by Granary Rubworth
There wasn’t anything Clement could say with his mouth sewn shut. He lay there naked on his belly atop the carpenter’s table at the bottom of the hole. The smell of freshly broken earth all around him, he wished his eyes had also been sewn shut.
Maynard jiggled a limp penis worm in front of Clement’s grimacing face.
“I sewed your eyes open, boy, so you could see exactly what is going up your turd burrow,” the greasy man laughed, pulling his pants fully down to expose the parasitic appendages sprouting from his crotch and thighs. “I’m all penis worms, and I’m going to give each and every one a chance to explore your innermost recesses.”
As he baked in the noonday sun, Clement tried to focus on feeling the ligatures that bound him to the table, searching for the possibility of an escape, “You wouldn’t like me when I’m sweaty,” he tried to say, but it just came out as quiet mumbles.
Maynard laughed as he rubbed two of his longest worms, causing them to release from their tips spiny appendages that served as mouths
“They eat mud, boy. I bet they want to eat your gut mud too!” He hawked a loogie in Clement’s face and moved to his rear.
Clement clenched in horror, no longer able to see what his sadistic assailant was doing.
He started to sweat.
His sweat crawled from his many pores in the form of tiny bees. They took flight and began stinging Maynard to death, one tiny dose of venom at a time. After a couple dozen stings, the man wobbled and fell to his knees, barely breathing.
The largest of the penis worms screamed, “Whoa, dudes! What would Jesus do? Don’t sting me, bro!”
“Jesus would kill all of your sorry kind, you worm!” Shrieked Jesus, doing fancy kung-fu moves with his flaming sword. He jumped down into the hole and chopped the worm in half with the fiery blade.
The sweat bees felt no kinship with the penis worms, and they stung the rest of them to death too.
Jesus, surveying the destruction, started laughing hysterically.
Clement groaned. Jesus snapped his fingers once and the sutures disappeared from the man’s mouth and eyes. He blinked like a fidgety neurotic teenager.
“Holy shit. Thanks Jesus,” Clement said. “Now can you do something about the ropes tying me to this table?”
“Yes, I sure can… but I won’t, not until I’ve done something that Jesus shouldn’t do,” said the messiah in a lascivious tone that troubled Clement somehow more so than the idea of Maynard raping him with spiny worms.
“Relax,” said Jesus. “I’m not going to molest you. I’m just going to make you watch me do Gangnam Style and give me an honest critique, Clem, because no one is ever honest with me about my moves.”
“I don’t even know what Gangnam Style is, Lord.”
“Oh, shoot,” said Jesus. He fished his smartphone from his robe pocket and googled up the video. Clement watched it dispassionately. “You see that dance, that’s what I’m talking about.”
“Can’t we go inside, where I’m not all naked in the sun, sweating bees?”
“Fine, you don’t want to critique my moves, fine!” yelled Jesus. He snapped his fingers and Clement was unbound.
He stood up and thanked his savior.
“Okay, Clem, I gotta go,” said Jesus, flying into the sky. Before he was out of earshot, Jesus turned his head back toward the naked man and said, “You’re going to Hell.”
The Son of Man didn’t even notice the trail of sweat bees following him to Heaven.
Granary Rubworth decided to write Bizarro after reading the works of Jeremy Robert Johnson and Gabino Iglesias. He would like to see these two men get married. Vote for Prop 973.
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