Hank Kirton

Pictures of Lela

They finally found Lela at the cemetery. Her body at least. They’d been searching for her ever since she disappeared three days before. It took the police three whole days to find her and they didn’t even find her. A couple of doom-laden teenage girls discovered her. They were hanging around the graveyard taking pictures of antique tombstones, dressed in black, smoking thin cigarettes and they came upon Lela. They weren’t expecting to find dead people on top of the ground.

They looked at the body for several stunned, silent minutes and then began to greedily take pictures. They both posed with the corpse.

“Okay, look up at me. Big smile.”

“She’s starting to smell.”

“Hey, if she’s gone all rigor mortis maybe we can pose her. Like a Barbie.”

“I don’t really want to touch her.”

“Yeah, me either.”

And then they came to their senses and called the cops. They had seen stories on the news about Lela, the latest missing blond chick, and figured they’d gain local fame for finding her.

Poor Lela had a clear plastic bag over her head but when they completed the autopsy they learned that she’d died as a result of too much fentanyl. The plastic bag suggested foul play but wasn’t the cause of death. A precaution maybe? Overkill? They also found traces of semen in her deceased vagina.

The two teens, Cassie and Maggie, were questioned but they had airtight alibis. They were both working at Max’s Candle Stand when Lela met her fate and had the timecards to prove it. Besides, they couldn’t have been responsible because semen. They were dismissed as suspects. Cassie and Maggie were relieved of course, but thrilled to have been briefly suspected of murder. They both felt the experience gave them some kind of morbid credibility. Of course they were pissed that the cops had confiscated their beautiful pictures of Lela. They got a stern lecture and were told they were lucky that the police decided not to charge them with tampering with evidence.

“Homicide is not a laughing matter,” they were told.

They both had to restrain themselves from rolling their eyes.

Lela had died at the tender age of twenty-four. She had lived with her grandparents and worked as a physical therapist. Her grandfather, Roscoe (62) was also questioned as a person of interest because he had a history of violence and access to fentanyl (he had cancer in his knees and used fentanyl patches for pain) but since he was bound to a wheelchair, he was quickly omitted as a suspect.

“You got me all wrong, fellas, I ain’t violent. I just used to get drunk and beat my wife. Because of my bad legs I can’t even do that no more.”

“Domestic abuse is not a laughing matter,” he was told.

Eventually, they determined that Lela had committed suicide, choosing the cemetery as some kind of black ironic statement. Those who knew Lela were shocked and puzzled:

“She was an upbeat, people-person.”

“She was so cheerful and could light up a room. A real people-person.”

“She was a people-person. Nobody ever saw an anguished side of her.”

“It’s tragic whenever you lose a people-person.”

There was a tiny local radio station (WZIP) in town and the morning DJ, who went by the moniker of Lizard P. (nee William Zecker) was notorious around town as a womanizer and heavy drug user. He bragged about his sordid exploits on the air. He was the little town’s own shock-jock/morning-zoo type celebrity. He was fifty-two years old and wore a brown, curly wig and gold medallions.

Acting on a hunch, police sampled his DNA. When the results returned from the lab, they found it matched the semen from the crime scene. They brought him in for questioning:

“Yeah, we had sex together. But it was totally sensual.”

“I’ve never even seen fentanyl let alone kill somebody with it.”

“You guys want me to confess to something I didn’t even do! At least accuse me of something I did do! That I could understand!”

Eventually they had to release him due to lack of evidence. He went on the air, called the cops “pigs” and threatened a lawsuit. Most of the folks who listened to his show thought he was guilty and his ratings plummeted.

Eventually, Lela’s death was officially ruled a suicide and the case was closed.

Zeke Vorte (38) lived one town over, in Headly. He lived alone, enjoyed sports and opioids, and got away with murder. Again.


From Everything Dissolves

Matthew Licht

The Swinging Bikers

Geezer wanted my wife, I wanted his. So there was no problem, except our wives weren’t interested.

Wait, that came out wrong. Our wives were interested in sex, but not swapping.

They didn’t give any reasons when we asked why not.

We routinely got nude and had sex in front of each other. We even got married together. But whenever we suggested mixing things up a bit, the ladies acted like we’d hurt their feelings.

Geezer and I discussed the situation at Mother’s, a roadhouse.

“We either find some new old ladies,” I said. “Or sneak out with some looser ones.”

“Forget that. Lurleen once saw me glance at another woman, and I didn’t care for the look in her eye. Foolin’ around leads to lawyers, and lawyers lead to the loss of our hogs in the divorce battle. We have to convince the girls that swapping’s cool.”


“Maybe I have the answer.”

“Far out. What is it?”


“C’mon. That’s like vitamin D, for those two.”

