Pussypower Reloaded: A Fucked-Up Fairy Tale

Princess Cherrypop idly pet her pussy by the side of the River of Sparkling Goodness, fantasizing about the day a charming, handsome prince would appear before her, offering to chastly marry her and. carry her to his palace where extremely vanilla proceedings would take place and little to none of the “kink,” except for perhaps a mild spanking. 

“Oh Twatzapooner,” she cried, youthful tears spilling down her cheeks,” my heart yearns for him. When will he hear my pleas, and manifest my desire?”

But answer came there none. Instead, an eyebird came and began to peck at the berries of a Broomjumb tree that went up and up almost beyond the visible, with its top plunged through a labial fold in the clouds…which vaguely reminded her of something.

“Twatzapooner will never hear you, I can assure you, my pretty,” boomed a dark, oily and evil voice within her head. It seemed to expand and expand, the pressure awful and enormous, and every word like a knife stabbing her brain. Cherrypop screamed. 

“What do you WANT with me, Nair? I’ve never troubled you in the slightest!!! Why must you be so CRUEL to me, you heatless…words that rhyme with other words disallowed me by decree of my father, King Hubert Longwood XII, King of Euphoria?”

The Baroness Cuntingham, Queen of Nair, then laughed, and the laugh was hideous, and the knives redoubled with stabbing frenzy, and the Princess Cherrypop wished for death.

She wished to be felled on the spot by the ax of a stray woodsman, specifically, the pain was so bad.

Suddenly she heard the voice of the goddess Twatzapooner herself inside her head, masking Nair’s.

“My dear Princess Cherrypop, do not fear, my child. I will requite your faith in me. Do but use the pussypower I have invested in the maternal line of the royal lineage of the Kingdom of Euphoria from time immemorial. Remember, that is the power that Baroness Cuttingham, Queen of Nair, wishes to take from you, by force if necessary.”

“I know it well, dear Twatzapooner…I know her plans too well!” cried the princess. “She has sent many a gremlin with cutting tools to excise my precious pussy; she has sent bands of awful mutated beasts to drag me off into the woods. She has bound me and stopped me my mouth with plugs of rubber–a sensation not unpleasurable, which didst cause me pussysquirt. But what she wishes, I cannot provide.”

“I cannot provide this either, child,” said Twatzapooner, manifesting beside the princess beside the River. She was wearing a puffy pink dress that followed the divine camel lips, a crown inset with diamonds, a pink leather bustier and a d-ring, and long pink leather gloves. “I am bound by the same laws as thee, and all the other creatures within my domain. For it is well said that even the gods cannot subvene where law exists. 

“It pains me much that the only means I have available to rescue you from your plight–the stabbing of the dreaded Raven’s Claw weapon wielded by Nair, by Cuntingham, is to indeed summon the aid of the woodsman, Rudolpho.” She waved her wand and instantly by her side appeared the woodsman, Rudolpho.

Unfortunately, Rudolpho was of a beastly and brutish cast and understood little, including the skill by which better woodsmen kept their axe blades sharp af. As a consequence, when the goddess Twatzapooner bid him swipe off the princess’s head, it was not in a single smooth motion, but in a ghastly series of whacks that caused her head to sag partially off at the neck. The feeling of the dull ax blade at her neck caused the princess great pain, which, coupled with the stabbing sensations caused by the magical weapon the Raven’s Claw, made things far worse for her.

“Merciful Twatzapooner,” cried the princess, “i am in utter agony the likes of which this young body cannot long endure.” So saying, the princess sagged down, her eyes rolling up towards the back of her head, exposing the whites. Gussets of blood foamed from her neck and spilled from between her lips. She placed her palms together once in supplication, then closed her eyes forever.

Cuntingham screamed. “Twatzapooner, whatever happened to our agreement. the Wednesday Friday Henne Accord?”

“My dear cunting Cuntingham, you must have been at the jubjub juice, because thou makest less than no sense. Why, knowing that my powers are vastly superior to yours insofar as I created you and can snuff you with a thought, do you wish to incur my wrath?”

“Oh piss off, Twatzapooner,” cried Nair. “I”m the new power in Euphoria, and have been for a lon–“

The words had scarce exited her peeling, sore-encrusted lips when a pain of awful dimensions suddenly stabbed deep within her head. 

“How do you like the Raven’s Claw within thine own skull?” chortled Twatzapooner.

“I fucking HATE it,” roared Cuntingham. “Stop these shenanigans immediately! I’m warning you for the…”

But this time the words were stifled immediately. The flesh of her lips sealed in on itself with lightning speed, effectively gagging her. Her throat felt swollen, as though she were choking endlessly and would never be able to eject the foreign object now permanently embedded in her throat. The agony of the Raven’s Claw renewed itself over and over and over, as, beside her, the Princess Cherrypop’s soul left her body and ascended to a heaven as rapturously beautiful and pain-free as the body she had abandoned was full of torture and pain.

Then Nair felt something kick her in the chest like a mule. She tried to clutch at her chest, but the woodsman had returned from the tree he had been hiding behind, shitting himself in terror as he watched the goddesses’ wrath unfurl. With the seat of his britches stained, dripping and smelly from an awful load, his ax-wielding grip was forced to raise the blade against Nair this time. He whacked and he whacked and he whacked, opening up huge bloody wounds in her chest. 

“I wish I could die like that bitch Cherrypop,” thought Nair. 

“WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?” roared Twatzapooner.

“I said…I WISH I COULD JUST…”

With another wave of her want, Twatzapooner silenced Nair’s inner voice. 

