Wedding Gift

After showering, Reinhardt drove his black Porsche to a photo shoot in a luxury condo outside of Berlin: a commercial for men’s body wash. Which meant taking another shower. Following the director’s orders, an old man who wore a brown leather jacket and red foulard, he stripped and showered in a stall covered with Italian marble. Wash your arms and chest, raise your legs one at a time, slowly lather your muscles, finger the foam, rinse off: the director issued staccato instructions. 

The camera followed Reinhardt’s every move, focussed on water dripping down his pecs, back and quadriceps, to be edited and broadcast when the manufacturer chose, after approving the images. He knew his body pleased, hence the phone call from his part time agent, who had also landed him roles in the porn industry and a couple of small movie parts, plus modelling gigs now and then. 

They all paid well, especially the commercials. Not as much fun as fucking but equally lucrative. He enjoyed the shower, moved his powerful physique suggestively, and suspected the woman who operated the camera focussed on his stirring genitals, responsive to the female gaze, even though they wouldn’t appear in the final cut. She was a bright and cheery thing, her hair blonde and loose, maybe too skinny. As he soaped, he imagined her lips around his rising cock. He didn’t attempt to hide it since he was never embarrassed when nature took its course. Besides, a cock hardening at inopportune moments often led to exciting times afterwards, but not today. 

The camera woman, however friendly and seemingly unaffected by his naked body, was all business. When the shoot was over, Reinhardt noticed that she had quickly glanced and smiled at his dick before leaving. He’d miss his gym workout today because he had a busy schedule ahead of him. An artist living in a Berlin suburb, paralyzed from the waist down, had hired him to pose for a drawing session, and then lift him out of the wheel chair, place him on a bed, head hanging over the edge of the mattress, and deep throat him until he shot his load and the man gulped it down. He needed to feed on Reinhardt’s superman strength and vitality, he had said in a text. A three-hour session. 

After that, Reinhardt had an early supper meeting with a middle-aged married couple who wanted a young bull to dominate them, the husband to be humiliated and degraded. He had suggested going to the Alexanderplatz to discuss scenarios and terms of agreement, but they didn’t want to risk running into someone they knew. They agreed to meet at a Macdonald’s a few kilometres from their home. 

His cousin’s wedding in Leipzig was in two days to which he had been invited. Having neglected to buy a wedding gift, he had no time to search for one, but he guessed 200 hundred Euros in a card would suffice. His cousin Hans was a chemistry professor at the University of Leipzig. Reinhardt’s mother compared his achievements with her son’s, and heaved her bosom in disappointment. She had this unaccountable admiration for professors. Having fucked, flogged, and pissed on a few, Reinhardt didn’t share her feelings. 

Hans was marrying an English girl who was doing graduated work in German philosophy. When his mother showed him a picture of the woman, Reinhardt’s felt a tingle in his balls. A redhead, which he loved. He wouldn’t hesitate to fuck her in her wedding dress, if circumstances permitted. He became so entranced by the idea that his cock pushed hard against the constraints of his Calvin Klein underwear. 

In Leipzig, the nuptials were taking place in the famous Thomaskirche, where Bach had been kappellmeister and was now buried. After booking into his hotel, and changing clothes, he drove to the church. Once parked, Reinhardt loitered outside the church doors, waiting for the bride’s limousine to appear, which it soon did. He stepped aside so as not to be in the way, but got a good look at the woman swathed in reams of white silk and tulle, surrounded by four bridesmaids in yellow gowns. He rubbed his genitals discreetly as he caught a glimpse of her pretty face and glimmering red hair before her maid of honour lowered the veil. 

Yes, he’d love to fuck Jane in the gown before her husband did. Maybe he could get Hans to watch his bride ravished by his cousin. Hans was a recessive kind of beta male, subservient to his superiors, soft-spoken, limp brown hair, sloping shoulders, and more at home in a library than a party. He’d be easy to cuckold and probably, if he confessed to the truth of his desires, wanted to be. 

Well, Reinhardt could help him realize his deepest, most perverted dreams since Hans admired powerful men, like some academics who still paid Reinhardt to humiliate and fuck them. Maybe Hans was secretly into Nazi uniforms and craved licking his superior’s black leather boots. He had worn such a costume to please a girl he had liked, no money involved, and now had a few customers, male and female, who paid to be fucked by a Kommandant and grovel at and lick his boots. He decided to get to know his cousin better, become a caring friend, dominate the professor of chemistry and freely fuck his wife. Whenever he wanted. A not impossible dream. 