“The Satan’s Scamps bro who sold it to me said it’s special stuff. He did mention there might possibly be side-effects.”

“We’ll worry about side-effects afterwards.”


Next evening, we rode up Crested Skull Hill. We entered the cave that made the left eye-socket and threw down our stuff.

A full moon shone on spent condoms, empty bottles and roaches from parties past.

“Big treat tonight,” Geezer said, as he smoothed out an old blanket on the cave floor.

“Whatcha talkin’ about, Geezer?” My wife Babette sounded suspicious.

“It’s uh, hard to explain.” he said.

Lurleen, Geezer’s wife, said, firmly, “No needles.”

“Calm down,” Geezer said. “This is a special occasion.”

“Oh yeah?” Babette sounded even more suspicious. “What special occasion is that?”

“The anniversary of when I realized Lurleen was the only one for me.”

“Is that true, honey?” Moonlight glinted off a tear in Lurleen’s eye.

“Naturally, my love.”

“Aw, ain’t that sweet,” Babette said, unconvincingly.

The pop of beer bottles seemd to reassure her. Clink, clank, clunk, we drunk to true love, and then the ladies took their pills.

Geezer and I must’ve stared.

“Hey! What’s going on?” Babette said. “How come you guys aren’t…”

The stuff kicked in fast. Babette licked her chops and lunged for Geezer. He giggled as my wife tore down his pants.

Lurleen fell to her knees. I felt like crying.

Life was different. The world had changed. Heaven was real.

Spent, I hugged Lurleen tight. “That was great,” I said.

“You aren’t done yet, clown.”


“I need more.” Her voice was deep, hoarse. Purple searchlights shot from her eyes.

“Gimme a minute to recover. Let’s smoke a joint or something.”

Lurleen punched me in the face, hard, twice.

She shone her lavender eye-beams across the cave floor. “Hey Babs, has my hubby got anything left?”

Geezer had his mouth full. He was playing for time.

“Are you joking?” My wife pushed him away.

“In that case, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Let’s go.”

“But girls,” Geezer sounded meek. “Just a…”

Babette smacked him. His head spun. He fell down and lay still.

“Get the keys to their bikes,” Babette said.

“You can’t handle that heavy old hog. Please…”

The world went black. Life was painful. The ladies riffled through our leathers, then a pair of motorcycles rode off into the night.


Geezer helped me up after what seemed like a long, long time. He was shaking, bad.  “Can you believe it?”

“I was there, wasn’t I?”

“Well, we got what we wanted, didn’t we?”

“Right. Now how’re we gonna get home?”

”Walk, I guess.”


Two Death Jesters gave us a lift on the main road. Riding behind some greasy slob gave me a new perspective on Babette’s existence. I resolved to be a better man, and buy her her own bike.

The guy shouted over the wind. “You guys headed to the gang bang?”

What gang bang?”

“At Mother’s. Couple chicks gone completely crazy.”

“Oh. Far out.”

There were many bikes parked out in front of Mother’s, and more headed in from all directions. Whoops and hollers split the air. My ‘48 Knucklehead was crashed into a garbage dumpster. Geezer’s Indian was ploughed into a car parked out front.

We pushed our way inside. Bikers swarmed like a cloud of leather flies around our wives, who were having the time of their lives. There was nothing to do but wait in line and watch.

“Uh, look man, that’s my old lady there,” I said to the dude ahead. “Mind if I cut in front of you?”

“No way, bro.”

Geezer tapped my shoulder. “That stuff has to wear off sometime.”

As soon as it was our turn, it did.

“Help! Rape! Somebody call the cops!”

The guy behind us said, “Oh yeah, I’m a cop.”

The guy standing next to him said, “Me too.”

Everyone else scattered. The cops clobbered us with their billy clubs, and snapped on the cuffs. A paddy wagon came. Tires squealed, sirens wailed.

Did our wives press charges? You bet your ass they did, bro.

Judson Michael Agla


My head was pounding like pistons from a giant antiquated machine; gears grinding, metal on metal. I was sitting on the shitter attempting to exhume whatever ill-advised mass I had consumed the night before. I was all cramped up from the exertion, and I just couldn’t launch this unwanted guest out of me and into the bowl. I was trapped; bent over in the fetal position, experiencing the most horrific of torchers, I kept squeezing and my guts kept cramping. Then the moment finally came when I could feel this titan move its way towards the exit; I could feel its massive girth, and I knew I didn’t possess an adequately sized orifice that this monstrosity would require, FUCK! 

