Warning: Immature Content…

The sample below was originally written in 1994, when I was messing about with some writing buddies, exchanging writing prompts that became more and more ludicrous. I won this challenge, but the cost was high. Once read, this cannot be unread… I will probably never finish this short story, although it has great potential to become a runaway hit.

The writing prompt was: write the most disgusting superhero story ever…


The day had just begun, the broiling heat turning the public lavatory into a feast of fermented fragrances. Lolling on a toilet seat with one yellow boot against the graffiti-smudged door with the broken lock and the other in a pool of vomit seeping into his cubicle from the stall next door Captain Smegma took a deep breath and gritted his teeth, the turd fighting a hopeless battle to remain inside his wart-infested anus. His left eyelid started to flutter with the sudden pain of a hemorrhoid popping open, but the blood lubricated his sphincter and the turd was defeated, dropping in the pool of blue disinfectant and orange morning urine.

His head lifted at the sound of high heels on the dirty tiles, for a moment imagining the stacked slutty redhead from the Sewer of Sorrows stalking past his stall, her firm ass encased in a rubber dress the color of dried semen. The image caused the blood from his brain to rush to his erection and he cried softly as his expanding glans stretched his foreskin painfully.

“Subside,” he hissed in the direction of his crotch. “Subside, damn you.”

“Captain Smegma?” a hoarse female voice inquired from the other side of the door, sounding like she’d still had her mouth half-full of jism. Smegma took his boot down from the door and opened it on a crack, his bloodshot eyes taking in the shivering transvestite, greasy hair cascading down a face with a three-day beard and wobbling on stiletto heels. His erection flagged, the glans bumping against the cool porcelain before dropping into the stagnant tepid water of the waste pipe. “What do you want, Victor?”

“Victoria,” the transvestite corrected him, winking. “But you can call me Vicky.”

“Spare me your obsequious banter. What do you want?”

Victor smiled, his fake teeth glistening green in the strip lights. “A moment of your time, Captain.”

“I don’t have money, I told you that last night.”

“You can have a free poke, Captain. If you do me a favor in return.”

Always the same. All they offered in exchange for his services was cheap sex in roach-infested motel rooms, the kind of sex he could perform with half an erection, climaxing without tearing his foreskin.

“What favor?”

“My pimp,” Victor lisped, running his fingers through the mop of greasy hair, a clump of which stuck under a torn fingernail with chipped lacquer. “Ruiz. He left. With my money.”

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