THE DOVER DEMON

An American demon comes to town to take over people and make them do evil.

                   It was Monday, the fourth of May, 2026 and the fine weather from April had continued into the new month in Harpertown, in the Victorian countryside. Over at the Chandler Hotel on the corner of Chappell Street and Rushcutters’ Road, they had just finished serving breakfast and were getting ready to wash the dishes. The Chandler was a bit broken down, in dire need of repainting. The reception area was medium-sized, with dusty, jaundice-yellow walls, and a large faux teak counter on the right, beside the staircase, which had navy blue carpeting. The Manageress of the hotel, Piper Noel, fifty-something, a tall, Amazonian brunette, was standing on duty behind the counter, having helped out with the serving, but not the washing up.
         Hearing the frosted-glass double doors to the outside close, Piper looked around to the left and saw a tall, gorgeous Latina woman sauntering in, pulling behind her a large Rollaboard suitcase on two wheels.
         “Hello, I am Finola Sanchez,” said the beautiful woman in her early thirties, thrusting out her plentiful chest until it almost spilt out of the top of her low-cut off-white mini-dress.
         “Oh, yes, Miss Sanchez, we’re expecting you,” said Piper, shaking her hand. Seeing her huge chest and low-cut dress, she thought, Thank goodness Maxwell isn’t here; he’d be drooling in front of her. Although Piper herself was almost drooling.
         For just a second, Piper thought that she saw a small black creature slinking along behind the gorgeous Latina.
         “I hope you didn’t bring a dog with you?” asked Piper. “This hotel doesn’t allow pets.”
         Then how come it looks so flea-ridden? thought Finola Sanchez, turning to look behind her. Looking back, she assured:
         “No, no, I am strictly a cat person, although my beautiful Siamese lady Mow-Mow passed away a few months ago.”
         “I’m sorry to hear that,” said Piper, also a cat person. Puzzled, she continued to stare at where she thought she had seen the small shadowy shape. Finally looking up again, she said, “Room 233.”
         Handing over a key card, she added, “I’ll ring for Tina to help you with your luggage.”
         “That’s all right, I’ve only got one case, and it’s a Rollaboard, so I can manage.”
         “I’m afraid lunch has already finished, but Chef could probably do you a cold collation or some sandwiches.”
         “No, that’s fine, I have already eaten.”
         As the Latina beauty sauntered across toward the iffy-looking cage elevator, Maxwell Collins walked out from the dining room. Watching her heart-shaped behind swaying side-to-side, he raced after the beautiful woman to help her with her luggage.
         “Here, let me help you,” offered Maxwell, a tall, dark-haired twenty-something man.
         “Thank you, but I can manage,” replied Finola.
         “No, no, I insist,” said Maxwell.
         Used to such reactions from overly helpful men, the Latina beauty smiled a wry smile and allowed the young man to take her case from her as they walked across toward the elevator.
         He pressed the button, and with a squealing which sounded worse than the TARDIS taking off, the cage elevator began lumbering down toward them.
         “You wouldn’t want to hear that late at night,” said Finola, “or you might think that the hotel was haunted.”
         “Absolutely,” agreed Maxwell, although he had been too busy admiring her full, firm-looking backside to pay attention to what she was saying.
         Finally, the elevator doors groaned open, and they stepped inside.
         