The crowning was the worst; I was sure that it was splitting my goddamn ass apart, the pain was unbearable and I screamed at the top of my lungs “KILL ME NOW GODDAMN IT”, and in that moment feeling like I was shitting shards of glass, I did want to die. Release came shortly after as this creature of doom gained momentum from its weight and came blasting out with the velocity of a fucking rocket; it splashed down into the bowl causing a tsunami in its wake, soaking my ass and everything within a two foot radius around the bowl. 

I fell off the throne onto the dirty wet floor with a feeling of relief that I never thought possible; I think I could have slept right there if it wasn’t for the hammers still vibrating in my skull, yes, the ebbs and flows of last night’s debauchery began to evidence themselves once again after that demon shit finally left me. I had to take a look before flushing; had to see this abominable ass-splitting freak of nature that had almost destroyed me. FUCK ME! I’d never seen such a dark ominous mass of evil ever before; what in all living fuck did I consume? Aside from the insane viscous mash of processed shit, there was evidence of things one could not fully transform through the miles of highways of the human intestine; there were indiscernible pieces of fucking metal and plastic, half dissolved cigarette butts, there was even a fucking memory stick, fully intact, and little square black buttons from some keyboard, JESUS FUCK! What the fuck happened last night? Did I eat a fucking computer? I had to lay there covered in shit-water and writhing in pain; any move would bring on a dizziness that would start up a perpetual retching that could go on for hours, and I couldn’t fucking handle any more wretched fuckery or I’d surely die right then and there. 

So I laid there, cold and wet, holding my knees to my chest, head pounding with blood and shit still seeping out of my ass, a perfect time for reflection, a perfect time to assess my lifestyle and the misadventures that evolved from it, but there wasn’t anything new; I’d been living on this insane edge for far too long now, there was no change in my future. If there was, it would have happened already. I was too old to change; the damage was done, I couldn’t leave the world of the weird, my good decision-making skills dissipated into smoke and flames long ago. There was no straightening up and fighting back the demons still inside; boredom and legalities stunk like fuck to me, I wanted the paranormal, the dark voodoo fuckery type magic, I wanted to walk with the dead, wanted to fuck the dead, wanted to see how far I could take my mental illness, see how bat-shit crazy I could get. I wanted to feel a raven’s talon as it sunk into my shoulder, ripping my flesh with a frozen sense of fiery pain. I wanted to pull the night shift on the Rivers Styx; give the boatman a break, and maybe learn something nautical for a change. 

Kiki Von Kristmass

Failed Aesthetic

Dave was asleep on the studio floor in a nest of soiled porn mags and empty lager cans. His face lay drooling into the polystyrene box of a half eaten kebab.

His brain was yet unaware of the hangover awaiting it caused from a heavy night of absinthe and 7up cocktails. 

A sickly smell emanated from one of the corners of the studio where a pile of vomit had been lazily mopped up with someone’s still life studies.

The door of the studio creaked open.

It was Mike. The only other person Dave shared a studio with. 

There had been others but they had soon requested a transfer on the grounds of 

the duos intolerable ‘loutish’ behaviour.

They were quite the double act having already earned a reputation as enfant terribles and it was only the second week of term. 

Mike and Dave had decided in the pub one evening to become artists. Not because of a sudden flash of inspiration or a desire for self-expression but because of a post they had just seen online.

It concerned a female artist who knitted jumpers for child refugees from wool she had stuck up her vagina beforehand. Some of the jumpers were even embellished with splatters of menstrual blood.

Of course these jumpers were not given to the refugee children. 

The piece was intended as more of a catalyst for debate as opposed to a direct aid donation. No, the jumpers were in fact brought by art collectors for several thousands pounds a piece. 

“Seven grand for a jumper smeared with fanny blood!” Mike exclaimed over his pint of lager. “It would take me half a year to make that!”

The next day they got a book on contemporary art from the library and proceeded to laugh their way through the entire thing.

Colourful dots, unmade beds and childish scribbles. It was without a doubt the greatest con of the 21st century, and they wanted in. 

Though they didn’t have an academic qualification between them they managed to get into the prestigious Slagg School of Art by merit of  a promising portfolio alone. 

Dave submitted a film entitled I like England and England Likes Me. It consisted of filming himself for three days while he laid about on his couch smoking weed, eating kebabs, and wanking whilst in the company of a Staffordshire bull terrier.

It was a directly inspired by Joseph Beuy’s 1974 performance I Like America and America Likes Me, although the Beuy’s original had far less wanking in it.

The tutors viewing the work considered it a highly sophisticated and ironic comment on the original. Though they couldn’t quite agree on what exactly the comment was, it was no doubt something very clever to do with Beuy’s penchant for self-mythologising and its modern equivalent seen in the creation of idealised avataristic selves on social media.

Mike went for the minimalist angle. By taking a series of photographs of piles of breeze blocks on a building site he had been labouring on during the summer. 

