This is an excerpt from Kikaffir – A Black Comedy, the second novel in the Shockspeare series. Kikaffir is a post apocalyptic version of Macbeth set in South Africa.
“You’re looking very glamorous tonight, Madonna,” Dingaan said to her when she returned. “Very sexy.”
She fluttered her eyelashes at the compliment and smiled coyly. Mike noticed that she had done some touch-up work while away putting her husband to bed. More paint on the mouth and so much eye-shadow she reminded him of pictures of an iguana. She must have powdered her nose and cheeks too, because she looked unnaturally white, as if she had applied one of those face masks that Lady sometimes plastered on, making her look like a fucking ghost.
“Come and sit over here,” Dingaan said, patting the empty space beside him on the sofa. “Get you another drink? Hey, Malc, a whisky for Madonna. And one for me, too.”
“He thinks I’m a fucking waiter,” Malcolm said to Candy. “Do I look like a fucking waiter?” But he got to his feet and went over to the bar in the corner.
They had been watching a porn video on the big-screen TV – Dingaan’s choice: One Thousand and One Arabian Delights. He turned down the sound and the serial fornication continued in silence. Mike pretended to watch but he was actually keeping a close eye on the old man’s progress. He was already pretty pissed but it would take a couple more drinks before he was sufficiently far gone to be hauled off to bed. Wouldn’t it be great if he kept going all night? When dawn broke the opportunity to murder him would fade away like the night.
Dingaan was flirting with Madonna in an egregiously obvious way, talking all sorts of suggestive shit and putting his hand on her fat knee and laughing at his own jokes. What an old sack of manure! And this was their leader!
“You know, Madoofs is such a lucky devil,” he told her. “And he knows it. He’s told me so many times, so many little stories about how he loves you. Naughty stories, too – ha, ha, ha!”
“Oh?” Madonna looked a little apprehensive. Did she really want to listen to the torrent of smutty rubbish that was about to cascade from Dingaan’s slobbery lips?
Struggling and squirming and grunting, he worked his way forward until he was sitting upright on the edge of the sofa, his huge belly now acting as a counterweight to prevent him falling back. He turned sideways and leered at Madonna.
“You know what Doofs told me?” His voice was exaggeratedly conspiratorial. “He told me you love, you just love a foot massage. It makes you purr like a pussy.”
She looked at him aghast, her eyes wide with shock.
“He told you that?” she said, her voice trembling with hurt.
He put his empty glass on the coffee table – the big, glass-topped coffee table – and reached for her foot.
“No!” she yelped. “No, for God’s sake, Dingo! Please!” And she pulled away from him.
“No?” He looked at her blankly. His face was changing fast, going from lascivious buffoonery to querulous disbelief, and then to spiteful resentment.
“Malcolm!” he shouted at his son. “Can’t you see the glasses are empty? Get your finger out of that whore’s twat and pour some more whisky.”
“I’m not your fucking servant, Daddy,” Malcolm snarled. “Pour your own fucking drink. And she’s not a fucking whore!”
“You see that, Mike?” Dingaan’s voice was going all plaintive and injured. “You hear how he speaks to me? My only surviving child and the ungrateful little faggot treats me like dog shit! After all that I’ve done for him.” Now he was getting close to whining. “He knows how painful it is for me to walk, and yet he won’t even get up and pour me a drink. Little shit!” He raised his voice to a scream: “Fucking little shit!”
“Oh, go fuck yourself, Daddy,” Malcolm responded. “You’re just a disgusting, burnt-out wreck of a…”
“Shut up! Shut your fucking face!” Dingaan thundered. “You talk to me like that and I’ll throw you out. I’ll whip you and chase you away like a dog. You heartless monster, you’re just waiting for me to die so you can take over, aren’t you? If I die in the night you’ll rejoice in the morning, won’t you? You and that…”
Mike jumped to his feet. Time to intervene, before the family tiff turned nasty.
“Okay, okay, okay!” he said. “Cool it, both of you. I’ll pour the fucking drinks, and then we can all relax.”
He gathered the empty glasses from the coffee table and got busy at the bar. The others sat looking fixedly at the TV, where a swarthy man dressed in nothing but a turban was standing on an oil drum having sex with a camel.