It was the worst feeling imaginable. Nair was now twice muted, in pain that rose to a level she had never once experienced in her life. She was beset within and without with excruciating torment, yet due to Twatzapooner’s power she remained terribly conscious, locked within her own head.

“You keep forgetting that the Wednesday Friday Bwak Bwak Bwak Accord was purely a figment of your cuntish imagination,” said Twatzapooner with a girlish giggle. “Now you will spend eternity…or until I release you for good behavior, which you will never be able to achieve due to the state I’ve placed you in…suffering all the hellish cruelties of heaven over and over and over again. Truly it was once said that we are here to hurt each other, and even a goddess must play by the rules ordained since time began. Sucks to be you.”

And with those words, Twatzapooner joined Cherrypop in heaven which was like Euphoria only transcendental and sublime. Twatzapooner gave the Princess the option of returning to Earth in her own form, which she accepted, and within seconds she found herself tumbled once more to the side of her beloved cat, Mimsywroth, who meowed in welcome of her mistress.

From very far away, Cherrypop thought she could hear the sounds of a cuntish Queen screaming. “But then again,” she said to herself, “it’s probably the wind.”

THEES EES THEE ENT

Masquerade

In the hotel bar, he ordered another drink and noticed the woman staring at him.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘You’re him, aren’t you?’

His smile flashed. ‘Only you can answer that,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Ethan Latrine. But keep schtum. Don’t fancy getting mobbed tonight.’

‘I knew it.’ She slid her stool closer. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Shooting some scenes. Want a drink?’

‘Vodka tonic,’ she said.

He summoned the bartender. ‘Vodka tonic for the handsome lady. Put it on my tab.’

The bartender nodded. ‘Right away, Mister Latrine.’

‘So,’ he said. ‘What brings you here?’

‘Some boring tech conference,’ she said.

The bartender served the drinks.

‘What’s Vivien Duvet like?’ She took a sip.

He scratched his cleft chin. ‘Total diva. Terrible kisser.’

‘And you’re an expert?’

‘These lips are legendary.’

‘Prove it,’ she said, sliding her foot up his leg.

He grinned. ‘Let’s finish these and go to my room.’

‘I shouldn’t. I’m—’

‘It’s fine.’ He stood to leave. ‘I understand.’

She grabbed his arm. ‘Wait.’ She paused for thought. ‘Okay.’

They drained their drinks and headed down a narrow corridor. At its end stood a dishevelled brown door without a number. He opened it. ‘Ladies first,’ he said.

The room was tiny, cramped with a single bed that sagged in the middle.

‘You’re staying here?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Method actor. My next role’s a hotel housekeeper.’

‘Interesting.’

He sat on the bed and placed his hands on her thighs.

She unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the curves of her breasts, etched with purple stretch marks.

‘Do you think I’m beautiful?’

‘Stunning.’

She lifted her skirt and climbed on top of him. Moments later, his cowboy boots kicked the air as he climaxed with a high-pitched groan.

He lit a cigarette as she perched on the edge of the bed and sobbed into her hands.

‘Was it that bad?’ He blew a smoke ring.

She looked at him. ‘No, it was amazing,’ she said. ‘It’s my life. I wish someone could take me away from it.’

He sat up and took her hand. ‘You’ve got to leave. I’m late for a meeting with Stephen Sodenberg. But give me your number, and I’ll call you.’

‘Promise?’

‘On my mother’s life.’

She kissed him, gave the number, and left.

He cleaned himself with hand sanitiser and returned to the bar.

‘Cerveza, por favor,’ he said, drumming with his fingers.

The bartender smirked. ‘That was quick.’

‘Not my finest hour.’

‘How was she?’

‘Let’s say she won’t be landing any modelling contracts.’

‘You’re a naughty man, Terrence,’ the bartender said. ‘I thought you never shit where you eat? She might stick around.’

‘Two weeks off starting tomorrow,’ Terrence said, raising his beer. ‘By the time I’m back, she’ll be long gone.’

Days later Terrence found himself at a run-down bar far from the city, his body aching from the previous night’s indulgence.

‘One moment,’ the bartender said and gave him a double glance. ‘My God, it’s you.’

His smile flashed. ‘Only you can answer that,’ he said. ‘Yes, I’m Ethan Latrine. But keep schtum. I don’t fancy getting mobbed tonight.’

‘Sign this for me?’ she said, sliding him a napkin.

He pulled out his pen. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Amber.’

‘To Amber, with pleasure. Ethan Latrine.’

She leaned in, her boozy breath mixing with her pungent perfume. ‘I loved you in that serial killer movie.’

‘A Sophisticated British Psycho,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ she whispered into his ear. ‘I fantasise about you a lot.’

‘Oh, yeah?’ He pulled her close and lifted her shirt, revealing her tiny breasts and a Caesarean scar that curved across her toned stomach.

‘Is this a dream?’ she said, biting his neck.

He reached up her skirt and massaged her clitoris. ‘Tell me what you want,’ he said.

She pulled away. ‘Let me freshen up.’

Terrence pressed his fingers to his nose. ‘Smells fresh to me.’

‘Ten minutes. Meet me outside by the bins,’ she said.

She locked the main door and headed out the back. He tucked his erection into his waistband and watched the clock.

Ten minutes later, he stepped into the alley.

Amber leaned over the bin. ‘Come and get me,’ she said.

Terrence felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to face a human-sized magpie wearing a football shirt. ‘No autographs, friend.’

‘I’m not your friend, anus,’ the mascot said before punching him unconscious.

Terrence woke, tied to a chair in a room littered with garbage. The rancid smell of stale takeaway food mingled with the sweaty air.

‘He’s awake,’ Amber called.

