‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel, Chapter Seventeen

After a week of work, Guy and Thea were each given their choice of a ‘Commodity’ to enjoy. Thea chose Petunia, and Guy chose Kusiima. Mark watched both encounters closely, being curious of his new employees’ lechery as a form of gleaned insight into their characters. 


Thea brought her head close to Petunia’s ear and whispered, “I’m Thea,” as softly as she could, in the hopes that no microphone would pick up her voice. She kissed Petunia on the cheek, and as she unzipped her fly and pulled out a realistic-looking strap-on dildo, she wrote T-H-E-A with her finger on Petunia’s belly, standing close enough to Petunia so no hidden cameras would be likely to record her finger-strokes. 


“What do you want me to do?” Mark said into the microphone for Petunia to say, since Guy was with Kusiima at that time, too. 


“Lie on the bed on your back,” Thea said in her vocal fry. “I’ll get on top of you.” 

“OK,” Petunia said, through Mark’s guidance. She lay on the bed and spread her legs. 

Thea got on top of her, but didn’t put the dildo in. She just rubbed it gently on Petunia’s belly. 

Petunia put her right hand on Thea’s ear. Her finger gently settled on the opening. Thea was too occupied with rubbing on Petunia’s belly to notice a brief numbness in her ear. 


That’s it, Cameron, Mark thought; Keep on fucking. You didn’t notice any tech being implanted. A little something to let me be your eyes and ears…well, one eye, and one ear...in case one day, I find reason to worry about your loyalty. 


“We’re…going…to get…you…out…of here,” Thea whispered into Petunia’s ear, in breathy pants that she hoped would be unintelligible to any microphones. She rocked her body back and forth on Petunia’s belly, saying the words in her ear each time her body rocked forward so her mouth could reach Petunia’s ear. 

As Petunia faked moaning, with her hand on the back of Thea’s neck she wrote T-H-A-N-K-S with her finger, over and over again to be sure Thea understood. 


Is Petunia writing something on Cameron’s neck? Mark wondered; Funny: I never saw his dick go in her. Was he whispering something in her ear? “What’s Jack doing with the black bitch?” he asked, looking over at the video screen with Guy. 


Guy found Kusiima’s body to be irresistible, but his guilt from being involved in her having been shat upon deterred him from putting his dick in her. Instead, Guy had his face between her legs, and he ate her out. 

As he was licking her, he used his finger to write W-E-W-I-L-L-F-R-E-E-Y-O-U-A-L-L, again and again, on her left buttock, with his body hiding his writing from any hidden cameras, or so he was hoping. 


But Mark spotted the writing. Why is Jack tickling her ass with his finger? he wondered; Speaking of finger-tickling… Then he clicked a few buttons on the computer. 


Kusiima put her right hand on Guy’s ear, her fingertip resting on the earhole. Like Thea, he never noticed the brief numb feeling in his ear as Mark’s tech slipped inside. 


That night, Capitol was closed up and the Commodities were put to bed, each given a blue Creep to ensure sleep. Petunia had the following dream: 

She was crawling with Kusiima and Arunny through tunnels with walls made of flesh. The three naked women were each glowing a different colour: Petunia was yellow, Kusiima was blue, and Arunny was green. Their glowing gave them the light they needed to find their way through.  

Kusiima, who was in front, said, “I think I see the way out!” 

“You do?” Arunny, who was behind her, said. 

“Yes!” Kusiima said. “Let’s hurry. We’re almost there!” 

Petunia, trailing at the back, said, “Wait. Before I get out, there’s something I have to do.” 

“What?” Arunny asked. 

“This!” Petunia said, then she burst into flame. 

Kusiima and Arunny crawled out of a giant ear. They looked back into the ear-hole and saw the inner tunnels exploding into an inferno. Then Petunia crawled out. Her whole body was aflame, though she wasn’t at all injured by it. She looked like a nude, female version of Johnny Storm from the Fantastic Four. 

The three women looked at the giant, burning body of Mark LeSaffre lying supine on the ground. His whole body was shaking. All three women grinned. 

“The Capitol building is burning inside, burning down to the ground,” Petunia said. “We’re all free.” 

Indeed, they saw all the other sex slaves crawling out of the ears, nostrils, and mouth of Mark’s giant body. To the right of his head was the Capitol sign. Around his body were cars in a parking lot; in the far background, all the other buildings of the city. 

Petunia lay there sleeping with a smile. 


Thea wasn’t sleeping so soundly, though: 

She, disguised as Cameron, was in the white room, lying on top of naked, supine Petunia, rocking back and forth on her belly. 

“I’m not Cameron,” she panted as she rubbed the strap-on dildo against Petunia’s belly. “I’m Thea. I’m going to get you out of here.” 

Petunia held up a piece of paper for Thea to see: it said, THANKS.  

Not concerned that ‘Free Mark’ might have seen it, Thea continued rocking on Petunia. She looked up at a mirror on the wall by Petunia’s head. She saw herself wearing the fake beard…though the beard seemed real. 

“I’m Cameron,” she said in an effortless bass vocal fry, looking down at Petunia’s crotch. Instead of seeing the strap-on dildo, though, she saw a real cock on her body, sliding in and out of Petunia’s pussy. “I’m Cameron Thewlis. I’m going to get you off here.”  

‘He’ came inside Petunia, then pulled ‘his’ cock out of her. Green come, in the form of wiggly, Creep-like worms, were spewing out of ‘his’ cock. ‘He’ saw some of them slither inside Petunia’s vagina. 

“What the fuck?” ‘he’ said, but now in the voice of Freemont Cummings, Thea’s and Guy’s father.  

‘He’ looked up at ‘his’ reflection in the mirror and saw Freemont’s face. 

“I sure love fucking whores,” ‘Freemont’ said, sticking his dick in Petunia’s pussy again. Then he said, in Thea’s voice, “I’d rather fuck whores than your Mom, Thea. You’d like it, too.” 

She woke up, her head rocketing up from the pillow and heaving a loud sigh. 

“Jesus Christ!” she gasped. “I’m not him. I’m not Cameron. I’m not ‘Free Mark’. I’m not Freemont. I’m not Dad!” Shaking, she began to sob. 

‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel, Chapter Sixteen

The next week, after more accustoming themselves to the ever darker aspects of Capitol, Guy and Thea, bearded and suited up, were in the Regulating Room with Mark again. He was explaining to them how the Creeps technology worked. 

“Now to take your test of loyalty to the next level,” he said, holding a yellow Creep casing in his hand. 

Steel yourself, Thea thought; no matter how horrifying the next set of bombshells are, pretend you’re totally into it. Show no attitude of mercy for the victims; bury your compassion deep down in your soul. 

“Are you at all familiar with a fairly new form of technology devised by researchers in such places as MIT?” Mark asked them. “Ingestible origami robots, really tiny ones, that when eaten, they can solve certain health problems or remove foreign objects from the body.” 

“Ingestible origami robots?” Guy asked. “Sounds weird.” 

“Yeah, but effective,” Mark said. “The tiny robots are wrapped in sheets of pig intestine that are folded like origami. These, in turn, are put in capsules that, once ingested, melt and free the robots, which by remote control are made to do the work required of them.” 

“Wow,” Thea said in her normal voice. Then, after seeing a frown from Guy to remind her to sound like a man, she rasped, “Interesting. So how does that technology relate to what we do here?” 

“It inspired someone to create a similar kind of tech, but one for a completely different purpose,” Mark said. 

“Something related to what goes on here?” Thea asked, thinking, I’ll bet this is where we learn how they control Petunia. 

“Not yet,” Mark said. “The man who created this tech was planning to sell it to the U.S. military, something they could use to implant into the bodies of enemy soldiers, to kill them by burning them up on the inside. It could also be used to control the minds of the enemy, either to get them to surrender easily, or maybe to kill each other, or to kill the leaders of their own regime, one of those the U.S. government wants to topple. Or, the U.S. military might use it on their own soldiers, to make them fight more ruthlessly, more tirelessly, or with greater determination.” 

“So, what ended up happening with this technology?” Guy asked. 

“We convinced the inventor to sell it to us,” Mark said. “For use on our Commodities. He made several modifications of the tech, so they’d have a sexual application instead.” 

Bingo, Thea thought. 

“The new version he’s been making for us, what we now call ‘Creeps’, includes a mixture of drugs in some of them, but ultimately, they work much better than drugs, since those who have the Creeps working inside them don’t look high at all when they’re with our customers,” Mark said. 

That explains it perfectly, Thea thought; Bastard. 

“So how do they work?” Guy asked. 

“They come in different colours,” Mark explained. “The blue ones pacify you, and they knock you out if you’ve had a strong enough dose. The green ones make you docile and compliant, even to the point of willingly telling the truth. The orange ones sexually arouse the Commodities, lubricating vaginas and giving men erections. The yellow ones, well…I’ll explain those ones another time…kinda complicated.” 

Thea shuddered at what Mark might have been hiding there. 

“As for the red Creeps, especially tiny ones, we’ve developed microscopic technology that is implanted in them, and it attaches itself to the brain, since the red Creeps are programmed to slip into the Commodities’ ears,” Mark explained. “This technology gives us control over the speech centre of the brain, what’s called Broca’s area, so we can control what the girls say when they’re servicing a client.” 

Or so you can control what they say whenever we try to prove that they don’t work here voluntarily, Thea thought; You slimy bastard, Mark. I wish I’d recorded you saying all of this, but with all this sophisticated technology, you’d probably be able to track my recording of your confessions, too. Then I’d be as dead as Guy’s predecessor. 

‘So, Jack,” Mark went on, “what I’m gonna need you to do is, as you’re watching a Commodity with a client, press the red button to your left over there, on the central control panel. It activates that tiny speck of technology attached to Broca’s area, on the left side of the Commodity’s brain, what you’ll have put into her left ear, with the red Creep, to prepare her for the client. Then you’ll speak through the microphone here in front of you, and she’ll say your exact words to the client. Obviously, you’ll want to say exactly the kind of thing the client wants to hear.” 

You bastard, Thea thought. 

“OK, Mark,” Guy said with a smile. “No problem.” I wonder if I could figure out a way to put red Creeps in your ear, and in those of all the staff, he wondered; then I could speak your confessions in this microphone, and have you say my words to the police. Then Petunia’d be freed from this prison, and you’d be in the normal kind of prison. 

“Is there any way the…Commodities…can stop this controlling of them?” Thea asked, remembering her vocal fry after her third word. 