The tutors were sceptical at first, but then someone suggested the photos must be in reference to Carl Andre’s 1966 work Equivalent VIII, whose controversial acquisition by the Tate in the 1970’s had provoked nationwide ridicule and had brought into question the very value of modern art itself.

One of the faculty suggested that by reverting the positioning of the work from the white walled gallery space of the original to the more proletariat setting of the common building site he was creating a tension between two discourses, an encounter which subverted both of them. 

Their admission into the Slagg School of Art was also helped by the fact that they were both working class and hadregional accents. This alone fulfilled the art schools diversity quota for that year.

Now that they had successfully blagged their way into art school they planned to spend the next three years pissing their grants up the wall while banging their way through an endless line of eager and willing art fanny.

“Oi” Mike shouted

Dave opened a bleary eye to see Mike standing above him armed with a water pistol.

He squirted it into his face. Dave sat up sputtering, there was a foul but familiar taste.

“Bastard!” he shouted. It was unmistakably piss. 

Dave jumped up and swung for him but he deftly dodged the clumsy swipe and gave Dave another squirt in the face before dashing out of the room.

He ran down the stairwell and into the one of the 3rd years studios on the ground floor.

Dave was close behind.

As he swung the door open Mike was lying in wait firing another shot of warm piss straight into his eyes.

Dave charged blindly at him tackling him to the ground, they fell back knocking over an easel and landed in a mess of oil paint and turpentine.

There was a scream. 

“What are you doing! You’re behaving like hooligans! This is an artists studio not one of your common building sites!”

It was Genevieve. A notoriously stuck up 3rd year. Her shrill upper-class voice cutting through the air.

They stood up, red faced from their scolding and helped to righten her easel.

She screamed again. A tube of red oil paint had burst and had leaked paint all over the surface of the canvas.

“My painting! You’ve ruined it!” 

Dave hurriedly fumbled with a rag trying to wipe off the paint but only proceeded to smear red across the entire thing. 

She burst into tears.

Dave and Mike looked helplessly at each other. 

She sat back on her stool. Staring in horror at the ruined canvas.

“I’ve been working on that thing for weeks!” she said “I’ve been so busy that I haven’t had a decent shagging in ages, not that I ever get one. My boyfriend may be 9th in the line to the throne but he’s hung like a sea horse and can’t seem to get that harder than an over cooked baby carrot”

She dried her eyes and looked up at them.

“Maybe I could do with something a bit…rougher” she said her eyes falling on the large bulge in Mikes joggers.

They looked at one another.

Genevieve may have been an up stuck up toff but she was also a quality piece of art gash with a cracking set of knockers!

“You two can make it up to me by taking it in turns to eat out my cunt”

Mike jumped to work and within seconds had whipped down her jodhpurs and had her toff art twat in his mouth.

Dave’s large hands fumbled clumsily with the tiny buttons of her paint smeared smock.  She grew impatient and ripped it open for him revealing her large milky white breasts. Taking one in his hand he suckled at the pink nipple, taking it between his teeth and nibbling at it. She moaned as Mike lapped eagerly at her cunt while Dave gnawed away on her tits.

After a few minutes they swapped places, Mike manning the nipples as Dave got to work on her slit.

He reached onto her desk and pulled down a handful of bushes. He worked the thick handle of a palette knife into her pussy while he rubbed her clit with the soft hairs of a Winsor & Newton No. 7 sable, which was also good for fine line work in watercolours and acrylics.

He juicy twat was now so wet it was dripping onto the paint splattered studio floor where it had begun to form a puddle.

“I want some of that filthy oik cock!” she said after several orgasms. She pushed them off and on her knees. Unzipping them in turn and pulling out their meat. 

Mikes penis was long and thin, pale white with a shiny red helmet in contrast Dave’s was short but thick, dark brown and crowned with a purple helm. They nodded in approval at what each of them were packing.

She gave them each a quick blow job before bending over the stool. She grabbed Mikes buttocks and pulled him towards her. She licked his balls while she worked his shaft with her hand. 

Dave went behind. Gobbing on her twat and getting it ready for a pounding.

“Yeah, give me that filthy common cock! You proletarian piece of shit!” she said looking back at him.

She was so tight it took him a while to slide it in. The tip of his helmet stretched open her beef curtains before it slowlyentered her depths.

She gasped as she felt her shores widen.

“Call me a whore!” she demanded.

“Whore!” he said

“No, no, with a dropped h!”

“’ore” he repeated slamming it up her 

“Talk dirty to me, tell me something…common!”

He thought for a moment.

“I sometimes dip oven chips into hummus”

She wailed like a banshee as she orgasmed.

