As far as Larry Heidnik was concerned, all women but his Mama were whores.
He knew this was so because she'd tell him, "Lawrence, the only woman in your life can trust is me. All others are whores, filthy, disgusting, dirty whores."
Then she'd roll over in the bed they shared ever since his father had died, her ever-louder snores keeping him awake most of the night as the headlights of passing cars on the street which ran in front of the little GI built house he'd lived in since birth, reflected upon the dingy, nicotine stained ceiling through the nondescript cheap curtains, also the yellowed color of long familiarity with tobacco smoke.
Still, as he'd grown older, he'd had urges, dirty urges, assuaged by dates with Rosy Palm and the occasional filth disguised as literature he'd fish out of the trash cans of the local park when she wasn't looking on the rare days she'd take him for walks, leaning heavily upon him, wheezing with each step around a steady stream of Pall Malls.
At age 13, Larry's mother discovered his collection under the prolapsed cushions of the couch she treated as throne and judge's bench while watching her favorite stories. She'd dropped her lighter down between two of the worn cushions and felt the slickness of Larry's latest date while fishing for it.
Grunting and puffing, she'd heaved herself up, fat rolls moving in majestic slow motion, justice incarnate, and threw the cushions aside, revealing Larry's entire harem.
Let us say, that after Mama lit up a fresh one from the one smoldering in her favorite and overflowing green glass ash tray, she'd let Larry know exactly how she felt about his seeing other women besides his mother behind her back.
Mama's opinion of dirty magazines left Larry cowering behind the large 1960s era console black and white TV with a black eye, a split lip, and the knowledge that he'd committed adultery.
Later that same night Mama heaved herself up off the sofa, TV blaring away in the background, and made a dinner for Larry which didn't come out of a frozen package, Then she'd cuddled and petted him in their bed, murmuring, "Mama loves you, Mama's your only friend, not those whores."
After that, being a good boy, Larry, along with Rosy Palm, would peer through the keyhole of the locked bathroom, whenever Mama took one of her rare baths, large green glass ash tray on the lid of the toilet, overflowing with cigarette ashes, her fat rolls and varicose veins seen in keyhole-shaped sections – looking at Mama was all right, Mamma wasn't a whore.
The years rolled on: Larry going through Junior and then Senior High, trying not to look at the girls and the female teachers, doing his best to be faithful to Mama, and generally failing even as he failed most of his schoolwork, a pudgy, round-faced boy with non-descript hair, acne, and a belly that overlapped his belt, jacking off in one of the school lavatory's stalls – dull resentful hatred smoldering behind his thick glasses as he imagined what he'd do if he could get at them, alone and out of Mama's sight.
Socially promoted, Larry graduated, taking what few jobs the invisible have open to them: janitor, fast food, pizza, and trash- walking through the remains of the little working class GI built suburb he'd grown up in past the whores Mama had warned him about on the way to and from work: they were filthy, disease ridden animals – nothing like her, no, not at all.
At work Larry looked down the blouses of the career women, who were worse, as far as Mama was concerned, as he handed them their lunches over the steel counters at the fast food joints he worked at – they looked nice, but they too, were whores, only with more expensive packaging – what they got up to in closets and mail rooms didn't bear imagining, Mama said…
Larry disobeyed Mama regularly by imagining as much as he pleased, what they got up to, with him on top and the others waiting their turn – just like in the pornies he took in at the little theatre on the corner a block down where Larry could commit as much adultery as he pleased, and where an elderly Chinese man in a frayed white linen suit with dirty knees would, for five dollars, slip out his dentures, unzip your fly, and help you along with your adultery as the flesh colored fantasies flickered above you both in the semen stinking darkness.
Eventually all good things come to an end, Larry, balding at thirty, witnessed Mama's death – sixty years of chain smoking having caught up with her, her wracking coughs which made her entire, ever-expanding body with its perpetual crown of bobby pins and rollers, wobble like so much pale Jell-O, sending her flopping and rolling down the basement stairs, to lie like a beached jellyfish at the bottom, lit by the harsh yellow light of the single 40 watt bulb hanging on a bare wire stapled to a beam.
The fact that one of Larry's hands had somehow shot out and helped her down those stairs as she paused to hack up one or more lungs one her way to the toilet, somehow was missed by the sweating, heaving ambulance crew who had to retrieve Mama's body from the basement a few hours later. This too, was overlooked by the cop who had to file the report, even as nobody at Mama's sparsely attended funeral bothered to ask why the door to the basement had been open at that very moment when the only time anybody ever bothered to go down there was to change a fuse every time the aging electrical wiring of their shared domicile threatened to plunge them both into permanent darkness.
And Larry, standing beside Mama's double wide coffin in his high school graduation suit, buttons threatening to pop off over his sagging gut, didn't bother to bring this up, either.
Larry committed acts of adultery on the same couch which had been Mama's throne that night, harem spread around him in a papery fan, the heat of a New York summer coiled about him like smoke from one of Mama's now permanently stubbed out Pall Malls, one of them now dangling from his own lips as he played out his fantasies, a widower at last.
Still, somewhere as Larry used up an entire box of tissues and the last of Mama's face cream, Mama watched in disapproval.
