking uptight little pilgrim, you know you’d drill it. I jack off thinking about her all the time. I bet her dad does too . . . can’t trust a long haired hillbilly horndog named Billy Ray.”

Chills wormed up our spines as Jonathan said, “It’s against the law for old men to sleep with fifteen year old girls.”

“Are you a little queer? You little faggot, I never did like you, and your dad is an old fool. Tell your mother to come by and bring a video camera when she does. You mean to tell me little Miley is bent over naked on all fours right in front of you and you wouldn’t . . . ”

I cut him off, “Dad. Please . . . you’re making me sick. Look, I’m going to have dinner with the people next door.”

“Them Hungarian people?”

“Yeah, Mrs. Meszaros invited me over for dinner, she’s making Hungarian Goulash.”

Dad changed the channel to the news just in time for a disturbing bulletin:

“Pandemonium in Gulfport Mississippi. After last week’s horrific mass kidnapping of a bus load of kindergarten children, we thought it could never get worse–but today . . . it has. City officials are scrambling . . . the police department is in turmoil over another mass act of criminality. Today at 3:45 pm, seven newborn babies were stolen from the nursery at Gulfport Memorial hospital. Hospital officials along with detectives are studying surveillance footage trying to learn what exactly happened. In a most despicable act of deleterious hatred, someone has caused severe brain damage to the remaining seventeen babies. Now to action reporter Jennette Dunwoody for details.”

“Jennette Dunwoody here for Channel Six News. Today is a day that spread terror through the hearts of twenty-four Long Beach Parents. As you can see, these families are torn to shreds.”

One young mother writhing in torment screamed, “I want my daughter back . . . oh please God, I want my child back . . . praise Jesus.”

Jennette continued, “Besides the seven babies taken outright from their cribs, seventeen others are undergoing intense care at this very moment. Someone–police believe involved in the kidnapping–broke into the nursery and either with their thumb, fingers or object . . . pushed in the soft spots on each innocent newborns’ skull. One was pushed in so far it broke the skin; though the baby is still alive, it has suffered severe brain damage. Police are baffled by the fact all the babies were Long Beach children. This is the first time in Gulfport General Hospital’s history that every child born was from Long Beach. Gulfport mayor John Stank and Long Beach mayor James Takasaki will be holding a public announcement at 6:00 pm. Be sure to tune in for details at six. God bless you all.”

Jonathan looked at me, “Holy shit. That is insane.”

My dad was smiling, his hand reaching beneath his robe to fondle himself. He looked at me saying, “Run along boys, daddy has to satisfy himself. Enjoy yer fucking goulash.”

We left quickly, shaken by the details. I said, “That is crazy. What kind of person would do something like that?”

Jonathan replied, “I don’t know. Isn’t your dad good friends with Mayor Takasaki?”

“Yeah, they go way back . . . they go to church together. I think they are having an affair . . . a putrid sexual affair.”

Across The Street at the Strangelove Home

Janelle Strangelove stared through the yellowed blinds yelling, “Demetrius, come here.”

Her husband ran into the room, “What honey?”

“Have you met that Hungarian family–the one that moved in across the street next door to the Reznecks?”

“No, and I don’t plan to. Have you seen that big muscular woman over there?”

Janelle said, “Yeah . . . I saw her. She has like fifteen people in her family. Her husband weighs at least 700 pounds. It took six men to hoist him through the front door. Mayor Takasaki is there now, talking to one of their daughters . . . oh God, what a little slutty looking thing . . . my God, look at that splintered camel toe.”

“Let me see,” said Demetrius, “move woman . . . I wanna see.”

“No . . . you always look at little whores and not me. All you men are scum and I married the Scum King,” she said with scabbed lips barely able to see through blackened eyes.

He grabbed her by the shoulders, ferociously driving a knee into her kidney–collapsing on the carpet he mounted her, poking her in the breast bone with his knobby fore-knuckle over and over–repainting purplish bruises already etched into her chest. She refrained from crying as these beatings were routine. Why didn’t she listen to her parents? Marrying a fifty-five year old ex-con was not without warning–choking her existence in a schism of strife–she was only twenty-four. He pulled the couch to the window and opened the blinds, staring at the new neighborhood girl–the word Florka written in glittery pink letters across her tank-top from protruding nipple to protruding nipple. He tore Janelle’s clothes off and brutally raped her whilst staring at Florka–saying, “Jesus Christ that little bitch is hot . . . a 36-C cup,” imagining himself raping her, twisting white-hot coat hangers around tender thighs. He covered Janelle’s skull in a black velvet bag to hide her face–quite ironic since she was so beautiful. He violently fucked her–or so he thought–his lard stuffed flesh folds undulating in the sunlight–menstrual blood squirted, drizzling down her inner thighs. He thrust his fat roll laden hips driving his rocky fist into bagged face, cracking skull bone, splintering hopes–yet silent she remained–screaming made the beatings much worse. She dreamed only of how she would torture him, tearing his flabby gut into blood soaked meat portions–vice grips, ball peen hammers and butcher knives dancing in her thoughts; though somehow still loved him, helpless without him. He ground deeply into uterus and orgasmed within her–bruised vulva swollen and black. He moaned, “Oh Florka . . . baby.” He realized his wife had been beaten unconscious, dumping her sluggish body onto the floor–concocting a plan to rape the tender young morsel across the street–visions of jealousy already fueling his demented psyche, wondering if Mayor Takasaki already had her.

Florka stood before Mayor Takasaki, fully aware of his intention . . . his eyes tasting her, defiling every contour of her body. She silently witnessed the sickening rape through the Strangelove window–fabricating new plans of her own . . . keeping it to herself.

“Do you stop to meet every new family Mayor Takasaki?”

“Only the special ones. I saw you and have to stop . . . new peoples make me smile. Actually, I already know your mother Borsala. She is good friend.”

“Now I know who you are. She talks about you all the time . . . but could you do me a favor?”

Galvanized in unabashed hardness he said, “Oh Florka . . . I do anything for you.”

“I’ll tell you later tonight . . . in private. Come by around 7:00 pm, mom’s making goulash for dinner.”

To be continued. Part three coming up soon.

Share and Enjoy:
  • StumbleUpon
  • Facebook
  • Twitter