They sell sex!

They sell sex!

Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Status: Finished

Genre: Erotica


Thrill as a sadistic pornographer meets a grisly demise! Shriek as young nubile innocents are ravished by the sex industry! Swoon with excitement when you realise this is the 2nd instalment of the Miss Glitz trilogy!


Thrill as a sadistic pornographer meets a grisly demise! Shriek as young nubile innocents are ravished by the sex industry! Swoon with excitement when you realise this is the 2nd instalment of the Miss Glitz trilogy!


Submitted: May 13, 2013

A A A | A A A


Submitted: May 13, 2013




Ashton woke up at midday, groggy from the 75mgs of dothiepin he had ingested the night before. He sat up in bed and reached for his well-thumbed copy of Teen Tits And Twats. Leafing through the magazine, a full colour still of suspiciously aged schoolgirls poking dildos in each other a personal highlight, Ashton finished a half smoked joint in an artificial twilight, black heavy curtains shielding him from the bright crisp day outside. The hash made him nervy and he reached for his cigarettes. He tapped the ash into a coffee stained white saucer and searched the classifieds for Harry's ad.

SEE! CUNTS! FUCKED!  Bleeding anuses, savage penetration.

The phone rang. Ashton dragged himself out of bed and walked into the living room, tall and skinny in a white T-shirt and boxer shorts. He picked up the receiver.

"John, it's Chris."

"Where are you," said Ashton.

"At Harry's. Look, will you come over tonight?" Turner's voice, oddly imploring, lacked its usual detachment.

"I've been groping my balls the last few days thinking clubbing seals would be a good career move, and now the hurry."

"Well, something's cropped up."

"How much."

"Harry will be very grateful."

"Is that meant to be a comfort."

"No. You know."

"Porn is not porn anymore."

"So you read the classifieds."


"So. Harry calls it hardercore."

"Who filmed it?"


"Jesus. I never made him to be the type. Paranoid and a drunk, that's some combination. He should have tried smack instead."

"Harry says come over else you get a shotgun up your arse."

Ashton grinned to himself; Harry got all the bad dialogue.

"Watkins will leave a trail like a slug."

"I'll pick you up at six."

The line went dead. Ashton boiled a pan of water and ate cup noodles. He went back to bed with one of Harry's samples, Pervert Garden, and was charmed by the centrefold. A midget amputee, cheeks bulging, sucking on a black cock that resembled a night-stick. He turned the page. Semen on ragged stumps. So long as the kiddies and animals weren't involved. Images washed over him, of Bobo with a mouthful of alsation cum, of a dominatrix frying chopped eel in shit for a man in a highchair, precocious in nappy and bib. The children, at least. He torched his last cigarette.


Excerpt from an aborted film script titled The Dark as Always:

Crude phallic logo floating in a psychedelic sky.


(sententious, booming)

Imagine. A million cocks ejaculating synchronically on a million silver screens, spattering a million faces, a million assholes. Imagine. Pimps lock up your hookers, the john from hell is here.




White letters on a black screen. Heartbeat over the credits. Swift glimpse of carnage, a young girl brutalised by a corpulent man. Cut to grainy film stock. The camera pans down a deserted city street, neon signs reflected on the wet pavement.


Victim of a cunt conspiracy, this is the shape of my rage, this is me.

A withered old lady sits holding a Styrofoam cup outside a fried chicken takeaway. She is swathed in dirty blankets and is accompanied by a wretched cadaverous dog. Shakes the coins in the cup at a suit who self-consciously ignores her. A youngish couple pauses briefly and rustle up a note and loose change between them.


I've always felt I'm a victim of internal wiring. Like there's something missing. Bad connections.

A man running to fat, thirtyish, in dated leather jacket and blue denim, takes the cup off the old lady and smiles pleasantly. The old lady holds out a withered hand. The man, Watkins, spits in the cup.


Things have got to change. Anyway, I've got my talent.