         Over at Mitchell Street Police Station in Glen Hartwell, Sheila Bennett was having fun playing with the station’s personal computer.
         “Guess what I’ve found?” asked the tall thirty-seven-year-old Goth chick with orange-and-black-striped hair.
         “What?” asked Suzette Cummings, a short, eighteen-year-old with long black hair; the station’s PC expert who normally sat where Sheila was at the moment.
         “Unicorn.”
         “You’ve been playing with the PC’s Myths and Monsters Database just to find out about unicorns?” asked Terri Klein. A tall ash blonde, the same age as Sheila, Terri was the Senior Sergeant of the local police.
         “Those cute, loveable horseys that come up to women who are pure at heart to take them for rides around the countryside?” asked Wendy Pearson, a beautiful blonde in her mid-forties.
         “Not necessarily,” said Colin Klein, a tall redheaded Englishman and Terri’s husband: “According to some legends, unicorns ride away with virgins to rape them to death.”
         “Yeech,” said Suzette.
         “That’s what it says here,” agreed Sheila, “plus some unicorns have long fangs instead of flat teeth and devour men before raping their women.”
         “Double yeech!” said the raven-haired teen.
         “And to think in all the cartoon movies I’ve ever seen about unicorns, they’ve never mentioned either of those things,” said Sheila.
         “Yes, it’s strange that cartoon movies, aimed at kids, would not mention unicorns raping women or eating men,” teased Terri.
         “That’s what I thought,” agreed the Goth policewoman, Terri’s second in command.
         “You obviously haven’t seen the banned 1980s animation movie, Uniporn,” said Alice Walker, a tall, muscular forty-seven-year-old brunette, “that told about carnivorous, rapist unicorns.”
         “Then how come I haven’t seen that movie?” demanded Sheila.
         “The word ‘banned’ might have something to do with it,” teased Terri.
         “I’ve seen banned movies before,” insisted Sheila, then, when everyone turned to stare at her, “Only in the line of duty, of course.”
         “So that’s what’s happened to all of those banned movies that we locked up in the evidence room, only to find them missing,” said Colin.
         “I only borrowed them to make bootleg copies,” said Sheila, “I’ll bring them back ... one day.”
         “It had better be one day very soon!” insisted Terri.
         “Okay, but I’ll need two weeks' leave to have time to copy them all.”
         “The scary bit is that she’s the second top cop around here,” teased Alice.
         “Here’s one above Unicorn that I missed,” said Sheila. “Undine, a type of water nymph… or should that be nympho based upon the picture?”
         “Actually,” advised Colin, a retired thirty-year journalist, “according to Paracelsus, Undines were water elementals, like spirits of the water. It was only horny, porny later writers who turned the Undines into beautiful naked women.”
         “Well, as they say, sex sells,” pointed out Wendy Pearson.
         “I’m surprised there aren’t more hit films and novels about Undines, based upon the picture here,” said Sheila. She scanned down again to say, “Here’s another one, Vampirine. It says in some European countries the term Vampirine is used for sexy female vampires, who use their sexuality to snare horny, porny men, to seduce them, then exsanguinate them.”
         “For the ill-informed, that means suck out their blood,” explained Colin.
         “We know after the Leech Woman case,” said Alice Walker.
         “It says here that being corpses, Vampirines are ice cold, so sexually penetrating one would be like having sex with a block of dry ice.”
         “We know that from the Vamps case a while back too,” said Alice.
         “Although, if I remember rightly, from the Vamps case, that didn’t seem to stop many men from having sex with them, before having their lifeblood sucked out,” reminded Sheila.
         “The average bloke would readily have sex with corpses, if it were legal,” said Suzette Cummings, “or even if it were illegal, if only they knew how to get hold of sexy corpses.”
         “Who’s being a snarky cow now, Shorty?” asked Sheila, “Although she’s probably right.”
         “How dare you?” demanded Colin, “We blokes just aren’t afraid of sex, nudity, and our own bodies like you chicks are.”
         “Is that why you spend so much time wanking off?” teased Alice.
         “How dare you!” demanded Colin and Terri as one.
         “I assure you that he never has to wank off,” added Terri.
         “So Terri’s a bit of a goer now that you’re married?” asked Alice.
         “She always was, from what I can hear through the bedroom wall,” insisted Sheila.
         “How dare you both,” chided Terri, “and Sheila, I’ve told you off before for using an empty glass to listen in on our lovemaking.”
         “Just be grateful that I don’t record it, to add to my private porn collection,” said Sheila, then as everyone turned to stare at her, “I mean, if I had a private porn collection, which of course, being Chief Constable of the area, I do not have.”
         “What do you say we all raid Sheila’s room tonight?” teased Colin.
         “I’m up for it,” said Terri.
         “Me too,” agreed Alice, leading a chorus of agreement.
         “How dare you all!” demanded Sheila.
         