“More…more” she pleaded.

“I mix absinthe with seven up…”

She came again, even harder.

“I pronounce the German artist and influential member of the Bauhaus School Paul Klee’s second name Klee instead of Klay”

Her pussy tightened gripping his rod as she shot off several simultaneous orgasms at once. Warm art slag cum trickled down her legs, like the clear juices from when a roast chicken is safely cooked.

She now took Mikes cock into her mouth. Working the entire shaft down her oesophagus as expertly as a sword swallower. 

As he fucked her mouth he squirted the piss filled water pistol into her face. 

“Fub my arf!” she said gagging on the cock thrusting in and out of her mouth.

Dave pulled his cock out of her wet twat, his purple helmet glistening with pussy juice. Spreading open her pale ass cheeks he looked down at her tight little arsehole. 

He tried to stuff his helmet into the hole but it wouldn’t go. He was far too big and she was way too tight. His guess was that she had never had anything up there before. Or if she had it had been so insignificant that it hadn’t loosened it up for anyone else. All the girls Dave had ever arse banged from back home had had gaping purple sphincters from years of taking it up the shitter from an early age.

He looked around and finding a bottle of linseed oil he poured some on her tiny hole while he oiled up his shaft.

Grabbing her shoulders he forced himself in.

She let out a shriek and surging forwards she eclipsed the entirety of Mikes long dong down her throat so his balls were squashed against her chin. She gagged and pulled back to avoid suffocating, leaving a string of slimey mucus trailing from her mouth to his nut sack.

As she retreated back she impaled herself onto Dave’s thick cock forcing it half way up her guts which pushed her forwards again onto the cock rammed halfway down her gullet. She slid between these two extremes, being stretched and gagged at either end.

She really was caught between a rock and a hard place!

Dave looked at her painting. He tried to make out what was underneath the smear of red.

“So, what’s your work about?” he asked.

“The failed aesthetic in painting” she said taking the cock into her cheek so she could speak.

“So, deliberately shit painting?” 

“mm hmm” she mumbled her mouth full of sausage once again. 

“That’s really clever” he said “I wish I’d thought of that”

She mumbled a few words which the lamen wouldn’t of been able to decipher. Luckily Dave was an expert in translating gagging-on-cock into English. He took the words to mean: “Get back to work!”

He returned his attention to the job at hand and the vice like sphincter gripping his cock.

Her anus was the tightest thing he’d ever been inside. It was so tight he imagined himself pulling out to see his knob transformed into solid diamond by the extreme pressure of her sphincter. 

He wondered how much that would sell for.

Damien Hirst’s 2007 diamond encrusted skull sculpture For the Love of God had sold for $100, 000, 000. 

Imagine all the lager, porn mags and kebabs I could buy with that! He thought to himself.

The idea of a priceless shit smeared diamond phallus was enough to send him into orgasm.

“Shit, I’m going to cum!”

“Do it on my painting!” Genevieve screamed.

He pulled out just in time, the tip of his cock smeared in steamy hot shit.

He emptied his balls all over the painting and then scraping the shit from his cock he applied it to the canvas with a palette knife. 

After a few more violent thrusts Mike also pulled out and made his contribution to the work. 

For good measure he also squirted the remainder of the piss onto the canvas.

The dark umber hues of the excrement complimented the lighter tones of the almost lemon yellow urine. While the semen had mixed in with the red oil paint to create a subtle range of mid toned pinks.

They stood with their arms around each other looking admiringly at the canvas.

“Wow” said Mike who wasn’t much of an admirer of that abstract painting bollocks but this one he really dug.

“It’s…wonderful!” Genevieve agreed.

At the graduation show that year, a famous wife beating art collector acquired the work for several thousand pounds.

A few days later Dave and Mike found a gift wrapped bottle of vintage Pernod Et Fils absinthe in their studio. 

The promptly downed the bottle in pint glasses with 7up and went into town where they banged a couple of local fisherman’s wives under the jetty.

Joe Surkiewicz

The Shit to Lose Weight Diet: Its Decline and Fall

Every trend has a beginning, although it’s not always easy to trace. 

Take the Hula Hoop craze. 

Eleven-year-old Suzanne Miller of Alexandria, Virginia, blew off flute practice and was experimenting with an abandoned barrel stay in front of her house. She was spotted by Marvin J. Truland as he drove to his job at a plastics supply company, where he appropriated some decorative, half-inch plastic tubing, and made appropriate adjustments. 

The rest is history.

Yet the recent, nationwide obsession with defecation had its start in a less innocent way. 

The Maritime Journal, the premier magazine of the shipping trade, had commissioned an article on the dead weight tonnage reduction of a supertanker–and the subsequent efficiencies that resulted–after a makeover in a Dubai shipyard. 