Watkins stood in front of a brick wall, on which is daubed in red paint WOMENS CUNTS SMELL smoking a joint absently. Jump to scratchy videotape, skeletal girl in a leather mask bound to a wicker chair. A naked, doughy figure is terrorising her, dangling a dead rodent in front of her breasts. Suggested research for music to be dubbed onto the soundtrack, the work of Lalo Schifrin and Ennio Morricone. Footnote 1



Selected extracts from a catalogue badly typed on three sheets of white A4 paper and stapled together, for Black's Home Video Productions. There are fifty titles in all, ranging from sadistic D.IY. hardcore pornography to the dregs of the shockumentries inspired by Mondo Cane, and a handful of innocuous slasher movies banned under the video recordings act. The directors, if known, are in parentheses.


Code Title Price (£)


V9Beyond the Darkness (DAMATO)12.75

Necro epic. Kid shacks up with dead

girlfriend. Authentic crematorium and

autopsy scenes.


V13Women's Cunts Smell (WATKINS) 50.00

Finally available. Bleeding anuses,

savagely fucked. Real terror close up.


V21Death Women 34.25

Like it says.


V34The New York Ripper (FULCI)17.50

Classic fuck and stalk. Beautiful girls diced

and sliced in the Big Apple.


V46Kilroy Was Here (?) 45.00

As hard as they come. Ultimate sado.

Infamous rat up snatch freeze frame.


Harry was in the back room, rummaging in the wooden crate pushed against the far wall, attempting to impose some sort of order on the haphazard piles of magazines, mastertapes, catalogues, and second and third generation cassettes.  His head was pink and hairless and globular. He was sweating extravagantly, soaking a voluminous blue jogging suit. The room smelled musty, was of a generous width and had a low ceiling that granted the room a dismal mien. Yellowed paper was peeling from the walls; the wooden floorboards were covered in frayed shagpile carpet and the primary source of warmth, a gas heater, was broken. Harry's stubby fingers searched amongst the pile of largely unmarked videotapes for those marked with stick on plasters to denote they were masters. When he located one he removed it and placed it in a small cardboard box with PRODUCT written on it in black felt pen. He seated himself on the wooden chair and placed the cardboard box on the desk. The desk was situated in the middle of the room. A large three-seater couch was set opposite it. Harry was on steroids to clear up a chest infection complicated by his asthma, and the only sound in the room was the rattle that accompanied his exhalations.  There was a knock on the green door. Harry saw the brass handle wrung. He unzipped a pocket and took out a key. He unlocked the door and was halfway back to his seat when Turner and Ashton walked in. They both slumped on the couch. Harry planted his arms on the table, his arsecheeks spilling over the edges of the seat. They all nodded to acknowledge each other.

"I want that taking to the lock up tomorrow," said Harry, gesturing towards the crate.

"You should put a doily on it," said Turner. Ashton reached into the top pocket of his denim jacket for a packet of cigarettes that weren't there.

"Do you have any cigarettes?"

Harry's blubber slithered down his cheeks.

"John, how many times have I told you, I don't smoke, on account of my asmaar," lisped Harry.

"If you smoked you'd know," said Ashton, his features belonging to a petulant adolescent.

"Do you want me to check the masters."

"All ten of them," said Harry. "Beginning, middle and end. That video I gave you had a counter on it. Back to nought and every twenty minutes."

"I figured that out halfway through Got to Get You into my Wife."

"Surely you didn't get offended," said Turner, a sneer playing on his lips.

"The quality of meat was very poor," said Ashton.

"So you'll check the tapes. Here, this should help ease the pain," said Harry, opening the top drawer of the desk. Inside the drawer was a cellophane bag containing silver foil wrapped eighth of an ounce chunks of hashish and grammes of amphetamine sulphate in gelatine sealed envelopes. Harry threw Ashton a wrap. It landed on the shagpile. Bending over to retrieve it from the decayed chicken satay smothering the fibres, Ashton said "Harry, I'll need a crack pipe to get me through fifteen hours of that crap."

"Quality management, John. That's the secret of our success. Respect for the consumer. Free packing and delivery. A discreet mailing list, for pigs who eat anything."

"Hardercore," said Turner, supremely bored and showing it.