         Maxwell Collins normally took the stairs to room 322; however, he was so fatigued that night that he walked across to the Tardis Wannabee cage elevator and stepped inside, not noticing the Dover Demon crouching in one corner. Despite Piper Noel mistaking it for a large dog earlier, the demon actually looked more like a cross between a water rat and an oversized meerkat.
         As Maxwell turned his back to the creature, it leapt toward the young man, landing upon the small of his back, to pass straight inside him. Having already pressed the third floor button for his own room, as the elevator started rattling up, Maxwell hurriedly pressed button two. Seconds later, it stopped upon the dark blue carpeted second storey.
         Maxwell used a key to keep the elevator from moving away, then strode down the corridor, past the first sixteen rooms on each side of the corridor, till reaching room 233.
         Taking out his passkey, he inserted it into the card reader upon the wooden door before stepping quietly inside. Closing and locking the door again, he tiptoed across the garishly painted purple papered room toward the king-single bed, where Finola Sanchez slept. He watched the rise and fall of her 34DD chest for a moment before reaching out to cup them in his hands to start squeezing brutally.
         “What the Hell?” demanded the Latina beauty awakening.
         “Back to sleep, Princess,” said Maxwell, punching her hard in the face.
         With an ‘oomph’ of exhaled air, the gorgeous woman did as instructed.
         Walking across to the small unvarnished table beside the bed, Maxwell reached for the small red bedside lamp and switched it on to marvel at her beauty. Not quite as perfect as before since he had broken her sensual nose.
         Pulling back the single blanket and sheet she had upon her, Maxwell marvelled at her rising breasts through her thin diaphanous nightie, before taking it in his hands to rip away to reveal her in her naked lusciousness.
         Again, he grabbed her opulent breasts to squeeze so brutally that for a moment they seemed as if they might burst in his hands. Hearing her moan in her sleep, he used rags torn from her nightie to gag the beauty before tying her hands together against the iron railing bedhead.
         Then, spreading her curvaceous legs wide, he hurriedly undressed before climbing onto the bed between her thighs and plunging his penis brutally into her unprepared vagina, making the gorgeous woman cry out and awaken.
         “You’re awake?” said Maxwell, “Just make sure you keep quiet while we get to know each other.”
         Penetrating her fully, he began rutting away on top of the Latina, enjoying the tightness of her opening, while sucking and biting upon her oversized nipples and breasts, making her cry out from pain and distress.
         Soon he felt the heat rising within his loins and forgot her lovely breasts to lie fully upon her to perform push-ups in and out of her at a frantic pace, until his hot seed gushed into her unwilling body.
         “One hole down, two to go,” said Maxwell, making Finola Sanchez stare at him in horror.
         Spinning the beauty over onto his stomach, the waiter took the two pillows from beneath her head to place under her loins, to raise her full, firm, heart-shaped backside ready for what was to come next.
         Taking two large, brutal handfuls of her firm buttocks, he squeezed with all of his might for a few seconds before spanking her hard upon each cheek in rotation seven or eight times, making her cry out and start to cry.
         “Unfortunately, I don’t have any anal lube with me,” said Maxwell, thinking, Not that I would use it if I did!
         Spreading her luscious buttocks apart, he began probing at her sphincter muscle with the glands of his penis, only to have the gorgeous woman clench tightly.
         Releasing his penis, he spanked her eight times on each beautiful butt cheek, then said, “Clench all you like, you won’t keep me out. If a woman’s pussy is the Highway To Heaven as some men say, I guess I’m about to ride your Highway To Hell!”
         So saying, he slammed three fingers of his right hand hard into Finola Sanchez’s anus, making her scream against her gag and hurriedly unclench. Then, probing at her sphincter muscle again, he began slowly, but certainly driving his manhood hard into her unwilling backside.
         “Oh, God, this is the tightest fuck I’ve ever had!” cried Maxwell, although until raping Finola Sanchez he had been a virgin.
         Finola moaned in agony and continued to sob, unable to even fight her attacker as he ravaged her anal orifice.
         “Oh God, this is so bloody good!” cried Maxwell, going berserk as he sodomised at a frantic, frenzied pace, determined to have his pleasure at any cost.
         Oh God, please just let me die! the Latina beauty thought as the brutal ravishment continued.
         Then, all too soon for Maxwell Collins, he ejaculated deep inside the gorgeous woman’s backside, making her scream a muffled scream as she continued silently praying for death.
         Finally, Maxwell ripped his manhood out of the beauty’s anus and walked across to kneel in front of her. Raising her head, he said:
         “Bite me, and it will be the last thing that you do.”
         Nodding in terror, Finola took his blood-and-fæces-stained into her mouth after he ungagged her, and did her best not to vomit as he ravished the final orifice in her body. Despite having ejaculated twice already, perhaps because of his youth, or perhaps because of the Dover Demon inside him, Maxwell managed to climax again quickly.
         Taking his now limp penis from her mouth, he gagged the Latina beauty again, wiped his manhood off in her long black hair, before reaching down to take her pretty neck into his strong hands to slowly strangle the life out of the helpless woman.
         Looking down at her goggle-eyed face, he said, “I didn’t really lie to you, Finola; I said I’d strangle you if you bit me. But I never said I wouldn’t if you didn’t bite me.”
         He started to laugh, but then the Dover Demon leapt from his body to leap through the solid door and out into the corridor.
         Without the strength of the monster inside him, Maxwell passed out and collapsed to the bedroom floor.
         
