The Great Turd of Babylon

It fell from the sky and landed in the center of town.

Everyone could tell it was shit. The smell alone made that clear.

It was too big too have fallen from the ass of man or bird or elephant. After investigation of the turd, prodding with sticks and much debate it was agreed it must have come from the gods – all or one of them that had recently eaten a big dinner.

Since the source was divine the turd needed to be protected. A wall was built around it. The wall evolved over years, through add-ons and public works projects, into a temple, the Great Shrine of the Turd. 

This was in the early years of the town, before it became a city.

The temple continued to grow, as did its fame and the number of pilgrims who came to take a whiff of heaven. A second story was added. Then a third. The temple towered above the date trees.

Centuries passed before the odor dissipated. Once the stink was gone, and the turd had broken down into a pile of mud, the population began to forget why the temple had been built and to what purpose. New legends grew and became myths woven into local religion and culture.

Pilgrims still visited out of habit. It was something you did. Mom had done it and grandpa and grandma and generations of sandalled and barefoot ancestors before them. It was tradition after all. 

Besides the garden was nice. It grew at the center of the temple where the ceiling was open to the sky. All kind of flowers and fruit trees blossomed there. The priests had to water the plants every day, it was a hot climate after all, but they never had to add fertilizer. That was the miracle of the thing. The big draw. That undying garden in the desert, inside the ancient temple, hidden away in the old section of town, between the goat market and the used camel lot.

The entry fee was reasonable. Offerings of any size were also welcome, whether feathered or scaled or covered with fur.

For a small piece of copper or a chicken egg local artists will, with charcoal on a piece of broken pottery, draw a picture for a pious visitor. A keep sake. The pilgrim, with a big smile, and the garden behind. Something to put on the mantelpiece when they get back to the village. Something to show the grandkids and great grandkids. 

The temple is a must see when you visit the city. It says so on all the guide stelae. Good for the economy too. Check out the food stalls in the area while you are there. You can taste local delicacies straight off the hoof with lentils on the side for a reasonable price. There are discounts if you get you hand stamped at the temple.

On rare days when a priest or acolyte leave the temple their bodies are covered in sheep skins. When asked why, they can’t give a full answer. The reasons are lost in the past, wrapped up now in the current mysteries, which don’t make a lot of sense when you think about them. The best response you will get from a priest is along the lines of ‘in case something falls from the sky.” Makes sense really if you know the whole story. Who wants to get shit on them? Even if it is holy.

Children of the Porn

The stage behind her was set with fluffy pink bedding, string lighting, and a combination of glass and rubber penises molded from both human and mythological creatures, large (some really large) and small, the small ones not getting much action lately. No one wanted to see realistic, normal-sized cocks anymore. Bigger was better for business. She snorted in the resin-heavy line of coke that some guy had given her the other night—guys were always throwing drugs at her—and then yelled at her roommate Ashley who was as basic and forgettable as they come to turn down that awful country music and proceeded with her Only Fans “teaser” video. Her skills had become almost Spielbergian, always the perfect angle and perfect lighting to accentuate every contour of her youthful and perfect self. 

“I’ll see you—” She puckered up her plump lips, swollen and sore from multiple injections, and blew a kiss to the camera. “—later.”  She stepped back and flipped around, her ass sculpted from a million hip-thrusts bouncing perfectly before hitting End, leaving her thirty-thousand and growing fans wanting more, always more.

Ashlea with an A—not with a Y like her loser roommate—started with the basic posts: tight skirt pics, bikini pics, ass pics from the gym mirror, and then moved onto slightly more provocative pics involving panties or lack thereof, the natural progression for the hot girls of Instagram. She always had an attention-grabbing ass that made men of all ages want her and women hate her, so the @Asslea handle was only fitting. Her Insta-fame grew, and she quickly became an influencer, aka: ass model, for the most popular and hot brands of fitness wear and spandex that leave nothing to the imagination, every crevice, every line, every lasered-smooth underlying surface exposed. You would see her anus through the stretched-thin material, but it was bleached. No one likes a brown asshole. That is so 2020. 

Ninety-nine percent of her followers weren’t exactly the ideal customer base for LUX Leggings or Roar Underwear; they’d only buy the products if she could prove she had worn them evidenced by her sweat, maybe some piss, or vaginal discharge, something they could smell or lick while they jack off. But that didn’t matter. “Likes” and comments were gold—scratch that—platinum, and Ashlea’s sparkle could be seen from outer space. 

Ashlea pulled her heels on, checked for “likes,” took a bump, scrolled through the incoming comments, took another bump and swallowed a couple prescription pills she borrowed from her roommate. She wasn’t sure what they were, but something was better than nothing. She summoned an Uber, and texted Becca back an “On my way bitch” with a crazy-faced emoji that symbolized just how wild and super busy her faux-celebrity life was.