"Anyway, reason you're here. Watkins has gone freelance. There's a girl involved in this and a tape. Everyone seems to know thanks to Harry South."

"Well, Harry's door stepping career is at an end," murmured Turner.

"Hopefully," mouthed Harry.

"So how many films come into Watkin's oeuvre."

"Just the one, maybe two. Women's cunts smell. He saw it on a wall and pointed a camera at it."

"Bleeding anuses, savagely fucked," interrupted Ashton.

"They hurt the girl, fucking prolapse or something. There's spaghetti western music on it."


"I never took Watkins for an auteur," said Ashton.

"You can admire Turner's camera angles."

"Christopher, I'm shocked," laughed Ashton.

"The situation imposed its own logic," stated Turner coldly.

"Anyone can play guitar," said Ashton, "we'll try Newton's tomorrow."

"After the lock up?"

"Yes Harry, after the lock up," reassured Ashton.

"Are you not chilly in that rag hanging off you?"


"You want a nice bit of cashmere like Turner here," said Harry. Turner's eyes were blue and vacant, his face impassive, his demeanour remote. Silence descended briefly.

"Why, you think I've got a career for life?"

Harry looked away, "Yeah, but there's no pension."


Excerpt from The Dark:

A short wiry man in sweatshirt and tracksuit bottoms sits feet up on a counter, smoking a hand rolled cigarette and leafing through a tabloid sports pullout. His face is yellow and radiates unhealthiness. Long nose, dirty teeth, greasy brown hair tied up in a ponytail, like something that's crawled out of a sewer. Young middle-management type enters the shop; the rodent regards him slyly with visible contempt. Shot of rows of shelves containing hardcore mags, luridly explicit poses on the covers with penis to mouth/vagina/anus contact covered in blue tape.



The MMT is sweating and fiddling with his glasses, aroused yet wary, surreptitiously clocking the gay mags on the top shelves. Eyes flit back and forth like he's following a tennis match.

The Rodent: Got a sweet tooth, eh? Come round back, I'll give you a reach around.

MMT looks at man behind counter. The rodent does a cunnilingual gesture with his tongue. MMT seems on the point of seizure, arms nervously twitch. Scoops up a handful of mags in tightly sealed clear plastic bags, walks on jelly legs to the counter and slams them down. Puzzled reaction shot from the rodent. Black and white still of a wad of notes jammed into a greasy palm. Action resumes, the MMT falling out of the shop in relief, magazines clasped under armpit, crashing the door shut. The rodent snickers. Takes out a tin of tobacco and papers and rolls himself a toothpick fag. Sticks it in the corner of his mouth and lights it with a match. Phosphorous glow in the afternoon gloom. A second consumer enters. He is no one and everyone. Places videotape on counter.

The Consumer: I'm up to tape twenty-five now.

The Rodent: Lava of Love. A fucking S and M classic.

The rodent pulls out a cardboard box from a doorway leading to the back of the shop, seen from the Consumer's POV in front of the counter. Thrashing around in the sea of cassettes, the rodent curses loudly.

The Consumer: It's not there?

The Rodent:It's Watkins. He fucked up the system.

Consumer turns away disheartened.

The Rodent:Hey, stop, you're a good customer…want to see something new and special?

The Consumer: Newton, you never disappoint.

Holds a chunky wallet to the camera between thumb and forefinger.

Newton (offscreen): The key to the kingdom.




Newton and the Consumer stand in front of a widescreen TV, side by side holding hands. The room is in total darkness, the courting couple illuminated obliquely by the TV's blinding white transmission. On screen: young girl being tortured, snatch of The Good, The Bad And The Ugly soundtrack dubbed onto the skin flick.

The Consumer: Surely that must be a prosthetic.

Newton:No, it's real. Look at the blood. You can't fake that shade.

He leans forward and taps the screen.

Newton:Do you like it?

The Consumer undoes his fly and takes out his penis. Newton gets a grip on it and kneads it slowly.

The Consumer (breathlessly):Yes.

Newton:And then?

The Consumer: Do it.

Newton:And then?