The man in the mascot outfit rushed into the room. ‘About time. Listen up. We’re ransoming you. Play along, and it’ll go as smooth as butter. You namby-pamby actors have insurance coming out of your arse. It’s a victimless crime. And I owe a substantial debt to some dangerous people. Sub… stantial.’

‘You’ve made a big mistake,’ Terrence said.

In a frenzy, the man grabbed his throat. ‘Don’t threaten me, Latrine.’

‘I’m not Ethan Latrine.’

Amber held up a poster of A Sophisticated British Psycho beside his face. ‘Donald, what if he’s telling the truth?’

‘Never trust a damn actor, stupid. They lie for a living.’ Donald loosened his grip.

Terrence’s head sagged forward. ‘Imbeciles,’ he muttered.

‘No, we caught you,’ Amber said.

‘Caught me? Am I some great marlin to you? Speaking of fish, I bet you didn’t tell your boyfriend about our foreplay at the bar. Smell my fingers, Donald. Go on—’

‘I’m his sister, sicko,’ Amber said.

Donald paced the room. ‘Oh, you fingered my sister. I wanted to be professional, but you leave me no choice.’ A sick laugh escaped from his beak. ‘I know what to do with you.’

He left and returned holding bolt cutters. Without hesitation, he snipped off his thumb. Terrence’s delayed reaction erupted into a high-pitched wail.

‘Shut that slag up,’ Donald said.

Amber plucked a stale sock from the clutter and stuffed it into Terrence’s mouth.

‘I’ve got an errand to run,’ Donald said. ‘But I’ll be back. You even look at my sister, I’ll snip off your pork sword and feed it to you.’

Amber picked up a long screwdriver. ‘He won’t try anything.’

Donald rubbed his hands together. ‘This time tomorrow, we’ll be millionaires.’

He left, and Amber shut the door.

Searing pain throbbed in Terrence’s hand as he stared at the ceiling. Of all the bars… How did I end up here? he thought. All the lies, the cons, the women, the shortcuts. God, I should’ve stayed in culinary school.

‘Finally, we’re alone,’ she said. ‘I read in Tinseltown Tattle that you like it rough.’ She ripped his shirt open and yanked his chest hair.

Terrence clenched his jaw and tried to speak.

‘Something to say?’ Amber removed the sock from his mouth.

‘Please,’ he said. ‘I’m not Ethan Latrine.’

She crouched to meet his eyes. Her lips quivered. ‘Do you think I’m stupid?’ she whispered. ‘Donald says I’m stupid. Maybe I am. But not about this.’ She unzipped his trousers and held the screwdriver’s tip to his urethral opening. ‘For every lie, I’ll slide an inch inside.’

‘Wait, okay. I admit it. Let me go. I’ll give you the life you’ve always dreamed of. Don’t you want to be famous?’

‘Don’t mess with my head.’

‘Amber, I can take you far away from here.’

‘Donald says no man’s good enough for me.’ She glanced at the door. ‘But I don’t want to die here alone with him.’

‘Then let’s run away to India together.’

Amber’s eyes lit up. ‘Like in Gone with Love?’

‘Exactly. You’re Marlene, and I’m Winston.’

‘I love that movie,’ she said, waving the screwdriver around. ‘You have enraptured me, heart and soul, and I love, I love, I love you.’

‘Amber, I need you to save me.’

She pressed her nose to his. ‘You and me. Always,’ she said.

Donald barged into the room. ‘Get away from him. You don’t know where he’s been.’ He handed her a video camera. ‘Set this up, stupid.’

Amber screamed and drove the screwdriver into Donald’s temple. He collapsed into a seizure, thrashing in the garbage. She grabbed a cricket bat and hit him across the head, sending a sickening crack through the room.

Terrence stared, frozen in disbelief.

As Amber mashed Donald’s skull, she imagined herself in a glamorous dress, walking the red carpet with Ethan, flashes going off, perfume adverts, and her face on gossip magazine covers.

Terrence shut his eyes, but rhythmic, wet thuds echoed in his ears.

Panting, Amber dropped the bat and pressed play on the dusty CD player. God Only Knows by David Bowie crackled through the speakers.

‘We’ll dance to this at our wedding,’ she said.

Terrence stared at the brain matter on his knee.

Amber, her eyes full of delirium, climbed onto his lap. She caressed his face, leaving behind a streak of crimson. ‘I saved you,’ she said. ‘Our love… it’ll be like a movie.’

***

This and more from Steven Bruce below:

Meat the Messiah: s01e05 – Nevermind the Bullocks

the procession of war dead pulls into the closest emergency room so hulk hogan can get his dick checked.

receptionist: we have a 5 hour wait.

hulk: but i’m famous.

receptionist: oh. well why didn’t you say so? the famous line is about 5 minutes. james woods is in there right now. his vaginachest has a yeast infection.

hulk: are you supposed to tell me that?

receptionist: i can say whatever i want about famous people. that’s the trade-off.

the door opens and james woods comes out wearing a trenchcoat.

woods: thanks, doc. let’s work on that bedside manner, okay? okay. You’re beautiful… hulk hogan, i’m a big fan. we should do lunch sometime. oh this vaginachest? yeah i did this movie in 80s, videodrome, and for one scene i have a vagina in my chest. that’s not a special effect. cronenberg said i needed to go full method on it. so i did. and it’s kept me out of the big leagues since then… that and the vast liberal conspiracy to undermine people of liberty, like myself…

receptionist: the doctor will see you now, hulk.

woods: seriously, hulk, let’s do lunch.

hulk steps through the door to find a blank, white, unnecessarily long hallway.

receptionist: it’s at the end of the hallway.

hulk: thanks brother!

receptionist: i’m a woman.

hulk: i know.