The Uber arrived, and she climbed in the car that smelled like some weird incense or flavored vape. She watched the “likes” climb and scrolled through the growing comments from her followers complimenting her ass, the words—perfect, snack, delicious—dominating the page. She had once turned the comments off after getting annoyed by “all these men” trying to hit on her which she made very apparent by lashing out on all her social media platforms in a sort of I-hate-being-so-beautiful-and-desired campaign of posts. She followed that up with her I-don’t-spend-hours-a-week-doing-squats-and-hipthrusts-for-you-creeps campaign. After about a week, and a net loss of around a thousand followers and a heaping of self-worth, she turned the comments back on. Then she started an Only Fans page, tips welcomed and encouraged, Cash App preferred.

The Uber stopped. “Um, ma’am,” the driver said, looking back at Ashlea who was buried in her phone. “Ma’am,” he said a second time, more assertively.

Ashlea’s display went dark. 

“We’re here,” he said.

Ashlea swallowed down more resin from that coke she got from that guy, and what was his name, again? John or Jacob, something J? She looked out, seeing that she wasn’t at all where she needed to be. She looked at the driver through the rearview, noticing him for the first time. “Um—” She sucked the back of her teeth. “No . . . We aren’t.”

“They have the road blocked off. This is as far as we can go.”

This Uber guy was annoyingly overweight and breathing heavily. Ashlea sighed loudly, rolled her eyes, and got out of the car, shutting the door, putting a barrier between perfection and the miserable lump of grossness in the driver seat. She headed in the direction of The Strip, the newest and most prestigious club in a city full of new and prestigious clubs, her iPhone display spotlighting her goddess-like facial features and artificially voluptuous lips. Honks and whistles flew at her, but went unnoticed, only irrelevant background noise as she walked and scrolled, walked and scrolled.

In the past hour, she had gained thirty-three more followers and had received more comments than she could keep up with. Nothing could stop her, especially when she bounced her ass in slow-motion. Could you blame them? She thought. I’d fuck me. 

“Excuse me.”

Ashlea looked up to a policeman who was inches from her face. She could smell his after shave. There were several other cops and whoever these other uniformed people running around were, red and blue lights lighting up the sky.

“This is a crime scene,” the officer said.

“Goddamn it,” Ashlea rolled her eyes. “Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“Look, you don’t understand. I’ve got to get over there,” Ashlea said, pointing through the police and ambulance and yellow tape.

“Sorry. Can’t let you through. There’s been another homicide.”

Ashlea shook her head and looked off, noticing a bloody sheet covering a body on a stretcher. Where the head should’ve been was a lumpy pile of mashed potatoes loaded with shattered skull and pulsated brains and mucous. 

She snorted in frustration. “Look. I don’t care about a fucking homma—whatever you called it. People are expecting me.”

The officer who was in his forties—probably one of her paying fans, Ashlea thought—smiled, obviously about to let the hottest thing on the street go wherever she needed to go. 

“Ma’am,” he said. “You’re going to have to go around.”

She looked back at the cause of this total bullshit and shook her head at the bloody body that lay under the once-white sheet. Selfish fucker.

“Ughh,” she said, giving this officer who could only dream of slipping his middle-aged, sour dick into something as perfect and young as her a look of total death. 

A car full of hot college guys pulled up. “Hey, babe,” the one from the passenger seat with fluffy hair and stunning blue eyes said. “Where you going?”

Ashlea turned back to the officer and smirked before saying, “You had your chance.” She walked toward the car full of strange boys and flexed her ass with each step, giving the officer something to regret the rest of his life.

The officer just shook his head. “Psycho bitch.”

Ashlea climbed into the back of the black BMW, sandwiched between two okay-looking guys. The guy she wanted with the great hair and piercing light blue eyes was in the front. 

The driver looked back through the rearview. “Where we going?”

“Where do you think?” Ashlea said, the only choice for a hot girl like her was obvious. When they didn’t answer, she said, “The Strip . . . obviously. I couldn’t get through because of all that bullshit. I mean . . . who gets murdered on a Saturday night in the middle of downtown?” 

The guys laughed. 

“Yeah,” said the hot guy from the passenger seat. “The nerve. So . . . what’s your story?”

“What’s my story?”

“Yeah,” he said. “What do you do?”

“I’m an influencer.”

He nodded and smirked. “Aren’t we all?”

Ashlea didn’t know how to respond, like the air was just sucked from her lungs. Her cheeks warmed and that damned resin hit her throat again, and what the fuck kind of bunk coke was that? The car seemed to shrink some; all of a sudden there wasn’t enough leg room.“Um, no.” She composed herself. “Not everyone is an influencer,” she said, unconvincingly.

“No, no. It’s cool. Influencing is cool.” He turned back toward her. “If you’ve got an ass . . .” He was about to say something else but shifted gears. “I do a little influencing of my own.”

“Really.” Ashlea wondered what brands he worked with but then felt the urge for another bump, and not of that shit she had on her. “Do y’all have any coke?” She suddenly got upset with herself for getting into their car without this knowledge. Let’s hope to fuck they do.

The guys all smiled, seemingly pleased by her question.

“Well,” the guy next to her said as he fished a baggie of white powder from his pocket and held it up, displaying it to everyone. “Since you asked.”