         The next morning during the breakfast rush, Tina Teasdale, Tina Chandler, and Piper Noel wondered about the absence of Maxwell Collins, who usually was one of the first to arrive in the mornings. However, with the hungry hordes demanding feeding, they did not have time to look for him.
         Finally, the feeding frenzy ended, and the dishes were washed, so they staggered out into the medium-sized, jaundice-yellow-walled reception area, gasping for breath.
         “Where could Maxie be?” wondered Toni, a tall, thin redheaded eighteen-year-old who had inherited the hotel upon the death of her father.
         “Skiving off,” insisted Piper Noel.
         “No, Max isn’t like that,” insisted Tina, eighteen, a short, pretty blonde, “He’s usually the first to help out when there’s work to be done.”
         “Okay, you two start making the beds, and I’ll go up to his room to see if he’s all right,” offered Piper.
         “While you’re at it,” said Toni, “check on our new guest in room 233 to see why she didn’t come down for breakfast.”
         “After tasting the food at dinner last night, she probably decided to play safe and eat in town today,” teased Piper, although looking forward to seeing the gorgeous, busty Latina again.
         “How dare you?” demanded Gerda Andersen, a tall, Amazonian blonde in her forties, the chef, who had just come out of the dining room, “No one has ever complained about my cuisine!”
         “Just a joke, Gerda,” apologised Piper before racing across to the cage elevator to go check on the two absentees.
         A few minutes later, Toni and Tina were busy making the beds when the screams rang out from room 233.
         “What the Hell?” asked Toni.
         Abandoning the bed that she had been making, she raced to the stairs and started down, almost colliding with Tina Teasdale, who had run up from the first storey.
         “Is it coming from the second storey?” asked Tina.
         “I think so,” said Toni.
         The two teenagers raced into the second-storey corridor, where they found Piper Noel standing in the doorway to room 233, staring in and still screaming.
         “What the Hell is wrong?” demanded Toni.
         Looking back, her face ghostly white, Piper said, “Maxwell and Finola Sanchez.”
         “What about them?” asked Tina.
         “They’re both in there,” said Piper, pointing, “I think they’re both dead!”
         “What?” demanded Gerda Andersen, who had raced up from the ground floor.
         After Piper repeated what she had already said, Gerda pushed past her into room 233 to check on the two prone bodies. She only needed one look at the Latina beauty’s staring eyes and protruding tongue to realise that she was dead, so she went across to check Maxwell’s pulse at his neck; then she checked his eyes, which had rolled back into his head, showing only white.
         “Max is alive, but his pulse is very weak; I think he’s had a stroke of some kind.”
         
         Forty minutes later, Terri, Colin, Alice, Sheila and various medics and paramedics were in the room trying to make sense of the situation. Sheila had already taken the crime-scene photos, and the medics were examining the two people.
         “The woman has definitely been repeatedly raped, and then strangled,” said Tilly Lombstrom, a tall, attractive fifty-something brunette, and second in command at the Glen Hartwell and Daley Community Hospital.
         “Finola Sanchez,” explained Piper, distressed by the death of the gorgeous Latina, thinking, I probably had no chance with her, but she deserved better than this!
         Looking at the semen flooded from all of Finola’s body orifices and coating Maxwell Collins’s crotch, Tilly added, “Is it possible that Maxwell raped and then murdered her?”
         “What, no way?” said Toni Chandler.
         “Absolutely,” agreed Tina, “he isn’t that kind of bloke.”
         As Gerda and Piper agreed, Sheila said, “I’ve known Maxie all of his life; he’s a good bloke; he would never have done anything like that.”
         “Nonetheless, I want him fingerprinted to compare them with the prints on her neck,” said Tilly, “and I’ll run semen tests to see if it’s his semen that has flooded from her body.”
         “No way!” insisted Sheila, Toni, Tina, Gerda, and Piper as one.
         “Sheils, fingerprint him!” ordered Terri.
         “All right, but it’s a waste of time,” insisted the Goth policewoman.
         
