He was born
to a virgin whore,
who convinced
her own husband
that GOD came
inside of her
in a threesome
with an angel.
At the age
of thirty-three,
GOD’s rape baby
found his best friend,
a prostitute with
the very same
Christian name
as his mother,
who believed
he was the
biological child
of the almighty
omniscient
sexual deviant.
You press your ear to that fleshy opening in your wall, there since you were five. You figure it’s time to listen.
From within, a voice –
“Oh, I love my man. I love my man. He is 6’4. He is strong. He has a dick. Like. A. Horse, baby! Hahaha! And ooh, he can dick me down all day, I tell you what. All day, honey. I won’t say no. Oh, I’ll never tell my beautiful man no. Not that dick. Ha ha. Not to all that Holy, Holy, honey.”
Your hand strays down – the room is warm, the air is thick. Split of the hymen, spill of the vulva. Your fingers are sticky, thick warm – blood, warming your cold body – the hole keeps talking.
“And my man thinks, you know? He’s smart. He thinks. He thinks about grand things – he thinks about God. About God, about all that Holiness. And all I gotta do is suck that dick, honey. Hahaha! I’ve got no problem there, do I? Do I? No, ma’am. Haha. No, ma’am. He can choke me, honey, with his hands, with his dick, Hell, my God-loving baby, he could choke me with those big, dirty feet – my man has a dick. Like. A horse, baby! He can breathe for me! Mmm. His breath’s probably better, anyway. Smells like my pussy. You love my pussy, honey. Haha.”
Your tongue flicks out. You keep bleeding, this hole keeps talking. You lick to shut something up, you’re not sure what. Little bloody bits slip between your fingers, down your thigh – your room smells less like 2007 summers now, more like his cologne – the hole keeps talking; you can’t eat out words.
“Oh, I’m loyal, too, baby. Don’t need no dick but his. No dick Holy like his, baby. No dick so Holy, Holy. His dick’s big enough for two of me, ha ha. He’s tall enough for two of me. He’s smart enough for two me. He exists enough for two of me, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he, baby – lick that up. Oh, lick that up, honey. He’s God, ain’t he. God, Holy Holy. God enough for two of us. And all I gotta do is suck that dick. Just suck that dick, honey. In God’s name. Yeah. Yeah, in God’s name.”
Your legs are red, your tongue is tired. Your face is wet – juices cover your mouth and nose, sweat plasters your hair to your forehead. You work desperately at a pleasure factory making no product – your legs shake and the room is so warm.
“You just gotta suck that dick like it were God. Like he were God. You just gotta kneel down before that cross…”
Your hands sift through the blood and clasp onto something hard.
“You gotta call Him His Holy names, he likes that. You gotta call Him His Holy, Holy names; call him Master, Daddy, Christ, Yahweh, Muhammed, Baby, ooh, Daddy always works..”
Your hand moves back and forth. Along your cock. Your manhood. You stroke it and it’s clean as an angel, untouched by all the blood that was there a second ago.
“Oh, Daddy. I missed you, Baby. I love you, Jesus. Come here, Honey. Oh fuck me with that good dick. Hit me with that good dick, God.”
You jerk your cock, Man, and dip your head into the hole – it is warm and your ears are full of worship, mouth full of vulva, you don’t breathe and, airless, breathe for it. If vaginas ain’t gold on the inside, then, Man, you must be crazy, cause that’s all you see, Ha Ha Ha!
“Oooh, Baby, that’s it! That’s it, Daddy! Oh, yes! Oh, yes! Oh, Jesus Christ of Nazareth!”
Sucking you in – your feet slip in last, suctioned into Gold and Warm and Wet just like the rest of you.
“Use that sweet dick, Honey. Use that sweet, sweet dick, my Holy, Holy Baby.”
You begin to thrust and the hole closes behind you.
The bedroom is empty.