They parked and took turns snorting the powder that was much, much better than that trash she got from whoever that loser was the other night, before walking up to The Strip where the muscular, bearded door guy quickly waved Ashlea and her new friends in, avoiding the line of about fifteen not-thems. 

Ashlea’s friend Becca came up, tall and lean, long dark hair, jeans practically painted on her fit ass, sexy as fuck. 

“Heyyy,” Becca said.

“Heyyy,” Ashlea said.

Ashlea noticed the boys salivating over her friend, practically fucking her with their eyes, so to steal some of the attention back, she grabbed Becca’s ass, pulled her close, and started dancing to whatever song was playing. Becca didn’t deserve a solo performance. Ashlea wouldn’t allow it.

Becca was also an influencer and had an Only Fans account but not nearly as many subscribers as Ashlea, which she attributed mainly to not caring about it or posting enough to grow her following, and just not feeling the need for all that attention. But Ashlea knew that was total bullshit and that Becca had a great ass but not an ass worthy of stardom like her own. Becca may be able to pull off ten thousand followers, she thought, but not thirty thousand. No way.

The guys, mainly the driver of the BMW who was named Frank, bought several rounds of drinks. They went down and more followed, mixed in with quick bumps of coke. Ashlea was hot but feeling good from the combination of uppers, downers, whatever those prescription pills are her roommate left out. The booming bass from the music sent vibrating pulses of warmth through her body. More drinks came. The guys’ eyes were eager and excited as they watched these two beautiful young women dance, check their phones, type responses, tongue each other, and speak loudly about how sexual they were and how all men wanted to fuck them. Sex is power when you’re young and fucking flawless. The guys did not argue this.

Becca kept forcing herself on the hot guy with the piercing eyes who was called Brandon—hot name for a hot guy—so Ashlea moved in and reclaimed her territory by grabbing his crotch. He’ll do, she thought. She brought his mouth to hers. The tip of her tongue gently danced with his, which felt electric, before she pulled back and said, “Don’t go anywhere.” She smiled her infamous pageant-winning smile and walked toward the restroom, the floor like an ocean, the music pounding deep into her. A guy nudged her shoulder hard.

“Hey, asshole,” she said. “Watch it.” 

He kept walking, obviously too intimidated by her to turn and look or apologize.

She made it into the restroom, and there were about twenty other women crowded in there. Fuck. She pulled out her phone and noticed the “likes” and comments from her teaser post beginning to fade. A stall opened and she rushed in, cutting off the others who had been waiting.

“Hey, bitch. We were waiting.”

“I’ll only be a second. Rude.” Ashlea pulled her panties down below her skirt and sat down letting the stream of warm urine pour from her. She positioned her camera just right, capturing her black Roar panties around her ankles and the awesome heels—Chamandi brand—and her Gucci bag, around two-thousand dollars in all sent to her for free to model. She went through the filters and uploaded the pic with the caption: Don’t my Roar panties and Gucci bag look good with my Chamandi heels? Make sure to tune in tonight if you want to see more. Hashtag. Hashtag. Hashtag.

She came out expecting angry eyes, but no one noticed. As she walked out of the overcrowded restroom full of what she thought of as sixes and sevens, none of them in the same league as her, she felt a dribble of pee between her legs and realized she didn’t wipe. Fuck it. 

The coke had her wired up, her heart racing like the Kentucky Derby, banging against her chest cavity, trying to escape. The too many shots of booze and her lame roommate’s crazy pills had the walls and everyone inside of them swaying back and forth. She focused as best she could through the churning crowd to the bar, looking for Brandon’s piercing eyes looking back at her, but he was nowhere. Neither was Becca, that fucking bitch. She pushed her way back to her spot at the bar where only VIPs are supposed to hang and wondered who the fuck these other losers were crowding her. She flagged down the bartender. Over the music and crowd, she said, “Did my friends leave?”

The bartender looked at her incredulously. “Who?”

“Becca . . . and the guys I was with.”

He shook his head in quick short back-and-forth movements as he toweled a glass clean. “I’m not sure. Sorry.” He walked off.

It was then Ashlea realized she was holding a drink she didn’t remember ordering, the condensation like ice on her hands. 

The floor began moving more beneath her in waves, and this retched song that was so last year drilled into both sides of her temples as everything started closing in around her, constricting. She leaned on the sticky bar and tried flagging down the bartender who saw her and quickly turned away, mouthing something to the manager. They both glanced over and then eyed each other with some weird look, and what the fuck was going on? Struggling to catch her breath—the air thin and depleted—she left her drink and swam through the blurry crowd of people that melded together like dancing water colors, all eyes on her. She walked out, the muggy, warm night air hitting her. She looked around, unable to focus. The towering buildings and continuous stream of people coming and going was overwhelming. Breathe, Ashlea. Breathe. She finally spotted an Uber parked along the curb. She stumbled over on heavy, weak legs and climbed in.

“Where to?”

***

Ashlea woke to the pounding on her door—bang, bang, bang. 

“Ashlea,” her roommate said. “Your mom has been calling non-stop.”