         Horace and Claudette Harrison were driving in their mid-1980s lime green Ford Fairlane down Mendelssohn Place in their home town of Elroy, heading toward the forest beyond the township.
         “It’ll be great to have a day’s outing without the kids,” said Horace ‘Horry’, fifty-two, a tall balding man.
         “What have you got against the kids?” demanded Claudette ‘Claude’, forty-eight, a tall, buxom redhead with grey streaks in her hair.
         “Well, they can be a bum pain at times, let’s face it.”
         “You just say that because they like to tease you a lot.”
         “Yeah, what is it with that?” demanded Horry, “Haven’t they heard of respecting their father?”
         “Not from me,” teased Claude, laughing at her own joke.
         “Actually, I blame the Labor Party with their anti-male sexist teachings, particularly that bullshit about a wife’s right to never let her husband have sex with her,” insisted Horry, “and let’s not forget Negative Action, promoting unskilled women ahead of more skilled men, by law yet!”
         “Okay, I agree that Negative Action is wrong,” admitted Claude, “but that doesn’t make Neville or Winifred bum pains.”
         “That’s all right for you; but they don’t cheek you all the time, and make smart-arse comments about you. I mean, why do they always do that with me?”
         “Because you have no sense of humour, which makes you an easy target.”
         “I do so have a sense of humour!”
         “Yeah, when you’re dishing it out, but you sure as Hell can’t take it.”
         “I can take it, as long as it’s not pointless, cruel humour....”
         He stopped talking to swerve the Fairlane as something the size of a large black dog raced across in front of them.
         “What kind of a bloody dog was that?” asked Horry, then answering his own question, “A suicidal one, by the way it dashed out in front of the car.”
         “It probably knew it could easily outrun this rusted-out rattler.”
         “How dare you? This is a Classic Car!”
         “Rubbish, an E-Type Jag or Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud is a Classic car; this is a vintage car like the Edsel. Anyway, I don’t think it was a dog, more likely a wombat terrified by the clatter-clunking of this old steam horse.”
         “At the speed it was travelling, it must have been a wombat with a rocket up its bum!” said Horry, “Wombats usually waddle slowly.”
         “Oh, the cruel irony of that statement,” teased Claude.
         “What?”
         “You really don’t know, do you?” teased the redhead, “So if it wasn’t a wombat, with or without a rocket up its bum, it was probably an innocent koala running in terror for the nearest gum tree when it saw this metallic monster charging down upon it.”
         “This is not a metallic monster; this is a classic 1986 model Ford Fairlane, the year non-leaded petrol became mandatory in this country. The classic Fairlane ZL model.”
         “Okay, I’ll bite. The Z stands for ‘zero’; what does the L stand for?”
         “You can be almost as snarky as Nev and Winnie sometimes, woman.”
         “Thank you,” teased Claude, refusing to take offence.
         “What can you do with a woman who refuses to take offence when you insult her?”
         “If we were home in bed, I’d show you, but I ain’t doing it out in the forest.”
         “What about doing it in the backseat? That’s a classic rite-of-passage thing.”
         “You aren’t getting right into my passage in the back of this bone-shaker. Apart from the chance of gawkers, this thing would probably collapse under the strain of sexual activity.”
         “This is not a bone-shaker,” protested Horry, going on again at great length to explain to a bored Claudette what a classic car it was.
         
         In the chilly morgue in the basement of the Glen Hartwell Hospital, Tilly and Elvis had performed an autopsy upon Finola Sanchez, while Jesus Costello upstairs was trying to awaken Maxwell Collins.
         “So what’s the verdict, Docs?” asked an impatient Sheila Bennett.
         “The fingerprints upon her throat match those taken from Maxwell,” said Jesus Green, nicknamed due to his long, black sideburns.
         “Impossible!” protested Sheila, “Maxie would never intentionally harm a woman; he’s a good bloke.”
         “Could he have done it unintentionally?” asked Terri Klein.
         “Say what now?” asked Tilly.
         “If they were making out, no rape involved, if he had a brain hæmorrhage or a severe stroke while holding her neck, while she was fellating him, could he have accidentally strangled her?”
         “Ooh, it’s possible, I suppose,” admitted Tilly reluctantly, “but I doubt it.”
         “That’s because you don’t know Maxie like we do,” insisted Sheila.
         “What about the sperm samples?” asked Colin.
         “A perfect match,” said Elvis, “no doubt that he had her through all three holes, pardon my French.”
         “Whether the French would pardon you is another matter,” teased Tilly.
         “All right, pardon my Anglais as they say in Fronce.”
         
         In the forest outside Elroy Township, Claudette and Horace Harrison had finally stopped, although the car was still making a lot of noise.
         “Is it even possible to stop this bloody bone shaker?” asked Claude.
         “I’ve turned the key, but it takes a while to realise when I’ve turned it off.”
         “Really, I always know straight away,” teased Claude, climbing out of the Fairlane before Horry could answer.
         “Snarky cow,” said Horry, following his wife.
         Together they laid out a large throw rug in the Richmond Tigers Football Team’s yellow-and-black colours, before depositing a wicker basket of sandwiches and coleslaw upon the rug along with a large bottle of Pepsi Max for Horry, and a couple of cans of Ouzo and cola for Claude.
         “How come you get UDL, while I’m stuck with diet cola?” asked Horry.
         “Your driving is erratic enough at the best of times without getting plastered as well.”
         
         Abandoning the chilly basement morgue at the hospital, Terri and the others went upstairs to the second floor to see how Jesus Costello was doing with the unconscious Maxwell Collins.
         “Well, I’ve stabilised him, so he isn’t about to die,” said Jesus, a tall, strongly built man in his mid-fifties, the chief surgeon and administrator of the hospital, “but I’m damned if I can wake him.”
         “Have you tried shouting ‘Oy!’ down his ear hole?” asked Sheila.
         “Strangely enough, I never thought to attempt that traditional method for waking up people in a coma.”
         “For a bloke named Jesus, you can be very snarky,” said the Goth chick.
         “It’s pronounced Hee-Zeus!” reminded the surgeon.
         “So, can you let us know as soon as, or if, he awakens?” asked Terri.
         “Sure thing, Tezza, but people can stay in comas for years.”
         “Jackie Wilson was in a coma from 1971 to 1983,” said Sheila, “then died without ever awakening.”
         Looking puzzled, Jesus said, “Well, that’s more medically relevant than most of the things that you say, Sheils.”
         “Thank you,” said Sheila, “I think.”
         “Take it as a compliment, Sheils,” suggested Alice Walker.
         
