Kevin Ommensetter was a shagger. He was also an artist.
Barely a week after arriving in mainland France, Ommensetter was arrested and extradited to Wandsworth prison for sprinkling the royal ashes of a recently deceased French monarch on his porridge(as part of an artistic response to a newly imposed taxation on immigrant residents). He saw out 4 years of a 7 year sentence.
While inside, between sculpting marble phalluses and creating canvas of smeared faeces, Kevin dreamt of returning to the city from which he hailed. However, he was denied entry to his homeland in Glasgow on the grounds of moral turpitude.
Kevin fled Earth on a departure pod. He highlighted Mylar 5 as a preferred destination – Kevin’s installations were particularly well sought after there.
Kevin somehow got Bellona, an ammunitianists wife, back to his duplex apartment in Mylar. Bellona was a typical product of the planet – sallow skinned with papery eyelids, boxy jaw and stacks of muscle bulging through her liturgical garments. He woo’d her with the finest wines in the galaxy, told her that her eyes shone like the emerald ruby moonlets of Terra and listened intently to her inane stories about aspirations of monkhood and her unshakably austere religious belief in the Hearth. Bellona was beginning to show signs of weakness. It was time for Kevin Ommensetter to make his move.
- I want to have anal sex with you Bellona – he proposed casually between stoops of radioactive yellow wine. The girl looked surprised but not horrified.
- We do not do that here – she said matter-of-factly.
- You are missing out on so much.
- By anal sex, you mean… – Bellona gave a gesture with her eyes – in the place of excrement?
- Come now, beauty is inextricable from grotesquery…
- No… – Bellona seemed mildly offended now.
- Why do the people of this planet deny their own anuses?
- You are a victim…
- I am?
- The poverty of desire is too evident in your eyes.
Ommensetter could feel his opportunity slip away.
- I’ve gotten this far.
- You are obscene.
- I have always been a prostitute Bellona.
The girl stood up as if to leave. She upped her hood and told Kevin she better be on her way. It had been days since he last experienced intimacy, and that was in the company of Night Slime. He yearned for something more formal, more passionate and resonant, something to inspire the art in him – anal sex with the ammunitianists wife was the only way to appease his starving desires.
- Please, I’ll do anything – Kevin was aware of his pleading tone. The girl was as intrigued by the artist’s submissiveness as she was by his desperation.
- Very well. Sine you simply must have me…we shall organise coitus…in the place of excrement…
Kevin could barely contain his joy.
- Oh Bellona, you will not regret this!
- There is a catch…
Bellona shrugged off her vestments. She stood before Ommensetter, bare breasted and fully nude save for a peculiar device wrapped around her thighs. It was metallic with a triple pronged plug outlet at the centre.
- My husband the ammunitionist does not trust me while he is away, so he had me fitted for this garter belt. Only he has the plug to remove it.
Kevin could’ve screamed.
- So how the fuck are we supposed to fornicate?
- If you go into the city centre, there is a plug maker I am acquainted with who could get a replica made…
In the descending elevator, Ommensetter blankly surveyed the city that whizzed by either side of him. Surely the pros outweighed the cons in this situation, that was plain for anyone to see, but he never subscribed to the theory that desire is the root of all suffering.
He had to get Bellona into bed.
At the agreed destination, Kevin bought a coffee – Earth replicated. He broke two tabs of sweetener into the thick foam. This was frowned upon, to publicly consume the foods of your native planet. Visitors to Mylar were expected to ingratiate themselves completely, adopt the local habits and pray every day to the Hearth – that went for everyone, even famous, respected artists.
People were watching him scornfully as he drank quietly in the sidewalk bistro – but Ommensetter prided himself on the image he’d created, he was untrammelled by any convention of the times, no matter what planet he was on.
A hooded monk sat across from him, just glaring. His face was shrouded in shadow except for the lit tip of a Mylarian tobacco cylinder. Ommensetter knew immediately this was the plug maker.
The monk stood up, tamped out his tobacco cylinder and made his way to Kevin’s table.
- You are a fool to drink that here.
- It’s really rather tasty.
- Taste has nothing to do with it.
- Are you the plug making chap?