Ashlea rolled over and squinted her eyes, focusing through the blinding sun that must’ve been absorbing the Earth or at least her room, her head throbbing. The pink walls and fluffy blankets looked no sexier than Pepto Bismol in this lighting which made her want to vomit. It took her eyes a moment to focus enough to read the clock. 2:45 p.m.? Holy fuck.

“Ashlea, call your mom.”

“Yes, yes. I hear you.” She reached for her phone, tensing up from the raw, sore feeling coming from her ass. There was a beer bottle sitting on the nightstand she was afraid to touch. She wasn’t sure what her fans asked for last night—she couldn’t remember anything; it was all a blur—but she had her suspicions. You’ve got to stay creative to stay relevant in this world and to give your fans what they want. Requests are welcomed. Pain sells.

On her phone were several missed calls and texts from her mother.

Mom: Are you ok?

Mom: Where are you?

Mom: Text me back! I’m worried about you!

Mom: Ashley, call me

Ashlea snickered a little at the misspelling of her name—even her mom couldn’t spell it right—and really didn’t feel like dealing with her mom trying to be all parental and concerned and stuff. She hated it when she got that way. It was very unbecoming.

Ashlea deleted the texts and went into her Only Fans account, expecting at least one hundred new followers and a blossoming pay day on her Cash App. She looked at the number of followers that . . . had gone down by eight? What the fuck?

She ran through what she could remember of last night, the hot guy Brandon, and got more upset thinking about that bitch Becca kidnapping him. She’s such a slut. But it wasn’t surprising. The Becca’s of the world were like skinny vultures, ready to tear into the scraps left by much hotter women at any chance they got, doing anything to get noticed by men. Pathetic.

Ashlea took a bubble bath and got ready, applying her MAC makeup and concealer, trying to hide the dark circles that were a byproduct of last night and the many nights before. Even not at her best, she was still hotter than ninety-nine percent of the women in this city, still a ten.

She turned on the lighting and equipment and spread her skirt, showing her new pair of Coco thong panties, promising her loyal fans a real treat later. If they wanted more, which they always did, she’d give them more.

“Aren’t these Coco thong—” she said the word “thong” as slowly and sexy as possible. “—panties to die for? Stay tuned, tonight. You won’t want to miss the show.” She blew a kiss through her unnaturally full lips and hit End. She hadn’t put much thought into what she was going to do, never did. Her fans usually led the way with a dangling carrot of potential tips, the largest players having the most influence.

She swallowed down the two pills her roommate must’ve accidentally left out on the counter—thanks, bitch—with a swig of Grey Goose and Ubered to Rock and Roll, the best and most expensive sushi bar in town, snorting the rest of the trash coke she had gotten from whoever that guy was, she couldn’t remember.

She walked in. Everyone turned, their eyes glued to her as she scrolled through the “likes” and comments from her teaser post. 

“Can you fit a one-liter up there?” one of her sicko followers posted. Creep.

She scrolled and stopped.

“I want to see you bleed.”

She shook her head and sighed, turning the display off, and there he was: Brandon. Looking hot as ever, his hair a messy masterpiece, his eyes more crystal than the night before. He pretended to not notice her walk in—the too cool act—which was kind of cute in a boyish way. She walked up next to him and leaned on the bar, her hotness commanding attention. When he didn’t say Hi, Ashlea made the first move.

“Brandon.”

“Uh, yeah.” He turned to her with a confused look on his face. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

Ashlea snorted a small laugh. “Um, yeah.” She looked into those fantastic eyes of his, smiled, refreshing his memory, but his face didn’t change. “Ashlea, silly.”

He smacked and twisted his mouth in thought. “I’m sorry. Drawing blanks.”

She hated to do this, like REALLY FUCKING HATED it. “Becca’s friend.”

His confusion turned to a half grin. “Oh . . . Becca’s friend. Sure. Everyone knows Becca.”

Ashlea wasn’t sure what game he was playing, but his cuteness was wearing off. The bartender brought him his tab which he signed to close out. Staring down at his ticket, he said, “Your friend is quite the screamer.” The bartender came back up and he and Brandon laughed about something as they did that cool fist bump thing that guys did. He faced Ashlea, smiled, and walked from the bar. 

Ashlea felt her heart racing, and it got hard to breathe, and what the fuck is going on? She turned on her phone—her crutch—and noticed several outgoing messages to Becca she didn’t remember sending and that Becca hadn’t texted her back. She gasped for air that was thinning by the second and felt dizzy, the restaurant and everyone inside it beginning to spin around her. She raced toward the restroom and splashed cold water on her face. Staring into the mirror and gripping onto either side of the porcelain sink, thinking about Brandon giving her the cold shoulder and Becca not responding and losing eight fucking followers despite shoving a fucking beer bottle up her asshole, her frustration growing and growing until it came out in a screeching, guttural yell that lasted for several seconds. Her phone beeped.

Mom: Ashley, call me. I’m worried about you.

Another beep.

Mom: Do I need to come up there?

Another beep.

Mom: Please tell me you’re taking your medication!

Medication? Um, yeah mom. If coke was prescribed, sure. Has everyone gone fucking crazy?