Mike handed round the drinks and sat down. Madonna stared at her whisky, a funny look on her face, as if she was trying to make a choice, but there was only one glass. Then she picked it up and drank like it was water and she was thirsty.
“What else did Madufi tell you about us?” She gave Dingaan a contemptuous glance and looked away, waiting.
“What else?” Dingaan repeated. His eyes became crafty and vindictive, his mouth cruel. “All sorts of things,” he said. “Like…” He leaned towards her. “Like he loved to watch you… You know? He just loved to watch you…” He lowered his voice to a theatrical whisper. “Taking a crap!” He sat back, as smug as a horny old toad waiting to be kissed by the beautiful princess. “Old Doofs said it was very, very sexy. Very sexy.”
She had flinched when he came out with it, but now she seemed to shrug off the pain and she was matter-of-fact.
“I don’t care,” she said. “I should have known it would end like this. Maybe I did know.” She was talking to herself. “How stupid it was to imagine we could be happy right up to the very end. It doesn’t work like that. It never has.”
“You know,” said Dingaan, “I’ve always envied Doofs.” His voice was becoming seriously slurred. “We’ve been close, ever since our days at university, and we’ve shared the good times and the bad times. But he’s been luckier than me.” He shook his head sadly and sipped his Scotch.
Mike and Malcolm both rolled their eyes heavenward. They could see it coming – the old bugger was about to get maudlin.
“I’ve never known such intimacy,” Dingaan went on. “Not the way you two are intimate; the way you trust each other. No. His mother,” and he gave Malcolm an accusing look, “she never really trusted me. There was always that distance, that gulf, between us. All my life, Madonna, I’ve yearned to be close to a woman the way you and Doofs are.” He put down his glass and sat with his hands covering his face. “And now it’s too late. Oh my God!”
His body was racked by a sob.
“You know how terrible it is, Donna?” He was actually crying now. “I’m going to die, we’re all going to die, and I’ve never seen – not even once – have I ever watched a woman defecating. Can you believe it? I’ve never even watched a woman doing a wee! And now it’s too late.”
Madonna stood up and steadied herself. Determination was written all over her face. She kicked off her shoes, bent forward and lifted the hem of her floral silk dress, which draped her body like a tent. She felt about for the waistband of her panties, found it, and pulled them down and stepped out of them.
Panties? Well, more like bloomers. A very large item of underwear, voluminous enough to contain such prodigious hips, belly and buttocks.
A piece of lint had fallen to the floor. It was a home-made incontinence pad, designed to absorb any involuntary spillage. Bearing in mind she had given birth to three children, all of them vaginally, and the plumbing wasn’t what it used to be. Also, her obesity and the approach of menopause didn’t improve matters either. Not that it would have been a big deal if there were health care facilities available like in the old days. Any gynie with a little surgical know-how could have sorted her out with one hand tied behind his back. Some basic pelvic floor repairs and a few stitches to the neck of the bladder – that’s all she needed. A piece of piss. But these weren’t the old days.
At first Dingaan was flabbergasted, but he soon recovered and began to babble excitedly.
“Jesus, Donna! Jesus, this is incredible. This is just such an incredibly fucking generous gift. I can’t believe you’re prepared to… Oh my God, now I’ll be able to die a happy man! Just give me a chance to get ready.”
With considerable huffing and puffing and grunting he got down on all fours and then rolled onto his back and began propelling himself under the coffee table, the way a mechanic eases himself under a car he’s working on.
“Hey, Malc,” he called when he was in position. “Get Sandy to suck me off while I watch Madonna, won’t you?”
Candy recoiled in horror.
“In your dreams, Daddy,” said Malcolm in a voice that was totally uncompromising. “Do your own dirty work.” Then, in a more conciliatory tone, he said, “Use your pump. Where’s your penis pump?”
“In my bedroom,” said Dingaan, as he fumbled with his trousers.
“Well, fuck that then,” said Malcolm. “What about your Fleshlight? Where’s your fucking Fleshlight, Daddy?”
He knew his father liked to wank while watching porn.
“There it is,” said Mike, pointing. “Next to the DVD.”
Malcolm went over and picked it up.
“And the KY?” he said, rummaging about. “Where’ve you put the fucking lubricant, Daddy? Or doesn’t that calloused old prick of yours need lubricant?”
“Of course I need lubricant. Do you think I want to rub myself raw? Look in the logical place, Domkop. Look in that drawer.”