He remembered a porn flick in which he played the groom’s best man and fucked the bride in the limousine before she arrived at the church, having to readjust her hair and veil, his cum leaking out of her cunt. He had loved that scenario. The bitch in that porno also had red hair. Another episode he had watched with the crew: bride and groom kidnapped and gangbanged by four skinheads in tight, blue mottled jeans and high-laced boots, the groom tied up on a chair in an abandoned warehouse, his tie stuffed in his mouth, as he was forced to watch the skinheads rape his wife, still in her dress puffed up like a cloud around her waist. 

So many brides fucked in porn on their wedding day: must be a universal fantasy: one of his favourite scenes depicted a black man, a wedding guest in a tuxedo, hoisting a white bride around his waist in a shower stall and fucking her until her bridal gown got thoroughly soaked, and he left her huddled in the corner like a lump of wet laundry. The astonished groom watching all the time and rubbing his crotch.

Why he was thinking about this, Reinhardt didn’t quite know. Well, he did know, as he thought about sex all the time. And his cock was his guide, the source of his decisions in many ways, unerring in its instinct to choose the right partner or partners, as if there was such a thing as phallocentric certainty like a physical law of the universe. His cock acted according to infallible principles like gravity. As the bride entered the church, it grew bigger and harder. So, the cock knew the truth of the matter. Despite his belief in its truth-telling powers, Reinhardt was intelligent enough to know that his desire was irrational, a mere fantasy and urging of superman virility at the sight of a pretty, red-haired, potentially submissive cunt, whom he could own, if he chose. 

He was master of his cock, master of any situation in which he found himself. Just as he chose to develop his body and keep it splendid and pure, so he could stride with confident authority in the universe of his own making. He could choose to ignore the demands and logic of his insatiable Schwanz, but it was stubbornly insistent at the moment. Even in a church famous for its kappellmeister, where people said all kinds of religious things in which he didn’t believe, the cock wanted action. 

The reception would be held in a hall at the university, and there Reinhardt would dance with his cousin’s bride. He would speak to her warmly, shower her with compliments, and hold her a bit closer than one ordinarily would, and suppress any urge of his cock to fuck on the dance floor. He’d welcome her as the newest member of his family, and he was so happy to know that Hans had married such a beautiful and intelligent woman. He would also reconnect with Hans and become very friendly with him. Hans would always defer to him. 

Even though they hadn’t seen each other for a few years, he remembered how they had played together as boys. Despite being two years older than Reinhardt, Hans always followed his orders and did whatever he wanted. At thirteen Reinhardt had shown Hans his vigorous cock, and Hans, flustered and hesitant, obediently revealed his, less impressive. They had jerked off together, looking at internet porn, and Hans had stroked Reinhardt’s cock and fondled his cousin’s balls. Reinhardt regretted that he hadn’t then persuaded Hans take it in his mouth. What he didn’t do as a boy, Hans would most definitely hunger for as a married man. 

They’d arrange to get together after the wedding. He, Reinhardt, would drive to Leipzig where Hans could show him the university. And soon he’d be inviting Reinhardt to his house for dinners. The images of fucking Jane in the marriage bed in her wedding gown shook him to the roots of his being. Despite the urging of his cock, he wasn’t in a porn flick now where impossible fucks occurred at a whim. Still, he’d shag Jane and give her the generous blessing of his vital seed deep, maybe impregnate her. Of course, properly trained and eager to felch, Hans the professor would beg for permission to suck his bull’s cum leaking out of his Jane’s lovely ass. Or join Reinhardt in the shower to gobble his superman Schwanz and swallow alpha juice like a thirsty pig. 

What would his mother think if she ever knew that the professor, whom she praised to the sky for his academic achievements, had become her son’s worshipping cocksucker and obedient slave? Although it would take time, he could hardly wait to give the couple the perfect gift of his domination, better than Euros. The first organ chords clanged out, not his favourite kind of sound or music. The bridal procession was about to begin. Reinhardt slipped into the church and sat alone at the back, his plans for the future heating up inside his Hugo Boss suit. 

American Pagans

Becky had been spending a lot of time in the company of a girl with the antique name, Edna. Edna Rosenberg. 