The door swung open.

“Is everything alright?” some guy asked.

Ashlea caught her breath and tried to compose herself as the guy said something to her.

“What?” Ashlea said.

“You need to leave,” he said.

Ashlea gave this loser server guy the stare of death and walked briskly past him. Her legs felt heavy on the ocean floor as she walked toward the exit. She felt everyone’s stares. She tried her hardest not to look, but the smiles on these people were wider than their faces, everyone of them like demonic clowns at a circus. A laughter grew around her, amplified and more hollow than anything human. She couldn’t breathe and . . . everything went white, all sounds muffled into one static hum.

***

Ashlea woke up in the back seat of some car, the driver pushing on her.

“Lady, we’re here.”

She looked out at the night surrounding her apartment building and wondered how she got there. Her head was throbbing.

“Twelve dollars,” the driver said.

“Oh,” she said, a déjà vu suddenly washing over her. This driver—this car—she’s seen both before. She pulled out her wallet from her Gucci bag and her Amex from her wallet, handed it to the driver.

“Ashley,” he said, reading from the card.

“With an A at the end,” Ashlea said.

“What?” the driver asked. “Looks like a Y to me.” He handed the card back to her.

Ashlea looked the card over and of course, they misspelled her name. Is Ashlea with an A really that fucking hard to spell?

“Thank you,” the all-too familiar driver said.

Ashlea pulled on the handle, but the door was locked.

“Um, the door’s locked?”

The driver just stared at her flatly for a moment, before unlocking the door and saying, “Sorry.”

Ashlea opened the door and got out, her mind already moved on from the déjà vu and eyes already deep in her phone. The driver rolled down the passenger side window, leaned over, and said, “Don’t forget to lock your door. There’s some sicko around, butchering people. They found two more bodies tonight.”

Ashlea’s eyes didn’t move from her phone, like she didn’t hear him at all.

“He likes to see young women bleed,” he said. 

Still no response.

“I want to see you bleed.”

“I’m sorry,” Ashlea said, totally uninterested. “Two more what?” Her eyes didn’t leave the bright phone display.

The driver just shook his head and rolled up the window, pulling the black BMW from the curb and driving away.

Ashlea suddenly realized who the driver was. It was Frank, Brandon’s friend, from the other night. Did he not recognize me? she wondered. Surely he had to have, right? I’m not one to go unnoticed, especially in this skirt. There’s no way. What the fuck is happening, right now? She felt her chest and face warming and her heart beating faster. Looking up at the stairs that led to her apartment, it seemed like they went on forever. She trudged her way up, one heavy step at a time, and tried steadying her shaky hand enough to insert the key and unlock her front door. After several missed attempts, the key finally found its target, and the knob turned. The door opened and a foul odor punched her in the face.

“Ew . . . what the fuck?” She walked in, fanning her nose, and turned on the lights seeing her apartment that looked like one of those fucking homeless encampments, with bottles, garbage, and clothes strewn about. “Ashley!” 

There was no answer as it appeared her boring and apparently gross roommate was out. Yuck. She walked into her room and closed the door on that awful smell, lighting up her phone and reading through the comments, stopping at one.

“I want to see you bleed.” 

She took in a deep breath, slid her skirt down to her ankles and stepped out, cranked the lighting and equipment, positioned her fluffy pink blanket just right, and got ready to entertain. She started with standard dildo penetration, but the tips weren’t coming in.

She typed: Well, what do y’all want to see? Biggest bidder wins.

The responses began rolling in. I want to see you bleed. I want to see you bleed. I want to see you bleed. I want to see you bleed.

They kept coming, a relentless assault.

You’ve got to stay creative to stay relevant in this world and to give your fans what they wanted. Pain sells.

She typed: Hold tight. I’ll be right back. 

She walked from her room and returned a few moments later, sitting back in the golden position for her fans where every pore of her flawless self was illuminated perfectly by the lighting. She looked into the camera and held up the large knife for her fans to see, turning it this way and that way. The tips started coming in. She placed the knife at her throat and smiled that mischievous, cute, sexy smile that only she could pull off. More tips poured in. She winked and slid the sharp edge across her throat, a clean slice that stung like fire and then ice, before a flood of warmth poured over her chest. As her throat filled with venomous cotton, she saw her dull, basic roommate through the reflection on the screen as she watched the relentless tips and comments rolling in. She smiled until her eyes went hazy and everything went dark. 

Supreme Delight

“This is delicious!” Markos exclaimed, finishing swallowing his bite and smiling.

Through the cameras, Irina, the supervisor of the scientific study, closely monitored him from the next room, recording each of his reactions and comments on a sheet of paper.

Markos Panteli, the twelfth volunteer of the day, moved his arms and hands in the air, performing maneuvers and gestures that reflected his simulated activity, leaning gently on his swivel chair, wearing his virtual reality headset. For Markos, everything he was experiencing was as real as the bunion on his left big toe, which had been bothering him for six months.

“I’m glad you like the shrimp cocktail,” Irina told him through her microphone. “Why don’t you try the asparagus tart? Everyone agrees it’s a delicacy.”

