Backdoor Carnivore

By G.G. Gilt

Abused by the clergy in his youth, Seamus Connelly lives alone on his family farm on the outskirts of Dublin. Damaged and reclusive, his only constants are Nad his 3 legged cat, gay nightclub owner and best buddy, Macker, and Macker's mentally challenged bulldog, Nuggets. Seamus drinks (of course he does, he's feckin Irish) and attempts to dull

• Language: English
• Publisher: Planet Bizarro
• Release date: Apr 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781915546258

Book preview

Copyright © 2023 by G.G. Gilt

All rights reserved.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.K. copyright law.

To my wife, and her low threshold for blood and gore. Yeah, H, I definitely recommend you don’t read this one.

To Matt and everyone at Planet Bizarro who saw something in this manuscript.

To Mangled Ferret, for their continued friendship and sick humour.

To Mom, Dad, and my sister Cliodhna. Yeah, I definitely recommend you don’t read this one.

and

To all those who have suffered at the hands of the church.

Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand,

Blood and revenge are hammering in my head.

William Shakespeare - Titus Andronius 

It will only end when blood is spilled

Rudolfo Anaya - Bless Me Ultima

The ass bears the load, but not the overload.

Miguel de Cervantes - Don Quixote

Backdoor Carnivore

G.G. Gilt

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Planet Bizarro Press

Contents

1. ACT I

2. ACT II

3. ACT III

Epilogue

About the Author

Other Titles from Planet Bizarro

ACT I

Seamus Connelly’s eyes felt raw and tacky, like someone glued them shut while he slept. His lids pried apart and opened slowly as he surfaced into the world.

He lay in bed, arms stretched out by his sides. Above him, the cracked ceiling and the bulbous, damp patches of plaster spread like a hematoma along the surface.

He felt the coldness of the room on his bollocks and legs. A beer can lay empty by his side, the sheets stained brown from the stout he’d been drinking last night. His mickey rested limp and useless against his thigh. A November wind moaned through century-old windows, billowing the curtains slightly. A little bit of cum had dried on the tip of his dick, like icing on a doughnut. Must’ve tried to have a wank last night, he thought. Sometimes he’d have a successful wank. Most of the time, an attempt ended in failure. Most of the time, he was too gee-eyed to muster up the energy in the ould pecker. Even sober, a rarity these days, he lacked sufficient enthusiasm. A little flaccid, pre-cum dribble was about all the two of them could manage.

He fucking hated his body: numbed to the world and useless to both man and woman, his meat sack form felt both heavy with pain and empty of joy. A rumbling issued from somewhere below his crotch. The curry and beer from last night. He sniffed his fingers. Yeah, the curry.

Now he really hated his fucking body. The damned thing had a mind of its own.

In his youth, Seamus, round and chubby, had a comical waddle as he ambled around the school playground. Coupled with the ugly/cute features of a half-finished cherubic painting, he became perfect fodder for relentless humiliation.

As he entered his teens, he lost some of the baby fat and gained what some people thought of as a cute teen face—mostly by the old wans in the village. The ladies (or pre-pubescent females of the village—there were about ten—avoided him. Apart from the old wrinkly grannies (and his own mother, naturally), no one really fancied him or paid much attention to the teen and his slow metamorphosis.

Except Macker. Billy MacMahon. Friend. And only real family, if we’re being honest.

And Father Finbar O’Toole.

At twenty-seven, Seamus had lost the chubbiness, but his body wasted further away in retaliation. Whatever definition his farmer muscles gave him as a teen--even fat farmer kids were strong—now actively atrophied. His skin hung from his arms and legs like clothes drying on a line. His eyes, framed by dark circles, sunk into his skull. His belly looked a little bloated today. The beer/curry combo from last night, and the gas building, as it pressed on his insides.

He’d puked his ring up last night and hadn’t managed to reach the bog. He could smell his stomach’s contents festering somewhere in the room: Guinness, mixed with curry, bile, and the odour of his unwashed body.

He lay in bed, contemplating whether to have another quick pull on his nubbin of a dick cowering between his legs before he got up to start another crappy day, when Seamus’s arse muscles puckered and proceeded to chew on the bed sheets like a hungry goat.

He jumped out of bed, his arse gripping the sheets. The threadbare carpet—installed when the ma and da got married back in the 60s—gripped at his feet like sandpaper on his skin. His hole issued chomping noises as if enjoying a pasta dinner or a really good curry.

What the bleedin’ fuck?! Seamus yelled.

New sensations erupted through his body. In those first moments, Seamus felt violated. Tears came to his eyes. He remembered last night's session as he bawled his eyes (as per usual) with Macker as they (mostly him) railed against the heavens for what life had thrown at them. Mostly him.

Sunday mornings as a young fella at St Arnulf’s Church in Carriagshite Og in Wicklow.

His arse clenched tighter.

He gripped the edge of the sheet and tried to yank the cover free, but his anus fought with the valiant strength of a wolf refusing to give up its prey. He heard a growl, like one of those annoying little terrier dogs who won’t let go of your feckin’ slipper. However, the wolf analogy would be more apt. He managed to pry a few inches of sheet free, but the material was sucked back in. As his hand slipped from the sheet, he saw brown Rorschach stains on the white as it disappeared.

His heart raced.

The chewing noises continued.

Seamus couldn’t see his dick, but nothing new there. His measly appendage liked to hide at the first sign of trouble, retreating into his body like a soldier under fire.

Sweat oozed from his forehead as he paced, dragging half the bed behind him like a bridal train. How was he going to relinquish the sheets from his arse? What the fuck was happening to his arse? Why always his arse?