Edna “Ravenchild” Rosenberg.

“Ravenchild?”

“Yeah, we’re all picking pagan names. What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Becky admitted. “I’m supposed to come up with something like that?”

“Yeah. We all are.”

“Ravenchild?”

“Ravenchild. Exactly. Doesn’t it sound cool?”

“Uh-huh…”

It was dusk. They were hanging out in the parking lot outside Bennigan’s, waiting for Donna Sokolski—Donna “Winterhawk” Sokolski—to get out of work.

“So, what name should I be?” Becky asked, lighting a cigarette.

“I don’t know. You have to find your own name. You have to dream for it or chant for it. You gotta beseech the Goddess. She will then reveal your true pagan name.”

“Okay. Beseech the Goddess. Gotcha…”

“Yeah. I meditated for, like, over twenty minutes until the Goddess blessed me with my name. Ravenchild.”

“Okay. I’ll try that.”

“Cool. Can’t wait to hear what you come up with.”

“So, um, what exactly am I supposed to do at this thing again?”

“You don’t have to do shit. You and Donna are just there to observe. You can’t enter the Cone of Power until you’re initiated.”

“Right. Okay.”

“Here comes Donna. It’s about goddamn time.”

Donna Sokolski was a short, plump girl of nineteen. She wore small round glasses and always appeared to be squinting, as if her thick lenses obscured her vision rather than enhance it. “Hey, guys,” she said. She was still wearing her waitress uniform and smelled like food. She was holding a Styrofoam take-out container and she opened it toward them. “Broccoli Bite?”

“No thanks,” said Ravenchild.

Becky said, “I’ll take one. Thanks, Donna.”

“Sure, no prob.”

“We better get going,” said Ravenchild. “The sun’s almost down.”

The three women climbed into Ravenchild’s red Volkswagen Jetta and soon they were speeding down highway 12.

“Hey, you got a pagan name yet?” Donna – Winterhawk – asked Becky.

“No. Not yet. What about Bumblebee?”

“Bumblebee?” said Ravenchild.

“Yeah.” Becky said. “I always liked bees. They’re associated with flowers and honey. They’re pretty but they’ll also sting you if you give them any shit. I saw this documentary once that said bees have, like, their own language. They’re, like, the smartest, most organized insects around, bar none. It’s really kinda cool.”

“That’s retarded,” said Ravenchild. “You absolutely can NOT be “Bumblebee.”

Becky deflated. Fuck you, bitch! This whole thing was fucking lame anyway. Fuck you AND your goddess! was what she wanted to say. Instead, she said, “Oh. Okay. I’ll think of something else…”

“I told you. You have to pray to the Goddess to get your name.”

“Oh yeah. Sorry, Edna.”

“What?”

“Oops! I mean Ravenchild. Sorry…”

“You better snap out of that shit when we get there.”

A few minutes later, Ravenchild pulled off the highway and soon they were bouncing down a rutted dirt road. Low-hanging branches hissed against the sides of the car. They stopped at the edge of a small clearing surrounded by pine trees and blind night.

Three other cars were already parked in the clearing.

Ravenchild shut off the engine. “This is it. I gotta change first.”

Once Ravenchild was costumed in a toga she’d fashioned from a white bedsheet, she led Becky and Winterhawk into the woods.

A narrow path, thickly carpeted with damp red-pine needles, unspooled through the dark forest, making their footfalls eerily silent. After a few minutes, Becky could see a flickering light winking through the trees. She realized her heart started beating faster the closer they got to the fire.

They joined six more robed people standing around a small bonfire. Four women and two men. Becky had met them all before at Edna’s house but this was the first time she’d seen them in their pagan regalia. Things were getting creepy, Becky thought. Her heart rate continued to race.

“Welcome, sisters,” said a tall, red-haired woman that Becky had met as Winifred O’Brian a couple weeks ago.

“Hi, Winnie,” she said.

“Hi Becky. You can call me Silverfox now.”

“Okay. Silverfox. Pretty name.”

“I know, right?” She turned toward the others. “I guess we’re all here now. We might as well get started,” said Silverfox. She pulled a long curved dagger from the folds of her robe. She held it out toward the fire.

“Wait!” Winterhawk interrupted. “We’re not all here yet.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Ravenchild, an edge of suspicion in her voice. “I count nine.”