Of course
I’ve had good times,
I told him,
squizing my brain
for a given memory
While wiping my chapped lips
with the back of my hand
Booze and bullshit spilled
from my misaligned jaw
It starts like this:
You grab a bottle of wine
and your favorite dolls
Going off to dabble
in the dark arts
This I can say,
I’ve had much fun
actually,
most of which i sadly
don’t remember at all
But i can tell you,
for example,
about the feeling of lying down
in a field of sunflowers,
as magnificient
as a Van Gogh painting
Or swimming naked in the rain
upon a murky lake
My man watching me enraptured
as the reeds lightly whip
my bareskin butt
He’s too afraid to jump in
(of something entering his meatus)
Funny, isn’t it?
I sure thought so
I know this isn’t wishful thinking
’cause I’m not much of a romantic
But man, these pills fucked me up
What about trying ice skating
for the first time totally drunk
because some dude had his birthday
and he wanted to surprise me
We even went to play pool
with a swinger couple after
I realized that night
I sucked balls
And yet, my very likely best nights
Come as axes to my skull
and the fuckening steeps somewhere
between the second and third bottle
Balls-in is always a good idea
My strongest memories though
fall between arousal and horror
Like the image of some guy
Can’t even remember his name
Washing his face
with my blood
after fucking me hard
in the vintage chair
of a run-down Belgrade
hotel room
I think,
his magic mushrooms
had gone bad, but
his sphincter was quite mighty
It happens to fall
and break your nose
sometimes
when you drink from
green bottles offered free
Me, I’m lying in my piss
in a university bathroom
Which, to be honest, seems kinda odd
and not much my style anyway
More like a fistful of shit
from a trans Russian’s ass
and more good ol’ times
yet to come
it was summertime
she told me she was a virgin
i went over to her house
in the kitchen
she gave me a cherry
with all 10 of my fingers
i popped it
it gushed
she walked up to me
got on her knees
took my fingers in her mouth
her dad walked in on us
what the fuck he said
i had to leave
he said that kind of stuff is not allowed in my house, son
i told him not to call me son, dad
he said don’t call me dad, boy
as i walked out the front door
i turned back and said
ok old man
he came after me
he started wrestling me on his front lawn
my girl
she was screaming
stoppit dad!
he had me in a deeep headlock
tap! he said
never
i could feel myself losing consciousness
but i could feel his strength weakening
stoppit ur hurting him my girl screamed
but i gave her the thumbs up
i got out of the headlock
i told her watch this
and i belly to belly suplexed him
and he went unconscious
and ever since then
she called me daddy
For some reason,
She took offense
At him calling her
A psycho bitch.
So,
She bashed him
In the head
With the plate
Of macaroni
And cheese.
It made quite
A colorful mess,
Mixed with the
Gushing blood
And all.
Still,
He thanked her
For bandaging
The head wound,
Taking that as
A sign of true
Compassion.
When actually,
She just didn’t
Want to go
To jail.
It didn’t matter to Tyke or Scab that the cure for the disease that decimated humankind was unaffordable to average Americans at the time of the outbreak. They also didn’t care that the building they were both standing in was once Phoenix City Hall. What did matter to both of them, standing in the dusty ruins, was the single bottle of the aforementioned medicine found in a rotting desk drawer. Scab pondered the filthy bottle of neutral-colored fluid’s label, which read “Chimerizine” in perfect sans serif Arial letters.
She was called Scab not because her entire body was covered in scab-like growths or because the elders were particularly clever. She was called Scab because she was covered in scab-like growths and also regularly oozed. Tilting her head to get a better look at the bottle’s label caused her wispy blonde wig to shift clumsily.
Reclined in a high back chair that once held the posterior of the Mayor of the City of Phoenix was Tyke, who didn’t know what a Mayor or a City of Phoenix was. He kicked his crusty boots up on the decayed desktop, then reached up to scratch the left foot of his parasitic twin.
Tyke Junior, as Tyke called it, dangled mostly-formed from the side of Tyke’s face in a meditative pose.
He was called Tyke not because the elders were particularly clever, but because they were not and he was very large. He called his parasitic twin Tyke Junior because it was small and attached to him.