One more try. A muscle spasm, that’s all, he thought. Be like Macker. Rational. Together.

A deep breath. He pulled the sheet again, but his arse still had the upper hand, so to speak, and held fast to its prize.

And why the fuck was his orifice growling?

Macker, his best friend, owned a retarded bulldog called Nuggets. Nuggets humped on everything from shoes, to newspapers, to his own shite. How did Macker get Nuggets to release his chew toy of choice? Talked to him in a calm voice. A calming voice always soothed that mentally challenged beast.

Seamus passed the mirror and glanced at his reflection. A skinny rake, like a famine victim, reflected into the old, dull room. More of the bed sheet disappeared; he could feel the material move through him.

Nad, his fucked up, three-legged cat (he lost the appendage in a fight with a fox), sauntered into the small bedroom, saw the sheets dragging from his servant’s behind, and hopped on for the ride. The bullet collar around his furry neck jangled against the name disk. Story goes, the bullet had been passed to Seamus’s ma by her father, who fought the Brits at the GPO in 1916 and received a bullet in his leg for the trouble. He never recovered. The lead caused blood poisoning, so Seamus’s granda, whom he never knew, succumbed to the infection. All that remained was a bullet as a memento mori. Now hanging around the neck of a raggedy-arsed, three-legged feline.

Seamus felt Nad’s weight on the sheet and shooed his companion from the train.

Nad hopped off, leapt onto the bed, and started to hiss at Seamus’s rear end.

Seamus ignored Nad.

He decided to talk nicely to his hole. Lull it into a relaxed state. He must’ve still been a little drunk from the night before, because the idea sounded rational.

Good arsehole, Seamus said, as he stroked his buttocks just as Macker would stroke Nuggets, in the hope the dog would drop whatever he carried in his salivating mouth.

Nad the cat thought his servant directed the conversation to him and started to meow. It was breakfast time, after all.

Seamus ignored the wails.

Nad wasn’t happy.

Please, let go of the sheet, he said, but felt like a fucking idiot. He just needed his arse- muscles to relax.

Again, Seamus was reminded of Sunday mornings. The sacristy. Smell of incense and body odours.

He continued to massage his cheeks, and after a few minutes, he could feel the lean meat of his arse start to relax. He imagined butter melting in a heated frying pan. The muscles gathered around the sheet seemed to melt a little and begin to release. As they relaxed, Seamus made shushing noises.

Nad reached out a paw and dragged his claw across Seamus’s arse, trying for his attention, instead he opened a long bloody gash in Seamus’s pale skin.

Seamus yelled. His hole was angry. He could feel the heat rage all the way to his stomach.

In retaliation, Nad started to hiss again.

This is not good, thought Seamus, just as his hole dilated and opened, letting out a furious sound, a combination of hiss and growl. Seamus took advantage of the distraction and yanked the bed sheet out of his butthole, sending bits of turd into the room and poor Nad’s mangy fur.

The sheet ripped as it pulled away from Seamus’s arse.

As soon as the material came free, Seamus let go of the sheet.

The hissing continued, higher in pitch now he had eliminated the blockage. Seamus attempted to control his muscles and close his arsehole, but no matter how hard he willed those muscles to activate, his body wouldn’t work.

Bending over in front of the mirror, he pulled apart his cheeks and looked at the reflection. Brown stains painted the rim. Hair covered the entrance like a concealed cave. And teeth, sharp and actively moving, lay beyond. Fucking arse-teeth! Arse-teeth.

Seamus jammed his hand against his orifice to quiet the beast.

In a flash. Sundays at church. Father O’Toole. Robes. Effusive sermons. Scabbed knees Aching anus.

Something moist, strong, and muscular wrapped around his hand and started to pull, drawing his fingers toward the maw. The muscles contracted around the flesh of Seamus’s index finger, and he felt the teeth bite through skin and bone. The crunch echoed up through his colon, through his stomach, and into his brain. No pain at first, just the excruciating sound as his hole started to masticate his finger meat.

Blood started to dribble from Seamus’s arse, snail trailing down his inner thigh.

Somewhere, in the workings of his shocked mind, Seamus knew he shouldn’t keep his hand anywhere near the hungry gap, but he refused to take any advice.

Once again, the moist, slimy piece of muscle enclosed the stump of his traumatized digit and dragged the rest of his hand into the waiting mouth.

Wrist deep.

Motherfucker! Seamus yelled.

Nad’s body arched. His fur stood on end like a porcupine as he hissed.

Me fuckin hand. My arse’s got me hand.

Nad didn’t understand the whole hand and arse thing; he just knew something wasn’t quite right with the world. And he needed to be fed.

The crunch of bone.

More blood leaked from Seamus’s anus, mixed with little chunks of white bone. His arse seemed to be enjoying the meal.

With his other hand, Seamus grabbed his wrist and pulled as hard as he could. He screamed as he pulled. The hand came free. Blood spouted from the mangled flesh and splashed across the mirror as Seamus flailed. A bloody stump remained. Chewed off at the wrist.

A dirty towel hung from his old dresser. He grabbed it and wrapped his bloody stump. He stumbled bare-arsed naked from the bedroom, keeping his arm held up —he’d seen that on a hospital show once – into the narrow, frigid cold hallway. Goosebumps erupted across his skin and the coldness shot through his body like a blade. But he kept moving. The coldness was a constant familiar in his bone-cold life. A sensation experienced daily.

Along the darkened hall he passed the ghostly outlines of all the wall hangings he’d taken down (nothing hung in their stead, so the walls were left bare and cold) after the ma passed on, gone to her great reward.

Below, he could feel his hand being masticated as his arse devoured the meat with hungry relish. He wanted to shit the appendage away.