“I told my boyfriend he could come. He’ll be here any minute.”

“You did what?” Ravenchild lowered her hood to face Winterhawk. “You can’t do that!” she yelled. “You’re not even in the coven yet! You can’t just invite people to a ritual until you’re a member of the coven!”

Winterhawk looked down at her feet. “Oh. Um, sorry, Edna. I didn’t know.”

Becky was startled by a sudden crunching noise behind her. She turned. A small goat was tied to a tree. It bleated at her and then went back to eating twigs.

“Hey,” she said. “Where’d you get the goat?”

“I can’t fucking believe you invited your boyfriend,” said Ravenchild.

“Calm down, sister Ravenchild,” said Silverfox. “It’s not the end of the world. The ritual won’t take long. But let’s get started. Maybe we can finish before he gets here. It could be worse. Remember, you wanted for us to be skyclad. At least we ain’t naked right now.”

“I’m really sorry you guys,” said Winterhawk.

Ravenchild glared at her for a few extra seconds, then flipped her hood back up.

Becky turned from the goat to Silverfox. “Hey, what’s the knife for?”

“It’s called an Athame,” Ravenchild corrected her.

“Yeah? So, what’s it for?”

“For the sacrifice. What do you think?”

“You’re gonna kill the goat?” Becky said, horrified.

Silverfox nodded, smiling. “M-hm.”

“Oh my God.”

“Hey, Becky? Shut the fuck up,” Ravenchild said. “You’re here to observe. You’re supposed to do that with your mouth shut. Capice?”    

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you’d be killing a…” She stopped. Voices were traveling up the path toward them.

“Now what?” said Silverfox.

“Hey hey hey!” said a deep, man’s voice. “Let’s get this showboat on the rowboat!” He was carrying two 30-packs of Budweiser. Six other people followed him. They carried the smell of pot along with them.

“What the actual fuck,” said Silverfox.  

Winterhawk kissed the man holding the beer. “Hey, Tony,” she said.

“I can’t fucking believe this,” said Ravenchild, shaking her head.

The goat bleated.

The man plopped down the boxes of beer, ripped open a 30-pack and started passing out cold wet cans. “Okay! Who needs a brew?” he said. “What’d you guys bring?”

Winterhawk pulled him aside. “Hey, um, sweetie? You didn’t tell me you were bringing the whole gang.”

He shrugged. “The more the merrier, that’s my policy!”

“Yeah, well, I guess I didn’t make it clear that this isn’t actually a party.”

“Coulda fooled me,” he said, looking at the toga-clad gathering. 

“Yeah, well, anyway, we’re kinda in the middle of a ritual right now. You think you guys could hang back and mellow out for a while?”

He shrugged again. “Yeah, sure babes. What kinda ritual?”

“I don’t know. The regular kind…”

“Hey! Look at the goat!” said a girl’s voice. Becky watched as a pretty blond girl knelt beside the goat and stuck out her hand. “Does he bite?” she asked Becky.

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

The blond girl stroked the goat’s neck. “This is so cool! I used to love petting zoos.”

“Can we get started?” said one of the robed men, a skinny, twenty-something named Edgar “Wolfman” Petrovski.

“Hey, do goats really eat tin cans?” the blond girl asked Becky.

“I have no idea.”

“Excuse me!” Ravenchild elbowed the blond aside and untied the goat. She led it over to Silverfox on the other side of the fire.

“Hey, what are they gonna do with the goat?” asked the blond girl.

“Kill it,” Becky said.

The blond’s eyes widened. “What? Are you shitting me?”

Becky shook her head. “No. It’s a pagan thing.”

“But they can’t do that!”

“Quiet!” Ravenchild hissed at them.  

The blond girl pulled Becky away from the fire and whispered, “Are they really gonna kill that poor little goat?”

“That’s the plan. Fucked up, huh?”

“That’s fucked up.”

“I know.”

She stuck out her hand. “My name’s Eve by the way.”

Becky shook her hand. “Hi Eve. I’m Becky.”

“Good to meet you, Becky.”

“You too.”

“So, are you like a witch or something?”

Becky laughed. “No. I’m just here to observe.”

“You’re here to watch a goat get stabbed?”

“I guess. Sad, huh?”

“Yeah. Very. And very fucked up…” And then she said, “Come on, let’s get a closer look.”