“I dare say they have no desire to…or little desire, if any,” Mark said. “When we find these women—and men—we put them through a screening process to determine how…slutty, for lack of a better word, they are. All the Commodities we have here like to fuck; they’re also all from more or less desperate circumstances—unemployed, homeless, or from Third World countries—so we’re providing food and shelter for them, as well as giving them lots of opportunities to do what they love to do: fuck. What we have them say is practically what they’d want to say, anyway.” 

Clever rationalization, Thea thought; you fucker. “If this is true, then why put those things in their ears at all? Why not just have the Commodities speak spontaneously?” 

“Because they might not put their true thoughts into words our clients will like to hear,” Mark said. “It might come out clumsily. It might sound tactless, or crass, ruining the clients’ fantasy. Also, many Commodities speak broken English, or no English at all. Your speaking for them, Jack, will only guide them to speak well.” 

Or to lie well, Guy thought. 

“No other questions?” Mark asked. “None from you, Jack, or from you, Cameron?” 

“No, I’m good,” Guy said. 

“Well, I’m just curious,” Thea said, straining her face into a fake smile. “When you put these mind-controls, or what-not, into the Commodities’ bodies, why use Creeps? I’m mean, why have these worm-like things crawling up their pussies and assholes? Why not just give them pills, or shots?” 

“That’s a good question, Cameron,” Mark said. “And it requires a multi-faceted answer. First of all, giving the Commodities pills or shots will be difficult, because the girls won’t cooperate, of course. They’ll squirm. They won’t open their mouths. But Creeps move fast, and they can crawl into a naked Commodity’s cunt or ass before she has time to close up her holes. Some slip in the ears, mouth, or even nostrils, moving as fast as greased lightning. Second, the man who’d been working on this technology had a convenient way of activating the Creeps, remote-controlled by a computer or cellphone app, making them squiggle and slither at great speeds, able to carry drugs into people’s bodies before they can react. As I said before, he was going to sell his invention to the army; I convinced him to sell it to us, offering him such a huge ton of money that he couldn’t resist. For here’s the third reason: Ricardo Davis, Ken Maynard, and I found it amusing to watch the Commodities’ reactions as they had these things snaking up their pussies and asses.” 

He laughed, with Thea and Guy pretending to as well. 

“Any other questions, Cameron?”  

“No, I’m good.” 

“Good,” Mark said. “OK, Cameron, come with me. We’ll leave Jack to his work, and I’ll show you what you need to take care of.” He and Thea left the room. 

Guy watched a video screen of a man going into a VIP room. A naked black woman, Kusiima, whom Guy recognized, was brought into the room by a man who then left, leaving her alone with the client.  

Guy pressed the red button and leaned toward the microphone. “So, what do you want me to do?” he said, noting her saying those words to the client a split second after he said them. 

“Get on your knees, bitch,” the man said. “I wanna piss and shit on your head.” 

Guy was speechless. 


Ten minutes later, ‘Free’ Mark returned to the Regulating Room to see how ‘Jack’ was doing. He opened the door slowly and quietly so Guy couldn’t hear him: indeed, Mark wanted to see what his new employee would do without apparent supervision. 

The man in the VIP room was, right then, in the middle of shitting on Kusiima’s head. 

“You aren’t saying anything, Jack,” Mark said, making Guy jump. “You’re frowning.” He walked over to Guy.  

“Jesus!” Guy gasped. “You scared me. There’s nothing to say.” 

“You look unhappy,” Mark said. “Don’t you like the live porn show?” 

“Well, he’s shitting on her,” Guy said. “Not my kind of fetish, to be honest.” 

“Well, I guess it’s not for everyone. We’ll clean her up as soon as he’s gone.” 

“Didn’t you say something about not allowing the clients to abuse the girls? Because injuring them depreciates their value?” 

“Yeah, but scat is nothing. He isn’t giving her cuts or bruises. And we have Creeps that kill germs, bacteria, and viruses of all kinds, even HIV. We also have Creeps that heal cuts and bruises quickly enough to get a Commodity ready for a client within the same day as an S and M encounter.” 

“Then how do you define ‘abuse’?” Guy asked. 

“When a client injures a girl beyond the ability of our Creeps to heal her within a day,” Mark said. “Broken bones, knocked-out teeth, that kind of thing. They’re bad for business.” 

“OK, I just wanted to make sure I understood where to draw the line, so I’d know when to intervene.” 

“Those are good questions to ask, Jack. It shows me you care about your job.” Just don’t care too much about the girls, Jack, Mark thought; or else you might end up like Jim. 

‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel, Chapter Fifteen

Two days later, Guy and Thea were wearing their fake beards and suits and ties. She winced in discomfort from having to strap down her breasts. In the hall by Mark’s office, they were waiting for him to arrive. 

“I wanna grow my own beard,” Guy whispered. “Then I won’t have to wear this uncomfortable fake one.” 

“What if it looks different from the fake one?” she asked. “Mark might get suspicious, especially if, during the transition between fake beard to real one, the fake one on top of your growing facial hair looks…well…off. Better stick with the fake one and keep shaving.” 

“But I could–” he began. 

“Shh!” she said. 

Free Mark arrived just then. 

“Good morning, Mark,” she said to him in the lowest-pitched vocal fry she could muster. 

“Good morning, Cameron,” Mark said to her. “And good morning to you, too, Jack. Come on in.” He opened the door to his office, and they all went in. 

He sat at his desk, and they sat in chairs across from him. 

“I checked your references from Trevor McCluskey, and he gave you both glowing recommendations,” he said with a smile. “You did time for him once, I understand, Cameron?” 

“Yes,” Thea said, then coughed after having forgotten to do the vocal fry. Resuming her fake man voice, she continued: “I was caught managing one of McCluskey’s casinos, where the machines were all rigged to cheat the customers. The cops were hoping I’d rat out McCluskey, but I insisted that the rigging was all my idea. I did five years for him, for a felony conviction.” 

“Yeah, that’s what he told me,” Mark said. “No matter what offer the cops gave you, to free you early for ratting McCluskey out, you never said a word.” 

“Never a word,” Thea rasped. “Doing time’s a badge of honour for my boss.” 

“And you, Jack,” Mark said. “You bribed cops to keep them from sniffing out a whorehouse you managed for McCluskey?” 

“Yeah,” Guy said. “The entire police station in Brantford was fucking our whores. For free, so they’d keep their mouths shut. We made them happy, they stayed out of our business.” 

“As McCluskey told me,” Mark said. “I’m glad you can handle ‘public relations’. OK, let me tell you both about the philosophy of my business here. Because it really is a philosophy, you understand.” 

“I’m eager to gain your wisdom, Boss,” Thea said. 

“Me, too,” Guy said. “Teach me.” 

“You know, people question the morality of my business,” Mark said, leaning back in his chair. “I question the very idea of morality. It runs contrary to Nature, where all animals compete to survive. The strong crush the weak. That is the nature of things.” 

“I agree,” Guy said with a stony face. “Morality is all hypocrisy. Like the hypocrisy of the Church. At least evil-doers are honest.” 

Thea listened to her brother, thinking, I really hope for your sake, Guy, that that was just acting. I’ve heard you bash the Church’s hypocrisy before, so I’m hoping that was the only part of what you said that was from your real feelings. 

“You’re absolutely right, Jack,” Mark went on. “I’m a follower of the Marquis de Sade’s philosophy, one of absolute individual licence. Nature’s laws are clear: the strong rule over the weak. If it had been Nature’s intention for morality to hold sway, cheetahs wouldn’t be allowed to chase wildebeests, birds couldn’t eat worms, and everyone’s petty complaints would have to be satisfied, for the sake of fairness. But there’s no such thing as fairness. Equality doesn’t exist. That’s just socialist nonsense.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Thea said with her raspy vocal fry. I actually feel physical pain when I agree with him, she thought. 

“And I don’t just say this because I’m now in a powerful position, here in my Château de Silling, my Salò, if you will,” Mark said in reference to Capitol. “The same pitiless philosophy once applied to me, and though I hated being on the other side of the fence when I was a child, I now accept what happened as Nature’s decree.” 

“How were you on the other side of the fence when you were a child?” Thea asked. “What happened to you, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“I’m glad you asked, Cameron,” he said, frowning and looking up at the ceiling for a moment. He choked, then continued: “I was born into a Catholic family, and my parents insisted on enrolling me in an all-boys Catholic school, run by priests. A few of them took a liking to me and a few of the other boys, if you know what I mean.” 

Is that a lump in your throat I see? Thea wondered. You’re actually human under that reptilian shell? I’d better not try to appeal to that one warm drop of your blood. Don’t wanna blow my cover. 

“So, did you and the other kids try to do anything about it?” Guy asked. “You know, come forward and accuse the priests?” 

“Oh, we tried,” Mark said, regaining his composure. “Nobody was on our side, of course. The priesthood had all the power, not from God, who doesn’t exist, of course, but from Nature. Even my parents were on the priests’ side, accusing me and the other boys of making up stories of sexual abuse as an excuse to be taken out of the school. ‘How dare you boys slander the name of the Holy Church!’ my father shouted at me. Really, he said that. Beat the crap out of me, too. It was then that I knew there was no God, no morality, no justice, no mercy, and no kindness in the world. There is only Nature. Might makes right. The law of the jungle.” His eyes watered. 

“It’s ugly, but that’s just the way things are,” Thea rasped. 

“That’s right,” Mark said. “Later, I sneaked Sade’s books into my home and read them. I laughed at how he wrote of ‘men of God’ raping women like Justine. I’m sure lots of priests and monks have done the like over the centuries, always getting away with it. This is the way of things, so we should just be honest about it, instead of trying to reform everything and moralize about what can’t be changed.” 

I actually feel of kind of sorry for you, Thea thought. I never thought that would happen. 

“You’re right,” Guy said. “I hate all those social justice warriors and politically correct people telling us how to think.” 

“As do I, Jack,” Mark said. “As do I.” 

“Me, too,” Thea grunted, in spite of herself. I hope Guy’s faking as much as I am, she thought. 

“Those damn socialists are the religious people of today’s world,” Mark said. “They moralize because they’re weak. Morality is the only way weak people can be strong, and when it makes them strong, they turn their backs on it, because they knew it was all hypocrisy, anyway. I don’t blame them for using hypocrisy to gain power, for I consider all paths to power legitimate.” 

“The end justifies the means,” Thea said. 