Boring stuff, unless you’re in the business of transporting oil. But the editor, whose name is lost to history, made a fatal error when posting the article online. Instead of “Ship to Lose Weight,” the title came out (you can see this coming) “Shit to Lose Weight.” 

Like the Hula Hoop, the rest is history.

How could this happen? Wouldn’t a person reading the accompanying article about structural changes to a million-gallon oil tanker realize it was an innocent typo, rue the pathetic state of copyediting, laugh and move on? 

As any media expert will tell you, fewer than two percent of readers (“readers”) get beyond the headline, never venturing to the small squiggly marks neatly arranged in columns that fill the space between the pictures.

The article, or rather the headline, went viral. 

Within days, an entrepreneurial freelance writer, Udo Boltz of White Plains, New York, published an ebook on Amazon, “Shit to Lose Weight: The Eat-Whatever-and-How-Much-You-Want Diet That Really Works!”

Momentum started to build. Boltz, now fabulously rich from his instant bestseller, made appearances on the morning network news shows. Taking a crap was coming out of the closet as millions of viewers contemplated the new diet, all of them wondering why they hadn’t thought of it first.

“It’s really simple,” Boltz explained to Oprah. “It’s just a matter of speeding up the process between your lips and your anus, and really letting go.” On Joe Rogan’s podcast, he said asshole.

Soon, shit was on everyone’s lips. 

Major follow-up trends included a move to outhouses after indoor plumbing and the convenience of six bathrooms in your typical suburban McMansion was perceived as outré. Portland, Oregon, led the pack, as outhouses began popping up in leafy yards and along streets, especially those designated as bicycle routes.

The outhouse craze moved down the coast to San Francisco and L.A., then leapfrogged across the country to Atlanta, D.C., the Big Apple, and even Boston, where solar arrays dwarfed the crappers hidden under a frenzy of light-seeking panels. 

Like most trends, it skipped over the Midwest, leaving Chicagoans puzzling, as usual, as to why they were left out.

Outhouses evolved into status symbols, and ranged from the rustic (paneled in wood recovered from abandoned Vermont barns, but still with de rigueur features like heated seats, air conditioning, flat screen monitors and WiFi) to the ultramodern (clad in sleek, gunmetal gray titanium sheathing, solar-paneled and voice-activated).

As the country began to shit itself to svelteness, sub-trends proliferated. Toilet paper tanked as back-to-earthers embraced techniques and tools used by earlier generations—for example, damp forest floor fauna, except now it had to be imported from Ecuadorean rainforests. 

Sticks with charred ends made an unexpected comeback. Online debates raged over the advantages of oak versus maple, with softwoods like pine and cedar dismissed as only suitable for children and the elderly.

Competitive shitting wasn’t far behind, with elaborately wired outhouses utilizing integrated cameras, digital scales and space-age digital aroma analyzers to determine whether your morning effort could be a winning entry. 

Weight and length, for sure, could snag your turd’s immortality (and a first prize!). But other factors, like firmness, color, texture and funkiness were all included as competitors posted their results online. Points were accrued based on thumbs up/thumbs down votes from a nation of intrigued shitters. 

The culminating event was the annual finals held in (where else?) Baltimore, Maryland, where champion defecators gorged and produced results on live television (also available streaming).

With the growing realization that everyone shits (and it’s okay!), efforts to establish a top tier of human defecators reached fruition: an obsession with celebrity shit. 

A new wing to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland, Ohio, enshrined the preserved turds (the process a closely guarded secret) of the rich and famous. The honor roll included the discharges of Hilary Clinton, Paris Hilton, the aforementioned Oprah, and Jeff Bezos. 

The infamous weren’t forgotten, with their own wing offering the preserved eliminations of Jeffrey Epstein, Mark David Chapman and Vladimir Putin on loving display, like those of the famous, in tinted glass enclosures bathed in sodium vapor lighting.

Alas, like all trends eventually must, the shit-to-lose weight fad lost momentum. Then, the coup de grace came when a rival trend, the urination diet, gripped the nation. 

Its genesis? A bored Google censor bot, just for fun, pushed a literary website to the top of all its search results. 

Within days, everyone wanted to piss wine into an ocean of alcoholics.

Amory Paul

the vulva in your bedroom wall

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.

Kevin M. Flanagan


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.

Shawn Berman

Stuck At the Bar

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. 

Joe Surkiewicz

The Maltese Chickadee

Private eye setup: A seedy office, a dozen stubbed-out cigarettes in the brass ashtray stand, a bottle in the bottom desk drawer. The usual. 

How did I get here? Early retirement from the police? Thrown off the force for graft? Maybe an ex-military cop? 