They returned to the fire. Silverfox was standing over the goat. The dagger— Athame—clutched in both hands.

Silence descended as she raised the knife. She held it over her head for a few long seconds. Then she lowered it again. “I don’t think I can do this.”

The goat was grazing at her knees, munching twigs and pine needles. She held the knife out to Wolfman. “Can you do it?”

He looked at the knife for a moment, and then stepped forward and grabbed it.

“Hey, hurry up!” yelled one of the guys who’d arrived with Tony. He was a large, bearded man wearing a backwards baseball cap. “I’m starving.”

“Shut up!” Ravenchild told him. “We’re not eating the goat!”

“You’re not?” said the man. “That’s a fucken waste of meat. You shouldn’t kill anything you don’t intend to eat.”

“Will you please be quiet please,” said Wolfman, lifting the knife.

“Sorry, dude,” said the man after a slurp of beer.

“In the name of Diana, Goddess of the hunt and the moon and the trees, I offer this sacrifice.”

Silence. Then the fizzing crack of another beer opening.

A belch. Laughter.

Someone tossed an empty can into the fire. The backwash quickly sizzled away.

Wolfman held the knife poised over his head. His hands began to shake. “I’m not sure I can do this either.”

“What a bunch of shit!” said the man with the beard. “I’ll take care of this.” He pushed Wolfman out of the way, and then yanked a pistol out of his jacket pocket.

“Sayonara, goat!” he said and then shot the animal through the top of the head.

Eve screamed and hugged Becky, hiding her face against her shoulder.

“Jesus Christ!” said Wolfman, staggering backwards. The goat had folded, dead.

Becky broke off the embrace and looked into Eve’s eyes, noticing again how beautiful she was. “It’s okay,” she told her. “It’s over now.”

The bearded man elbowed Wolfman. “Hey gimme that knife,” he said. “Let’s get this puppy dressed and roasting on the fire!”

“Roast goat! Hey, that rhymes!” said Winterhawk’s boyfriend, Tony.

“Well, I don’t need to see this,” Eve announced. “I’m calling it a night. Anyone need a ride?” she said. 

Becky said, “I do,” and left with Eve, eager to get away from the pagan ritual. She knew the smell of cooked goat would make her sick. 

Becky left with Eve and they headed back to Bennigan’s for white wine spritzers.    

Dazed

Death is all around me. Seems like every fucking day too. Ran into a drive-by on 10th and Cherry the other night. The corpse was horribly mutilated, pierced by numerous bullets. Broken body lying scattered against a graffiti-sprayed cinderblock wall. I didn’t stick around. Saw a six-car pileup on the 405 today. Two bodies covered with increasingly red sheets. Eerie feeling, just seeing the feet stick out. One was missing a shoe. One of the cars, an old beat-up looking Dodge, had a shattered red stained windshield.

This seems to be the month for death. My girlfriend’s grandpa passed away. Two of the girls in her office lost people. One of my friends lost her cousin in a wreck. A college buddy was gunned down in cold blood–for his bike! My mother called to tell me that one of my high school friends died in a car wreck in Virginia. This girl always wanted to get married; never did. Just got engaged and jilted.

—THE PUBLISHERINTERRUPTS THIS STORY TO STATE THAT VIOLENCE OF ANY SORT IS NOT TO BE CONDONED AND ANY MENTION OF VIOLENCE, VIOLENT ACTIVITIES OR VIOLENT DESIRES IS HEREBY THE SOLE RESPONSIBILITY OF THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST, WHOMEVER HE OR SHE ULTIMATELY WILL BE—

…and you know what else he said? That cockfucker said he’d like to grudgefuck her off a mountain! Rape her, pull her guts out and eat ‘m for dinner. Now what do you think about that?

Oh, you’re back. Sorry for the interruption. You see, I don’t get to exercise full control. I don’t have sole authority and I have to deal with motherfuckers like the publisher and those other goddamn writerfuckers!