“That’s right, Cameron,” Mark said. “I have a feeling we three are going to be great friends.” 

“Great minds think alike,” Guy said. “As ours do.” 

“Indeed,” Mark said. “Our critics say we’re using these girls, exploiting them for profit. What of it? If they weren’t here, they’d be starving either on the streets or in the Third World countries we got them from. Here they’re provided for, given food and shelter, all at my expense. Some might call that charity on my part.” 

Or taking advantage of the desperate, Thea thought. 

“Next to Sade, I enjoy reading Ayn Rand,” Mark said.  

It was painful for Thea to keep herself from retching at the sound of that author’s name. “Oh, she’s great.” 

“Great philosophy!” Mark said. “From her I learned that selfishness is rational, not evil. Everyone else is selfish, so why shouldn’t we be? I provide work as well as food and shelter for those girls—a few men, too: I don’t discriminate—and all I want in return is some work from them. We make sure the customers don’t hurt them, and our Creep technology protects them from STDs. In return, I get rich. What’s wrong with that?” 

“Absolutely nothing,” Guy said. “It’s a reward for hard work.” 

“Exactly,” Mark said. “I love Ayn Rand’s writing. She’s equal to Sade as an intellectual, in my opinion. Camille Paglia’s another great female intellectual I enjoy reading. People say I’m a sexist for having this kind of business, but what kind of sexist would enjoy reading women writers?” 

Oh, of course, Thea thought; Rand absolves you of sexism, for sure. I bet you have lots of black friends, too. 


Over the next few weeks, ‘Jack’ and ‘Cameron’ were given a full orientation in Capitol, which included sitting in the Regulating Room and watching the clients when they were with the Commodities. This was a true test of their acting abilities, especially for Thea, who couldn’t, in her heart, find watching sexually exploited women to be anything other than repellant. Still, she, like Guy, had to pretend that there was not only nothing wrong with what was going on in those sex rooms, but that it was actually as enjoyable for her as it was for Mark. 

“Yeah, suck that dick, bitch,” ‘Jack’ said in the Regulating Room, grinning as he watched Kusiima on the video screen blowing a man one afternoon. She has a beautiful body, and even more beautiful eyes; but I can’t bear to look her straight in the face, he thought; her eyes’ beauty is shrouded in fear and shame. 

“Yeah!” Mark agreed. “That black bitch sure knows how to work the pipe.” He chuckled. 

“Yeah, I got a cock that would fit nicely in that mouth,” ‘Cameron’ grunted, finding it painful to imagine her father’s whore-mongering in order to stay in character. “Those full, black lips sliding up and down my shaft with her tongue. Mmm, baby!” 

“You know it, Cameron, you know it!” ‘Jack’ said, licking his lips, using his experiences with Petunia to help him stay in character, though trying not to think of her too much, out of his own guilt. 

Please, Guy, let that not be the real you saying those things, Thea thought. 

When they were finished in there, Thea and Guy were allowed to have a ten-minute break. She went straight to the washroom, almost going into the ladies’ room, but stopping herself in time, then going into the men’s. 

She found a toilet stall, went in, locked the door, and sat on the toilet without pulling down her pants. She didn’t need to piss or shit; she just needed some alone time. 

She cupped her face in her hands. Tears flowed out of her eyes. “This isn’t me,” she whispered to herself. “This isn’t the real me. I’m just pretending. I’m not really Cameron.” 

The bathroom door had opened just as she began saying that last sentence, but a squeak from the hinges, happening two seconds later, alerted her to the fact that someone may have heard what she’d said. 

She continued thinking the same thing: This isn’t me. This isn’t the real me. I’m just pretending. I’m Thea Cummings. I’m not Cameron Thewlis.  

Whoever was in the washroom with her had just finished pissing and was now washing his hands. She came out of the toilet stall. It was Mark. 

Had he heard her whispering? 

He looked over. “Oh, hi, Cameron,” he said, without a smile. 

“Hi,” ‘Cameron’ said, walking out of the bathroom. 

Analysis of ‘Casablanca’

Casablanca is a 1942 drama film/love story directed by Michael Curtiz and starring Humphrey Bogart, Ingrid Bergman, and Paul Henreid, and featuring Claude Rains, Peter Lorre, Conrad Veidt, Dooley Wilson, and Sydney Greenstreet. Based on the play, Everybody Comes to Rick’s (which was written by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison), the movie is considered one of the greatest of all time.

Here are some famous quotes:

“Round up the usual suspects.” –Captain Renault (Rains)

“Play it, Sam. Play ‘As Time Goes By‘.” –Ilsa Lund (Bergman) [Often misquoted as “Play it again, Sam.”]

“Here’s lookin’ at you, kid.” –Rick Blaine (Bogart), to Ilsa

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.” –Rick, of Ilsa

“I stick my neck out for nobody.” –Rick (said several times)

“I have no conviction, if that’s what you mean.  I blow with the wind, and the prevailing wind happens to be from Vichy.” –Renault

“My dear Rick, when will you realize that in this world today, isolationism is no longer a practical policy?” –Signor Ferrari (Greenstreet)

“If we stop breathing, we’ll die. If we stop fighting our enemies, the world will die.” –Victor Laszlo (Henreid)

“We’ll always have Paris.” –Rick, to Ilsa

“Where I’m going, you can’t follow. What I’ve got to do, you can’t be any part of. Ilsa, I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you’ll understand that.” –Rick

“Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” –Rick

Refugees hope to escape Nazi-occupied, war-torn Europe and get to the US through politically-neutral Lisbon. Most can’t get there directly, so instead they go from Paris to Marseille, then to Oran, Algeria, then finally to Casablanca, in French Morocco.

Casablanca is a hellhole to these refugees. They find it virtually impossible to scrounge up the money to buy the coveted exit visas to Lisbon. It’s as though Dante‘s sign at the entrance to the Inferno were moved to Casablanca’s entrance.

Casablanca thus symbolizes the snare of poverty most of the world can’t escape, especially those in the Third World. Some, like Ugarte (Lorre), are so desperate to escape that they’ll resort to murder to get the money they need to pay for a visa.

Unscrupulous Captain Renault, played by Claude Rains.

Captain Renault is an appropriate prefect of police in Vichy-controlled Casablanca, for he’s unabashedly corrupt, often taking advantage of pretty young women desperate for a visa. He represents Vichy France, who were Nazi collaborators during World War II.

Richard “Rick” Blaine is the American owner of a night club called “Rick’s Café Americain.” He’s cynical and cold, refusing to drink with customers. The casino’s games are fixed to ensure that Renault, who never pays for his drinks, always wins. Thus, between Rick’s alienating of others and Renault’s control over Rick’s business, we see the two men personifying state capitalism.

Rick has some redeeming qualities, though. We learn that he ran guns to Ethiopia during the Second Italo-Ethiopian War, and fought on the Republican side during the Spanish Civil War. He’ll redeem himself again, as will even Renault (well…sort of), at the end of the film. So Rick, as a capitalist, is more of a liberal one, loosely comparable with Orwell, who also fought against fascism in Spain, then grew disillusioned with the left.

Rick Blaine, played by Humphrey Bogart.

The idealized hero of the film, though, is Victor Laszlo, the Czechoslovakian leader of an underground resistance against the Nazis. That resistance was historically connected with the Soviet Union, incidentally…not that a bourgeois Hollywood movie would ever admit to such an association, of course. Laszlo, dressed in an off-white suit, has a saintly, if dully stoic, aura about him; his unending, virtuous fight against fascism makes him seem other-worldly, almost…too good to be true. That scar on his forehead seems to be his only fault, physical or otherwise.

Since Rick has his good, idealistic side, how has he become so embittered and cynical? Back in Paris, he had a love affair with the beautiful Ilsa Lund (Bergman), not knowing she was Laszlo’s wife! The husband had been in a concentration camp, and she thought he’d died trying to escape, so she had an affair with Rick. When she learned Laszlo was alive, she left Rick without an explanation, for fear he’d follow her and endanger himself in the flight from the occupying Nazis. Rick thus got on a train to Marseille with Sam (Wilson), with an unused ticket for Ilsa, and with a broken heart.

Ilsa thus represents the beauty of that ideal both Laszlo and Rick have fought for; because she left Rick, he’s lost his idealism and become a politically neutral, cynical man who ‘sticks his neck out for nobody.’

Ilsa Lund, played by Ingrid Bergman.

Many who, in their youth, fight passionately for an ideal, such as freedom from fascism, equality, socialism, etc., later grow cynical and bitter because they fail to understand that fighting for such ideals involves sacrificing one’s selfish desires for the greater good. This is what has happened to Rick, and this self-centredness is what he must overcome. Indeed, sacrifice is the main theme of the film.

One such a sacrifice occurs among the minor characters, when a young Bulgarian woman (played by Joy Page) who, it is implied (defying the strict censorship of the Production Code of the 1940s), has slept with Renault behind her husband’s back in hopes of getting a visa in return. She, with guilty tears in her eyes as she asks Rick for help, has sacrificed her loyalty to her husband, and to Church morality, for freedom.

Rick’s late intervention to fight fascism and make the ultimate sacrifice (something Laszlo’s been doing from the beginning) makes him the film’s personification of the US, which stayed out of World War II until the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor. People in the West knew for years what a problem Hitler was, but did little to check his growing power; for the West was hoping the Nazis would succeed in invading and crushing the USSR. Incidentally, the USSR’s sacrifice (between 25 and 30 million Soviet Russians died) in defeating fascism is given short shrift in Western history.

Victor Laszlo, played by Paul Henreid.

Laszlo, at one point in the film, knowing of Rick’s love for Ilsa, is even willing to let the American use the letters of transit to take his wife to the US, since her safety is all-important to him. This is the length to which Laszlo will go to sacrifice all that he has to ensure the safety of his wife, the lovely personification of the ideal of freedom.

But in the end, it is Rick who makes the sacrifice, insisting that Renault write Laszlo’s and Lund’s names on the letters of transit. Rick sacrifices his enjoyment of the ideal so others can be free. Even unscrupulous Renault joins Rick in the end to join the struggle of the Free French in Brazzaville.

Now, what must be emphasized is that this fight for liberty must be understood in its proper bourgeois context. The film was released in a rush to capitalize on the Allied invasion of North Africa, to stir up American patriotism. And the Western powers’ real motives for fighting the Nazis weren’t as noble as they may have seemed.

Sam, played by Dooley Wilson.