It was time for Madonna to mount the stage. Mike eyed the coffee table with trepidation. Alright, it had a sturdy wooden frame and the glass was close to an inch thick, but Madonna was a real hippo. Wouldn’t it be fucking hilarious if Dingaan met his end like this? Cause of death: brain haemorrhage resulting from blow to the head when struck by bare-butt Madonna, the falling fat lady.
She had delicate, soft hands, so white and translucent they looked like porcelain, and her finger nails were painted the same crimson as her mouth. Malcolm and Mike each took one of these hands as well as the dewlap of fat above her elbow, and assisted her onto the table. Her flesh felt cool and a little clammy.
The table didn’t even groan. No hairline cracks in the glass, either. Solid as an emperor’s throne, so the voyeur was safe.
Madonna took up the stance of one about to squat, hoisted her dress and gathered it about her middle so that it was well out of the way and wouldn’t get soiled, and went down in a surprisingly fluid manoeuvre.
Dingaan had been battling to get himself into the Fleshlight.
“Oh my sweet Jesus fucking Christ!” he said, as he saw her descending. His brain fired a fusillade of signals in the general direction of his member and it responded with eager virility, and thrust itself deep into the Fleshlight, as if it had a will of its own.
“Oh my God, my God, my God! Oh my God, this is just too beautiful!” As he watched in rapture his right hand worked the sleeve slowly up and down, and the lubricant made a squelching and sucking sound.
The soles of Madonna’s feet formed part of the picture but the main view was of her bearded vulva, perineum, anus and surrounding expanse of fleshy buttock. Dingaan had only a few moments to gaze upon the spectacle before the action commenced. Her anus gave a vibrating flutter and he heard the high-pitched whine of a preliminary fart. And that? What was that? A haemorrhoid was peeping out shyly. It blushed red and a tiny bubble of blood exploded on the glass. Then the membrane around the anus began to swell angrily, and there was an ominous bulging as she strained.
Suddenly, at just the right moment before constipation could claim another victory, her sphincter relented, the anus dilated, and the main body of fecal matter came swarming down Madonna’s rectal passage.
At the precise moment that the brown horde burst into the open, Dingaan let out a cry of joy and ejaculated into his toy.
It – Madonna’s dung and not Dingaan’s discharge – came out in the shape of a long, well formed sausage. It smacked head-on into the glass, began to go all blunt and spread-out, and then fell flat. Hard on its heels came the next one, crashing into the first and falling the other way. Then a third and a fourth in what was proving to be a multiple pile-up.
Dingaan had to move his head to one side in order to see past the spreading heap and find out what was going on. A straggler had emerged from Madonna’s anus and halted. Was it afraid of heights, or something? She strained again and there was a noisy detonation that scattered brown bomblets far and wide.
That was it. He could smell the rich warm odour of her excrement. There was nothing foul or rancid about it, but there was no mistaking the stench of fresh human shit. Hey, hold it, here comes some more!
This was the last of a movement that was proving to be astonishingly copious and eventful. It came out much softer than the turds that had preceded it and, being unable to hold its shape, spread out and tried to make its way to the lowest point. This was the icing on top and surely the end of the show?
No, there was one last surprise in store. To his amazement, a little straw-coloured fountain gushed, oh so briefly, from Madonna’s flabby pudenda before she was able to cut the flow. What an incredible bonus! And so what if he could feel the hot liquid dripping off the edge of the coffee table onto his belly? Now he had seen it all!
The American girl had her face pressed into a cushion and was sobbing. Mike and Malcolm helped Madonna to stand up and then step down. They tried to avert their eyes from her face, and not see the wobbling fat on her bare white haunches.
She picked up the incontinence pad, mopped the drips and then clenched the pad between her cheeks before letting the folds of her dress fall and finally cover her nakedness. Without uttering a word she dried her feet on the rug, stepped into her shoes, and turned to go.
As she left the room the tears began to stream down Madonna’s face, but she walked erect and her head was up. Yes, she had crapped in public. But she had also crapped on this despicable pig still lying on the floor. And she had crapped on that treacherous weakling, her husband. She had crapped on herself. She had crapped on every aspect of this lousy existence.
To read the full story, get a copy of Kikaffir here.
To read the full story, get a copy of Kikaffir here.