- Wonderful, we can dispense with informal chit-chat then…
- Typical human.
- I’m obnoxious even for an Earthling my friend.
- Yes, well I can help you in your adultery.
- Do you have the outline of the outlet.
- Ah yes – Ommensetter pulled out a detailed blueprint and a clay impression of the insert holes.
- A Dimerian, interesting…
- Can you replicate it?
- Of course. It’ll take time though.
- I’ll give you 3 hours.
- Very well…
- The poor ammunitionist is keenly aware of his wife’s infidelity. A Dimerian lock is very expensive.
- Can I ask you something?
The plug maker nodded.
- If you’re so holy, why are you helping me bonk a wealthy, married Mylar woman?
- Everyone has a price. Madam Bellona indulges certain needs of my own.
This confused Kevin, but his insatiable lust for Bellona’s dark places quickly banished this nagging doubt.
- I have never been a fan of your work Kevin Ommensetter.
- Oh really? I honestly couldn’t give a damn.
- May I ask from where you originally hail?
- I told you, Earth…
- I mean which region?
- The city of Cages?
- The very same.
- I have heard awful thing about that region.
- They’re probably exaggerated, I mean look how well I turned out.
The plug maker raised one eyebrow.
Now, if you’ll excuse me. I look forward to hearing from you again in exactly 3 hours. Contact me through Bellona.
Back at his sealed, airless conapt, Ommensetter looked for Bellona. She promised to stay here until he returned. He called her name but received no reply. He saw a trail of orange alien viscera leading from the walkway into the bedroom. Kevin prepared for the worst. He ran a hand through his thick greasy mop of hair, every part of hiself clenched. The corner of the bedroom entry had smudged handprints of orange that dragged at the fingertips. Sure enough, there she was…
- What are you doing? – demanded Ommensetter.
Bellona seemed surprised to see him. The girl was covered in Mylarian blood. A figure lay motionless and crumpled underneath the ruined Moroccan bed sheets.
- Did you get the plug maker?
Slowly, Kevin moved towards the chastity-belted girl sitting near naked on his bed.
- Yes, yes I found him…what are you…?
- I had a vision.
- A vision?
- Yes, my duties are manifold.
- What is it with you Mylarains? You’re all fucking mental!
- He was the stigmatist.
- Who was? – Ommensetter was at the beds edge now, trying to see who/what slaughtered creature was underneath the covers.
- Do you still want to penetrate me?
- Well… – Kevin felt bad to admit it, but he really did.
- Come… – Bellona extended her hand for Ommensetter to take, which he did. They then writhed around on the wasted corpse. Bellona’s garter belt fell off, hitting the wooden tiles with a dense schunk sound.
- But I thought…
- I told you, I’ve had a vision. I have seen the stigmatist.
Bellona grabbed at Ommensetter’s genitals. She squeezed them tightly in her fist until her thumb and finger tips met around the engorged helmet. His eyes were awash with white static, he was having a vision of his own.
- The Hearth… – he said…
- Yes, you see….
Bellona worked her hands along the base of the artist’s penis. He began sweating, stiff to the point of light headedness.
- You see…
- I see my next work of art… the tender mercies of a psychopath…
Kevin surged in a borscht of hot jism which pumped over Bellona’s clenched fist. The Heath, along with Kevin’s artistic inspiration, was gone.
- You saw… – Bellona kept saying, still massaging the flaccid flesh in her hands.
- No – said Kevin, to the girl’s obvious disappointment.
- The ammunitionist can have you.
He turned to see a figure in the doorway – a man holding a plug fixture, chord dangling.
Ommensetter left the apartment right away. He had prepared a departure pod to Terra 5, the oil planet. A sudden desperation overwhelmed him, a new kind of desperation. In that singular act of stimulation, Ommensetter had been drained of all his artistic inclinations.
He felt it.
Something stole it from his soul. Now he was on his way to Terra to hold down a modest riggers job.
Kevin Ommensetter thought about Glasgow. The cold, harshness of the city struck him in a way it never had before. He felt baron of anything spiritual.
He fled Mylar knowing a part of himself would be left behind.
It would be a long time till he craved the flesh of another . . .