It was a hot Texas summer in July of 2012, when a promising young man walked into a bar for a quick hookup, a means to satisfy his raving, nigh-rapacious cravings for sex after a tiring day of work at his heavily opportunistic job. He worked at a Fortune 100 company. A quick glance around the bar revealed a staggering number of young women, twenty-somethings, lingering around the bar, waiting for moneyed-men to buy them a shot of their favored vices. He spied the hottest girl sitting in the establishement. She was a lone, dark-haired girl who wore some Arcade Fire shirt, "Mom" jeans, had some stupid-looking massive shades propped up on top of her head and a silly "counter-culture" hairdo, and she had an ipod in hand to complete this "ironic" look she was going for. She was a goddamned hipster. "But ass is ass." the man said to himself. Indeed, ass is ass, and ass like this is the best piece of ass in any bar. So he made his way over to this connoisseur of cool for the potential nightcap. As he settled himself into the stool beside her, he smoothly opened his mouth wide to begin the conversation. -- "So what's your story?" preemptively interrupted the hipster, mostly occupied by that endless playlist on her ipod bloated with songs from artists nobody's ever heard of and she actually doesn't listen to more than once. "I just came in here to buy someone a drink. I'm feeling generous today." replied the man to this rather rude interruption, with a kind smile. "Pabst." requested she, nonchalantly staring at that playlist. The sick feeling that she would order that hipster swill rather than the typical daquiri or mojito was confirmed. However, suppressing his prejudice, he produced a pittance from his wallet. He nodded at the barman, who, with ears wide open and attentive, heard her order and acknowledged while serving ten other people in a hasty, yet efficient pace. The order finally came through, and a fizzing Pabst was nudged over to the two. The barman went back to serving ten more people, who, in the next five minutes, would turn into twenty. The bar was filling quick. The young man tossed a twenty and a five the barman's way in excessive gratitude. She greedily drank the skunk piss out of the pilsner, all the while trying to look as if she were at the head of the trends, the trendiest of the trendy. She thought herself "cool", as the man correctly observed. However, in most circumstances, he would refer to someone with her lifestyle as a "fag". She pulled back from the addictive, crack-like beverage(at least to people like her it was crack-like and addictive), in a position to speak. "So, like I asked before, what's your story?" she asked, head tilting. "Oh, I just got off work and I felt that I needed to kick it with some friends of mine. They didn't show up for one reason or another, so I decided to make the best of my situation, and voila, saw you here." It was painfully obvious to her that this loaded scrub just wanted to get into her pants. She knew his intent all too well as this had to be the millionth time a horny, professional man expressed an interest in her. As she was studying him, she figured that he was a monstrously significant aesthetic step above her ex-boyfriend whom she dated over the internet, and he was still definitely her type - which was "euro-hot". "I'm looking through my playlist here to find some kind of inspiration for a song for my band. I supply backing vocals and tambourine, you know." Deep down inside, the young man was laughing at how much of a stereotypical hipster she is. He was starting to like her the more they conversed. "Nice, so you're in a band? I play bass myself." he informed. "They call me bass because I'm so good at it." The hipster's eyes widened at the mention that he plays bass. Now this guy - who will be called Bass from then on - was mad hot to her. She envisioned banging this guy after every practice. All she needed was to see how well he played. "You play bass? My band is looking for a bass player right now 'cause the other one ditched us for some crap band. You care to show me your skills any time soon? Maybe tonight?" All Bass wanted was his dick wet in this hipster's mouth. He had no intention of sticking with her for an extended period of time, rather he just wanted to stick it in her for this night, as he had more important things to do with his life. Plus, there are so many other hot women he could slap a ring on - women who are so much more interesting and ambitious. Also, he didn't have his bass guitars anymore, because he sold them. He proceeded to unintentionally turn this hipster off. "I sold my bass collection. I really have no interest of picking it back up at the moment as my life is going fast now and I have better things to do." "Well, looks like you're not getting any ass tonight so fuck you!" Bass watched as she stormed off, but she was immediately side tracked by two men at a corner. One of the men was about as appealing as the common flu. Bass knew who the other man was, as he'd been consistently subjected to the fascist, tinfoil-hat, pseudo-intellectual subjects this man refused to shut up about - it became quite annoying really. These two men were incredibly infatuated with her and her teasing. Bass saw, in the corner of his eye, a black man in a dress shirt and silken tie lurking in the shadows. This black man was eyeballing the two men, just the two men, with the hipster, hungrily. There was a predatory, homosexual lust burning in the black man's eyes, and a pair of heavy, brick-like balls flopping about in his dress pants. He was assumed to be a gay rapist. It was none of Bass' business really. He had a huge problem to attend to. Bass looked