***commercial break***

the last woman on earth goes to a toxic river and washes her hair with herbal essences shampoo, which gives her multiple orgasms.

***

hulk walks down the long, bleachburn white hallway. he hears women snickering, but he can’t see anyone. the sound of footsteps behind him, but nothing’s there. he comes to the end of the hall and walks through the door.

hugh laurie is there in a white coat, with a stethoscope around his neck.

laurie: why does it smell like rotten sausage in here?

hulk: that’s my dangle brother!

laurie: danglebrother? what’s a danglebrother?

hulk: my dick was bit by a bat and now it’s rotting brother!

laurie: dangle… oh i get it now… let’s see this offending member.

hulk removes his spandex to reveal a truly gross dong. i mean puss and maggots, the whole 9. 

laurie: wow dude. that’s disgusting.

one of the dick maggots looks up at them. he speaks in a gravely new york accent.

maggot: do you mind? i’m trying to eat here.

***commercial break***

a grizzled old fuck sits in a chair and smokes a cigarette. he drinks a monster energy. ‘hi, i’m marty shambles, author of MEAT THE MESSIAH, a delightful little romp into the world of american ideology; a delusional mix of humor, horror, and media commentary that’s sure to make you go, what the heck? in this fast paced digital world, it’s hard to get away from the bustle of modern life. books are known to reduce stress and expand the mind. so go to your local bookstore and demand they carry MEAT THE MESSIAH.’ 

***

the maggots do a ragtime chorus performance on the rotting dick. one maggot turns to hugh laurie.

maggot: we’re all big fans, mr. laurie.

laurie: any dick maggot of hulk hogan’s is a dick maggot of mine. call me hugh.

hulk: how’s it look, doc?

laurie: i’m not a doctor, but it looks like we need to cut your dick off.

hulk: can i get a second opinion?

laurie: sure. hey ben! come get a load of this!

benedict cumberbatch comes in from a hidden doorway in the wall.

ben: what’s up?

laurie (gesturing toward the dead dick): what do you think?

ben: ugh, gross! cut that thing off. it fucking stinks!

laurie: well there ya go. gotta cut your dick off. looks like it hasn’t spread to the head, so we could reattach that to the base and you could have a raging half-incher.

hulk: and if i don’t?

laurie: it will spread to the rest of your body and kill you in spectacularly painful and disgusting ways.

hulk: oh brother…

hulk looks at the camera like ‘what am i gonna do?’

freeze frame and credits roll.

***

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

I Wanna Be Your Dog

How Earl Jackson came to have Cole Hanson’s testicles in his hands wasn’t about passion, as so often is the case. Because rarely does lovemaking involve garrotting your partner’s nuts with baling wire. No, this was about a dog. 

Earl found himself living alone in his mother’s house. That came to pass because of the cancer that took root in her throat and mouth.

“I dipped since I was nine-and-half and ain’t nothing bad ever happened to me,” she repeated like a mantra up until the malignancy spirited away her voice. The entirety of her would follow three months later.

The downtown bungalow was more than a century old, livable but in need of repair. Regrettably, his pay at a local auto parts store was so abysmal that it would have been criminal in most European countries. So instead, the house decayed around him, further fueling his depression.

The malaise that cast over Earl’s spirit fed off his anima and grew similarly to the way the webs of fungal rot did across the floor joists beneath his feet. That was until one night when he saw something lying on the road. 

When Earl first caught a glimpse of it, he couldn’t help but think it looked like a large brown bean. However, beans don’t move on their own.

Further inspection revealed it to be a puppy -far too young to be away from its mother.

Earl took the helpless creature home and bottle-fed it. He would grow up into a pitbull named Remy.

***

Four years passed, and whatever cosmic alchemy holds the human species to the canine took hold with a firm grip. However, all things are temporal, even the love between a man and his dog.

***

Where the pair lived could crassly be called a ‘high crime area’. Though, Earl had never been the victim of it. This was especially true with the sharp ears and even sharper teeth of Remy sleeping at the foot of his bed each night.

The thing is, laws don’t matter when the criminals wear badges.

***

Earl Jackson’s doors were breached at four in the morning. Remy alerted him immediately.

He nudged the door open and exited the bedroom ahead of Earl, who had lifted an old machete from underneath his bed before following.

Just as he reached the bedroom door, Earl heard a rifle resound in his hallway followed by a sickening yelp. He rushed to the aid of his best friend without consideration for his own safety. 

There, just inside the front door, Earl was confronted with the outline of a man dressed in tactical armor, his face covered by a mask. He was pointing a semi-automatic rifle down at Remy who writhed and squalled on the floor in throes of immense pain. 

Remy’s back legs were paralyzed from a single round that had severed the dog’s spine. 

The home invader fired a round at Earl.  He missed his center mass and hit him in the right leg. This shattered his femur which left Earl incapacitated. 

Then two more shots rang out, followed by squeals and howling as the masked man had cruelly shot off both of Remy’s front paws. 

“I reckon he won’t be squeaking around on one of those stupid dog wheelchairs,” a gruff voice said laughing from behind the mask. “You should have restrained your dog, you stupid motherfucker.”

Earl said nothing, in shock but still aware.

“Oh, I see them angry eyes glaring at me. But ain’t shit can be done to stop me now, boy,” the man said as he placed the muzzle of his rifle against Remy’s convulsing skull and pulled the trigger.

A moment later another voice from behind the goon in the doorway shouted, “Goddamn it, Hanson! You stupid, fuck up son of a bitch. This was your raid.”