“I don’t like asparagus. But if you say so, precious, I’ll give you a chance,” Markos said, dipping his spoon into the tart and popping a piece into his mouth.

He savored it for a moment and swallowed it, along with a sip of white wine.

“Not bad! I’m going to have to reconsider my opinion on asparagus.”

“I’ll ask you to moderate your alcohol consumption, Markos. We don’t want you to end up getting drunk.”

“But it’s virtual alcohol!”

“But your brain doesn’t know. The effect is very similar to that of real alcohol. Produces the same euphoria and disinhibition as physical wine.”

“Okay. I will keep that in mind in the future.”

Markos gulped down what was left of his glass. Without hesitation, he filled it again. Irina winced, looking at him on her monitor.

On the wall opposite Markos a huge virtual screen was being projected, from end to end, with a pleasant scene of a calm sea ebbing foamy waves on a tropical beach, with lush palm trees and a sun looming on the horizon. The sound of the waves gently lapping was relaxing.

“Won’t you select some music, Markos? You can choose from more than a million musical themes. Stretch your right hand and select the genre you prefer: classical, techno, blues, tango, jazz, rock, pop . . .”

“Carmina Burana. I would like to listen to Carmina Burana while I continue eating.”

Immediately, Carl Orff’s vibrant cantata began to play, with his powerful O Fortuna, adding to the sound of the ocean waves. Markos began to wave his hands as if conducting an orchestra with two batons. Irina noticed that his brain waves associated with pleasure were amplifying and achieving noticeable peaks.

The haptic effectors that lined the chair stimulated his entire body with vibrations in accordance with the moments of greatest intensity of the cantata, making the virtual experience superlatively irresistible.

Markos virtually got up from his seat and walked around the banquet table, serving himself delicacies on a large plate: mustard roast beef, mushroom cheese omelet, turkey stuffed with spinach and caramelized cherries, salmon with blue cheese, Beluga caviar. Then he returned to his place, which he had never really left, and began to eat with relish.

“There is no rush, Markos. We will not remove any food from the table. You have all the time you want for the test.”

Markos ignored the comment and continued to eat at full speed, interspersing bits of bread and sips of wine between bites. Irina kept recording everything down to the smallest detail.

After an hour of feasting, Markos leaned back in his chair, patted his belly, and smiled.

“I know I didn’t really swallow anything and my stomach is still as empty as when I walked in here, but my brain has never been so delighted. Well said, delighted? With delight.”

“Yes. That is the precise word: delight.”

Markos looked up and down the banquet hall and did not find what he was looking for.

“Can’t one smoke here?”

“Whatever you want. Brown or blonde tobacco, Cuban cigars?”

“I’d smoke a joint of marijuana. It relaxes me, especially after eating.”

Then a very beautiful girl appeared, dressed in suggestive clothes, with a small silver tray on which she carried some marijuana cigarettes and a solid gold lighter.

“Wow! This is great service! The idea of the Playboy model girl is great! Again, what was your name?”

“Irina. My name is Irina Sotnikova. I told you when you walked into the room.”

“Well done, Irina.”

“No, it was not my idea. Your brain inserts its wishes along with those offered by the program. The waitress would be your ideal girl, at least to serve you after the banquet.”

The beautiful girl smiled and pouted sensually.

“She can do whatever I want?”

“Anything you want. I am not going to blush. I’ve seen it all in this job.”

Markos took a marijuana cigarette and lit it. He took a few puffs, with pleasure, and looked at the girl, who was looking at him expectantly.

“Do you want one too?”

He lit another joint and handed it to the girl, who laid the tray on the table, leaned one leg on it, and began to smoke with obvious pleasure.

After a few minutes in which they both enjoyed the cannabis session, Markos put down his cigarette and motioned for the girl to come over to him.

“What’s your name, pretty?”

“Whatever you want to call me. I’m all yours.”

Markos thought of the name Greta. He had always wanted a girlfriend named Greta.

“Greta. I want you to be Greta.”

She pulled her bodice over her shoulders, smiled provocatively, and threw herself at him with determination. Markos felt the warmth of her lips, of her firm tongue, of her saliva, mixed with his, which still had traces of shrimp, asparagus, wine and cannabis.

Before he could even think about it, Greta unzipped his pants and extracted his hot and stiff cock, immediately shoving it into her mouth and starting to suck it. Markos began to moan and then to scream with pleasure.

Suddenly, Greta produced a stiletto from under her clothes and showed it to Markos, brandishing it mischievously.

“I know you like a little dose of masochism, my dear boy.”

“Now I don’t want to play those games, precious. Once . . .”

“Everything ended badly, once. I can rummage through your memory, my love. But this time, you are going to enjoy it like never before.”

Then, she began to perform small stabs around Markos genitalia, producing tiny bleeding wounds. She bent down and began to lick the blood that was slowly oozing out.

“Stop it! It’s no longer a pleasant thing!”

“Stop it, Greta, stop it! I order you to stop!” Irina exclaimed through the microphone.

Greta looked at the camera and smirked. He continued with his sado ritual.

