Gene Norton had spent the morning filming a gangbang and it went without saying that he was exhausted.

Two girls, twelve guys.

Gangbangs were problematic to begin with, but with the male-to-female ratio of this particular shoot, the girls needed to take more than a few breaks through the course of filming the scene. And who could blame them really? If Gene had that many cocks in him at once he’d be calling for a cut every five minutes, but that’s why he wasn’t the talent and he was the guy behind the camera; the puppet master. Unfortunately, the girls did exactly what he would have done. The two peroxide blondes he’d cast for the shoot kept screaming cut any time they felt the least bit of discomfort; two cocks at once; three cocks, four, five, six, they were screaming for more lube!. More Novocain for their assholes!        

Gene accommodated the girls as much as he could, but the other issue he was dealing with was the wind sock factor. When it came to male players, it didn’t matter how much Viagra and coke you pumped into their systems, if you have a bunch of guys standing around with their dicks in their hands instead of pounding away at the gooey wet centers of the female talent, you were going to have a gaggle of limp cocks flapping around. So what happened when the girls took yet another break was he had twelve guys fluffing themselves and getting more and more pissed that they couldn’t get to the wet spot.

He drew the line during the money shot sequence. All twelve guys stuffed three deep into mouths, bungholes, and cunts. Both the girls were spitting out shafts and calling for another break, Gene ignored them and kept the cameras rolling until every last member of the male cast blew their wad on the girls faces and tits. It wasn’t the sexiest thing he’d ever filmed, but it would do the trick.

No it wasn’t sexy, it wasn’t hot. What it was could easily be construed as rape in certain circles and it was strictly amateur hour; Gene was sick of amateur hour. Gene wanted perfectly manicured bodies, no tan lines, no stretch marks, no C-section scars. He wanted female talent who actually enjoyed fucking on camera, and studs that could money shot on command. He wanted high end production and budget’s over fifty grand per.

He wanted Lisa. He wanted Lisa Cale back.

Lisa with her flawless ivory body and iridescent blue eyes. Lisa was his find, his baby. He’d pulled her off the street and put her in the only film where he clocked screen time. It was his now close-to-legendary film, Dirty Danglers 2.

It was a fetish gig mostly having to do with piss and shit. The scene he was in featured Lisa, supine and Goddess-like, rapturous as her stomach, chest, and neck was covered in one of the worst cases of the squirts he’d ever experienced. We’re talking don’t-drink-the-water/Montezuma’s-revenge-style diarrhea. Other than his liquid bowel movement, the only part of him you see in the frame is his hairy feet and swollen ankles.  Most of the scene shows the straining face and body of some screw jockey who’d lost his nerve during the shoot and couldn’t follow through, so Gene had to step in and finish off the job.

The film was an online exclusive; sales were slow and steady, but the scene featuring him and Lisa went viral in a huge way. The five minute clip made the most popular download lists on the typical porn web search engines for well over a year, and it even did time on Youtube. For the Youtube crowd, it was the freak show quality of the vid, but for the yank and spank crowd it was all Lisa. Gene exploited her massive popularity by using her as his primary in no less than twenty-five videos over a year and a half; all of which became DVD or online bestsellers and resulted in her receiving an Adult Video Award for best New-Cummer, and a three year contract with Vivid. It wasn’t too much of a shock when Lisa broke the news of the deal to him; she was too big for Phoenix, she needed to be in the San Fernando valley of California making real money. He still acted shocked and slightly hurt when she told him, and ended up getting a pity hand job out of it.

His beautiful Lisa, he knew she deserved nothing but the best. She was like most street kids; abused and battered, fucked and fiddled; sleeping in a dumpster by the time she was fourteen. She lived the typical street life; hustled johns, hooked up with shitty junkie boyfriends who’d beat her black and blue if she didn’t hand over the cash she fucked and sucked dick for. She did time in shelters, in foster care, in group homes that were just as bad as the streets, just as bad as home. She didn’t fall into the usual street kid behaviors; she fucked around with drugs and booze a little, but neither one turned her on too much. When she turned eighteen she knew sex was her only way out of the squats and alleys; her way to something resembling a normal life.

