Lovecraftian Tales of Porn Shop Horror

The Phantom Whacker

Customers left the room in single file. I thought I that was the last of them. Greatly relieved I finally had the store to myself; I started to close the doors after them. With the store key in hand, I stalked to the back room to kick the viewing booth doors closed. It had been months since taking this job, I’d grown accustomed to that ripe spunk smell. What assailed my ears, however, took me by surprise. Standing frozen to the floor, just short of the corner, I heard the distinctive groan and grunt to know that onscreen some guy’s wife was reamed by a monster black cock. The first viewing-booth was occupied. The door cracked open suspiciously and the red bulb glowed overhead. The undertones of wet slapping and a metal clanking sound made me creep back to the safety of the sales floor.

Minutes crept as I waited for the “whacker” to leave, and I hoped no one else would enter. Perilously parched, I planned a daring a five minute break. A dash down the block to the gas station. Once the store was empty, I was free to lock up and leave. Minutes passed, and I turned down the music. The faint noise of the movie clip stopped and there was still no sign of him. Perhaps the store was empty all along. Once again screwing up the courage to check and close the door, I stopped thoroughly perplexed. All was quiet except for that noise. How could it be? Doesn’t he know that the movie stopped? Perhaps I was hearing things. Is that guy still in there? I turned and fled, swiftly and silently as possible. Hoping he should be finished soon.

The second hand crawled, I checked the time in small increments. Pacing and checking the video monitor beneath the counter for signs of life. My friend had not emerged. I was still alone with the whacker. No one else entered, “hurry up and zip up!” I muttered impatiently. The night shift was wearing on me. In my mind, I was hitting up the liquor store, and pouring airline bottle after airline bottle into a soda bottle.

I would have to close up shop anyway to use the restroom, regardless of the noisesome one jacking off. I locked the door and took the keys with me. Preventing this pervert from leaving with merchandise. An empty store awaited me when I returned. “Good God man!” Surely, he can’t still be in there. How long has it been since the movie ended? Was I mistaken? Was I hearing things? But why that dreadful noise. It was my job to mind the booth traffic. Smile politely and slide singles across the across the counter. Who was this man! I thought that perhaps he was the one that liked to sit naked, lathered in lube, seated on the booth floor, waiting. Or the other memorable characters from many memorable tales that frequented the store. With new resolve and an increasingly unbearable thirst. Sobriety weighed greatly. I rounded the corner and faced the familiar cracked door and prepared myself for what horror, I may finally encounter. I reached my foot out and forcefully kicked, sickly hoping give him the scare he deserved for playing so much with my poor jangled nerves. What I found was an empty booth.

Vittles

He must have pretended not to hear it, the sound of serrated plastic, sawing into rare meat. It was a gruesome wet noise. I calmly regarded the only customer as he perused the teen porn mags one by one caressing their covers as I arduously hacked into the steak. I tore through the tendons, and pockets of fat. The cheap plastic knife wasn’t going anywhere, and the fork strained severely under my grasp almost to the point of snapping. He bent down to go through the lower rack of magazines. I took the opportunity to abandon utensils. Picked my dinner up, locked jaw and tore away a mouth full of the meat. And another. Reaching for a napkin, I let out a satisfied growl. My customer was already at the counter by the time I turned around. “Vittles,” he chuckled.

“Dinner” I spoke through the napkin as I wiped away the blood. “I just killed it this morning.” I wanted to say, but held my tongue.

The Thing in the Sewer Pipe

Weeks passed but the horrific event still stained my brain. I should have listened to our esteemed jizzmopper’s parting words that night. He warned me not to venture into the bathroom. “Put up a sign,” he said, “TOILET IS CLOGGED. OUT OF ORDER.” I stood in front of the door, poised to tape up the printer paper warning. The dire words of caution were written in thick Sharpie marker. A series of exclamation points followed. Who knew what terror lay behind the half-cracked door? Something scary always lurks. I shouldn’t have looked. But I had to see where I put my hand to shut off the bathroom light. The last thing I wanted to do was to slap blindly on the sticky white walls of a porn shop bathroom. The fetid odor stole my breath. The floor was slick, thickly coated in whitewashed mop water. There was an overflow. Gagged by all the spunk and spume, I floundered for the lights, slammed the door and slapped on the sign. After running outside, I slowly recovered, taking in a lungful of fresh air and a quick cigarette. There was an hour left of my shift, bar hopping with friends was next. After that a drink was definitely in order. I replaced my work shirt and entered the martini bar, where I welcomed my companions. “So, did you have an extra jizzy day?” One of them remarked snidely. The bastard thought he was funny.

It was two in the morning when I finished the nightly merchandise inventory, counted cash and closed the register. The smut hut was shut. I was ready to arm the alarm and leave. Everything was in order. All accomplished on autopilot. My mind was elsewhere entirely; drifting incongruously between a horror-filled dream world and my own bleak reality. The day held both jobs, a bitter disappointment for I was not allowed to venture out to the bars afterward. I damned my unfortunate coworker for getting himself fired on a Friday. Because of him I had been working straight since nine the previous morning. A small break to introduce a steak to frying pan before I set off to peddle porn until the wee hours of the morning. In between the sparse yet steady stream of customers and viewing booth “whackers,” a compilation of Lovecraft’s tales filled the rest of my time. It preyed upon my imagination. As the night wore on I wondered if it was the wisest choice of reading material. Almost ready to leave my porn shop prison, I made one last break for the bathroom. It was dark and I missed the sign, a sharpie marker warning against flushing. I should have known that with the sordid past this toilet held. This time wasn’t going to be any different. Sure enough, I absently flushed, and nothing moved. Damn, I thought, wondering if I should attempt it again. From the floor came a noise; a guttural gurgling sounded from the sewer hole. It stayed my hand and made me jump remembering the spunk-soaked floor. In times past, I encountered a mysterious foam, erupted from the dank depths. God only knew what clogged the pipe this time. I didn’t wish to encounter what lurked beneath the porn shop floor. What monstrosity could possibly mutate from so much semen? Gallons and gallons of ejaculate. I left and slammed the door behind me after leaving a note of apology upon the counter; I set the alarm and exited. I was ready for bed and to give my weary head a rest.