“Mr. Wilkerson is in custody. What else is there?”

“Mr. Wilkerson is white! That’s what!” the second man shouted, pointing down at Earl’s dark brown complexion. “I don’t even need to look at his driver’s license to know you got the wrong goddamn house!”

Both ignored Earl Jackson’s severe injury and continued their discussion.

“He sicced his dog on me and was armed with a machete. You know how they are,” Hanson said flippantly.

“The lot of them,” the second officer agreed, chuckling. “I reckon we’ve let him wiggle and jiggle across the bloody floor long enough. Might as well call an ambulance. If he dies, it means even more paperwork.”

***

When Earl woke, he was handcuffed to a hospital bed. It was overkill considering he had a full cast on his right leg and tubes running out of him.

The television had been left on an obscure cable network that was showing reruns of an equestrian competition. Though he’d never been interested in horses, Earl found himself transfixed. 

Time tarried on. The handcuffs eventually came off and the officer who’d been stationed at Earl’s door went away. Now it was a parade of lawyers and the acolytes who helped them suck meat from the bone when those acting on the government’s behalf did naughty shit.

The civil proceedings dragged on far beyond Earl’s acquittal and recovery. His coworkers joked about how he was already a rich man, but never believed it. Until one day he was, compliments of the city’s insurance policy.

In the interim, Officer Hanson was demoted. But, three months later he was repromoted to his former rank with a pat on the back and wink of an eye.

With the money, Earl Jackson bought a large farm east of town. There, he had a house built, and an indoor equestrian complex constructed. He opened it up as a training and competition space, often free of charge. 

***

Despite now being a vindicated pillar of the community, Earl had a grave secret. Buried underneath the well-appointed arena was a bunker. Inside was a singular resident, retired officer Hanson.

The same officer whose bass boat’s steering cable he nearly cut in two one Friday evening last summer. The next morning, Hanson pulled his trailered craft out and headed for the lake. Earl wasn’t far behind him, hauling his own vessel. Following from a distance, Earl watched as the cable snapped. This sent Hanson’s outboard flailing back and forth, which eventually caused the boat to capsize violently. Afterward, he scooped the retired officer’s body from the dark water. Following an extensive search, Hanson was presumed dead.

Upon arrival at his new subterranean home, Hanson was concussed and in and out of consciousness. Once awakened, he found himself naked, bathed in the kind of darkness that can only be found beneath the Earth’s surface.

Earl stood down the hallway of the underground complex and listened to the man who tortured his dog to death embody fear through screams.

“Oh Jesus, oh God, no! I was a good Christian, God!” Hanson exclaimed, who believed himself to be in hell. What other explanation could there be? 

After three days, he became weak from thirst and put up no fight when Earl Jackson entered the room.

Awake again, Hanson found himself, strapped to a thick board, limbs spread out like starfish. An IV was in his left arm, supplying life-sustaining fluids. 

It took Hanson a moment for his eyes to adjust when the lights were turned on. He could see the outline of a man standing in front of him. 

“Do you remember me?” Earl Jackson asked. 

“No,” he replied shaking. 

“Strange. I’ve spent years thinking about you,” Earl said as he looped baling wire around the base of Hanson’s testicles. He twisted it like a noose using a short piece of round wood cut from an old broom handle. Hanson winced at the sharp pain encircling his shriveled, gray man-pouch.

Earl kept saline bags and antibiotics flowing. He tightened the baling wire a little bit more each day. Over time, Hansons’s testicles turned purple and began to bleed. Eventually, the skin between his scrotum and body died. When his balls finally dropped to the floor below, they landed in a rancid collection of his piss and shit.

“You thought any more about who I am?” Earl asked the day Hanson became a eunuch.

“I killed your dog.”

“Yes. But now I have you to replace him. And, you’re already fixed,” Earl said, cackling.

On his way out, Earl extinguished the lights, eliciting infant-like cries from the belated castrato.

***

The next time the lights came on, Earl carried a black, pump action shotgun loaded to double-aught buckshot.

“No, no, no!” Hanson screamed.

“Don’t worry, you’re long from dead. I’m liable to keep you around for the rest of your natural life. Beforehand, however, I want to make some structural changes.”

Without warning, Earl Jackson shot Hanson’s left foot and ankle point-blank, which created a twisted menagerie of bone, tendon, and flesh.

“That’s the pain Remy felt,” he whispered into Hanson’s ear. 

One month later, Earl did the same to his right foot. Another month, a kneecap, then the next. Finally, both hands. 

Each wound healed into mangled forms – bones fusing to bones they shouldn’t have in a desperate attempt to become whole again. This left Hanson to walk on all fours. 

The day Hanson spit in Earl’s face, he pulled his tongue out of his mouth with a pair of needle nose pliers and permanently mangled it with the hot blue flame of a butane torch. 

After healing, Hanson became extremely docile. So much, so that when Earl began tattooing his naked body, he didn’t even move.

Earl’s work was based on old photos of Remy. Slowly, he tattooed Hanson’s entire body with the same patterns as his deceased canine friend. It took more than a year, but eventually, the retired officer’s entire body was covered.

***

Today was the fifth anniversary of Retired Officer Hanson’s boating accident. Earl Jackson visited the boat ramp and watched his widow lay a memorial reef as she stood beside her new husband, who just happened to be the second officer on the scene the night Remy was murdered. 

Afterward, Earl headed down into the bunker. 

Hanson no longer tried to speak. Instead, every time Earl entered, he rolled over and showed him his naked tummy. Earl patted him then hooked a leash to his collar. The same one Remy wore.

The arena above was empty. And for the first time, Earl took Hanson, on all fours,  upstairs. 