away, trying to figure out a means to solving his problem. His carnal cravings were reaching their peak now. If he didn't secure himself a vag for the night, the primal man within himself might take over, causing him to sexually violate the first female who crosses his path, regardless of the female's age. He could not allow this to happen. The chance of that happening, however, was approaching one. The bar was horribly packed. The barman serving five-hundred people, up four-hundred eighty from ten minutes ago. Women won't give you a second glance regardless of aesthetic appearance if you don't buy their alcohol for them, as Bass knew all too well. He had to get alcohol for a girl, any girl, and five-hundred ninety of these assholes were in between him and his mission! Suddenly, opportunity seemingly rolled into his lap... A decently attractive girl, a solid eight who had to be around his age was approaching him. HIM! She sported a pitch black tee with bombs made of sugar depicted on the front of it. SUGAR BOMBS! He already had his own little name for her! He continually watched from his peripherals as she approached him, and then took a stool next to him. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked. Bass turned his head toward her and, while keeping eye contact, responded, "Sure." It was something of a shock to him that this woman had full control of their interaction. She seemed to have a good degree of power, he liked power in women. It made them more interesting, at least in his eyes. To most men, potentially domineering women were a threat to their power. They were uncontrollable. He was turned on. "Scotch, right? On the rocks?" It was almost as if she dove into his thoughts and siphoned them out. This was the exact drink he wanted. Strange, but not the first time he met a woman willing to buy his drinks for him, and who correctly guessed what drink he likes. She shot a glance at the Barman, who immediately ceased preparing the drinks for the seven-hundred thirty-four people supposedly ahead of Bass' order and went to pouring Bass' scotch. Does Sugar Bombs own this bar? Bass shook his head and the drink was slid to him. "It's fairly obvious you're interested in me. So you wanna head over to my pad?" Bass said in a cocky manner. "I think it's better if we head over to my place." "So what's your name?" "I think it's clear that you have your own name for me already. S? B?" Sugar Bombs' apparent talent for premonition was beginning to give Bass the creeps. How did she know that's the name he was thinking? Perhaps she wore that shirt for a reason? Regardless, he had his carnal urges to satisfy, and here was the opportunity. With a wry smile, she held out her hand to take him out of the bar and to her car. They left the bar in that car. The bar was named "Hell's Ranch", as was evident because of the dark, haunting sign with the name next to a neon-green pentagram. ... The two arrived at Sugar Bomb's apartment, which was pretty fucking creepy as he observed. There were jars of lone pickles lined up around the window ledges. Jars of pickles on the counters. Hell, they were even sitting in jars under the table. Why were there so many pickles in this apartment? Bass noticed a bald cat making slight hissing sounds, watching him as he settled himself into the couch, licking its lips. Bass looked into a trash bin by a desk and sighted charred clothes, charred male clothes, business suits and casuals filling the bin. Strange. He grabbed one of the jars, opened it, grabbed the pickle, and started eating it. The cat's hissing grew louder as he continued his consumption of the pickle. "Shoo cat, go away." "Are you comfortable over there?" asked Sugar Bombs, smiling, yet a little irked that he was eating one of her pickles. "I'm good. What's with all these pickles here? Are you some kind of pickle collector?" replied Bass, with delicious pickle pieces rolling about in his mouth. "You could say that." responded Sugar Bombs with a sinister smirk as she brought out another jar, but this one filled with just pickle juice. "So when are we gonna fuck? That's why you brought me here, right?" Upon hearing those words, Sugar Bombs hysterically rushed over to him, tore his pants off his legs, grabbed his cock, and started stroking. However, her hands were ice cold. Normally those frigid temperatures exuded from her hands would cause a dick to retreat into itself. Yet, strangely enough, his cock immediately became fully turgid upon touch. Weird! She enveloped his cock with her mouth, and he swore he saw fangs in there, but he didn't mind. The extreme cold from her hands and then her mouth were moot points as he could feel every bit of the sucking, and it felt SO GOOD! She took her mouth off, stood up and grabbed his cock with her hand with a vice-like grip. He was pulled, by his cock, into her bedroom. The empty pickle jar she brought out was left outside the bedroom. The dominating woman threw herself on the bed, unclothed, back faced down, and demanded, in an odd, increasingly deep and flanged voice, "FUCK ME! FUCK ME! FUCK ME!" over and over and over again. Bass, also unclothed, launched himself between her legs and began pumping away in earnest. "I'm gonna tear that pussy up, bitch!" Bass exclaimed as he pummeled her snatch. For fifteen maybe twenty minutes he slammed his dick into her dirt with extreme precision, but was no closer to shooting his load as he was when he first entered her apartment. Strange, strange. Then, in a sudden instance, he felt the biggest orgasm he'd ever felt in his life. The euphoria was incredible. Just as he was about to glaze her ovaries with Lake Erie, the orgasm stopped instantly, and his dick