She deserved it all.

Still he fantasized sometimes about her saying no to Vivid, staying loyal and going partners in his production company. In his dream, they made money hand over fist—so much, in fact, that he no longer had to seek outside investors—and eventually they would film a crossover hit like Deep Throat or Behind the Green Door and the shy doors of main stream media would open for them, which meant B-grade reality shows and tell-all biographies for Lisa and maybe director credits for a few low-budget horror flicks for him. It wasn’t much, but Hollywood isn’t exactly what you would consider friendly when it came to people in the Porn industry, but they were more than willing to exploit flash in the pan sensations for a quick buck.

It was a great little piece of head candy when he was rubbing one out before going to bed, but she was gone and his only partner was Clyde Raines. He’d like to say he walked into the Raines arrangement blind; he’d like to say that Raines was nothing more than a successful businessman who saw the money making potential of porn; he’d like to say that Raines’s involvement in their business arrangement was strictly a silent one, where he’d only visit the set of a shoot to observe how his money was being spent and maybe come away from it happy with what his money was doing and a quickie blow job from one of the girls. The whole problem was that all of those thoughts were just as much of a fantasy as Lisa turning down a million dollar a year contract.

Gene knew what Raines was, you couldn’t travel in the circuits he did without knowing the name, without knowing what he was.

Raines was a killer.

Raines was a drug dealer.

Raines was the closest thing Phoenix—Hell, the entire state of Arizona—had to a Kingpin. The guy had started out as minor muscle back in the late 70’s when the Mormons and the Native Americans controlled all of the illegal trade that came through the State.

Some exiled wops from New York got it into their heads to try and take the state over; Raines worked for the goonba’s on a contract basis The Italians underestimated the strength of the Indians and the Mormons and had there asses whipped and driven out of the state, either back out east, or Vegas to lick their wounds and build operations somewhere else.

The little conflict opened Raines eyes

The Natives were drunks and trusted no one, even members of their own organization; and most of them were greedy as Hell.

The Latter Day Saints tried playing tough, but their number one concern was family, which made them weak; plus they wanted to go legit; no more bullshit, except their typical crooked land deals

Raines went after the natives first; putting several key Capos on his payroll and then having them flood the reservations with cheap, illegal booze. It set off an internal war and he sat back, watched as they tore themselves apart.

With the Mormons, he went medieval, taking out entire families. He promised to stop as long as they gave up their less than desirable business holdings and put them in his control. 

They gave it all up without batting an eye.

Raines’s organization had seen its ups and downs over the years. The Mexicans, Columbians, Russians, and Blacks came into the state and carved out their own piece; it didn’t faze Raines, he adapted.

When the Russians pushed Raines out of trucking and garbage services he wormed his way into controlling the labor unions at the abundant Indian Casinos and the 4 star Scottsdale resorts. When the blacks started running guns in from California, he developed arms connections with Redneck militias and US Army.

And when the Mexicans and Columbians started flooding Arizona with expensive chopped up coke, Raines countered by introducing Meth.

The soul-crushing, tooth-rotting drug was still Raines’s primary source of income, but like the Mormons before him, he wanted to start making money down legitimate avenues; but not so legit that it made him look like a pussy in front of his competitors, and even though porn was protected under the 1st amendment, it was still viewed by most as something illicit, and a blight on the community; and their relationship would have never existed if he didn’t have to borrow money in a vain attempt to keep Lisa happy and in his employ.

It was six months before the official deal with Vivid, but those motherfuckers, they were at the door; they were e-mailing and text messaging, hinting at big money; he knew which way the wind was blowing when Lisa called for a cut during a hot solo dildo scene to take a call. He was losing her and he knew the only thing to keep her with him was more money per scene, maybe even a small cut in the overall profits. The major issue was his company barely scraped by; with equipment rentals, talent, and locations, he was barely clearing a hundred thousand a year in profit.

Gene would’ve like to say Raines came in like a white knight waving around stacks of hundreds, but Gene was the one who sought Raines out through a couple of tweaker girls he occasionally hired as orgy stiffs who knew people who were high enough on the food chain to make introductions between the two of them.