He led him around on the soft dirt. As before with Remy, Earl Jackson would tell this mute companion his innermost thoughts and feelings with more assurance than one could a priest. 

As he did, Hanson reached out with his mind, knowing he should be able to recall something, but couldn’t. What emerged from that blankness was a singular desire, to be a good boy. 

Pudding Spooks: The Clown Dies at the End

Special Agent Kandy Fontaine shook her head with vehemence. “I just can’t believe it. I grew up with Dr. Huxtable. He’s an icon of my childhood. Showed us all that a…”

“That a black man could display middle class family values, yes. I don’t mean that in a racist way, of course. Maybe I came off a bit crudely, but yes. The Jello Puddin,’ the cigars. William Cosby, Doctor of Education. The sweaters.”

“Reading Rainbow. Fat Albert. And yes, the sweaters.

“Right? As a father figure, there was none better. You could trust him. Hey, if you couldn’t trust Dr. Huxtable, the world would be a scary, scary place. But as it turned out, the world of Bill Cosby is a scary, scary place indeed.”

Director Steve Gustaffson passed the file over the desk. Fontaine picked it up and thumbed through. It was weighty and packed with incriminating evidence, surveillance photos, black and white glossies marked with red Sharpie ink: a figure in a patchwork gown standing over the limp figure of a young actress, on the card table a glass of wine drained to a dregs composed of chalky white residue.

“Cosby was onto Rohypnol long before the rest of us. He even joked about it on a comedy album he made in the 60s. The ‘Spanish Fly’ routine.”

“You know, I didn’t put that together until just now. But now that I think about it, it’s chilling, actually.”

“It’s a matter of cognitive dissonance, I think.” Gustaffson cut the end off of a cigar and, twirling it, took a few quick puffs. “Now that’s a good cigar. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

“No, Sir.” Fontaine’s eyes began to water and she reached in her purse for a tissue. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I followed your point. About cognitive dissonance. Or Freudian embolism for that matter.” 

“It’s the inability to see danger in a familiar context. For example, an authority figure, such as Cosby, seems absolutely trustworthy. The brain has a hard time putting him together with serial rape and sexual abuse. A bit like clowns.”

“Ok, I see what you’re saying. Because we associate Cosby and people like him with values we hold dear, or hope we are perceived to hold dear.”

“Exactly.” Gustaffson snuffed out the cigar on his desk, cut it open with a six-inch, serrated blade and filled it with a composite of hash and cannabis, then sealed it up with another layer of tobacco leaf. “Care for a hit?”

“Oh, okay, I see what you’re doing.” Fontaine smirked. “Irony and all that. But seriously, Director, I want to nail this guy bad. If he’s really out there without any sort of constraint, drugging and banging girls under the mask of a lovable, wholesome Doctor of Education, he needs to be brought down. So what was all that about clowns?”

Fontaine opened the file and spread the documents on the Director’s desk. She looked up. “Clowns, Director?,” she repeated. 

“Let me explain. That file is just a drop in the bucket. We have an entire library of evidence on Cosby, going back to his early comedy career. We even found backward masking on his Jello Pudding spots.” 

The Director clicked on a sound file and Fontaine listened with astonishment as Cosby directed children to “worship the Prince of Light, the Lord of this World.”

“I thought that was just, you know, gibberish,” said Fontaine finally. “Clowning around.”

“Bingo,” said Gustaffson.

“Pardon?”

“Take a look at the documents in the manila envelope at the back of the file.”

“Oh?” Fontaine eased open the envelope and added the contents to the documents that now covered the Director’s desk. As soon as she registered what she was looking at, she dropped the envelope and scooted back her chair.

“There’s two of them,” said Fontaine in a hushed voice, as though speaking to herself.

“Bingo again. Clownsby and Cosby. They were separated at birth. Clownsby had a terrible time. He struggled to make a living while his identical twin brother soared into celebrity status. You see, Clownsby was hampered by two things. One, he is an angry obsessive with a borderline personality disorder, which led him into the world of clowning. Two, Tourette’s Syndrome. Shit cock motherfucker, that kind of thing.”

“I only caught a glimpse,” said Fontaine. “But some of those photographs are…really gruesome.”

“Taken at the scene of the crime, some of them by the man himself. The placement of the bodies in ritualistic fashion is a hallmark of the Clownsby style. Note the balloon animals stuffed down the victims’ throats—that was by design. He wants us to know who did this. He shows in every instance signs of both careful planning and, in the actual attack, blitzkrieg overkill. There must have been something that set him off—something the victim said or displayed. A trigger. We aren’t absolutely sure what that would be, but we have some ideas.”

Gustaffson clicked open another sound file. “This was obtained from surveillance. We dusted it off and filtered out the ambient noises.”

Fontaine scooted back to the desk and planted her elbows, listening intently.

First came the voice of a young woman: “Wow, Mr. Cosby, I want to thank you again for offering to help my career. I’ve only just begun. A few local commercials and that sort of thing, but I really, really want to break into the big time, you know?”

There was a muffled grunt.

“Mr. Cosby, where did you go?”

“I was just changing into something more comfortable, doncha know.”

“Wow, okay. A little informal, but…okay! That’s a nice dressing gown. Hey, you’ve got some really neat pictures here. Is that you and Bozo the Clown?”

“Why yes it is. I took that a few years before he died. Bozo and I were tight, ya know.”

“I didn’t realize you knew so many clowns.”

“M’kay, clowns and circuses make me feel happy, give me that good feeling in my tummy like a Jello puddin.’ Would you like some?”

“Jello pudding? Now? Well, I guess.”