As it says in the ‘Writers Without Money’ critique of the film, “Indeed, early in the war, Churchill and Roosevelt seemed more concerned with retrieving France’s and Britain’s old colonial empire in North Africa than about liberating western Europe from the Nazis.” This is how we should think about Renault’s joining the Free French; it’s not much of a redemption for him. Both Rick and Renault, as personifications of their respective countries, are mainly concerned with their nations’ class/power interests.

Consider Rick’s and Ilsa’s relationship with Sam, the only black character in the movie, and one clearly in a subordinate position. Rick claims that Sam gets 25% of the profits, and Rick makes Signor Ferrari promise to continue giving Sam the 25% when Rick leaves Casablanca (…and will he keep the promise, I wonder? After all, Ferrari understands Sam gets only 10%!); but given how Sam’s popularity as a piano man, singer, and bandleader is practically the lifeblood of the success of Rick’s Café Americain (as against Rick’s coldness to customers), shouldn’t he get 50%, if not much more? If Rick and Sam are such good friends, shouldn’t they be co-owners of the night club? Rick personifies the US in more ways than one.

During Sam’s singing of the song “Shine,” when he sings, “because my hair is curly,” he strokes his hair with a grin, as if glad to internalize the racism of the time. Later, when Ferrari hopes to have Sam work for him, even willing to pay Sam twice the salary Rick pays him, Sam says he doesn’t have the time even to spend Rick’s salary…oh, really? Why not use the money to get an exit visa and go back to the US? It’s almost as if…he is owned…by Rick. Of course, Ferrari wouldn’t mind owning Sam himself.

Signor Ferrari, played by Sidney Greenstreet.

How deferential Sam is to Rick, Ilsa, and all the other white characters makes one think of the Jim Crow years, which is oddly out of place in North Africa, where there were not only anti-fascist, but also the beginning of anti-colonial, rumblings at the time. Surely expatriate Sam has noticed how the African times, they are a-changin’, but he never gives an opinion about something that should give him high hopes. But maybe that’s just the point.

On top of all of this is how Ilsa, much younger than Sam, refers to him as “the boy who’s playing the piano,” when she knew him personally back when they were with Rick in Paris. So as a personification of that ideal of freedom, Ilsa is only a conventional, bourgeois, and white liberal form, the kind that 1940s Hollywood would have cherished.

Similarly, as mentioned above, her husband, Laszlo, is only dully virtuous; he lacks the revolutionary fervour of the Red Army, who did the majority of the work in ridding Europe of Nazis. Laszlo’s singing of La Marseillaise, as impassioned as it is, hardly compensates for his ‘nice guys finish last’ kind of blandness.

Casablanca is a prison.

Thus, both Laszlo and Lund represent bourgeois ideals of sex roles in the fight for liberty: him, dull protective Christian stoicism; her, passive, timid beauty…and this was at a time when armed women had fought fascists during the Spanish Civil War a mere three to six years before the making of Casablanca.

And so, Casablanca the city is truly a prison for all living in it. Those film noir shadows–as well as the window blinds, whose shadows showing on characters’ faces look like prison bars–are symbolic examples of indications that, in spite of, or rather, because of, the bourgeois nature of this Hollywood production, the true political problems of the time creep out in the form of Freudian slips, as it were, and expose themselves.

Many on the left will condemn this film as intolerably reactionary, and so the near-universal praise Casablanca has garnered over the years is in many ways just the bourgeois establishment giving itself a pat on the back. Imagine, on the other hand, a socialist Casablanca, with an unapologetically leftist Laszlo, and a militarily-trained Ilsa who won’t stop at just pointing a pistol at someone in her way. Imagine a Sam with dignity. Imagine an anti-fascist struggle willing to go further, and also defeat Franco, the right-wing government in ‘neutralLisbon, and the Nazis on the Eastern Front, actually aiding the Soviets!

Crime doesn’t pay, Ugarte (played by Peter Lorre)…if you’re on the wrong side.

Well, we can’t expect much from Hollywood, especially not in the 1940s, even though Curtiz would soon direct the pro-Stalin Mission To Moscow. When you think about it, though, the Casablanca we have is politically appropriate, not for the ‘liberty’ it espouses, but ironically for the sham liberty it actually presents.

I’d say it’s useful to see a movie that pretends to be all liberal and freedom-loving, yet a movie that is also clumsy enough to let the cat out of the bag often enough for attentive viewers to notice the con game being played on them. This is useful because that’s the liberal con game played before us every day in the West.

“The freedom of the Americas” is never seen because it never really existed; the US is a country founded not on liberty, but on slavery, discrimination, class antagonism, and the genocide of the aboriginals; it thus can only make a myth out of liberty, a ‘liberty’ that put Japanese-Americans in internment camps during World War II. The building of socialism in the USSR, on the other hand, is never seen because the bourgeoisie would never want us to see it.

Major Strasser (played by Conrad Veidt).

Sam is said to get 25% of the profits, but probably only gets 10%, if that. The wife of a freedom fighter is only the ‘behind-every-great-man-is-a-great-woman’ kind of wife. The escape route to the US is ‘neutral’ Lisbon, where there’s actually a fascist government. Sexually predatory Renault has a most charming exterior. Ferrari, who has no qualms about buying slaves, seems an affable enough chap. All looks well on the outside.

My point is that it’s important to see the mask before we can remove it. The political faults of Casablanca are its very virtues, for in order to correct those faults, we must be able to find them…faults one will always try to hide.

Like Rick, we are heartbroken to see our ideals so compromised, as they inevitably will be in the world we see around us. A movie like Casablanca is like Ilsa in how beautifully packaged its message of liberty is; yet it disappoints us, as she does Rick. Still, in our disappointment, if we are willing to sacrifice our selfish wants, we can revive our hopes and fight for our ideals…as long as we watch our backs, with snakes like Renault following us.

‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel, Chapter Fourteen

That night, Petunia lay in bed, dreaming. 

Ken Maynard was fucking her from behind, his cock in her ass. Ricardo Davis was lying on his back underneath her, fucking her pussy. Then Mark LeSaffre approached her, unzipped his pants, and put his dick in her mouth. The three men were sliding in and out of her. Her moaning sounded almost as if she were enjoying it. 

Then the three men came at exactly the same time…but instead of feeling come shooting inside her, it felt like three Creeps: one shooting down her throat, one deep in her vagina, and one through her rectum and into her intestines. The men withdrew, zipped up their pants, and went away. 

Now she saw the three men crawling naked in tubes inside her body: in her intestines, or blood vessels. They were sweating and fearful as they hurried to find an exit. 

Then, she realized that it was she who was crawling in what seemed intestines…then the intestines were the metal tunnels in Capitol…the ‘Escape Hope Initiative’.  

A door on the wall on the other side of the room opened, waking her and Sam, whose head was right by it. He looked into the hole leading to the tunnel. 

He and Petunia were still dazed by the effects of the blue Creeps given to them several hours earlier. That daze made them both uncertain if they were awake or still dreaming. In any case, that hole in the wall, seen so many times before, seemed once again like a fresh chance to escape. 

I sucked one dick too many today, Sam thought; I’m going. I hope this isn’t a dream. 

He crawled through the hole; Petunia crept over and followed him in. In her eyes, what she was seeing seemed to be a continuation of what she’d just been dreaming. As with Sam, though, she hoped she really had woken up. 

Those waves I see going up and down all around me, she thought; I sure hope they’re drugs, not dream. 

He looked back at her as he kept crawling, hearing her panting in time with his. “Petunia?” he asked in a slurred voice. “Is that you?” 

“Yeah,” she said. “I’m sick of…fucking people…I hate.” 

“Me, too,” he panted. “If yellow Creeps…get me, I’ll welcome them. I die…every day…I suck dick…and take it…in the ass.” 

“So do I,” she said. “I don’t know…if I prefer…escaping…or being burned…by yellow Creeps.” 

They kept crawling, then Sam saw light up ahead. 

“We’re almost there,” he said. “I hope it’s warm out.” 

“I don’t know…how long…we’ve been here,” she slurred. “We never see…a calendar…or a window…to the outside…anywhere.” 

“Yeah. And the drugs…disorient us…so much…that we never…know the day…or the month. I hope it’s summer…out there.” 

The light was getting larger, and though his vision was too blurry to make out what was outside, he saw a window. 

“Freedom!” he shouted with a shot of adrenaline. “Others have escaped…The Capitol staff…have announced it…It must be true!” He hurried ahead. 


“That’s what you think,” Mark said, watching Sam and Petunia on the video screens in the Regulating Room, and hearing every word of their conversation through hidden microphones in the tunnel. He pressed a blue button. 


From behind, Petunia heard the screeching noises. 

Gasping, she looked back. Only blue Creeps were coming. 

“Oh, no!” she said, her shock of fear adrenalizing her. “Hurry Sam! They’re coming! Blue ones…to take us back…to our beds!” 

“I ain’t…going back in there.” 

He reached the window and looked out, blinking to try to focus better: at first, he saw only a white glow; then…wind and snow! 

A shock of adrenaline made his whole body move in spastic jerks. Those waves before his eyes were gone, and the freezing horror outside had a cruel clarity. 

“Oh, fuck me!” he shouted. “It’s the middle o’ fuckin’ winter! And we’re fuckin’ naked!” He began sobbing. 

“It’s winter?” she screamed. 

“A fuckin’ blizzard outside!” 


That’s right, nigger-boy, Mark thought with a smirk, then pushed a button opening the window. He pulled a lever, causing the floor of the tunnel Sam was sitting on to flip up, throwing Sam screaming out of the building and into a hill of snow. Get your aging black ass out of my building. 


“Sam!” Petunia screamed as the window slammed shut. Oh, please, God, she thought; let this just be a continuation of my dream. It would be the sweetest nightmare, if only it weren’t real! 

She did so much sobbing for her friend that she didn’t even notice the two Creeps that wiggled their way inside her vagina and anus. She barely fidgeted as they snaked their way deep inside her body. She wept herself to sleep in two minutes. Only now would her dreams resume. 

‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel, Chapter Thirteen

Thea, walking away from her car the next morning to go into her office to work, felt her cellphone ringing in her purse. She took it out. 


“Ms. Cummings?” a female voice on the other end said. 


“I’m Officer Lena Van Gorder. I work for the local police department, under Detective Nichols, who’s connected with Capitol in a very friendly way, if you know what I mean.” 