Irina jumped from her post, opened the door that connected the two rooms and threw herself on the seat where Markos was writhing in pain. She could not see Greta because she was not connected to the simulation. When she was manually disconnecting Markos from the system, Irina felt a twinge of pain in her back. Horrified, she noticed the expression of pleasure on Markos’s face, as he finished plunging the knife he had hidden during the test into her back.

“My dear Irina, this time everything went well. The previous time, my victim got away at the last minute. Greta could not hold her. Now, between the two of us, we caught you. This, my darling, is the supreme delight.”

Irina Sotnikova collapsed lifelessly on the body of Markos Panteli, who could not stop laughing like crazy.

Rat’s Ass

A white van pulled up to the gate of the Curran-Fromhold Correction Facility, the pink and pastel hell on Street Road in Northeast Philadelphia. On the side of the van was the city’s seal and the words “Sheriff’s Office.”

“What do we got today?” asked the guard at the gate.

“Holdovers for trial,” said the Sheriff’s deputy at the wheel while two other deputies looked on, one from the front, and one further back in the van.  The cargo was a mishmash of society not yet in orange jump suits, making their arrival from Police Department cells where arrests were stored temporarily. The prisoners were dressed in various combinations of civilian wear ranging from blue jeans and t-shirts to pajamas and a vomit covered business suit.  All were cuffed at wrists and ankles and chained to their seats. Locked wire mesh cages further kept them from taking a walk.

The manifest and other paperwork was reviewed by the guard and handed back. He nodded to another guard in a white hut. The guard in the hut pushed a button, noting for the record on a computer the date and time the gate was opened. The van drove inside the network of ten foot high cyclone fences topped with concertina wire. The van stopped again at another gate complete with guards. The process was repeated. From there van headed to the designated unloading zone. 

Other prison guards met the van. The Sheriff’s deputies and the guard in charge went over the manifest. The prisoners seat-cages were unlocked as were the chains to the seats. The wrist and ankle cuffs stayed on the prisoners as they were marched out of the van and into the courtyard. A deputy and a guard both did body counts. Signatures were placed on the appropriate forms. The van left with its deputies. The prison guards marched their new guests inside a building for processing.

Rules were read off. Photos and fingerprints were taken. Prisoners were led to private areas for strip searches and body cavity checks.  All went relatively smoothly until the processing line reached a thin disheveled man in his late twenties.  Processing slowed. Latex gloves and surgical masks were procedure. Even with gloves and masks, the guards were reluctant to touch this fellow, but they did their jobs.

The man was ordered to undress but seemed to have difficulty accomplishing the task. He seemed only capable of wobbling on his feet, as if he was dancing to a tune only he could hear.  Guards assisted with rough speed. Lice and fleas jumped off the prisoner’s body and clothing. His clothes reeked of urine and worse, but were put in a resealable plastic bag for recording and storage.

“Where did they find him?” a guard asked.

“Kensington Avenue, near Allegheny.”

Nothing more needed to be said. Kensington and Allegheny, better known as K and A, was the heroin capital of the east coast, the first big stop off of I-95 after coming ashore in Florida. Once a rough and tumble home to factories and warehouses, known for producing hit men and burglars, Kensington had degenerated further.  The factories and warehouses had closed decades ago. Poverty and gangs were rampant. The area was known around the world from YouTube videos of homeless addicts living on the streets under the Frankford Elevated, sleeping on sidewalks, in doorways, vacant lots, abandoned churches, and “Needle Park”, a grassy area in from of the local branch of the public library.

The prisoner’s arms, legs, even his neck was scarred from needles. Visions of heroin laced with Fentanyl and Xylazine ran through the minds of the guards.

“What was he picked up for?”

“Alleged robbery, resisting arrest and assault on a police officer.”

“Great. Help me spread his legs.”

A greased and gloved finger was poked into the man’s anus to search for contraband. Corrections Officer William Curry, the guard with this choice duty wiggled his finger around inside the prisoner. Drugs, cellphones, weapons got smuggled into prison in the back trunk. All was going smoothly except for the grunts from the prisoner and the finger duty guard’s desire to wretch. 

“Shit,” Curry shouted, pulling out his hand. He wasn’t referring to the residue smeared on the prisoner’s ass or on the latex glove.  “Something bit me.”

“A bug?”

“Bigger than that.”

Curry looked at his finger. The latex was punctured and blood was seeping out.

“That looks like an animal bite.”

“I’m filing an injury on duty report. I need to see a doc right away. God knows what I could get from this guy.”

Reports were filed. A sergeant and a lieutenant came by to take note of the injury and the prisoner’s ass. The prisoner stood naked all the while, legs spread, facing the wall, gently bouncing up and down.  A captain and deputy warden were consulted. A plan of action was determined. The prisoner was dragged to a shower and hosed down. Afterwards he was rushed to the medical section.

The prisoner was manacled face down on a gurney by a pair of guards, with his legs spread. The guards stood watch while a contracted doctor used a tongue depressor and a penlight to study the man’s asshole.  Any incredulity the doctor had about the initial report faded when he saw two small eyes looking back at him along with whiskers, nose and teeth.