Tyke was also not very clever. He flicked a bit of bloody devilpede chitin off his rotund belly then immediately regretted not eating it instead.
If Tyke Junior had eyes, a mouth, or a fully-developed brain, it might have been clever. It had none of those things. It did occasionally have small psychic premonitions, but Tyke rarely noticed them.
“So, explain it to me again,” the more clever and larger of the two Tykes said.
Scab looked up from the bottle and smiled, her amber teeth like semi-transparent kernels of corn. She set the bottle on the desk and tucked her thumbs into her gun belt.
“It’s simple, Tyke. This stuff makes the change stop. At least, that’s what the elders say.” Scab strutted around the former office of the former mayor of Phoenix, taking in the ruins. A pair of flags hung, moth-eaten and unremarkable, on two stanchions across from the desk. Scab stood between them, turning to Tyke. She wasn’t sure why, but standing equidistant between two flags felt strangely powerful.
“What good is that? It’s only one bottle.” Tyke folded his fat hands over his belly. He was trying to focus, but every now and then he thought he heard the screaming of a devilpede in the distance. He didn’t. It was a psychic echo of the devilpede Scab had shot to death outside before she and Tyke began looting the ruins of Phoenix City Hall. Tyke Junior was picking up the echo like a radio antennae, but Tyke rarely noticed such things and certainly didn’t know what to attribute them to.
Scab laughed, which was unpleasant for everyone. She supplied the brains of the operation, whereas Tyke supplied muscle and comparatively good looks. Entrepreneurial thinking was beyond him, she mused. She’d have to lay it on thick.
“We aren’t going to use it on ourselves, Tyke. We’re going to barter it.”
As Tyke shifted, the force of his bulk caused a small magnetic executive toy on the desk to swing over a field of faded possibilities. It snapped to “Reorganize” and lingered there.
Tyke’s attention was divided. Scab continued, walking from between the two flag stanchions and over to a small podium nearby. She didn’t know what a podium was, but the rotten hollow pillar of wood felt nice to stand behind.
“I’m certainly not going to benefit it, so it’s only worth what we can trade for it. Imagine how many dog pelts we could get for this.”
Tyke lacked imagination, but he did have a thought.
“I noticed some new teeth forming on my shoulder. Would this stuff stop that?” Tyke started to reach over his shoulder to scratch under his greasy denim vest, but accidentally bumped Tyke Junior in the motion. Tyke Junior bobbed rubberily about for a moment until Tyke stabilized him with one hand.
Scab slapped her forehead in frustration. It oozed. She reached out and wiped her hand on a colorful rag she knew was a flag of some kind but had no meaning to her.
“I’m sure it would stop you from growing pearly new shoulderteeth, but you’re thinking too small. We could get food, water, or more bullets. More bullets mean more safety, Tyke. Who cares if you have some extra teeth? We should all be so lucky.”
Scab thumped one hand on the podium for emphasis. It creaked and a cloud of dust puffed off it in a manner not unlike the dust from a devilpede’s gossamer wings.
Tyke strained to think, which caused Tyke Junior to kick one foot gently. The gesture used to make Scab uncomfortable, but she’d decided it was a good way to know if Tyke was straining his mental faculties to their fullest. She didn’t much care for it when Tyke thought, but it was rare enough it rarely came up.
“I just feel like I shouldn’t be burdened with a Tyke III just so you can have more stuff.”
Scab had to admit, that was perhaps the deepest thought Tyke had ever shared with her.
“We could both have more stuff, Tyke. More stuff for everyone. More stuff for little Tyke Junior.” Scab considered pounding her fist on the podium, but decided instead to step out from behind it.
“Well, if it’s worth a lot, we should try to make more. Could the elders figure out how to make more, if we brought them this?” Tyke pointed at the tiny bottle with one massive finger, which made the bottle look all the more tiny.