“Yes. I also know about your attempt to find out what’s going on down there yesterday. I learned through the grapevine that Capitol is hiring. They need someone to operate what’s called the Regulating Room, since they’ve let go someone there who wasn’t…well…working out for them.” 

“Oh?” Thea wondered if this ‘dismissed’ person was the one she was supposed to have met the night before. 

“Yes. Also, one of their junior managers is being transferred to another branch, one in Montreal, so they’ll need someone to replace him. I was thinking that if you could somehow convince Mark LeSaffre that you and your brother—disguised, of course—were people he can trust, you could get jobs there, then find the proof you were trying to find yesterday.” 

“Wow, thanks!” 

“Just giving you a suggestion. Gotta go. Can’t let Detective Nichols know what I’ve been talking about. Maybe we’ll talk again…or maybe not. Bye!” 

“Wait. Officer—“ 

She’d already hung up. 


“Why are we meeting here instead of in your office?” Thea asked as they all sat at a table in a diner. 

“Because this has to be off the radar,” Van Gorder said. “My immediate superior, Detective Nichols, is on LeSaffre’s payroll.” 

“Oh, so that’s why you want us to go into Capitol instead of some undercover cops,” Guy said. 

“That’s right,” Van Gorder said. “LeSaffre has connections all over the police force, not just in the Toronto area, but all over Canada, and even in the US, where Capitol has other branches. He’s seen you two, but he doesn’t know you. You can disguise yourselves with fake beards. Ms. Cummings, dress like a man. Can you imitate a man’s voice?” 

“Yeah, I guess,” Thea said in a hoarse-sounding bass vocal fry. 

“That’s always got to be your voice,” the female cop said. “Keep all your mannerisms, speech peculiarities, and that kind of thing consistent, or else Mark will be suspicious. He’s paranoid as hell about his enemies. I looked into your histories and learned you both have studied drama and psychology, right?” 

“How did you know about our histories?” Thea asked, sneering and looking askance at the police officer. 

“It’s amazing what you can find out through the internet,” Van Gorder said. “But it’s true, right? You’ve both studied drama and psychology?” 

“Drama and psych for her,” Guy said. “Only drama for me.” 

“Whatever,” Van Gorder said. “I hope you have good acting skills, ‘cause you have to be as believable and natural as possible, to convince LeSaffre that you are real mafia men.” 

“We can,” Thea said. “We learned method acting in our university acting classes.” 

“What’s ‘method acting’?” 

“It means we have to learn how to be the people we’re acting as,” Guy explained. “Find stuff within our own personal lives that relates us to these mafia men we’re pretending to be, to make it more realistic, then we can—.” 

“Fine, whatever,” the cop said. “Anyway, LeSaffre will want references from a mafia man, since people with criminal backgrounds, but who are also loyal to their bosses, are the only ones he trusts. He hates ‘straight’ people and trusts only the corrupt. Evil is his good. I know a crime boss who can pretend you’ve both worked for him, Trevor McCluskey, whose gambling, drugs, and prostitution rackets are up in Winnipeg. LeSaffre gets a lot of his new men from McCluskey.” 

“How do you know this McCluskey will vouch for us?” Thea asked. 

“‘Cause if he doesn’t, his son will do ten years for armed robbery,” Van Gorder said. “Don’t worry about the details, I’ll work all of that out. Let’s just remember to keep quiet about all this. You’re lucky I didn’t want to take my vacation time this month, as Detective Nichols wanted me to; otherwise, you’d have missed your chance to get hired by LeSaffre. He’d have found two other people instead.” 

“And what’s in it for you, Officer?” Guy asked. 

“My sister got mixed up in prostitution. She went missing from one of McCluskey’s brothels in Sault Ste. Marie. Is she dead, or has she been moved into one of these Capitol branches? I’d like you to help me find out, and get her out if you find her.” 

“What’s her name?” Thea asked.  



“Remember,” Thea told Guy, who was in a suit, “act all enthusiastic about working in Capitol and enjoying the benefit of fucking the girl of your choice, since that’s a perk Mark gives you as an employee.” 

“OK,” Guy said, making sure his fake beard was on right. “With my background in computer programming, I should be able to figure out this ‘Regulating Room’ job easy enough.” 

“When I got the management job, I realized it wasn’t so much because of my experience as a manager in a department store as it was my ‘attitude’ towards the ‘Commodities’. Those bastards actually call their sex slaves ‘Commodities’: how repugnant. Anyway, LeSaffre’s main concern is loyalty to his business, as that cop told us in the diner. I could sense Mark’s paranoia about being betrayed, looking in his eyes. I’ll bet you’re meant to replace the guy who disappeared when he tried to give us proof of the sex slavery and mind control. I couldn’t get that file he sent to my phone to upload, much less open, to give me the proof.” 

“I guess had that guy lived, he’d have given you the password, or something.” 

“I don’t know. Anyway, we can’t communicate by cellphone—they’ll track our calls and texts, as they did his.” 

“OK,” Guy said, straightening his tie. “I have to act like the lecher I was with Petunia.” 

“We both have to,” Thea said. “Which will be difficult for me, but we have to think like this Mark does. Total psychopath. No empathy, no pity. Shouldn’t be too hard for you, being male and all.” 


“Guy, every guy I’ve known has been like that, to some extent, at least: Dad, my former boyfriends. As for you, I’m hoping you can show me you’re a little better than that…assuming you can stop fucking Petunia and actually think of other people.” 

“OK, OK.” 

“Anyway, if you get the job, don’t only go for Petunia when they give us that ‘benefit’. You and I can only occasionally use that benefit to fake making it with her while communicating our plan to free her; if we choose only her, over and over again, LeSaffre will get suspicious, and maybe figure out that we’re the ones who met with him and Petunia in his office with Kay and Brennan. He might even have her killed, as extra revenge on us for trying to expose him.” 

“Right,” Guy said, having just finished putting on brown contact lenses to cover his blue eyes. “Ready to go.” 

“Good luck. Sound eager for the job. Bye.” 

“I will. Bye.” He left the house. 


Guy went into Mark LeSaffre’s office trying hard not to fidget. He wanted to touch his fake beard out of fear that it was falling off, or was on wrong; but he also feared making it come off from touching it. This indecision led to more fidgeting, which he had to suppress. Mark was sitting at his desk. 

“So, Jack Mortimer?” Mark said, holding out his hand. 

“Yes,” Guy said, shaking his hand and sitting in the same chair he’d sat in, across from Mark’s desk, when he had been there with Thea, the lawyer, and Brennan. “I’m interested in the job opening for ‘Regulator’. Trevor McCluskey heard about the job, and sent me to you.” 

“Trevor McCluskey, eh?” Mark said, looking intensely in Guy’s eyes. “Another fellow, someone named Cameron Thewlis, said McCluskey referred him here, too, but for a management job.” 

“Really?” Guy said, hoping his voice wouldn’t sound too shaky to Mark. “What a coincidence. I guess you’re doubly lucky that he can help you out.” 

“I guess.” Mark looked over ‘Jack’ some more. “You know, you look a little familiar, Jack. I can’t quite put my finger on it, but I feel I’ve seen you somewhere before…and I never forget a face.” 

“Well,” Guy said, keeping still, “Do you ever hang out in The Leicester?” He smirked lewdly. 

That must be where I saw you! I bet I’ve seen you up at pervert’s row, checking out the strippers up close.” 

“Hey, man, that’s the only place I sit in The Leicester.” 

Guy and Mark gave each other a high five and laughed. 

“You’ll be pleased to know that we have two girls from there working for us here,” Mark said with a grin. 

“Which bitches?” Guy asked. “I wanna ‘Regulate’ ‘em!” 

Mark laughed. “Well, if you do your job well, you’ll be doing a lot more than just regulating them, Jack. What’s most important to us here in Capitol is loyalty. We have had the police and government on our side, ever since they legalized prostitution; but there’s always somebody who wants to fink on us and shut us down, claiming we’re doing illegal things here. We had to…terminate your predecessor for being disloyal, and termination here has a way of, let’s say, getting under your skin.” 

“I see,” Guy said, trying not to frown. He hoped the chill he felt slithering throughout his body wasn’t visible to Mark. 

“Loyalty, on the other hand, comes with great rewards. In regulating, you watch the sexual activity between our clients and our girls—well, most of ‘em are girls, but we have some men for the gay crowd and for desperate women. It’s like watching live porn videos.” 

“Sounds like a sweet gig.” 

“It is, but it gets better than that,” Mark went on. “We reward your loyalty by allowing you to enjoy any one of our girls that you like, for one hour each week, for free.” 

“Alright!” Guy roared. “Oh, sorry for the noise.” 

“That’s OK, Jack. Your enthusiasm is understandable and appreciated, actually. We’ll give you full training on all the equipment and technology, starting the day after I confirm your reference from McCluskey. Odd how he’s in Winnipeg and you’ve been here in southern Ontario, frequenting The Leicester. Well, he has businesses and contacts around here, too, of course. Anyway, if all goes well, you’ll be starting the day after tomorrow. How’s that all sound? Oh, and the pay is $30 an hour.” 

“That sounds like music to my ears.” 

Capitol will make The Leicester seem like a convent in comparison, I promise you.” 

“I can hardly wait…pardon the pun.” 

They both laughed and high-fived again.

Analysis of ‘Animals’

Animals is a 1977 concept album by Pink Floyd. It was all conceived by bassist Roger Waters, who not only wrote almost all the music as well as all the lyrics, but also sang most of the lead vocals (except for ‘Dogs,’ much of which was sung by guitarist David Gilmour, who also co-wrote the song), and even played much of the acoustic and rhythm guitar [with Gilmour playing bass on ‘Pigs (Three Different Ones)’ and ‘Sheep‘].

Here are the lyrics to all the songs on the album.

The album’s concept, with its dogs, pigs, and sheep, was loosely inspired by George Orwell‘s Animal Farm; but don’t expect this album to be a criticism of Marxism-Leninism. These dogs don’t represent Stalin‘s secret police; these pigs are not the Bolsheviks; and these sheep, while docile and unthinkingly obedient at first, eventually rise up and crush the real enemy of modern humanity–capitalism.

Again, as with my analysis of The Dark Side of the Moon, I’m writing this as a tribute to Roger Waters, and his principled stance against such current issues as what’s happening in Syria, the West Bank and Gaza, Brazil, and now, Venezuela. Though not quite as radical a socialist as I’d prefer him to be, Waters is as opposed to the ruling class now as he was back in the 70s. His socialism is what justifies my doing a leftist analysis of Animals.