When they met the first time, he partied with Raines for two days straight; Speed, booze, poker, 14-year-old Mexican girls, and finally, sniper shooting rats with a .22 rifle out at the Maricopa county dump. At the end of those two days, Gene walked away with a cheap plastic Spider-man backpack stuffed with three million dollars.

Three million kept Lisa happy for less than six months, and now Raines was plenty pissed that profits were so down after Lisa’s departure.

Thus the reason for today’s little meeting.

He wouldn’t mention what the meeting was about over the phone, but he knew.  Like most speed freaks, Raines was a regular chatty Cathy; mile-a-minute syllables that flew by so fast you could barely keep track of the conversation. But on the phone call about today’s meeting; all he did was give Raines a time and place:

Three p.m., Scottsdale office.

Gene couldn’t help but be a little relieved. Raines had rented the Scottsdale office when they’d partnered together, wanting their production company to have an upscale address; like any of the pudd-strokers who bought or downloaded his stuff really cared or noticed where it came out of? But it was Raines’s dime, so he wasn’t going to argue either way. He’d only been there once, the day Raines filled the spacious one thousand square foot loft space in the middle of old town Scottsdale with high-end rented furniture and had plastered the walls with posters of Gene’s last fifteen films, all of them hung professionally in Antique gold gilded frames. He couldn’t help but beam with pride, his creations elevated to the point of tasteful decoration. Raines was holding a grand opening party for the office. Unfortunately, Gene had a scheduled night shoot and wasn’t able to attend.

The reason Gene was so relieved to be going to the Scottsdale office instead of Raines’s Apache Junction compound was that Gene’s body was less likely to end up out in the middle of the desert minus his head and hands; Raines had gonads the size of bowling balls, but Gene doubted he’d kill someone in the middle of downtown Scottsdale.

The office was a three story walk-up, the black iron steps winding their way up the south side of the building.  It was a blazing, end-of-the-day 110 degrees Fahrenheit. Even on his best days, when he was rested and mentally calm, the three-story climb would be a bit of a struggle for his three hundred and fifty pounds of girth, but with the sun boiling down on his skin, he felt like a giant Jimmy Dean sausage patty—a wheezing, out-of-shape, profusely sweating  sausage patty. He made it up the stairs in about ten minutes and stopped and leaned against the office door for a couple of minutes before he rang the buzzer. He wanted to appear calm and composed for the meeting; like there was a chance of hell of that happening. The best he could hope for at this point was to not sound like a cancer-rotted asthmatic before he stepped through the door.

Gene leaned against the buzzer and was immediately admitted by Raines’s bodyguard, a man he simply knew as The Dog. The guy was creepy as shit. His skin was moonlight pale, his face an impassive piece of marbled stone with a body to match. The guy never said a word; he just stayed in a far corner, drifting around the corner of your vision, out of sight, but you knew he was there, waiting for you to make the slightest threatening move against Raines.

He shuffled over to Raines’s wide mahogany desk at the far end of the room. As expected, Raines had his cell phone crammed against his ear, his head bobbing to whatever the voice on the other end was saying to him. Gene collapsed in one of the uncomfortable stiff brown leather chairs positioned in front of the desk. Raines turned, his desert brown face pinched with annoyance.

“Did I tell you to sit down?” He said it without breaking stride or his phone conversation.

Gene dragged himself to his feet. Sweat was pouring off of him in rivers, stinging his eyes, turning cold and slimy down the crack of his ass. He wasn’t able to catch his breath and his heart felt like a jackhammer slamming away at his sternum. He went light-headed from the effort of getting up from the chair, blood rushed his ears and the world took on the sound of a TV tuned to static. He watched as Raines continued to pace behind his desk, phone pressed to his ear. Gene caught snips of conversation through the concrete mixer grind of his heart and the pounding surf of blood rushing to his head.

“. . . .he did what? . . .that shit’s just not gonna fly. . . yeah, make sure of that. . .right, then. . .just shoot him in the face. . .Yeah, I love you, too.”