Anyway, like I was saying, last night we heard a blood curdling scream if there ever was one. Went on and on. We’re actually kind of used to them by now. It’s our neighborhood. After a few minutes, it suddenly stopped. Couple moments later and the thump thump thump of the chopper blades started FOR ONLY THE UMPEENTH FUCKING TIME THAT DAY and the spotlights shone in glaring all around and we peeked through the blinds to see the street being blocked off by the coppers and we knew it had happened again. When they finally found the body…

—WE’RE SORRY, BUT WE CANNOT ALLOW THE DESCRIPTION OF THE CORPSE TO APPEAR DUE TO ITS GRISLY NATURE. FAMILY PUBLICATIONS LIKE THIS MUST MAINTAIN THEIR VENEERS OF RESPECTABILITY… I MEAN MUST UPHOLD COMMUNITY AND FAMILY MORAL STANDARDS…—

…and it was disgusting to see but I’m sure it will dry. God knows the apartment down the hall stunk for days after that old witch offed herself, but it eventually went away and the present occupant states that only rarely does he ever smell anything closely resembling death and decay and usually he is all doped up anyway with a giant buttplug up ‘m too so it doesn’t matter.  Julius dug death anyway. He kept hoping to go in a fiery car wreck. That’s why he bought his little red Fiat. So when he did it on the 405 or the 710, it would be immediate and bloody.

But I don’t know about all that. All I know is, I occasionally get a strange sensation when I look at razorblades, especially when water is running. I’ve dreamed, you know. The walls are absolutely soaked with a mixture of cum ‘n blood. Gets kinda pasty. I wonder how you could market that? “Orgasmic Glue for a Bloodthirsty Generation?”

Ya ever seen someone get decapitated? I have. Another car wreck. Little blond girl. Friend with her. Little Volkswagen. They were probably doing about 60 on a commercial road with a top speed limit of 40. Mega-sized truck stopped in the left lane to turn. Of course, didn’t use his signal and the girls never saw it coming. When her head came off   

—ONCE AGAIN, WE APOLOGIZE TO READERS ON BEHALF OF THIS ESTEEMED PUBLICATION. THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST SEEMS UNCOOPERATIVE REGARDING THE SENSITIVE NATURE OF THIS SUBJECT MATTER AND REPRIMANDS WILL SURELY FOLLOW. WE HOPE FOR NO FURTHER INTERRUPTIONS—

… and I saw that big, fat juicy cock peeking out at me there on the beach and I wanted to suck it, lick his balls, rim him out, feel cum gushing down…

Oh shit! You’re back.

So, going back to that wreck, the car came to a stop and the look on the passenger’s face was indescribable. I went to the funeral. Closed casket. The priest gave a nice speech about what a great life she had (yeah, all 19 fucking years of it!), how quickly she went, and how she was now up in motherfuckingheaven with god and angels and that BS. I wanted to stand up and scream “You shoulda seen the look of anguish and horror on her face as it was coming off of her body and the blood flew and it wasn’t fast it was torturous and deadly and the head hung on by a thread of gristle and her friend ate her face for lunch and now her life is motherfucking ruined,” but I somehow restrained myself and left.

So I picked up a magazine the other day in some indie bookstore and it was all about death and suicide and shit like that. Question Me was the name maybe? Don’t quite remember. It had hundreds of photos of people with their faces shot off, fingers still on the trigger, and of hangings, faces purple and bloated

—WE INTER…

No you don’t! Not this time buddy. Come in here once more and I’ll bite your fucking nuts off. This is my territory, and you can’t fuck with it! Besides I want some ass. And I’m not too particular. It’s all about sets of balls cumming…

Fuck. Again?

What? Who? The reader? What do you mean? What the hell does the reader have to do with anything? A story? With action? I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible here. This is interior monologue. There aren’t any other characters. We can’t have dialogue and there’s only one way of looking at things–my way! Got it? Besides, this IS a story of sorts.

God, the interruptions. 

My creators sent me to therapy when I was young. Eleven. Everyone claimed I was too violent, too angry, they wanted to “help” me. I even got into a fight with one of my shrinks. Supposed to be caring and nurturing. Yeah, right.

I like to ramble. I go on and on about things. Meaningless, really. Don’t know why. I think I just live for that next hot flash; the knowledge of life leaving someone else, being squeezed out. Or maybe just cum being squeezed out. What’s the difference? Fear of the unknown? The power of bestowing that fear upon others. I want to pound hard, I want to crash and burn. I want to know the real fear of fear and enjoy watching others’ realization while nutting out.

