Pus$bucket Memories...By T.G. Fleming

The place was New York. Manhattan. Lower east side.
You’ve heard about it. We’re talking, way before
Giuliani, now. Early nineties. You’ve heard about it.
Something about an artistic heyday – an inspired
cesspool of squalor and talent just itching to bust
out its pungent linen to show somebody something. And
it was summertime and the air was hot and sticky just
like our feverish brains, and we were looking to make
a little raw and dirty magic. To capture a filthy
movie about characters you’d never want to meet in,
out, around, or near any given dark alleyway.
Degenerate hillbillies who – every time they see an
icon of the virgin Mary – can’t help but fixate on the
robust nature of her birthin’ hips (yeah, and who
could blame them? They squeezed out a savior, after
all). And big girls with powerful glands in
tight-fitting tops who know what they want, and even
if they didn’t, they’d go out and get it, anyway.
Why? Because they have to. Because the gods don’t pack
a brassiere that full to watch you sit around at home
with cotton balls between your toes.
The name of the project was Pus$Bucket, and we were in
the final stretch of it, sure. After a long, gritty
haul up a hill made of garbage and broken dreams, we
were finally lensing the last scene, and it was going
to be a hard one. Lisa Hammer (then Lisa Houle) – the
braintrust behind the endeavor – wasn’t satisfied with
the gore and lust level of the film thus far, and she
had some things to say about it, and we listened,
cause it was her name on the back of the Big Chair.
She rattled off a few filmmakers of interest, like
Russ Meyer and Hershell Gordon-Lewis, and then she
said she wanted something to not show her
grandchildren, when all was said and done. In fact,
she wanted a film to show someone else’s
grandchildren. Or maybe the world’s grandchildren. The
sort of flick that crawls up from the wettest corner
of Satan’s kitchen and sits in a child’s brain like a hardened aneurysm.
That is what she wanted, and she wasn’t going to stop 'til the fat lady sang.
It was me, T.G. Fleming, as Judas, and E.A. Hammer as
Corned Beef – murderous hillbilly brothers with a head
full of bloody Jesus and hearts pumping enough pus to
choke a horse and then some. And our victims of the
evening were Ultra Lavish and Evelyn Rosa. Ultra was a
phony blonde from Jersey (the home of phony blondes.
Fuck, the MECCA of phony blondes…) who was a stripper
'cause she was born to be, and just to prove the point,
ran right out and bought herself a double set of
silicone troopers - two bags per boob – each filled
with enough industrial toxins to make a two-headed
puppy from Bhopal, India nod with something
approaching respect. And Evelyn was a fetish kitten
from up Harlem way who put the OW in hourglass. Soon
as they stepped onto the set, E.A. and I knew we were
in for it with bright red bloomers on, and we liked it
and we didn’t, but none of that mattered cause we had a job to do.
First things first, the spanking scene. Lisa told me I
was going to spank Evelyn with ham, like she was
asking for a stamp from the mailman. I didn’t know how
to respond, but Evie seemed game, and when you have a
dark, brooding, salsa-fueled beauty like her wiggling
her fanny your way and asking in boisterous tones for
the rough slap of the other white meat, hell, you’re
game seven ways from Sunday. I guess you could say I
made a new friend that day. Not with Evelyn (cause I
knew her already), but with Providence (and maybe a
touch of Charity & Grace). Why? Cause it was my job to
get on my knees and wallop that girl’s ripe and rolling derriere.
Here’s a bit of advice: if your destiny has two fleshy cheeks, thank your lucky stars.
After that was done, we lashed Ultra down to a table as per Lisa’s instruction.
“I found a foam-rubber boob,” Lisa said. “And I filled
it with fake blood and Ziploc bags – to simulate her
silicone implants. I want a close-up of you cutting it
open. I want to see that fucker EXPLODE!”
Yeah, Lisa had been thinking about exploding tits all
year, and more than likely, you let a lull drop in
your conversation with her, and she’d mention it, in
the light, offhand way that was her signature. Nobody
really knew where the obsession came from. It just
seemed to sort of happen to her around Christmastime,
and it stayed with her until, well, I guess you could
say she needed to get it out of her system.
“I’m going to make that fucker BURST!” I promised her.
“Why? Cause I’m a soldier. You say pop that hooter,
and I’ll be the first on the field with a bra lined with firecrackers...”
We didn’t have to go that far. The phony tit was
packed so tight, all I had to do was poke it with my
scalpel and the thing damn near took my head off.

BUT WHAT A WAY TO GO!

We got the shot. And in the world of guerilla
filmmaking, that’s all that matters.
Next came the torture and evisceration of Evelyn. Now,
if you think spanking a busty gal you barely know with
a pancake of ham is fun, just imagine the thrill of
pawing her and pushing her around while she screams
bloody murder. E.A. and I lashed her to a chair and
crawled all over her like two giant cockroaches
wearing shitkickers, and by the time Lisa called cut,
I swear, one of us was pregnant. And if it wasn’t
Evelyn, I wanted it to be me. Quite frankly, I wanted
to shoot the love child of all three of us right out a
secret trap door in the heel of my foot. Sure.
Watch our baby crawl around on the floor for a little
while. Take bets on how long it’d last before flipping
twice and futzing out its unfortunate soul.
There are many more stories of Pus$bucket. Tales to
curl something dark and moist (and maybe even charred)
in your soul. But that’s for another time. One thing I
can say for certain, wherever that Lisa Hammer goes,
strange and wonderful things are sure to follow.
You don’t want to get left behind on that one. Life’s
too short and the world’s too young. So take it from
me, Lisa is one to Make It Happen.
Oh, oh, you can bet your pickle-barrel on that one...