Raines pocketed the phone and slid into his office chair in one slick motion. He stared up at Gene with an open faced smile, his sun-brown hands folded on top of each other. It was eerie the way he could shift gears so effortlessly; homicidal maniac one second, reasonable businessman the next. His legs were beginning to shake under his weight, his bowels felt loose, liquid; he swallowed hard.

“So, Gene, there were a couple of things I wanted to go through with you today.” Raines was leaving him hanging; he obviously enjoyed watching Gene sweat and struggle to breathe. “First off, how have you been? How did the shoot go today?”

Pleasantries, fucking pleasantries; if Raines was so Goddamn concerned with how he was, you’d think he’d offer him a seat, a glass of water. He was just screwing with him for his own shitty pleasure.

“Things are good,” Gene wheezed. “The shoot was good.”

“Awesome! Wasn’t Lisa supposed to be in today’s scene?” Big smile, Christ he had a great teeth for a tweeker.

“No. . . No, we have her in a solo scene; I’ll cut it into the middle of the film. She’ll be featured on the box for release.”

“That’s good. That’s good, surefire bestseller then... But today’s scene, any hot properties in that groups? Anyone who might replace Lisa?’

“No. . .” he hung his head, whipped-dog perfection.

“No. I thought so. I mean, she was one of a kind. I mean, you sold me into partnering with you on the fact she’d be making films for us for awhile, isn’t that right?” Raines stood up from his chair, started pacing again.

“Yeah,” His heart started going double time, a new sheen of sweat popped on his forehead. “I thought she would be. I thought she’d be here.”

“But she’s not. She’s not and I gave you three million dollars of my money based on a promise from you. Christ she can screw. She was smoking hot even when she was getting shit on. . .”

A high pitched ring started in his ears and drove an ice pick through his skull. Raines and the office space turned liquid; bile rose in his throat, he tasted bean burrito and diet Pepsi . . .

And he was falling.

Falling into a crush of a thousand pillows.

Falling into a hundred soft bodies.

Hard bodied blondes, natural redheads, perfect tits, firm asses.

No tan lines, no stretch marks, no C-section scars, no cameras.

It was suicide bomber heaven, except his virgins swallowed cock and took it in the ass with a smile.

And his body was different; he was slim and muscular; no cellulite, no cankles, no wiry patches of back hair.

And his cock:

Ron Jeremy

Long Dong Silver

John Holmes

Those mother fuckers had nothing on him!

And every firm, flawless body stroked and fawned; moaning, begging for his money shot. It was all so amazing, if only she was here. If there was only . . .


She parted the writhing bodies, arms outstretched, her face angelic, impassive; a porn star Moses.

He was on his back and she lowered herself down on his throbbing dick. Her cunt felt exactly like he thought it would. . . wet, so wet. She squealed and came barely half way down his shaft. She brought her face to his, her lips parting, the tip of her tongue.

They kissed and she tasted like . . .


Gene’s eyes fluttered and stared up at Raines and the Dog. The Dog was wiping his mouth with a white handkerchief and he heard the man speak for the first time.

“Jesus, fucking tastes like I just ate a pile of rotting garbage.”

Raines was shaking his head, his eyes scanning Gene’s body.

“Shit, Dog, I think he liked that CPR shit you were doing. Looks like the motherfucker’s sporting a chubby for you.”

They both laughed.

“Alright, enough of this life saving shit,” Raines said. “Do this asshole a favor and put a bullet in his head.”

The Dog pulled an automatic from the waistband of his pants, a silencer screwed to the barrel.

Why did they bring him back?


Gene closed his eyes and Lisa rode him, wild and smiling.


Keith Rawson is a little known pulp writer who lives in the alkaline desert wastelands of southern Arizona with his wife and very energetic three-year-old daughter. His stories have appeared in such publications as Plots with Guns, Pulp Pusher,, Bad Things, Powder Burn Flash, A Twist of Noir, Beat to a Pulp and many others. You can find him most nights dicking around on either Twitter or Facebook, or stroking his already overinflated ego at his blog Bloody Knuckles, Callused Fingertips.