I read a bizarrely fascinating story last week about some freak who went to morgues at night and would pay the nightwatchmen to let him in with the corpses. Would tell ’em that he had this ‘thing’ about reading the Bible amongst corpses, would slip ’em $50s, and would be left alone. Then he’d fuck the corpses, over and over again. In their dead cunts, assholes, mouths, entrails if he could get to ‘m. When I read this story, I was disgusted, but the more I think about it, the more titillated I find myself. I mean, if you’ve got people trying to legalize pedophilia, why the hell not necrophilia? You could really let loose! Don’t hold back; anything goes! Fuck ’em in the ear; fuck ’em in the nose, hell anywhere.

Death. It’s all around. I know a lot of people who believe that karma shit, reincarnation, you know? They say that people come back, that the bug flying around your burger could be your Aunt Hilda. Well, bully for them! They know what’s what. I say, smack the shit outta ’em! Knock those little bastards around. They want to move on to a better afterlife anyway. You’re just doing them a favor. In fact, I’m a major proponent of offing all religious types. They’re always whining about going on to the hereafter; well, help ’em along! I’m only too damn glad to rid the world of those pretentious smug fascist bastards. If they’re dying to meet their gods, who am I to stay in their way? Accommodate their wishes, say I.

And, you know what else???

OUR MOST SINCERE APOLOGIES. WE AT THIS PUBLICATION APOLOGIZE FOR LETTING THE AUTHOR’S PROTAGONIST GET INAPPROPIRATELY CARRIED AWAY. SOME WRITERS SEEM TO DO THIS OFTEN. WE HAVE PEOPLE IN THE PRODUCTION DEPARTMENT WORKING ON THIS PROBLEM EVEN AS WE SPEAK. FICTION CAN BE SO MESSY ANYWAY. MUCH BETTER TO STAY WITH NONFICTION. REAL LIFE. PERHAPS A LITTLE SELF-HELP. VERY POPULAR THESE DAYS. IN FACT, OUR COMPANY WILL BE EXPANDING INTO SOME OTHER FIELDS IN THE NEAR FUTURE WHILE DOWNSIZING OUR FICTION RELEASES. AGAIN WE APOLOGIZE; WE HAVE BROUGHT ANOTHER AUTHOR OUT OF HIDING TO TIDY THINGS UP.

Hello. I am an author. I have been procured by the above-mentioned company for the purpose of cleaning things up a bit, so to speak. We want to be reader-friendly here. So sorry about those previous intrusions. I mean narratives. I mean, oh what’s the use? Can’t pull one over on your lot. We’re all in it together. I mean, the company, the protagonist, yes, even me. We’re very…oh…well, you see, we want your business. Thus, we decided to create some sort of…well, tension. Marketing came up with it. It’s all a scam, I must say. But, we’re all adults here. I mean, can’t we all get along? Work it out? That sort of thing? Basically we all love to jerk off and that’s the experience we’re providing, if in an unusual package.

I spoke with the CEO about it recently. It’s just that the publishing industry is dying, as you know — thanks tech! Actual books are dying, magazines are dying, newspapers are long gone–all because of bits? Hexes? Social media? People don’t want to read anymore. Watching jism shoot out of a pulsating cock is where people are now.

We’ve decided to try a new business model. Rock hard XXX lit cum dumps wrapped around ultraviolence that Anthony Burgess never could compete with. After all, many think they go hand in hand and maybe all it takes will be underlying suggestions, found here, to really get people’s rocks off. Who knows? Call it a modern de Sade. And if this new model jerks er, takes off, we plan to incorporate digital, interactive – but we’re still trying to ensure this is a quality interactive experience without JG Ballarding it – but that’ll be up to readers, if so inspired.

What? Sick? Twisted? Crime? I think those’re a bit strong. Not real stories? Of course they are! Well, they’re meant to be. Plot? Of course they have one. They’ve got a characters, beginnings, and…ok, we’re working on endings.  But we all need closure in our lives. Everything has an ending. And remember that singer? That Australian group? INX-something? Think that, but like quantumed. Our goal is to make you cum so fucking hard that you’ll never want to go back to just boring kinky sex. And some might not be able to – the new path to the ultimate orgasm.

Oh yeah. Naturally this is just fantasy and we don’t and won’t actually be advocating any of this. Don’t want to read about too many disastrous incidents accompanying some personal pleasure, right? It’s fiction. But we think anyone likely found … impacted … will have the biggest damn satisfied smile on their face – if their face is still there. And that truly original high stakes Vio-Sex-game sounds like damn perfection. Doesn’t it?