“He’s got a rat in his ass,” Dr. Braddle said, not quite believing it himself,

“How is that possible?” asked Lynette Marsh, one of the guards.

“I don’t know,” said Dr. Braddle. “I’ve heard of cockroaches climbing into people’s ears, and other body openings. Usually happens when folks are sleeping. We use tweezers and a solution rinse to get them out. I’ve never heard of anything like that with rats before. Where was this guy found?”

“Kensington. On the street I believe,” said Marsh

Dr. Braddle looked at the prisoner’s arms and then his legs, feet and neck.

“Plenty of needle marks. I’m guessing he’s a homeless junkie.” 

“I think he is,” said Marsh.

“I hear there’s maybe four or five hundred homeless junkies in that neighborhood sleeping all over the place. They set up tent cities. The police move them and they just pop up again a few blocks away.”

“That sounds right,”  said the other guard, named, Stephen Cienkowski.  “They’re out of it half the time, brain damaged from horse tranquilizer.  It’s a real mess in Kensington. I grew up in Port Richmond, right next to it. Some say Port Richmond is part of Kensington, but that ain’t so. We used to get the overflow and still do. It was always a rough area, but it was nowhere as bad as it is today. Addicts, robberies, gang killings. There used to be a lot of churches on the avenue. “’I’d say one out of every five is abandoned now.”

“This is just a hypothesis,” said Dr. Braddle. “But I’m guessing our prisoner may have been sleeping, or nodding, in an alley or vacant lot. A rat crawled in his pants, or maybe he didn’t have his pants on at the time and rat climbed right in. Our prisoner didn’t notice the rat had made his ass into a hidey-hole. He still may not be aware of it. He seems out of it.”

“How will you get it out?” asked Nurse Grundy, who was helping with curing the problem child. 

“I’m not sure Alice. I may have to experiment a bit. I can’t imagine a big rat fitting in there. It must be a young one, not full size. One way or the other we’ll get it out. Maybe we can tempt it out with food. I’m reluctant to try an enema. The rat might chew its way further in to escape the chemicals. If I can’t lure it out, it will have to extracted surgically. I can’t do surgery here. The prison’s medical ward doesn’t have the right equipment. If we can’t get it out the prisoner will need to be sent to a hospital.”

After some thought, and consultation with the plumbing shop at the prison, Dr. Braddle came up with a plan. The prisoner was sedated and chained spread eagle, face down, on a bed.  A wide plastic tube was taped to the prisoner’s asshole. The tube fed into a cage where tasty morsels from the prison cafeteria were sprinkled. Video cameras were set up so the asshole and cage could be watched from another room if necessary, and so the action could be recorded. A half hour passed.  The rat did not stick its head out.

“It may be living off the prisoner’s innards or undigested food in the rectum and large intestine,” the doctor speculated.

Nurse Grundy had an idea. “If the rat eats what comes through the digestive system, and the prisoner is hooked on a whole bunch of nasty shit, maybe the rat is addicted too.”

“So you suggest we might try a different type of lure?”

“Maybe.”

It took some negotiation with the DA’s office, the police and the warden, but a few hours later and guard came to the medical dispensary with a box labeled “evidence.” Inside the box was a smidgen of brown, fairly pure Mexican dope.  It was just a few grams in an envelope, plenty to get a rat high.

The envelope was set in the cage. Additional taped was placed around the tube connected to the prisoner’s asshole to make sure it was secure. Then the wait began.

After a half hour movement was detected around the asshole. Puckering and bubbling, then a snout appeared. The nose twitched and sniffed, then disappeared back inside the prisoner’s ass.

“Maybe if we turn down the lights?” suggested one of the guards.

Curtains were drawn. All the lights in that section of the medical ward were turned off except for one on the other side of a divider. This left barely enough light to see what was happening. They waited. And waited. Almost an hour into their vigil the rat’s nose reappeared, sticking from the prisoner’s asshole like a big dingleberry or a rotting hemorrhoid.  The rat sniffed the air. Slowly, very slowly, it emerged from the prisoner’s asshole, then raced down the tube into the cage. The rat was too engrossed with sniffing, rolling in, and chewing the brown to notice the cage door dropping shut.

“I’m glad that’s over,” said Cienkowski. “This is the craziest overtime I’ve ever earned.”

“It does sound like something on the Maury Lowpitch show,” said Dr. Braddle. “But we all witnessed it. I may write a paper on this case and send it to a medical journal. This is the first case of ‘Rat’s Ass’ I’ve heard of.”

The prisoner began to moan.

“Maybe he smells the brown?” suggested Marsh.

“I don’t know,” said Braddle. “Lets see what’s going on.”

The prisoner’s asshole began to pucker. Another rat showed its head.

“He must have a whole nest in there!”

“Maybe we should call Rodent Control,” Cienkowski joked. 

Dr. Braddle looked at the guard.  

“I wish we could,” he said. “This will be like delivering sextuplets.”

A collective sigh went through the room. It had been a long day. It was going to be a long night.