The Consumer ejaculates onto the screen. It pours down the glass between a pair of cigarette charred nipples held together with a pair of disembodied hairy hands. Close up of Newton pinning his cheek to the set and collecting the milky droplets on his tongue.


Newton, in customary pose at counter, feet up, fag in mouth. Two men enter the shop in single file to emphasise the claustrophobia of their surroundings. One is tall and bulky in a black cashmere overcoat, dour looking, the other not much shorter but diminished by his stooped posture, he is skinny in shabby denims. They look late twenties/early thirties. Newton is unnerved, tries to act relaxed.

Newton:Turner eh, and your little pal in tow.


Newton blows a kiss at Ashton, the skinny one, who is hovering anxiously behind Turner.

Newton:This a social call?

Turner:Not quite. I saw you round our way the other night. What exactly is the attraction of your geriatric concubine?


Newton (leering):She lets me bring me Jack Russell.

Turner:You stick your dick in places I wouldn't go with a gun. Now, Watkins.

Turner drags an unsurprisingly shocked Newton across the desk with an economy of violence. There is no malice or sadistic relish evinced by his swoop, just a businesslike proficiency. Ashton is sent sprawling as Turner backs into him in the process of pulling Newton upright by the loose material of his sweatshirt. They are face to face. An open switchblade hits the floorboards.

Turner:You cunt.

He smashes Newton's mouth onto the shelf. Close up of teeth and blood spattered on the cover of Huge Tit Service.Footnote 2


Watkins was face down in the mattress on the bathroom floor. He was wearing a garish red shirt and not much else. Strewn around him were a bong pipe, an empty bottle of scotch, a saucepan containing powdered cannabis resin and a strip of pills, most of them punched out. There was vomit everywhere. Luckily for Turner, the icy chill in the house had arrested the decomposition of the body, and he was able to quell his nausea. He pulled the bathroom door shut and gingerly trotted down the stairs. His greenish pallor told Ashton all he needed to know. They walked into the living room. The room contained a television set and video recorder. The walls had been scrubbed and peeled, the carpet ripped up and disposed of, the lower half of the house emptied.


Except for the television and video. Inside the maw of the video recorder a cassette was clearly visible, suggesting the tape had been allowed to play out and rewound automatically. Over the television set was draped a black cashmere coat with a glossy magazine stuck in a pocket. Smeared in excrement on the far wall the words SNUFF IS SNUFF IS.

"I wonder where the tape is?" said Ashton.

"Why not try the video," said Turner. Ashton picked up the coat.

"It's a nice coat. I could get it fumigated."

"What's the mag?"

Ashton flipped through it. On the first page a young boy hanging from a hook. The following panels a bloke goes to work on him with his fists and his prick, humping the boy's mouth and backside.

"One for Harry," said Ashton, wanting to shower.

"Make good bedtime reading. Harry likes unexpected treats."

Ashton slid the magazine in his back pocket and slung the coat on his shoulder. Turner switched on the TV. White noise and a fuzzy screen. He pushed the cassette into the video recorder.

"Pity there's no remotes," said Ashton. Looking behind the TV, Turner saw that the lead connecting the VCR to the set was lying on the floor. He plugged it in and pressed the play button on the VCR. Manually he flicked through the TV channels. Number fifty seven; the closing credits of Camblewick Green, the cable station logo in the top corner of the screen. The picture went wavy and cleared to reveal a celebrity cook, damned for her anodyne creations, steaming a steak and kidney pudding. On a Formica cutting board, at the edge of the static camera shot, cubes of neatly diced lamb's kidney. The picture went snowy, accompanied by a harsh metallic crackle. The loop started.

"They smoked cigarettes in the jungle when they killed the turtle," said Ashton. 


A kid, late teens/early twenties, is stood awkwardly in front of a trussed girl in a wicker chair, a bloody swastika carved on her chest. At her feet slay the decapitated head of an inflatable doll, a scarlet curtain obscuring the synthetic features beneath the peroxide fright wig. A fat man loomed into view, in a red shirt, kicking his trousers off. As he lunged for the kid his trousers scythed the camera tripod and the VCR toppled over. The camera angle was now at floor level. The fat man licked the girl's toes and sliced them with a switchblade. He smeared the blood on his mouth. He stood up and was out of shot. The skeletal feet twitched and tautened. A crimson flow hit the carpet. The camera lingered on the tableau vivant for a few minutes then cut off.