Since I wrote my analysis of Animal Farm, I’ve continued my transition away from staunch anarcho-communism and grown much more patient about when the withering away of the state should occur. Because of this change of heart, coupled with my sense of horror at what’s happened to the world since the catastrophic dissolution of the Soviet Union, I’ve come to view Orwell’s novella in a much less positive light.

This change of heart has made me want to write of Animal Farm in a far more critical way, but without hassling to update my old post. (Remember, Dear Reader: if you want to know my current views on a subject, check the dates of my posts; my views evolve and change all the time, so if my newer posts contradict anything I said in the older ones, you should know which views to judge me by now.) So I’ll be critical of Orwell here, if indirectly.

Tankie readers, I give you my anti-Animal Farm!

The cover colour photo of Animals shows a pig balloon floating over the Battersea Power Station. Black and white photos on the inner sleeve show more of the power station, as well as a bigger image of the pig balloon, a gate, and barbed wire.

So instead of the private property of a farm, which in Orwell’s allegory becomes the so-called state capitalist property of the Stalinist pigs, we have the actual state capitalist property of the bourgeois UK government, whose pigs, gates, and barbed wire seem to say “Keep out!” (as the sign of an owner of private property would say) to the disenfranchised rest of us.

These images are ominous: though state-owned enterprises can be for the public good, they can also be privatized. The cover of Animals seems to be warning us of what will happen to such things as the welfare state if people like Thatcher are allowed to have their way…as, indeed, they eventually would, so many years following the release of the album. Don’t let pigs gain ascendancy over public services!

The ‘Pigs On the Wing‘ songs were written for Waters’s then just-married wife Carolyne Christie, though their message of love can easily be extended to a general sense of comradeship.

If we don’t care about each other, we’ll just “zig-zag our way,” that is, move about aimlessly, with no sense of direction. “The boredom and pain” of alienation and ennui will have us only “occasionally glancing up through the rain,” that is, rarely noticing the cause of our woes.

Note how irregular the rhythm of Waters’s acoustic guitar strumming gets at this point, ultimately switching from its 3+3+2 subdivision of (2 bars of ) 4/4 at the beginning to 3/4 at the end, when he sings of who the cause of our pain is: the “pigs on the wing,” who cause our irregularity, our zig-zagging.

The pigs are flying because they are the ugly beasts at the top of the political and economic ladder, like that pig balloon on the album cover. They’re also “on the wing” because the ideal they represent will come true when pigs fly.

…and what is that ideal? Not full communism, for recall, this album is the anti-Animal Farm. These pigs’ ideal is ‘free market’ capitalism, already championed in the mid-1970s by such people as Milton Friedman and Margaret Thatcher, at the time the Leader of the Opposition. This ideal would quickly degenerate into the ugly reality of neoliberalism, the effects of which we’ve been suffering increasingly for the past forty years.

The dogs in Animal Farm, as I mentioned above, were the NKVD, whose excesses during the 1930s (unjust incarcerations and executions) are blamed on Stalin, but were largely the fault of Yagoda and Yezhov.

The dogs of Animals, however, are the dogs of capitalism, not communism. These bourgeois barkers are those of the middle and upper classes. Those who “can work on points of style, like the club tie, and the firm handshake” are clearly those of the upper classes, who “as [they] get older…in the end [they’ll] pack up and fly down south.” The rest of the lyrics can equally apply to all those from the lower-middle to upper classes.

Since the dogs of Animal Farm are understood to be the secret police of the proletarian state, the dogs of Animals can be seen to represent, at least in part, the police of the bourgeois state, loyal to their upper class masters to the point of fawning, while vicious to, and growling at, the working class.

The petite bourgeois, “when…on the street,” has “got to be able to pick out the easy meat,” that is, find good opportunities in his upwardly-mobile ambitions, and “strike when the moment is right without thinking.” Indeed, not thinking about the workers he’s exploiting. Then, if he’s one of the small minority of petite bourgeois who rise up the ranks of the rich, he “can work on points for style.”

The back-stabbing capitalist has “to be trusted by the people that [he lies] to.” These people include not only the masses of exploited workers, but also the traumatized veterans of imperialist wars, all those people deceived by the corporate media, and also the petite bourgeoisie, whose hopes for advancement are frustrated by the super-rich’s use of the state to keep down the competition. “One capitalist always strikes down many others.” (Marx, p. 929) Capitalism is a dog eat dog world.

It’s significant that musically, the whole song has a sad tone to it, for the rule of the bourgeois makes sadness, depression, and alienation all epidemic problems. Gilmour’s harmonized guitar leads imitate the sad howling of lonely dogs, who symbolize the alienated people of all classes.

You could be a worker, a petite bourgeois, a cop, or a billionaire, and “it’s going to get harder…as you get older.” And while you may be rich enough to afford to “pack up and fly down south,” your wealth won’t save you from having to suffer what so many of the rest of us suffer, to “hide your head in the sand, just another sad old man, all alone and dying of cancer.”

The tendency of the rate of profit to fall results in financial crises when the capitalist will “lose control” and “reap the harvest [he has] sown.” One day, the crisis will be too great to recover from, and it will be “too late to lose the weight [he] used to throw around. So, have a good drown,” bourgeoisie, “as you go down all alone, dragged down by the stone.” That stone dragging down the self-destructing, suicidal bourgeoisie is tied to the same dialectical wheel that ended feudalism; that echoing “stone, stone, stone,…” symbolizes the cyclical turning of that wheel.

Gilmour has sung so far; now, Waters takes over the lead vocals. He is singing in the voice of one beginning to develop class consciousness, for he’s “confused,” sensing he’s “just being used.” He has to “shake off this creeping malaise” of alienation, and “find [his] way out of this maze,” the base and superstructure created by the ruling class.

He tells all those without class consciousness that they are “deaf, dumb, and blind…pretending that everyone’s expendable, and no one has a real friend.” The pro-capitalist dogs of class war, regardless of their social class or occupation (businessman, cop, soldier), justify their defence of society’s class structure, for they “believe at heart everyone’s a killer.”

The pro-capitalist has this cynical view of the world because he “was born in a house full of pain,…was told what to do by the man,…was broken by trained personnel, [and]…was fitted with collar and chain,” for he’s been a good, obedient dog who never questioned his indoctrination that there is no alternative. As a result, he “was only a stranger at home,” for that’s how deep worker alienation cuts.

And when the capitalist mode of production finally collapses under its own contradictions, the obedient dogs of the bourgeoisie will be “dragged down by the stone” with their masters.

“Pigs (Three Different Ones)” takes on three political influences in England that Waters had, and still has, no love for.

It’s hard to know specifically who Waters had in mind for the first one, a “big man, pig man, ha-ha, charade you are.” As a pig, he’s a politician, by reference to the Bolshevik pigs in Animal Farm; but since this is Waters’s anti-capitalist allegory, and since he’s probably thinking about a 1970s British politician, it’s safe to assume he’s thinking about a right-winger.

Allied to the above is the notion of ‘war pigs,’ an expression that, by the late 70s, was already popularized by the Black Sabbath song. So I’ll venture to guess that, whoever this pig was, he was probably hawkish and imperialistic, hoping to get his filthy hands on the natural resources of an exploited Third World country, hence the pig’s “digging.” “What do you hope to find?” Waters asks, “down in the pig mine.”

The second pig seems to be Margaret Thatcher, who at the time of Animals‘ release wasn’t yet prime minister, but who as Leader of the Opposition was already up to no good. We often think of the rise of neoliberalism as something that began in the 1980s, with her and Reagan; but the precursors of it were already going on in a big way from the mid-70s, after the oil crisis caused many to consider Keynesian economics to have run its course.

The influence of Milton Friedman and the Chicago Boys was already felt in Chile, after the September 11th 1973 coup replaced democratically-elected Salvador Allende with authoritarian dictator Augusto Pinochet. A popular myth claims that the “free market” policies of Pinochet‘s regime revived the Chilean economy, but the only beneficiaries were the ruling class. Their benefit, nonetheless, was enough to encourage ideologues like Thatcher to apply “free market” capitalism to the UK and the rest of the world.

In making Animals, Waters was being prescient in a way I’m sure that today, with neoliberalism having metastasized into a global evil, he would wish he’d gotten horribly wrong.

Many, if not most people, in the UK and around the world would agree that Thatcher was a “fucked up old hag.” As one who wanted to maximize privatization, she is aptly described in the song as a “bus stop [i.e., stop the progressive movement of public services] rat bag” [i.e., the filth and squalor that results from ending those public services]. She radiated “cold shafts of broken glass,” and she did “like the feel of steel” (the term Iron Lady was already being used for her).

Like the first pig, she was “good fun with a hand gun,” for she would soon prove to be an imperialist, too; also, she’s “nearly a laugh, but…really a cry”: we should be laughing at clowns like her, but what they do is so hurtful, we can only cry. The surprise in how these ideologues’ asininity actually hurts is felt in the brief switch from 4/4 to one bar of 3/4 on hearing Waters sing “cry,” then back to 4/4.

The third pig was Mary Whitehouse, an old prude who protested against the growing permissiveness of British society. Again, her wish to restore a repressive sexual morality would have been laughable if not for her later political alliances with highly-placed conservatives like Thatcher. The ruling class wants to control us in every way, including our sexuality.

Today, however, the ruling class controls our desires in the opposite way, by overindulging us through the media and markets, so we’ll be too distracted to think critically about the system we’re all stuck in. Recall my use of the ouroboros as a symbol of the dialectical relationship of opposites: as regards sexuality, the serpent’s biting head of repression (Whitehouse) shifts over to its opposite, the bitten tail of such things as addiction to internet porn, strippers, prostitutes, etc. We think about fucking, so we won’t think about how we’re all being fucked.

“Do you feel abused?” Waters taunts Whitehouse, then pants lewdly into the microphone, as if watching a porno. She’d have us “keep it all on the inside.” She’s “nearly a treat,” another sexual taunt at her priggishness, but she, like Thatcher et al, is “really a cry.”

Nick Mason punctuates the beat in this song by hitting a cowbell, an ironic allusion to the cows in Animal Farm, and perhaps another jab at Thatcher and Whitehouse. In the middle section, Richard Wright plays a hypnotic melody on the organ, later adding a synth to it: B-E-F#-G-F#-E-F#-G-B-E-F#-G-F#-E-F#-G-C-E-F#-G-F#-E-F#-G-C-E-F#-G-F#-E-F#-G…,” etc., suggesting the way these politicians hypnotize us all into going along with their agendas.