Scab laughed again and something dislodged in her throat. The disease had long spread to her insides, too, but at least she couldn’t be any worse. She spit then sat on the desk in her most coquettish pose, which resembled a seductive pile of wilted grapes covered in third-degree burns. She did have pleasantly shaped legs, though beauty standards had changed dramatically over the last ten decades. Tyke was also asexual, not that anyone ever asked.
“Why would we do that? If there’s too much supply, it won’t be worth as much. I’m only interested in us, Tyke.” Scab made a face that Tyke was not smart enough to recognize was meant to be sultry.
Tyke shrugged, and the magnetic toy on the desk swung aimlessly from his leviathanic shifting. It settled on “Sit on It” briefly before resetting.
“We could make enough for everyone though. Then little babies won’t grow up to have little babies growing out of them. I’d like that. Everyone would.”
“Frak ‘everyone,’ Tyke. Who cares about a bunch of stupid dogfarmers? We crawled through this ruin, we killed that mutant devilpede outside. If ‘everyone’ wants to find treasure like this, then ‘everyone’ should risk death like us. We got the juice, so we’re the ones in charge. You might be okay with freeloaders,” Scab motioned at Tyke Junior, “but some of us work for what we earn.”
Tyke contemplated the toy on the desk. He rested the palm of his hand on the handle of the machete hanging from his belt. Tyke Junior had no opinion, nor mouth by which to vocalize one. Scab sensed the tension growing.
“Tyke, I’m sorry I brought Tyke Junior into this. I have an idea. A great idea.” Scab smiled her signature smile and reached out for the executive toy that captured Tyke’s attention, pulling it between them.
“Let’s let fate decide, okay? Whatever happens, we’ll go by this thing’s decision.” Scab had absolutely no intention of following what the toy said unless it agreed with her, but she was sure that Tyke would believe anything.
Tyke believed her. He was always the superstitious sort. He nodded in agreement, causing Tyke Junior to jig awkwardly. Scab clapped her hands.
“It’s settled then. We’ll respect the process.” Scab hopped up from the desk as Tyke stood slowly. Scab made mystic hand gestures over the metallic toy.
“Oh mighty tool of the venerable ancients, those that came before us and we must still follow regardless of context!” Scab spoke the words as an incantation, paraphrasing the elders’ opening prayer to all such prognostications. “Should we live like fat rich kings from this find or save the stupid and lazy generations of tomorrow?”
“Please,” Tyke interjected. “Say please, they like that.”
“Please,” Scab added, though her tone suggested it was directed more at Tyke and not the spirits of the venerable ancients. Tyke nodded solemnly. Tyke Junior twitched with extrasensory dread and a spasm of muscle tension rippled through Tyke, though he remained unaware of its source.
With a flick of her finger, Scab set the toy in motion. As the pendulum magnet swung, Tyke didn’t see Scab placing one hand on her revolver. The magnet danced briefly and came to rest over the word “Tomorrow.”
Scab heaved a sigh and slowly drew her weapon. Tyke didn’t see this, but Tyke Junior sensed it, and this time Tyke must have been listening.
Without thinking, he hurled his machete in a sideways arc, cleaving Scab’s neck with the force of a guillotine. For an instant Tyke became aware of his symbiote’s will piloting his actions, the two of them linked together as one. He saw a glittering river of cosmic understanding as wide as the Milky Way and heard the song of the devilpedes far beneath the earth. The lotus of enlightenment bloomed in his third eye.
He didn’t even feel the bullet as it passed through his brain.
As Scab’s headless body toppled forward, both Tyke and Tyke Junior tumbled through the shattered window behind them, leaving the bottle of Chimerizine on the desk right where they’d found it.
In the long silence that followed, neither Tyke nor Scab particularly cared what would happen to the medicine anymore. Moments later, Tyke Junior would join in this oblivion.