Ha, none of the above. My path toward becoming a shamus on the wrong side of town was, to put it mildly, a little unusual.

I made enough to retire, a real bundle, after selling a crime-solving app to police forces across the country. Not that I developed it. No, I’m not that smart. But I went to high school with an IT genius who is. 

The guy’s a real computer geek. A certified neurotic with no people skills. And selling to cops is tough. Way too tough for a guy who routinely gets into shouting matches with store clerks and waitresses.

That’s where I came in. With my years as a cops-and-courts reporter, then later flakking for a medium-sized police department, I knew the lingo. It got me a fifty-fifty deal with my abrasive high school buddy with a multi-million-dollar idea.

See, I knew how to tap dance my way into the hearts of cops who have seen it all. I knew how to break through the stoic, tough-guy veneer. I knew how to pull rank as a last resort, and I had learned enough about crime solving to show how the damned app worked–yes, iPhone or Android, take your pick. 

And the app does work. Plug in the crime scene info, snap some pics, fill in as many blanks as you can, and it instantly coughs up a list of probable perps. 

That’s not all. It lists jurisdictional problems–say, theft under five grand is a misdemeanor unless you make the pinch in the next county where it’s a felony. Or it tells you it’s a civil, not a criminal matter, stop wasting your time. 

The big breakthrough was when the IT genius added voice recognition. Cops with clumsy fingers can just bark into the phone. With that problem licked, it doubled the solve rate, which really got the brass’ attention. 


I sold packages to big city police forces, rode shotgun to show cops on patrol how it worked, solved a few robberies and the odd murder. I learned a few things about crime detection while getting rich.

Never heard of the crime-solving smartphone app for cops, you say? 

Damn right you haven’t. Cops don’t want civilians to know that their success rate in solving big-city crimes is due to a smartphone app developed by a dope-smoking college drop-out and a cops reporter who sold out early and went to work for The Man. It might give the wrong impression.

Once a few big city police forces signed on, the damn thing sold itself by word of mouth. It was like writing a bestseller. The royalties kept flowing in. I sat back and watched my bank account get fat.

Then boredom set in. Ennui, which is French for boredom with money. Financial security, I was learning, isn’t enough. How many sixty-inch flat screens can you own? I got restless. 

Then it hit me. With my recently honed crime-detection skills, I could serve a niche that I had unwittingly created: Solving the crimes that don’t interest cops and the app doesn’t work for–low-level outrages against humanity that don’t rise to the level of state prosecution. Outrages, I might add, that bore cops silly. 

A lot of it is typical private eye stuff: Is my wife really going to yoga three times a week and why is she always too tired for sex? 

Why is hubby coming home tanned from twice-monthly business trips to Seattle and is always too tired for sex? 

What happened to my silver dollar collection? Was it swiped by that worthless ex-boyfriend who only comes around when he’s broke? And is never too tired for sex.

Then there’s not-so-typical private eye stuff. Cyber crime. Identity theft. Blackmail resulting from phone sex. Not sex with a phone, exactly, but the hormonal rush of sending a picture of yourself in a compromised position to someone who may not ultimately have your best interests at heart. 

You know, a man.

I’m in my office. The phone hasn’t rung in a week. The afternoon sun had descended far enough that I had to either get up and pull down the shade or swing my feet over to the other side of the desk. That’s when the door opened. 

A swish. A dame. Va-va-voom.

She stepped into my office, a hand on one hip as she took it all in.

“What a dump.”

I put down my smartphone, tilted my fedora back, and swung my legs off the desk. I pulled open the bottom drawer. 

“It’s the maid’s week off,” I said, pulling out a bottle and two shot glasses. “Actually, she’s been off since 2010.”

She parked a curvaceous haunch on the corner of my desk and watched as I poured. Mid-thirties, the hem of her skirt hiked up her thighs, a tendril of straw blonde hair dangling over one eye. Not big-boned, exactly, but shoulders like a swimmer. And breasts like…

“Here’s mud in your eye,” she said. Then sipped, smiled, and sipped again. “Single malt. I was expecting something a little less smooth.”

I drenched my tonsils with the entire shot, got up and went to the window overlooking, well, not the San Francisco Bay Bridge. It was a scene about 3,000 miles to the east, the alley behind a Thai carryout on the wrong side of a beat-to-shit East Coast city. 

With my back to the gash, I looked down at a collection of dumpsters and wind-blown trash. Sometimes I could spot a rat. 

“What brings a class act like you to a place like this?” I said, surveying the squalor. “Don’t they have private dicks uptown?”

I heard the rustle of fabric as she stood. 