Switching roles, lead guitarist Gilmour plays sad bass licks over the sad E minor/C major progression that bassist Waters strums on the rhythm guitar (with a delay effect), and with Wright’s mesmerizing keyboard melody. Elsewhere, Gilmour uses a talk box to imitate pigs’ oinks and grunts as he plays lead guitar licks. It’s so sad being mesmerized by political pigs.

Waters’s “Sheep” aren’t the usual passive type, at least not by the end of the song. They’re like the rebelling animals at the end of the CIA-financed cartoon version of Animal Farm, which was an egregious bit of anti-Soviet propaganda going even further than Orwell had intended. Thus, the irony of this anti-capitalist song, when compared with that cartoon, is a masterstroke for Waters.

At first, the sheep are like most of us, “only dimly aware of a certain unease in the air.” We all suffer the discontents of neoliberalism, but many of us still think that either voting Trump out of office, or pushing for still more “free market” deregulation, or voting in Labour in the UK, or voting in anybody, in and of itself will solve the problem. “You better watch out! There may be dogs about.” Remember to be careful not to let slip the dogs of class war.

Waters has looked over the Jordan River, and instead of seeing the band of angels coming for to carry the evangelical Christian Zionists home, he’s seen the oppression of the Palestinians. This is “what…you get for pretending the danger’s not real.”

When, “meek and obedient, you follow the leader…into the valley of steel”–the steel of the Iron Lady who helped bring about the neoliberalism that has resulted in an epidemic of homelessness in the UK, San Francisco, and elsewhere–you finally have “terminal shock in your eyes,” and you realize that “this is no bad dream.”

Waters warned us about people like Thatcher decades ago. In allowing May‘s ascendancy, we proved we never heeded this warning. The scraping on the dubbed strings of Waters’s rhythm guitar suggests that “terminal shock.”

In the midsection of the song, we hear a bassline and some keyboard harmonizing (based on a D diminished seventh chord) that seem inspired by the Doctor Who theme. Do we need The Doctor to intervene and wake us complacent sheep up?

Also during this section of the song, we hear Waters speaking through a vocoder and parodying Psalm 23, indicating that Church authoritarianism has been used to help the ruling class, that is, people like Whitehouse helping people like Thatcher. Is The Doctor one of those sons of God who, in consorting with the daughters of man, will do the forbidden mixing of the human and divine worlds (symbolic language for sharing the power of the wealthy with the poor), and thus give us the strength to revolt against the ruling class?

The rich would naturally see such a development as a great evil; for when the revolution comes, and we erstwhile timid sheep have fallen “on [the bourgeois’s] neck with a scream,” we “wave upon wave of demented avengers” will have finally replaced the dictatorship of the bourgeoisie with that of the proletariat.

Then, when “the [capitalist] dogs are dead,” and any petite bourgeois puppies hope to revive the profit motive, we’ll warn them to “stay home and do as you’re told,” for the workers will have power over the rich…for a change. The surviving bourgeois wannabes will have to “get out of the road if [they] want to grow old.”

The song ends with Gilmour strumming triumphant chords high up the guitar neck in the key of E major, then over background progressions of D major and E major (with a bass pedal point in octaves of E), and also E major and A major.

“Pigs on the Wing, Part Two” reaffirms that we care for each other, now that we’ve defeated the capitalists and done away with the attendant alienation. We thus “don’t feel alone, or the weight of the stone.”

Waters also acknowledges that he’s a dog himself, as a wealthy member of a successful 70s band…and as the then-spouse of a British aristocrat! (He thus seems, as a critic of capitalism, to be acknowledging his ‘canine nature’ in anticipation of the old tu quoque retort.)

To be fair, though, we all need a home, even the bourgeois; accordingly, socialists strive to provide homes for everyone. “A shelter from pigs on the wing,” those dangerous ideologues who try to charm us with the empty promises of the “free market,” promises that will come true only when pigs grow wings.

‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel, Chapter Twelve

[some sexual content]

The next day, at lunchtime, Petunia was in the cafeteria, at a table with no one she’d ever chatted with before. Sam, however, was sitting at a table next to hers, him directly behind her. They turned and looked at each other without saying anything, for fear of the Capitol staff noticing. 

As she was eating, she noticed the door opening, with three men in suits coming in: she recognized all three of them—‘Free’ Mark, with Ken Maynard and Ricardo Davis! 

Sam looked up at them, too. “Maynard,” he mumbled, loud enough for Petunia to hear. 

A woman sitting across from Petunia looked over at the men and slurred, “Davis.” 

Petunia, in her drugged-out state, felt herself realizing again, as if for the first time, what she’d learned the first time Mark took her into a Capitol building in New York: those three men were running a fraudulent human trafficking business the whole time.  


Two hours later, Petunia was given Creeps to clean and deodorize her vagina and anus, as well as a green Creep in her vagina to make her passive and docile. An orange Creep went up her asshole to make her cheerful, sociable, and horny (it lubricated her anus, and caused her vagina to lubricate itself). 

She went into a VIP room, completely nude as usual, and with erect nipples. Two men in suits were there waiting for her: Davis and Maynard. 

“Hi, Petunia,” Maynard said, stroking her hair. 

“Long time, no fuck,” said Davis, caressing a breast.  

She just stood there with a grin so fake that the men knew it was…not that they cared at all. 

Oh, well, she thought; time to service these two bastards again. My body’s about to betray my soul…again. 

They unzipped their pants and pulled their hard cocks out. Maynard lay on his back on the bed, taking her by the hand and having her get on him on all fours. Davis got behind her, aiming his cock at her ass. Maynard slipped his cock in her pussy, and the fucking began. 

“You sure found…a winner…in her, Ricardo,” Maynard said. “Unh! It’s not easy…getting…white girls…for Capitol.” 

“No,” Ricardo grunted. “But she…sure made it…easy. Ah!” 

“She threw her…nakedness…at us. What a…slut. Oh!” 

“Got her…to do my…secretary…fantasy…and everything.” 

“She must’ve…been desperate…for work. Unh!” 

“Yeah…sat on my lap…and cried…a whole sob story…about…running away…from home…in Vancouver…perfect prey…knew you’d…like her.” 

“Yeah…I had her…goin’ about nude…everywhere…showin’ off…that body…to everybody…our business…associates…in the hotel rooms…on our floor…watching her…in the hall. Oh!” 

“You even…tested her…for lesbian sex, right? Ah!” 

“Yeah, with my…dyke maid…Rosa…filmed it, too…for all our…investors…to see…Ooh!” 

“No wonder…’Free’ Mark…was so…impressed…Unh!” 

All Petunia could do was listen in horror at the whole conspiracy confessed to her, knowing that—even without the Creeps controlling her mind—she could do nothing about these two creeps fucking her, or that other creep, ‘Free’ Mark. Would Guy and Thea help? If not, then what? 

The men came at almost the same time, staining her buttocks and vulva. Then they zipped up their pants and left. 

She just sat on the bed in a daze. 

Will I ever be in full control of my body again? she wondered as a tear ran down her cheek. 

‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel, Chapter Eleven

Guy left Capitol and, on his way to the bus stop, he got out his cellphone and called Thea. 

“Hello?” she said. “Guy, where are you?” 

“You were right, Thea,” he said, trembling from knowing how mad she was going to get knowing he’d been with Petunia again. 

“About Petunia?” she asked. “Where are you?” 

“Going to the bus stop by Capitol.” 

“You didn’t screw her again, did you?” 

“Yes, I’m sorry.” He was choking back sobs. 

“You asshole! Just like Dad, and his whore-chasing! Like father, like son! Why can’t you ever hear anything I try to teach you?” 

“I learned the truth from her myself! I felt her write HELP on my leg as she was…sucking me off.” 

“Just like Dad! Always thinking with your dick. Always being a dick!” 

“She likes me, Thea; she told me.” 

“As I said: thinking with your dick, and being a dick.” 

“I asked her if she hated me for fucking her, and she told me, NO.” 

Capitol makes her say that, Guy.” 

“She didn’t say it. She wrote it on my leg.” 

“In your dreams, Guy. There’s no way she’d like a customer.” 

“No, really. She—“ 

“Would you shut up? I got a text message from someone who works in Capitol. They say they have information I need to prove that what’s going on there is criminal. They said to go to the Eastville Shopping Mall at 8:00, in front of the Starbucks. You’re coming with me, as part of your redemption.” 

“OK, I will.” 

“Don’t disappoint me again, and don’t fuck Petunia anymore!” 

She hung up. 


That night, Thea and Guy waited and waited for Jim. 

“Where is this person?” she asked. “It’s 8:30.” 

“Do you suppose Capitol found out about their disloyalty?” Guy asked. 

“Don’t say it, Guy,” she said. “Don’t even think it.” 


Mark was in his office. He took out his cellphone. It was 7:00. 

“Jim?” he said into his phone after dialing. “Come to my office.”  

After hanging up, he clicked on an app. He clicked ‘Creeps’, then ‘Yellow’, then ’10’. He got up and walked out the door, then stood in front of it, where he had two big, musclebound men ready. Jim rushed over within five minutes. 

“You wanted to see me, Boss?” he asked with a frown at the sight of the other two men. 

“Yes,” Mark said. “Let’s take a walk.” 

“Well, I, uh, have to go somewhere,” Jim said in a shaky voice. “S-some im-important business…has come up.” 

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mark said. “We’ll be finished with you soon.” 

“W-what’s up?” 

“Jim, you’ve been working here for almost half a year now. We got you out of jail with a referral from the McCluskey family, whom you worked for in that drug deal when you got busted. They said you were 100% loyal.” 

“Yeah, that’s me. Loyal.” 

“You know the nature of this business is, well, controversial. Not everybody likes what we do here.” 

“Yeah, like that woman and her brother who came here today. Good thing we were able to stop her from getting any proof about Petunia.” 

“But giving Thea Cummings proof is only a phone call away, isn’t it?” 

“Not if you don’t have her phone number.” 

“I had her number written on a piece of paper in my office this morning. Then you came in, and we chatted about getting Petunia ready for Thea and her brother. I left the office for a few minutes. When I came back and you’d left, I noticed that piece of paper was gone.” 

“Yeah, but other people come in and out of your office all the time.” Jim laughed nervously. “It wasn’t me. Anybody could’ve taken it.” 