         Claudette and Horace Harrison had finished eating and were wondering what to do next.
         “Are you up for some skinny dipping in the Yannan River?” asked Horry.
         “Is it nearby?”
         “Barely a kilometre away.”
         “Then I’ll skip it.”
         “Then how about some hard, pile-driving sex on the rug?”
         “Everyone else seems to be screwing the Tigers this year,” teased Claude, “but no thanks, I’m not in the mood.”
         “Ah, you’re never in the mood.”
         “How dare you? Nine times out of ten, I say yes when you ask me for sex.”
         “And the tenth time I have to wait till you fall asleep before helping myself,” said Horry, “that’s the advantage of being married to a woman who sleeps like a log.”
         “What?” demanded Claude.
         “Only teasing, babe,” said Horry; however, the broad shit-eater grin he gave her made Claudette wonder.
         “You had better be joking!” warned the redhead. Then as the Dover Demon raced out from behind a tree to head toward Horry’s back, “Look out!”
         “For what?” demanded a peeved Horry.
         He started to turn, too late, as the demon leapt onto and into his back.
         Sitting up rigidly, in a strange voice, Horry said, “I really do want some cunt, Cunt.”
         “What the fuck did you just call me?” demanded Claudette.
         “A cunt, you cold-cunt bitch!” cried Horry, staggering toward the redhead.
         “Well, you aren’t getting any cunt from me, dickhead!”
         “We’ll see about that,” said Horry.
         Leaning over Claude, he slapped her across the face, hard enough to blacken her left eye and make her fall over onto her right side.
         “When I want cunt, you’d better give me cunt, Cunt!”
         “I’ll give you something!” said Claude, aiming a kick at her husband’s genitalia.
         Blocking the kick, Horry shouted, “You evil cunt!”
         Then he punched her hard in the face, knocking his wife out.
         While she was unconscious, he hurriedly undressed her and himself, tied her hands behind her back the best that he could using her bra and skirt, stuffed her panties into her mouth, and spread her legs brutally apart before climbing between them to penetrate her vagina, first with three fingers, then with his penis to start raping her at a frantic, almost insane pace.
         Crying out from the agony of being penetrated when not prepared for it, Claude awakened to find her husband ravaging her vagina, while brutally pulping her generous breasts with both hands.
         What the Hell is wrong with him? Claude wondered, as the violation continued for twenty minutes that seemed like an hour to the brutalised woman.
         Finally, ejaculating inside his wife, Horry rolled her over, spread her generous buttocks apart, before slamming his penis straight into her sphincter, making the redhead shriek through her panty-gag and pass out again.
         Panting like a marathon runner after twenty kilometres, Horry brutally sodomised his unwilling wife for less than ten minutes before the heat of her bowels brought him to another climax.
         “Evil, frigid bitch!” shouted Horry, reaching for Claudette’s neck.
         He hurriedly strangled her to death, grinning like a maniac as he did so, but then, as the Dover Demon leapt out of his back, Horry collapsed, unconscious on top of his deceased wife.
         Grinning like a demented clown, the Dover Demon gazed at the site of carnage for a few seconds before turning to run away into the sweet-smelling pine and eucalyptus forest.
         
         Connie, Stevie, and Xelia Hornblower were riding their twenty-six-inch tyre trail bikes through the sweet-smelling forest on their way to their home on Elvis Presley Boulevard in Elroy Township.
         “So tell us again why Dad said the street is called Elvis Presley Boulevard?” asked Stephanie ‘Stevie’, sixteen, a tall, attractive blonde.
         “Apparently it’s named after some musician bloke from the 1960s,” misremembered Constance ‘Connie’, Stevie’s identical twin.
         “I think he invented Rock and Roll in the 1960s,” said Xelia ‘Zee’, fifteen, a medium-height raven-haired beauty, “then the Beatles took over in the 1970s, before Bill Haley replaced them in the mid-1980s.”
         “Wow, you are so smart, Sis,” enthused Connie.
         “Yeah, you are so brainy, Zee, you ought to go on that quiz show ‘What’s My Name?’ or whatever it’s called,” agreed Stevie.
         The three girls were still nattering when they rode into the clearing where they found the Harrisons’s mid-1980s lime green Ford Fairlane.
         “Wow, this is an odd time to be having a picnic,” said Connie, pointing toward the Richmond Tigers Football Team yellow-and-black throw rug.
         “Hey, are those two people naked?” asked Zee.
         “You’re the brainy one, you tell us,” said Stevie.
         After a second, with some trepidation, the three sisters pedalled across to where Claudette Harrison’s naked corpse lay, and Horace lay unconscious.
         