“I deserved that,” she said. I heard her smoothing her skirt. In my mind’s eye I saw her brushing the tendril out of her eye. “I’ve watched The Maltese Falcon too many times, I guess,” she confessed.

“Sorry, lady, but you can’t watch that movie too much,” I snapped. I opened the lap drawer and pulled out a fresh yellow legal pad and one of the better disposable ballpoints I save for paying clients. 

“In the detecting business, when your partner is killed, you’re supposed to do something about it,” I said. “It’s Existentialism 101. How can I help you?”

She parked her curvy behind on a chair and leaned forward. “It’s my boyfriend. I think he’s cheating on me.”

It took a conscious effort not to roll my eyes. “What makes you think…?”

“It’s the little things that only a woman would notice,” she said. “The phone rings and when I pick it up, no one is there…”

“You have a phone? Like, connected to a landline?”

“Uh, no, you’re right. I think I saw that in an old movie.” She stiffened, drawing a little clutch purse to her midriff with both hands. “But if you don’t believe me, how can I earn your trust? What else do I have to give?”

I picked up my empty shot glass and flung it across the room. It shattered against a small figurine of a black bird.

“You’ve done nothing but lie to me since you got here,” I snarled, pointing to the window. “Out there, a pack of assistant district attorneys are combing the city, their noses to the ground, ready to swarm all over me. How much money have you got?”

“Just under five thousand…”

“Give it to me.”

“I’ve got to have a little to live on.”

“Sorry, lady, you’ll have to hock something.”

The fat wad looked to be all fifties. She snapped the bills like a bank teller as she counted them out. 

A light went on in my head. “You work in a bank?”

She pushed the pile of cash into my hand. “Not exactly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? Either you work in a bank or you don’t.”

“It’s the family business.”

A first. I’ve never met someone who owned a bank. 

Another hunch: “Does the boyfriend work there?”

She nodded. “Until Daddy fired him. He wouldn’t tell me why.”

“Does the boyfriend have pictures?”

Her brow furrowed. “Pictures of what?”

“Look, doll, I’m low on shot glasses to throw for dramatic effect. Does he have pictures of you in states of undress? Or of you and him doing the nasty?”

She extended her lower lip and blew the tendril out of her eye. 

“Get serious. We’ve got a website. Ever since Paris Hilton went viral with her doing it doggy style…”

“Is that how the upper classes amuse themselves these days?”

She ignored my uncouth comment. “What’ll be your first move?”

“The usual.”

“You mean…?”

“It comes complete with diagrams on page 47 of How to be a Detective in Ten Easy Lessons, correspondence school textbook.”

“You’d think there’d be an app for that,” she murmured.

Shawn Berman

The Most Bangable Marvel Movie Characters

It’s a question as old as time: which Marvel character would I rather bang? No matter how many times you ask me this, I’m never prepared. 

I run through a list of potential superhero suitors in my head. I immediately cross off Bruce Banner since I feel like he wouldn’t listen to my needs and it would just be a terrible experience all-around. I also fear that he might snap halfway through and I’d be done for.

I recall the one time we were in Union Square, and a tiny green dude dressed up as the Hulk threatened to beat us up if we didn’t give him $40 for a picture he snapped of us after he stole our phones while we were eating lunch. That day we learned our lesson to steer clear of the mascots in NYC altogether. They’re emotionally unpredictable.

I then tell you, that if I had to choose, I’d do Captain America. Not only does he have a nice butt, but he seems like he would be a gentleman and call a cab for me in the morning then text to see if I got home okay. 

You snicker, disappointed with my answer, and tell me I’m vanilla, predictable, and that personally you prefer your heroes to have a little more grit to them. That’s why you’d bang Thanos because he’s so fearsome. So strong. You’re convinced that you would be his queen and the world would be yours in no time.

I laugh at the thought of you and Thanos being the ultimate MCU power couple, people clamoring for autographs, companies begging y’all to sponsor their space guns on Instagram, the eventual reality tv spinoffs getting made.

But the more i think about your choice, the more I’m convinced that Thanos would be boring in bed, and he would most likely just lay there like a dead fish, making you do all the work. That’s why, in my mind, Ant-Man is the obvious answer when it comes to most bangable.

One of the coolest things about Ant-Man is that he can shrink down to microscopic size. I feel like that would be a desirable trait for a partner to have, especially since they could easily sneak into a bank and steal mad money without anyone noticing.

Imagine how life changing 1 million dollars would be?

Probably not that much because I’d quickly spend it all on something stupid like trying to revive JNCO Jeans or lose it in a bitcoin trading scam. 

It’s a good thing this reality will never happen. Way too much responsibility for an idiot like me to handle but I have no shame in admitting that so it’s whatever. I guess Thanos it is.