Alex S. Johnson

The Doom Hippies Vs. Harvard

“What appears to be the problem?” Jade McKenna peered through horned-rim glasses at the body pile up. “I thought we had trained the Final Dogs to eat the bodies…”

She paused and dabbed at her face. Something was wrong, Something was very wrong.

It had all begun with the addition of The Doom Hippies, a collection of dark satire by Alex S. Johnson, to the collection at the Widener Library. The author had donated the book and added a sigil written in his own blood as well as an embedded curse. Subsequently, havoc spread through Harvard like snaking fingers of Mandelbrot juice. The entire student body was infected. Green juices poured copiously from genitalia. Minds were at first subtly inflamed, then engorged, with phallic juts bursting through foreheads and spearing dead babies through stained class widows. Eyes crackled with emerald fire like icicles stored in the dendrites of Notre Dame cathedral as it walked to and fro in an ever-widening circle of chaos stars. 

“I actually did no such thing,” Johnson said in her right ear. “And frankly, it’s Craig Thomas’s fault. It’s on him. He was so enthusiastic to get the book from me, especially after he read the product description on amazon. I think it was the story ‘Vampussy’ that did it.”

“Granted, yes, it was probably…that story, or maybe it was his story ‘Walpurgisnatch’ that Kari Lee Krome put him up to.”

“But ‘Walpurgisnatch” isn’t in The Doom Hippies,” Johnson reminded her. “It’s in the forthcoming sequel, The Doom Hippies III: Cancelled and Deleted Tales. The one you’ve got in your hand right now.”

McKenna reached out as though her hand was on a spring attachment and swatted Johnson’s busy ghost like a mosquito.

“Get away from me, you Haunto-Fiction motherfucker. You’re as bad as Jordan Gallader. Lots of you ghosts have been swarming the Harvard hive mind  of late.”

“Bitch, I ain’t dead yet.”

“So you’re undead. Honestly, it doesn’t matter to my busty curvy sexy Sadie self in the slightest. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going back to my porno librarian job.” She said all this in a husky voice while passing her hands over her D cups.

Johnson’s engorged astral cock spurted white hot jissom on the dendrites of Berlin in the 70s, when a coke-addled David Bowie had fled the grim scene that spawned the Thin White Duke. McKenna smeared her ivory fine tuned hands through his spunk on purpose at first, then down her face, then down her titties, finally resting on a bust of Phallus constructed in absentia around a wire sculpture invoked by Dr. Anton Shreck as he constructed Lemmy Kilmister’s hot body double in 5.0 Dolby stereo.

“I’m so horny right now,” whispered Johnson directly into McKenna’s sordid, depraved cunt. “I’m horny for you, I’m horny for posterity, I’m horny for fame, I’m excited to be here, I’m wanting more and more and more of the wonderful cool blue neon fire of possessing the hive mind, as the final king and reigning champeen at the bittersuites to Succubi…fire…fire…fire is cool.”

“Whatever,” said McKenna. “Me for some o’ that gore candy and animal tranqs.” She thrust the ubiquitous copy of The Doom Hippies away from her, the one that so many redeemed Catholic schoolgirls had used to emancipate themselves from their inhibitions, and glanced at herself in the male gaze mirror of Johnson’s erotic obsessions. She was bound to a wheel with a bit gag in her mouth, blood dripping down her body. She felt objectified in the most wonderful and liberating way.

The Widener Library’s cum-crusted copy of honorary Dr. Johnson’s dark satire monsterpiece grew stilts and a hedgerow of soft parades, beginning its epic trek across the Himalayas in an attempt to replicate itself at the foundation of reality.