They, much like the Chimerizine, had expired.
dumb. goal-post dumb.
he didn’t have a learning disability.
he wasn’t let down by the education system.
well, at least no more than the rest of us.
no. he was just dumb. a big dumb fuck.
he farted when he walked.
he’d come farting across the school yard
farting footsteps
and grab you:
cum sniffer! he’d accuse. sniff your cum, you, don’t you?
or:
mum perv! perv on your mum, you, don’t you
and:
dog wanker! wank your dog off, you, don’t you?
his chin against yours because he wanted a kiss
and the only way he could get one
was to find an excuse to kick off on you
and it was in maths class, or science, one of them
and Mr Harbour had nipped out to put some Irish in his coffee
and you don’t know what happened:
you saw the big dumb fuck
sitting on his own there
mouth breathing
and you thought of all the farts
brewing inside of him
and it suddenly really pissed you off.
you were bored. you were so fucking bored.
bored of him and bored of school
and the two of them together? same time, same place?
nah, that was too much, mate.
so you went over
and you said:
YOU sniff YOUR cum. YOU perv on YOUR mum. YOU wank YOUR dog. YOU sniff
YOUR cum after wanking off YOUR dog of a mum. it’s obvious.
that’s why you accuse everyone else of doing those things. so fuck off. fuck
the fuck
off
and he hit you
and you went down
and you were lying on the floor of the maths room, or the science lab, one of them
declaring: I hit a nerve! it must be true!
and you could see him standing over you
with his leg pulled back at the knee
like he was going to kick you
but he was hesitating:
even that big dumb fuck
had the foresight to know
that if he started kicking you he wouldn’t be able to stop,
but then his eyes went glassy
as he saw his whole shit life before him,
realising he was probably going to end up in prison anyway
and his big mushy face seemed to
relax
as he decided: fuck it
might as well get a head-start on my shitty prison life
by getting some revenge here and now, eh?
when Mr Harbour came back
with his cheeks all shiny
and yelped.
the big dumb fuck got chucked out of school.
or he was just suspended, and forgot to come back. who knows.
but you were looking over your back for a while.
and then
well, shit,
you were dragged into adulthood
and he kind of faded into the back of your mind
until you forgot about him completely, like
that nugget of data devoted to him
just fell out of your ear one day
when you were
sitting in the dentist’s waiting room
or fisting someone’s grandma,
as you do.
and you just got
this job
bringing the deliveries in
at the frozen food place in town,
and who’s working alongside you?
no, you think, looking out the corner of your eye
as you strip a pallet.
no. surely not. how’d I end up in the same place as him?
then he puts down a box
and comes farting over:
his farts, matured like cheese,
slapping the warehouse walls …
you brace yourself
for another kicking.
for the lifetime of kicking
that he’s backed up all this time.
probably got lots of practice on his prison bitch.
you brace yourself
and the big dumb fuck,
he leans over you
and he sniffs his finger
when he asks:
cover my shift Tuesday?
gotta walk my mum’s dog.
I will take your hand like a mountain
an impossible climb, time passing
we know this, never so gently
as the song playing in our heads, four ribbons
outta four winds, snow in the lung
shovel up to the door of your sadness heart
tonight I am a huge fire,
you’re the thunder roaring under
motel floor boards, six-pack eyes
call the owl to bread, let the garden sink
under autumn rain, listen to the dark highway
hum a sweet little song of pain,
Yes, I’ll take your hand, try very hard to understand
what the poem tried to say, what my eyes couldn’t find
all alone anyway, out here in triumph or drown land
low edge blur of town, I just want to pause the hurt
be a fixer-downer
back to the roots, inside the seed
ride the wind, let the wound bleed
back East West North South
anywhere but nowhere
everywhere the poor heart lands
yes, in your hands…
March 22, 2020. 10:00 AM
I never thought that I would become one of those stereotypes that everyone laughs about: a pubic hair stuck in a urinal at a bar. How original. But here I am, and I don’t know how this happened. If anyone is out there, please alert the authorities and tell them that Harry (that’s me) is stuck in the 3rd urinal (men’s bathroom) on the second floor of Wolff’s Bieragarten in Troy, NY. I don’t know if a ladder is needed, but it wouldn’t hurt to bring one.