         Fifty-four minutes later, Terri Klein’s police-white Jeep Cherokee pulled up at the death site, where paramedics and medics were already sedating Connie, Stevie, and Zee. Sheila quickly took the death scene photos before Terri allowed the Harrisons to be taken away by ambulance.
         “So what’s the verdict, Tils?” asked Terri as the three girls were being escorted home by two paramedics.
         “Claudette has been flooded with semen, possibly raped or possibly just rough sex with her husband, and then strangled to death ... I’m guessing by Horace, who is unconscious, eyes rolled back into his head, presumably in a coma, just like Maxwell Collins.”
         “What?” said Terri, Sheila, Colin, and Alice.
         “Another rape-murder, followed by the aggressor falling into a coma?” said Terri, thinking aloud.
         “Well, Horry was fat and unfit,” said Tilly, “a stroke waiting to happen.”
         “But that doesn’t explain Maxie having a stroke also,” finished Sheila.
         “Only one point seven percent of Aussie have a stroke in their lifetimes,” said Tilly, “however, rural dwellers are seventeen percent more likely to have a stroke than city slickers.”
         “Is that because countryites work harder on their farms?” asked Colin.
         “Possibly,” said Tilly, “although that would let out Horry Harrison, who was a notorious bludger.”
         “True,” said Terri, Sheila, Colin, and Alice.
         “So what is this, a plague of rough sex-cum-rape followed by the perpetrators going comatose?” asked Alice as they returned to the Jeep.
         “You got me,” said Terri, stopping as her mobile phone rang. She talked for a moment, then disconnected and said, “That was Piper Noel from the Chandler; she just remembered something that might be relevant, or not.”
         
         Forty-eight minutes later, they were standing in the dusty, jaundice-yellow-walled reception area of the Chandler, talking to the tall, bisexual Amazonian brunette.
         “It’s just that when Finola Sanchez entered the hotel yesterday, I thought that a large black dog followed her in. I told her we don’t allow pets in the hotel, but when she looked back, it had somehow vanished… But the more I think about it, the less it looked like a dog, body-wise maybe, but it had a face more like a cross between a weasel and a mongoose.”
         “A face like a cross between a weasel and a mongoose,” repeated Sheila, “that rings a bell.” She thought for a moment before saying, “I think I saw something like that described on the Myths and Monsters Database last week.”
         “Okay, let’s get back and start checking it,” suggested Terri. “Thanks, Piper, you may have just cracked this very strange case for us.”
         
Quincy Elloway and Vance Dexter were long time drinking mates who loved to watch The World’s Stupidest Stuntman on Vance’s forty-two inch flatscreen TV with soundbar, which they would turn up to deafening level to antagonise their neighbours, while getting plastered upon their favourite alcohol, Jameson Black Barrel Irish Whiskey, seated upon the dirty brown sofa, in the cobweb strewn lounge room of the two bedroom yellow brick home that they co-owned in Namatjira Place.

         As they started taking slugs from their bottles of Jameson Black, Quincy turned on the TV.
         “To coin a phrase, crank up the volume,” said Vance, forty-nine, a short, raven-haired man, trim despite being a chronic alcoholic.
         Doing as instructed, Quincy, fifty-two, a tall balding redheaded man with a large beer paunch, said, “That ought to give our nosey neighbours a heart attack.”
         “It’s not our fault if they don’t like quality TV, like The World’s Stupidest Stuntman, or The World’s Blondest Stuntwoman,” said Vance, before taking a long slug of Irish whiskey, “ah, now that’s the good stuff.”
         “Brain-dead morons,” agreed Quincy, unaware of the irony of the statement.
         
         Sheila flipped through the Myths and Monsters Database on the PC at the Mitchell Street Police Station for more than two hours before announcing, “Eureka, I have found it.”
         Walking across to the PC table to kibitz over the Goth chick’s shoulder, Colin read, “The Dover Demon is a legendary creature reported in Dover, Massachusetts, on April 21–22, 1977, known for its large head and glowing eyes. It is reported to have a body like a large black or brown dog, but with a face like a cross between a rat or weasel and a meerkat.”
         “That’s our bebe!” said Sheila, “I knew I’d read it on the database last week.”
         “So what now?” asked Alice Walker.
         “Now we go pay a visit upon our witchy friend, Magnolia McCready,” said Terri.
         