went completely flaccid. He was consumed by confusion as he wondered what exactly was going on with his dick. Then, he looked at Sugar Bombs' face! A disturbing smile spread across it. A smile directed at him! A deep, primal growl emanated from her fanged mouth as she maintained her gaze upon him. A horrified expression manifested in Bass' face as he realized what he'd gotten himself into - sex with a demoness! The supernatural is real! Her leg raised up, pointed right at his diaphragm, and launched Bass at the wall with immense inhuman force, causing him to crash into a collection of video games and movies. The demoness Sugar Bombs got off the the bed and walked over to him. Her initially gorgeous face contorted to reveal goat-like features - her true features - and leathern wings unfurled from her back and spread out nine feet across the room. She focused on Bass' terribly flaccid, powerless dick, and pointed directly at it with her wretched right index finger. Bass looked on in horror. "GRANDO DIABOLUS COTIDIANA!" she screamed. Bass' dick sprang into readiness again of its own accord, fully erect, except this time it was painfully erect! Too large, blood-red! He cried due to the excruciating pain he felt in his dick. She strode over, grabbed his throbbing cock, and, with her frigid, vice-like grip, uprooted it from his body in a very gruesome manner, causing blood to be rocketed forth from where his cock should be. With a satisfied look on her face at the gore she was causing and the eventual death by blood loss for Bass, she picked Bass up and flopped him on the bed, face down, ass up, asshole exposed. Bass peered behind him and bore witness to Sugar Bombs placing the cock - which was now flaccid as there was little blood in it - on the base of where a cock would be if she had one. Scarily enough, the cock attached itself to her body... and the dead dick came back to life, completely hard, inhumanly large, twenty inches in circumference, fifteen inches long, with the intermittent spurt of blood from the tip of the urethra. She positioned herself behind Bass' ass, pointed the cock at his asshole and rammed that sucker home. Bass moaned in agony, tortured by the quick blood loss, and the huge cock thrusting up in his ass. She was fucking him with his own dick, or rather HER dick as it was now! "GRANDO DIABOLUS COTIDIANA!" she screamed again. Suddenly, a burning, cutting sensation was felt on his rectum. Sweet mother of fuck, the cock developed a sandpaper-like texture from the feel of it! Bass' moans evolved into piercing screams that rang through the apartment building. Demons living throughout the building cackled maniacally upon hearing the screams. The building was filled with demons! Just then, a rotting corpse scent intruded in his nose. Where was it coming from? Would it matter? He was being horribly violated by his own dick, which felt like it was made of sandpaper now. However, the smell seemed to be coming from the closet just ahead of Bass on the other side of the bed. "GRANDO DIABOLUS COTIDIANA!" she screamed again. The closet opened of its own volition, revealing that creepy cat he saw outside the bedroom devouring dozens of rotting corpses piled up in the closet, all victims of Sugar Bombs. Meat was messily torn asunder in this rotten corpse pile like a depraved butcher took up his work here. The butcher being the cat. This was Bass' fate. He was to die here, and that cat would consume his dead body. He would become yet another victim of his final score, just like all the desiccated corpses of these men. Bass could've sworn he saw a fat man reminiscent of a thumb in that pile of corpses, but the pain drew his attention back to that dick roughing up his ass. Sugar Bombs was close to climax, but she truly needed something special to finish this off. She pulled an evil-looking, blood-encrusted, serrated, sacrificial blade from seemingly out of nowhere and held it to his throat. As she was pounding the last vestiges of life out of Bass, who, due to the extreme blood loss, was on the verge of death, she ran the blade across, thus ending his life. His mancunt tightened, causing her to let loose a violent roar from the extreme pain as she blew a bloody lake up his ass, the Lake Erie he was to shoot up her. Blood shot out of every hole on the outside of his body. He became the human fire hydrant. Bass' cock, which was attached to her, deflated. After all the rough action, it was all worn and tired. She then abandoned Bass' deceased carcass and left it to her creepy cat to feast upon - which it did. The demoness grabbed the cock attached to her body, and it began to delicately seperate. It seperated, after which she held it aloft in the air. It was a trophy from her latest kill! She walked outside the bedroom to the empty pickle jar she'd left behind and opened it. After savoring one last glimpse of of the dick she held from the tip of her fingers, she dropped it into the jar, into the juice, and watched as it slowly became quite hard and green. A stem sprouted on the end of it and the dick developed a wavy texture. It had become a pickle. To her, that pickle was more valuable than any precious stone or metal on the Earth. She had a good reason, at least for her, to collect these things. They were no different trophies than what hunters mount over their fireplaces. Sugar Bombs stepped away from the pickle jar and, for one last time, screamed, "GRANDO DIABOLUS COTIDIANA!" "HAIL SATAN EVERYDAY!" screamed the rest of the demonic tenants. The cat raised its head in attention to the high pitched shrieks echoing from every demon in the building, then resumed its knawing at Bass' corpse, sating its ravenous hunger.