The next morning Larry took down Mama's favorite picture, the one of Jesus knocking on a door down from where it had hung for years over the big TV, and tossed it down the same stairs, slamming the door firmly behind, before replacing it with the cover of the dirtiest magazine in the collection he'd amassed on the way home from her funeral.
Pretty soon, another joined that particular masterpiece.
After a while, it looked like the contents of an entire Adult Bookstore had exploded, x-rated shrapnel coating the entire inside of Larry's, layer upon layer upon layer of exactly the things which Mama had warned him about.
Larry ignored Mama's silent disapproval as he wandered naked and hard through the rooms of the home they once shared.
Other changes occurred, the whores Larry had once walked past, face averted, cock stiff, ears burning, were brought in – the lucky ones left in a disgusted, frightened hurry: the things Larry asked them to do were too much, even for them once he decided that as Mama's widower, it was time to branch out and explore what was going on in his custom x-rated wallpaper, for himself.
A few of them registered complaints with the local police, but who listens to whores, even ones with bloody noses and broken fingers? Anyway, their pimps always had plenty of applicants and Larry always paid whatever was demanded without complaint.
Eventually, Larry dug a pit in the basement where the old-fashioned coal furnace had once lurked, and stocked it with whips and chains.
Larry was done with rent-a-cunts; if he was going to cheat on Mama, he wanted real-estate of his own.
His fumbling attempts at pick-ups after work netted him Hope, an Amish runaway of 14 from Bucks County PA.
Desperate and hungry, she'd agreed to come home with him on his promise of a housekeeping job after a burger and fries –into the pit she went.
Once Larry's new property stopped trying to fend off his rightful advances as her owner, he had all the wallpaper fun with her he pleased, taking her in all ways, claiming all orifices as his – her eyes dull and lifeless as she recited the scripts he beat into her – Bucks County and the whippings Hope's step-father had dished out had been nothing compared to Larry's caresses.
Still, the small legacy that Mama had left him along with the house in his little corner of Manhattan wouldn't last forever, so Larry kept working at one fast-food joint after another – using his position as cashier to eyeball potential bits of real-estate should he ever decide to trade up – something the garbage men had helped him with more than once. Larry had confidence that they would in the case of Hope - Hope, who was starting to get fat like Mama, and had the gall to vomit all over Larry that morning when he'd visited her for a bit of fun before clocking in, forcing him to change work uniforms after he'd beaten her for her insolence.
While rolling pennies that day after the lunch rush, it occurred to Larry that he was going to be a father,
This would never do.
Larry could support a wife and himself on his fast-food wages, but not a child.
So he took care of it that night after work.
Then he'd celebrated by going to a certain grubby little theater and in the semen-stinking darkness, he'd given a certain elderly Chinese man with easily shed dentures a ten dollar tip after he'd enhanced Larry's viewing pleasure.
Ignored by muggers as not worth the effort, Larry swaggered on his way home from the theater in the graffiti twilight; proud that he'd solved a minor economic crisis, ignoring Mama's disapproving wheezes in his head and the sudden massed blare of sirens in distant downtown Manhattan behind him – whatever it was, it wasn't his problem. Turning onto his street, Larry shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his shapeless brown polyester work trousers, street lamps shining off his balding head, playing pocket pool in anticipation of his homecoming with Faith. So engrossed he was in his triumphant he didn't notice the hissing phallus shape rise up before him, or the sharp stinger it offered him from between it's legs on a long, erect tail.
Gripping his cock, Larry was dragged paralyzed down below the street and into the stinking darkness where his mouth was pried open and a thick, fleshy something forced its way down his throat.
Larry came to hours, perhaps days later in that same stinking darkness, throat raw, belly tight and rumbling, Mama's voice, forever belittling, forever scolding in between cigarette hacks, echoing loudly in his head. He'd crawled over what felt like dead bodies towards a light and voices, which turned out to be an open manhole.
He'd climbed out into the harsh white light of afternoon into a silent world of overturned cars and burned out buildings. Larry staggered down the middle of the street towards a group of ragged women and children, clutching at the friction burns on his pudgy, unshaven neck. His glasses hung off of one ear, unheeded, "Hhhhhhhelp meee…"
"Oh my Gawd, he's one a them!" a shrill voice rang out, "Get 'em!
Larry went down on his knees, retching, their footsteps approached at a run, followed by an explosion of pain in his now rippling belly, coughing just like Mama did when his hands connected with her back… blood spattering on the sun hot pavement, something hard hit him on the back, and then another, Larry landed on his face, rolling over, back arched, tongue out, flabby legs stiff out, heels drumming, shit and piss simultaneously staining his trousers as the source of his pain tore its way through him, coming out between his man boobs - the women he'd gone to for help for screamed, crushing whatever it was in a scalding rush of acid.
Larry's body was left, along with its stowaway, bloody in the middle of the street for the birds to pick at.
One supposes that Larry's ending, of being beaten to death with inner-tube wrapped baseball bats by a group of women with babies balanced on one hip as his ribs burst from the inside from the new life he'd been incubating's attempts at freedom, would have been a comfort to the 14 year old Amish runaway from Bucks County PA.
Too bad Hope'd died days earlier, forgotten and starved, of a blunt trauma administered abortion, a dead fetus between her legs in a pool of fly-buzzing blood and afterbirth.