They had reached an area in the hall with access to the ‘escape’ tunnels. The musclemen pulled off a screen high on a wall, showing an entrance. 

“True, the missing paper alone wasn’t proof of your theft,” Mark went on. “But it was enough to make me suspect you. You must know I have technology to trace and track all phone calls and text messages within my sphere of influence, right?” 

“Yeah, but—“ 

“Look at this,” Mark said, showing Jim a record, on Mark’s phone, of Jim’s text message to Thea. 

“Mark, I—“ 

“Strip, Jim. Down to your bare ass. Then crawl in.” 

“I’m not just some girl from the Third World, or a runaway from out of town. I have family and friends. They’ll look for me—“ 

“What? Here? The fundamentalist family you ran away from when you were a teen would disown you in a second if they knew you’d been working here. The McCluskey family would never help you or your family if they knew you’d tried to rat me out. Loyalty is very important to them, and to their reputation. Boys, strip him naked and shove him in.” 

As one of the musclemen held Jim and the other pulled his pants down, he struggled and said, “What about when my friends in town ask where I am?” 

“What about them?” Mark asked. “How will they be able to prove what really happened? As far as they’ll be concerned, you were fired, then you disappeared. We can forge a suicide e-mail for you. It’ll be easy to believe you killed yourself, since you have no future with a criminal record, without even any mafia willing to give you a job. In any case, the yellow Creeps will burn your insides so thoroughly, along with your face, and even your teeth and your fingertips, it’ll be impossible to identify the corpse as yours, if it’s ever even found. You know what this technology can do, just as Thea and Guy now know, since we traced your sending them a downloadable file explaining how Creeps work.” 

Jim was completely naked now, and the musclemen shoved him into the tunnel entrance. “Please, Mark. Don’t do this!” he screamed. 

“You should have thought of that before you chose to be disloyal to the company,” Mark said. “The McCluskey family surely taught you about the importance of loyalty, didn’t they?” 

The musclemen put the screen back on, bolting it shut. Jim frantically crawled through the tunnel, knowing there was no escape, but desperate to distance himself from the squeaking noises of the Creeps coming from behind. 

Mark and his men chuckled as they heard Jim’s shuffling and panting from out in the halls. They followed him so they could continue hearing his struggle to survive, as hopeless as it was, through the screens that appeared every twenty feet down the halls.  

All customers were in soundproofed rooms enjoying Commodities on the other side of the building, so Mark had no fear of anyone hearing Jim’s screams. He just kept crawling and crawling, his heart beating faster as he heard the screeching Creeps’ getting louder and louder, closer and closer to his ass. 

Just then, he felt one crawling up the base of his foot, from his big toe, along his sole up to his heel. The tickling sensation made him jerk his leg, banging his foot hard on the floor of the tunnel. The sharp pain added to his confusion as a second, then a third, then a fourth and a fifth Creep ran up his legs. 

Amid the noises of the Creeps’ screeching and his own screams, he could still hear the laughing of Mark and his men. The Creeps scurried towards his buttocks, which he tried to close, but, too late: one squeezed its way into his asshole. Now his head and limbs were heard banging all over the walls in a rapid iteration of knocks. Jim’s murderers’ laughs got louder. 

“He’s got one up his ass by now, he must have,” Mark laughed. “Got a Creep wiggling up your rectum yet, Jim?” 

“Fuck you! Bastards! Aaaah!!!” Jim screamed. 

The burning inside began. 

Jim felt it first as a small ball of fire in his intestines; the ball grew bigger and hotter, burning through the intestinal mucous membrane and cutting into the surrounding organs, including his appendix, his spleen, and his stomach. 

Two other yellow Creeps got into his body: one slipped into his right ear; the other went in his mouth, down his throat, and into his lungs. The first burned its way into his brain, then burned his eyeballs out, hollowing the sockets; it also burned through his nasal cavity, burning off his nose, and burned into his mouth, destroying his teeth. The other Creep burned out of his lungs and reached his heart. Other Creeps burned into his bloodstream, the burning travelling through his arms, hands, and fingers, destroying his fingerprints. 

Now his body lay motionless. 


“He’s not coming,” Thea said. “It’s almost 9:00. Let’s go home.” 

She and Guy left the shopping mall. 

‘Creeps,’ an Erotic Horror Novel, Chapter Ten

[sexual content]

A man took Petunia back to her room. 

“Strip,” the man said. 

As she was unbuttoning her white dress shirt, she thought, that lawyer and government worker paid no attention to my writing ‘Help me’ on their hands…as I knew they wouldn’t. I’ve seen them walking about here before: they must be working for Mark and Capitol in one way or another. 

She was in only her white bra and panties now. The man was ogling her with a smile. 

“Keep going,” he said. “Let’s see the rest of you.” 

She removed her bra, showing him her firm little breasts and thinking, I saw Guy’s eyes: he doesn’t believe Thea, either. He believes I like to fuck the clients here. I’m trapped here. She won’t be able to get me out. I’ll have to escape myself, or die trying. 

She’d pulled down the panties, and her bare feet kicked them aside. The man looked up and down at her nakedness. 

“Good,” he said. “We have a customer waiting for you.” 


Thea went to a Starbucks, sat at a table, and stared at the Frappucino she’d bought. Guy didn’t leave with her from Capitol: he said he wanted to meet up with a friend. 

What am I going to do? she thought. I can’t get anyone to believe me, not even Guy. When I got in my car, I saw him going to the bus stop, so I guess he isn’t going back into Capitol. He’d better not be: I’ll kill him if he fucks Petunia again. But what can I do? I can’t stop him, or any guy from paying to have her. 

Suddenly, a recording of the chorus of ‘Sisters Are Doing It for Themselves’, by the Eurythmics and Aretha Franklin, was playing on her phone, telling her she had a text message: 

I work for Capitol. I can help you. Let’s meet in the Eastview Shopping Mall tonight, in front of the Starbucks. Will you be available at 8:00? I can be there then. 

Whoever this was didn’t leave a name, she thought. He must know it’s dangerous to snitch on the company. He must be a he: other than the enslaved prostitutes, what woman would ever work in such a degrading place? Ms. Kay must not know how corrupt LeSaffre is. 

Thea replied to the text message with, “I’ll see you there at 8:00 tonight.” 


Jim read her reply on his cellphone. He thought, I’m a dead man for doing this; Mark surely is tracing my calls and text messages. But I can’t live with myself for doing what I’ve been doing. 

He watched the video screen showing the room nude Petunia went into. Then he saw the man about to have her enter. Jim’s eyes lit up as soon as he saw his face. 

Thank God they put an orange Creep up her pussy to make her compliant with him, Jim thought. I don’t wanna speak her words for her, the way I feel. Can’t believe that prick wants to fuck her so soon after that fake meeting. 

“So good to see you again, Petunia,” Guy said as he unzipped his pants. “I knew you liked your job.” 

She looked up at him as she knelt and took his cock in her mouth. He looked down and saw tears in her eyes. 

“What the…?” he said, then he moaned from the wet massaging of her lips and tongue. He raised his head and closed his eyes. 

She put her hand up his left pant leg. He felt her finger tickling his leg, rubbing a straight line down in a stroke. 

“Oh, don’t do that, baby,” he said, then he felt two more strokes, a short horizontal one, then another top-down one: an H. “Wait…oh!” Her writing and sucking were distracting him from the experiencing of either. “H…ah!…E…oh!” 

She wrote L…P, then H-E-L-P again. 

“Holy…shit!” he grunted. His heart was racing from both the feeling of her flickering tongue stimulating the underside of his cock, and from putting the evidence all together: her robot-like talking in the room with Mark, Thea, Kay, and Brennan; her writing finger; and the tears in her eyes. His brain was going in opposite directions—pleasure and guilt from what her mouth was doing. 

He came in her mouth, and saw some of it drip down her chin; but he also admitted to himself that he saw the tears in her eyes, at last, and he felt ‘HELP’ written on his leg again. 

“Thea…was right,” he panted as he put his dick back in his pants and zipped them up. He fell to his knees and faced Petunia eye to eye. Now he had tears in his eyes to mirror hers. “I’m so sorry, Petunia.” 

He wrapped his arms around her and fought to refrain from weeping. She put her arms around him and held him close. 

“You must hate me,” he whispered into her ear, burying his wet face into her neck. Now her finger was writing on his arm. 


“You…don’t?” he asked. “After what I’ve done?” 


“Can’t you speak?” he whispered in her ear. 


Keeping his mouth close to her ear and his voice as soft as he could, he said, “We’ve got to get you out of here.” 

Y-E-S. (Her hand was always shaky…) 

“And you like me, even though I took advantage of you here?” 

Y-E-S. (…yet her finger wrote with sufficient clarity.) 

“Did Capitol…drug you in some way?” 


Of course, he thought; her shaky writing finger, struggling to communicate with me, proves how little control she has over her own body. “They’re controlling what you say, what you do?” 


His erection was returning. Her writing finger is expressing her real thoughts, he thought; if she insists she still likes me, even after fucking her twice, maybe she’ll be OK with a third fuck. “They’re watching, and listening, aren’t they?” This was his softest volume yet. 


“They’ll get suspicious if we don’t fuck, right?” 


“Since you like me, even after what I did…and I feel like an asshole for asking, but I’ll respect your wishes if you answer no. Is it OK if we fuck again?” 


“Really? You mean that?” 


He looked in her eyes and smiled. Her tears were gone. Her smile seemed less artificial. 

“OK,” he said, unzipping his pants and pulling out his hard cock again. “I’ll be gentle. I promise.” 

He slid his cock inside her slowly, her sighing softly. As he pushed in and pulled out, he panted these words: “I’ll talk…to Thea…about…a plan…to get…you out…of here. Unh!” 


“Good, they’re fucking again,” Free Mark said to Jim as they watched Guy and Petunia in the Regulating Room. “I didn’t like that pause between the blow job and now.” 

“You think he was whispering a secret message in her ear?” Jim asked. 

“It’s very possible,” Free Mark said. “When I walked in here, right when he came in her mouth, he didn’t look happy.” 

“After he leaves, I can play back the recording at a high volume so we can know if he said anything to her that we need to worry about,” Jim said. 

“I don’t think we need to worry about that right now,” Mark said. “For the moment, he seems to be just enjoying himself.” The only thing I need to worry about at the moment is that text message my computer caught you sending to Thea Cummings, he thought.