“It’s wholesome and nutritious. Everybody loves the puddin.’”

“It’s so…creamy and…salty. Salty?”

“Yeah, that’s the extra special ingredients I add because flibberty woberty zappo!”

“Um, Mr. Cosby?”

“Yes, honey? Would you like some more, because it looks like you wolfed all that puddin’ down in a squiffy jiffy…hold on, I’m just goin’ to the kitchen to get some more of that special ingredient.”

“Mr. Cosby? I, uh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I feel kind of woozy.”

“Why don’t you just relax and maybe take off all your clothes, I’ll be there in a flashety wamputty.”

“Something’s wrong…I don’t think I heard you correctly. Take off what?”

“While I put this big ole puddin’ pop in your mouth so you can taste all the chocolatey goodness m’kay. Let me just shrug off these pants and I’ll be inside you nice and tight. You won’t remember anything because of the Spanish Fly, I control the vertical and horizontal doncha wish your girlfriend was hawt lak me. Heh heh.”

“How do you…shrug off..pants…please no…stop…so sleepy…” The woman’s voice trailed off.

There was silence, followed by loud thumping sounds. Then grunting, panting, escalated breathing and a bloodcurdling scream.

“Mr. Cosby! What are you doing?”

“You are supposed to be asleep, young lady. I assure you that nothing improper is going on, nor could it possibly be going on. I’m a Doctor of Education.”

“Please let me go! You’re hurting me!”

“Oh it’s nothin,’ just a little bit of fun and play with the puddin’ pops doncha know.”

“No! It is not okay. I should have known when I saw those pictures…the clowns. It’s all coming back now. I…I can’t stand clowns! I hate them, and I hate you! You’re not at all what you seem to be. You’re a monster!”

Gustaffson paused the sound file. “This part is crucial. We think it’s the trigger—where he crosses the line. Loses the plot.”

Fontaine nodded.

“Ok, you know what, you’re right. I am a clown. A fucking clown. A fucking clown who is going to fucking rape you. And there’s nothing you can do about it. Who’s going to believe you? What are they going to say when you come to them with some crazy-ass story about Bill Cosby being a rapist clown?”

Whimpers. Sobs.

“Please stop…please stop! I won’t tell a soul, I promise. It will be our secret. I swear.”

“Young ladies like yourself shouldn’t swear, m’kay. Nobody should fucking swear. If there’s one thing I can’t fucking tolerate, it’s swearing. Comedians who work blue. And clown haters. Oh, I am going to fucking rape you like a fucking rapist…”

Gustaffson stopped the audio. “It escalates from there. The body was dismembered and the pieces were placed in plastic garbage sacks, scattered around the city.”

“That’s horrible!”

“That’s Clownsby for you.”

“So what happened to Cosby?”

“He keeps Cosby in a drugged condition, moves him around. When you see him appear on TV, have you ever noticed that he seems a little out of it?”

“Yeah, I thought that was just age.”

“That, and animal tranquilizers. He’s on a short leash, and by this point his brain has pretty much turned to mush. But if we find him, we’ll find Clownsby. And put a stop to these killings, once and for all.”

“Where do I come in?”

“We have intelligence that Cosby is doing a one-off benefit show at a club in Hollywood. Big security, hand-picked audience, of course. It’s going to be tough getting past the muscle, but we know he’s a sucker for a breathless ingénue. That, of course, would be you.”

“Naturally,” said Fontaine, batting her eyes at the Director and crossing her legs high enough to show her lacy panties. “And when is this all going down? So to speak.”

Gustaffson cleared his throat, gathered the documents from the desk and placed them in his lap. “Next week.” 

***

“Well doncha know doncha know flibbetty jibbety Ernie Hemingway gimlet eyes how d’ya do I see you met my…faithful…”

“Why how d’ya diddly freakin’ do,” said Special Agent Kandy Fontaine, extending an eager ivory paw. “I’m a young, innocent, extremely hot n’ busty ingenue who is eager to make a good impression on you, the esteemed Dr. Clow- I mean Crosby Stills and Gnash Muh Heart to Ribbons…see, you’ve got me all flustered-like, and that usually means within a few minutes of getting me alone, say at your hotel, you could, say, roughy me and then rough sex me up…pleez, oh woncha, doncha know what a girl is lookin’ fer?” she squealed in a high-pitched voice equal parts Betty Boop and Kate Hepburn. 

“Well howja diddly doo-doo young McLady I could just eat right the fuck up,” said Clownsby. He summoned an assistant to his side. “Dithers, I want you to escort this fine young thang to muh hotel toodles de sweet and await further instructions. Set her up with one o’ muh special ‘cocktails’ if you know what I mean, emphasis on the ‘cock’ and the ‘tail.”

“Yes sir I’ll snap right to it sir you won’t need to repeat yourself pleez sir ah need this job to support muh family down in Monroe, Michigan what r’ bein’ surveilled by multiple federal agencies due to bein’ long-time peace activists and setch.”

Kandy felt a twinge in her stomach. Only just the previous week she and Director Gustaffson had been exchanging oral McSex favors while furiously batin’ to orange-y surveilance videos of Dithers Dabbsburton’s family. One in particular they quite enjoyed was a scene from the house of “Pickles” McFarlane, a beautiful Hispanic artist and poet who was said to have involvements with a publisher of seditious litratchure out in California. 

“Sounds great!” said Kandy. She was actually quite looking forward to it on several levels.

***

“Well now honey you’re probably feelin’ the woozy oozy cootchie flow down there doncha know Pickles N’ Smol Bear Show, ever see that one?” said Clownsby, lowering his body over Kandy’s. Kandy was playing possum. 

