Bobby Ratskin had thirty siblings, everyone of them named Bobby Ratskin and all of them with identical features. Our Bobby Ratskin was the runt of the litter, the other Bobby Ratskins punted Bobby Ratskin around like a soccer ball and called him blue balls...even though soccer balls were rarely blue in color. But Bobby Ratskin wasn't a soccer ball or a pair of blue balls, he had an acid-washed denim jacket with a screen print of Gordon Lightfoot on the back and Bobby Ratskin had a blond rat's tail and spiky hair and wispy blond peach fuzz above his upper lip and he could finger blast your girlfriend well and good.
He knew this because, even though he'd never fingered a girl before, he'd practiced with the discipline of a dojo master and the dexterity of a concert pianist.
Bobby Ratskin's talent may have lied within his hands—he was an expert klepto who could get away with tucking a big screen Plasma TV under his shirt—but his passion, nay, his obsession was with feet. He worshiped toes, he was mad about heels and he gesticulated at the altar of a high arch. The very variety of shapes and sizes, of itty bitty cherry toes, rounded at their tips, and long bony skeleton toes and crooked gargoyle pretzel toes, gave him a spell.
Bobby was felled by feet, they were, to put it metaphorically, his very Achille's heel. When Taylor Isis moved to town he lost his shit. Taylor was the sauciest Hispanic porn star in the biz and the queen of “floor porn” fetish entertainment. She had the biggest feet Bobby Ratskin had ever seen on a girl and they were sexy as sin.
Throughout his sophomore year, Bobby Ratskin had regularly foregone opportunities to go out with his classmates to play Murder in the Dark or to go to the movies to see the latest Ninja Psychiatrist sequel in favor of stashing himself away in his bedroom with soiled g-strings he'd purchased from Taylor's web store “Taylor's Toe Tent.” He'd worn these ruined underoos over his nose and mouth while masturbating to her stocking videos with the aid of a tweezer. He'd dreamed of spiriting her away to a planet made of toes where he could apply polish in iridescent, galactic hues to her nails and sniff the balls of her tasty tootsies.
It got so incessant that the chafing landed Bobby in the emergency room with a degloved dong. When Taylor arrived in town with the intention of completing her longabandoned high school education, Bobby Ratskin's penis had only just healed, more or less, but immediately upon setting sight on her clear plastic stilettos, he'd felt the first of many new tweeter twinges.
He had to have her, but he didn't want to share her with the rest of the town. He wanted her all to himself. There was simply no way for this to occur on its own, he knew, for as the other Bobby Ratskins had reminded their rugrat brother, our Bobby Ratskin was as ugly as a bag of uncircumcised, disembodied dongs...if said dongs were covered in acne scars and pus pockets and topped with a ratty Merkin.
It would take some manual manipulation to make Taylor Isis Bobby Ratskin's BAE. He hatched a plan. He would wait until her night school class was dismissed and when she went to her car, he would slide out from under the chassis and jam a hypodermic needle into her slick, lovely labia. The paralytic agent from the shot would render her pliable and he'd swiftly stuff her into the trunk of his mother's station wagon before anyone else would notice.
He'd been careful to reserve himself a parking spot right beside Taylor's sports car and hidden in his mom's glove compartment until the bell rang. In no time at all, that is to say at the speed of light or at a rate physically impossible, Bobby Ratskin had Taylor Isis and her feet inside his mother's basement. It had gone so smoothly he hardly believed it was real.
Bobby was overcome with glee at first as he caressed her soft caramel flesh and sucked at her supple lips. But soon, in about the time it took to slip the peep toe slingbacks from her slinky feetsies, that is to say in more time than no time at all, Bobby Ratskin was overcome with grief. Although the plan had gone cracking well, he knew that he wouldn't be able to keep Taylor forever, for her disappearance would doubtlessly be noticed by one and all townsfolk, her being the only chick in town without cellulite, gut fungus and halitosis. No, he couldn't keep her, not all of her anyway. So Bobby Ratskin took only what he needed.
Brandishing his mom's hot pink table saw, he buzzed his way through his love's cinnamon skin and straight through her splintering Cream of Wheat bones and out the other end two times over until he held what he loved in his hairy palms as two perfect keepsakes.
But a strange thing happened as he held those two oozing footsies beneath his flaring nostrils. Taylor's legs stopped hosing the floor in Bosco blood and began growing, regenerating, resulting in the presence of two fresh feet with ten fresh toes, each as beautiful as the originals. Bobby was enraptured! He had to have them as he'd had the first.
He inched over to them with the saw at the ready, but as he approached the two new feet shot out with two more feet, a new pair growing out of the ankles. Although Bobby was taken aback, his math skills did not fail him, for any Bobby Ratskin would tell you that six is better than four.
His finger returned to the saw's trigger, but as he crept over to the four feet, a new pair sprouted on the spot and landed a swift kick to the strangled crotch of Bobby's corduroy pants. Before he could right himself from the force, four more footsies sprouted anew and then another four and still more and they kept multiplying just so until they filled the room.
Bobby could no longer see the rest of Taylor, her being completely camouflaged beneath the cluster of cute little toes and menacing heels, everyone of them coming down on Bobby, marching on his panicked, lust-flushed face, stomping him until all that was recognizable of Bobby Ratskin were his two soggy tube socks, the feet within them visibly docile through the web of Taylor's toes.
Bobby began to meld then, melting with his precious and her pretty pads, his soul married to her soles. Bobby Ratskin still loves feet, of course. How could he not? After all it's all he is anymore. Bobby Ratskin was and always will be legion.