"Think she'll turn up," said Ashton.

"In another life," said Turner.


Harry was sat at the desk when they both entered. His face was beaming mischievously like a child. The cassette hit the desk.

"He fucked up the one for the money," said Turner.

"Was it…good…" croaked Harry.

"The best," said Ashton.

"I could never watch it and part with it…" Harry's voice trailed off wistfully.

"Ah well, the Death Women series will see us all off," said Ashton.

Harry brightened, "The Death Women… there's a purity of form and beauty we cannot duplicate. We are only good at hysteria. They take livestock and make it less than human. Foetus to grave. Made in Taiwan."

"What about Women's Cunts Smell, Harry. Don't forget, I'm part of the product too," said Turner.


"We'll put it on the market…especially after sprinkling this stardust away." Harry's eyes were fixed on the cassette.

"Leave me boys."

They left. Harry kissed the cassette. He licked the edges and the sharp plastic ridges nicked his tongue while tears cascaded down his cheeks. He unravelled the cassette and stuffed the coils of black tape into his mouth.


Excerpt The Dark:

Overhead shot of Watkins and Turner pointing video cameras at each other, circling a pitifully whimpering young girl. The room is squalid and badly lit. Girl is battered and naked and is attempting feebly to cover her breasts and genitalia with a couple of scatter cushions. They are both oblivious to her. Switch to Turner's POV from the video camera on his shoulder: Watkins lowering his camera and pulling clownish faces. Puts camera back on shoulder. Cut to Watkins' POV: Turner blankly filming as he backs out the doorway into darkness. Synthesised vocal choir dubbed onto the loop, a psalm for the last house. Footnote 3


Ashton was propped up on his pillows in bed, swigging lager in the dark and watching The Enema Bandit. Initially the film had repulsed him, but the ceaseless repetition of the sexual menu rendered even staged pain and degradation boring. Halfway through, his ennui transmuted into puzzlement and then fascination. It was the dregs of the Death Wish sexploitation pics and starred the seventies porn icon James Gillis. He was a Ted Bundy type in sports jacket, check shirt and flared denims, tottering on a snazzy pair of Cuban heels. While Ashton burned a lump of cannabis and rustled cigarette papers, our hero broke into a series of apartments and laboriously administered enemas in the bathtub to a succession of women; they wore wooden expressions of fear, anger and disgust.

When they pissed shit out their arses, Gillis brought himself off. Ashton dragged hard on a roach cannibalised from a Benson and Hedges packet, and tried to figure the flick out. There was righteousness about the film's tone that was absurd in its context. Lots of hang wringing, courtesy of a posse of barely animated B-movie extras dressed up as cops and detectives, and heartfelt lamentations on the rottenness of society delivered in stentorian tones. The climactic scene shows squad cars descending on the pad of his latest victim, and Gillis, waving a revolver as a beach bunny kicks off her clam diggers, bolts through a window and down a fire escape. Gillis cowering on the stairwell, drenched in the neon swirl of the squad car lights, the screech of sirens intensifying as the frame froze. A caption appeared on screen. Ashton stubbed out the joint on the lid of his rolling tobacco tin and pressed the pause button on the remote control. The picture was distorted but he could just about make it out:







After five minutes of being on pause, the VCR automatically turned itself off and rewound. Ashton listened to the whirr of the video, lost in a cannabis haze. He went into the kitchen and filled a saucepan with water and placed it on the hob. He couldn't tear open the packet of noodles, his fingernails were bitten away. Ripped it open with his teeth, snagging the sachet of chicken stock. Inhaling granules, Ashton sneezed.

Footnote 1 The above text was discovered under rotting potato skins in a flip top wastebin.

Footnote 2 The above text was discovered on shards of paper dissolving in bath suds.

Footnote 3 The above text was found in the lining of an overcoat.


© Copyright 2019 Monsieur Mondo. All rights reserved.

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