Kandy twitched from within the soft cocoon of her semi-drowse. 

“And now fer some Diddy Diddlin’ for reals, dogg,” said Clownsby. He wore a polka dotted blouse, loose, baggy pants, a forlorn bowler hat and floppy shoes, He unzipped, bringing forth a turgid sausage which he then attempted to force down her throat.

After three pumps Clownsby was about to erupt with some hot creamy jissom action all over Kandy’s delectable cherry blossom lips when she bit down hard, severing his penis in half, then smacked his shit up with a quickness.

“On the other timeline, you got away with drugging and raping many, many women, Clownsby. But this is NOT your lucky day. This is the bad new bears timeline for you.” 

Clownsby screamed in pain and anguish as the blood pumped from his stub. “You fucking bitch! You whore! Doncha know who I am? Puddin’ Spooks Director Bill Cosby, Ed D. Do you even know what that fucking means? I…”

He began to sag as Kandy cinched the handcuffs tight behind his back and yanked. Hard.

“What it means is that if you’re lucky you’ll bleed right the fuck out on this hotel carpet, but if you don’t, you’re going to federal prison with a missing cock, where they have a special appetite for sex offenders like yourself.”

The clown shuddered, flopped around the room a touch, as the blood continued to gush from his cock, then gave one final departing scream and expired.

“Damn, that was fucked up,” said Kandy. After the dopamine and adrenaline rush had worn out, she made a mental note to quit the FBI. Despite her generally loose sexual morals, she couldn’t abide cruelty and racism, and the look in Cosby’s assistant’s eyes was heartrending.

Kandy broke the fourth wall to address the reader:

“You may have noticed that ambiguity remains over the exact identity of the clown. Was it Cosby all along? In which case, was Clownsby always already an alter ego of Cosby, or the reverse? Well I guess you’ll have to ponder that some, if that’s what does it for you, or not, or just have a dab or five and extremely rough consensual sex with a buddy…or five. Well, me for some o’ that three hole punch action as I turn over a new cannabis leaf and join Bone CIty PD. See ya in the funny papes!!!”

THEES EES THEE ENT, MUH HONLY FRENT, THEE ENT

Meat the Messiah: s01e04 – Remembering the Dead

down at the la brea tar pits, joe camel is with his 16 year old daughter, jenny camel. he lights up a smoke and offers her one. 

jenny: i have my own.

she pulls out a pack of american spirits.

joe: i won’t tell your mother you’re not smoking our brand.

jenny: your brand, dad! i’m my own person!

joe: i don’t want to fight. i have something to tell you.

jenny (annoyed): what.

joe: i have cancer. it’s all over. doctors are at a loss to explain it. i should be in peak health.

jenny: are you going to die?

joe: yes.

jenny: good! i hope you fucking rot.

joe: how can you say that?

jenny: you were never there for me and mom. you were always out smoking and being cool. but you never had time to smoke with me.

joe: i don’t have much time left, but i want to make it right. will you let me do that?

jenny: no. fuck you.

a procession of war dead march down wilshire blvd.

jenny: what is it, dad?

joe: our fallen heroes… great americans who died in the line of service.

jenny: imperialist swine? 

joe: no. fuck you.

***commercial break***

tonight, on a very special friends, monica becomes a nazi. if that wasn’t enough, joey and phoebe join the falun gong. will friendship be enough to save the gang from cults? tonight at 8/7 central.

***

the procession of war dead moves through los angeles like a sobering annoyance, greatly lengthening commute times. jordan peterson and kanye west are on a man date to see a film about the holocaust. they are waiting in line for tickets outside.

peterson: i can’t wait to see all of the atrocities.

kanye: death to the jews!

peterson: i wish i was black so i could be as racist as you.

kanye: you could always wear shoe polish on your face and eat watermelon and fried chicken. then people would think you’re black and you can be racist too!

peterson: that’s not a bad idea!

the procession goes past. jorpan peeperson and yeezy stare at the the caskets draped with flags. peterson begins bawling his eyes out.

kanye: be cool man.

peterson: i’m just so moved by their sacrifice.

kanye: what do you care? you’re canadian.

peterson: everyone knows that american lives are the most important lives. and soldier lives are the third most important kind of american lives, behind white children and white women. these are just facts.

kanye: yeah i know. but you don’t have to cry like a bitch about it.

chunk: fag!

***commercial break***

the last woman on earth goes to the old supermarket. there are vultures and flies in the meat market. the produce section is reduced to mulch. there is grass growing in the canned foods aisle. all that’s left is canned anchovies and deviled ham. the woman considers her options and grabs the anchovies.

deviled ham: the last thing you eat.

***

the eyes of the surveillance state look away from the war dead. the street cameras don’t want a reminder of what freedom costs–their video feed going straight into the eye of washington. that glazed cornia has only itself to blame.

down rodeo drive, the sound of rage against the machine can be heard blasting from car speakers. hulk hogan and ronald mcdonald roll up in the cadillac, blocking the procession. ronald mcdonald, riding shotgun, pulls out his shotgun, and points it at the soldier pallbearers.

the cops watch this scene unconcerned. ronald mcdonald blasts one of the soldiers in the face. the cops do nothing.

hulk: why aren’t the cops doing anything?

ronald mcdonald: i have a license to kill anyone who’s not a millionaire.

hulk: that’s killer brother!

ronald mcdonald (to the troops): we need four caskets! 2 for us, and two for our beer!

the first 4 caskets oblige and empty 4 corpses onto the street, to bake in the california sun, leaving 5 bodies as the cadillac is towed away. they have a new ride now.

credits roll.

***

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles

Marty Shambles