         1/21 Calhoun Street, Glen Hartwell, is the right-hand half of a subdivided yellow weatherboard house. In the turquoise coloured living room, Magnolia McCready, a tall, busty redhead with electric-blue eyes, handed around cups of hot chocolate with mountains of cat-shaped marshmallows, both for the hot chocolate and to eat by hand. On the floor by her feet lay a huge, fluffy, white tomcat.
         “Here, Timmikins,” called Sheila.
         She tossed a lime green marshmallow to the cat. Who rewarded her by jumping up onto her lap, snatching another marshmallow, before leaping off to hide behind Magnolia's chair to eat it.
         “I thought we’d got past the stage where you just loved your Auntie Sheila because she’s a soft touch,” chided the Goth policewoman.
         “Trust me, Sheila, you’re his favourite soft touch in Glen Hartwell,” teased Magnolia, a white witch, before asking Terri, “so what can I do for you now?”
         “G.H. is being plagued by what the Myths and Monsters Database calls the Dover Demon,” answered the ash blonde.
         “Ah, yes, I’ve heard of it,” said the Wiccan, “an oversized rat-faced, weasel-faced, mongoose-faced demon which ghosts inside people to make them do evil, then sends them into a trance when it exits their bodies.”
         “That’s our bebe,” said Sheila, as Timmikins came out of hiding to leap up onto her lap again.
         “And you want me to use a calling spell to bring it here, and then a sending spell to send it back to Dover, Massachusetts?”
         “Or the Challenger Deep within the Mariana Trench,” said Sheila, “we’re not particular.”
         
         As he skoaled his beloved Irish Whiskey, Quincy Elloway thought that he saw something the size of a large black dog scoot around behind the dirty brown sofa.
         “Hey, did you buy a new mutt to replace Shithead?” asked Quincy.
         “No money could buy a suitable replacement for that border collie,” said Vance Dexter wistfully, “but if someone offered us a mutt gratis, I’d take it.”
         “Me too,” agreed Quincy, suddenly stopping to stare ahead trancelike as the Dover Demon ghosted through the back of the sofa to enter his body.
         Dropping his half-empty bottle of Jameson Black Barrel Irish Whiskey, Quincy suddenly stood up.
         “Have you gone mad?” demanded Vance, grabbing up the whiskey before it could spill away, “Wasting good whiskey like that!”
         “I’m horny!” shouted Quincy.
         “Well, don’t look at me,” said Vance.
         “Why not? I’ve always wanted to fuck you!”
         “What?” demanded Vance, almost dropping both bottles of Jameson Black Barrel from shock, “If this is a joke....” He stopped as Quincy punched him in the face, knocking the raven-haired man unconscious.
         Hurriedly undressing his lifelong friend, Quincy tied him up before lying him across one end of the sofa. Then, after undressing himself, Quincy, despite his drunken state, with the help of the Dover Demon, managed to obtain a rampant erection. Moving up hard behind Vance, he pressed the pulpy glands of his erection against Vance’s sphincter and then slammed forward, sending nearly half of his penis inside his friend’s backside.
         “Gonna fuck you till you die from it!” cried Quincy as Vance awakened screaming from agony at the violation.
         
         In the pine and eucalyptus forest a couple of kilometres outside Glen Hartwell, Terri and the other cops sat around watching as Magnolia McCready began mixing a potion in an earthenware bowl with a wooden spoon.
         “Evil Dover Demon, come hence from whoever you are tormenting to arrive at this spot!” called the Wiccan, “Evil demon, I command you.”
         For half an hour or more, the white witch mixed her potion while chanting to call the Dover Demon to the forest.
         
         “Stop it, you bastard, you’re killing me!” shouted Vance Dexter.
         “It’s your own fault for having such a sexy arse,” said Quincy Elloway in a dull, awkward voice.
         “Get out of me!” pleaded Vance, crying from the near-unbearable agony.
         
         “Come hence, Evil demon, I command you!” called the Wiccan for perhaps the hundredth time.
         Just when they had started to think that the ritual had failed, there came a loud puff sound, a mini explosion, before the Dover Demon appeared in the forest, looking about itself in bewilderment.
         
         “Please stop it, Quincy!” begged Vance Dexter.
         This time Quincy Elloway did stop, withdraw his penis from Vance’s backside, then collapsed unconscious upon the dirty brown carpet on the lounge room floor.
         “Thank God, you bastard!” cried Vance, struggling to untie his hands.
         He walked across to kick his long-time friend in the testicles, then when Quincy did not cry out, he said:
         “Jesus, I think I’ve killed the bastard!”
         
         “So where should I send it?” asked Magnolia McCready.
         “Challenger Deep within the Mariana Trench,” cried Sheila and the other police officers.
         “As you wish,” agreed the Wiccan, beginning a new ritual to send the now squealing demon nine and a half kilometres under the ocean.
         

THE END

© Copyright 2026 Philip Roberts

Melbourne, Victoria, Australia