March 22, 2020. 10:20 AM
This is gonna make one helluva screenplay. Who do you think should play me? Maybe The Rock? We have a very similar physique.
No way that anyone in Hollywood says no to this project. Not a chance. This has Oscar-bait written all over it.
March 22, 2020. 10:50 AM
My friends are never gonna let me live this one down. Seriously, I’m gonna be the butt of every joke. I don’t know if I’ll be able to go to any cookouts or happy hours without them busting my chops. They’re gonna be like, “look who it is, Mr. Harry hou-stuck-in-the-urinal-dini,” or something like that. They’re not the smartest.
March 22, 2020. 11:03 AM
Someone should call my wife and let her know I’m okay. Let her know I won’t be able to pick Junior up from Little League practice tonight.
March 22, 2020. 11:11 AM
I’ve started carving out prison scratch marks on the urinal cake. By my calculations, I have roughly 8 hours left to live, and my resources are running out. Food is minimum. Warmth is also limited. Please send help. I could use a Diet Coke, too.
March 22, 2020. 11:35 AM
Reward: Don’t have much to offer but I have a solid fantasy football league that you can take over. I’m currently in first place and the winner gets a $25 gift card to Chili’s.
March 22, 2020. 11:37 AM
Starting to feel a little disconnected from reality. Does anyone know Who won RuPaul’s Drag Race? I DVRd it last night but I obviously don’t wanna wait that long to watch it.
March 22, 2020. 12:40 PM
I took a quick nap and when I woke up, I was surrounded by other pubic hairs. They look kinda mean. One of them has a broken heart neck tattoo. Another one is doing push-ups in the corner while his buddy does some bicep curls. They’ve made a line down the middle of the urinal and they told me to stay on my side unless I wanna get beat up. I guess this is it, right?
March 22, 2020. 12:44 PM
#SaveHarryFromTheUrinal. C’mon, y’all. Let’s get it trending!
March 22, 2020. 12:48 PM
Rejoice! Someone is here! Please help me, brother! I have been stranded for hours. Wait, what are you doing? Noooo…stop! Are you sadistic?! What are you doing now? Are you flushing the urinal? Please, I beg you—don’t do that. I have a family at home. A wife. A kid. Don’t do thissssss—
March 22, 2020. 1:08(ish) PM
[A crumpled urine-stained will has been found in urinal #3 of Wolff’s Biergarten by a janitor]
Hi, everyone. Harry here. Welp, if you’re reading this, I guess it turns out I didn’t make it.
But don’t cry. I lived a full life. A much longer life than expected! It’s a fact that 1/3 pubic hairs will be flushed down in a urinal. It’s an unfortunate statistic but that’s just the territory that comes with being one of us.
To my son, Junior, I leave behind to you my Xbox. Don’t stay up too late playing Fortnite. You are now the man of the house. Take care of your mother for me.
To my wife, Harriette, you are now the proud owner of my super-secret haircare routine. Say au revoir to morning frizz. I’m sorry we didn’t get to say goodbye. I love you.
To everyone else, please don’t waste your money on flowers. They smell terrible. Donate to Junior’s college fund instead. That boy’s gonna be a great artist one day, I just know it.
I was walking with my vagine when a man stopped me and said,
“Oh, what a lovely vagine! Do you mind if I pet it?”
Looking at his face, I could tell he was a decent fellow
though his expression seemed a bit anxious.
“Sorry to say no,” I answered gently but firmly.
“I used to let people pet my vagine, but too many of them–
mostly men–have done so in a manner that made my vagine
feel very uncomfortable.”
Obviously disappointed, the man looked down at my vagine
and said in a sorrowful tone, “I perfectly understand.
I once had a beautiful vagine like yours, but then. . .
well, it’s a very sad story. I’ve tried to get on with my life
but it hasn’t been easy. Whenever I see one like yours,
it always reminds me. . .”
Feeling sympathy for the guy, I was just about to reverse my decision
when I suddenly remembered that I’d heard the same story before.
After wishing him well, me and my vagine continued on our way. . .
