Massive Retard Dong

Mrs. Awaited the next thrust, laying on her back in the bed as the massive strange dick rammed deeper into her.

“Choo-choo!” he said as he thrust.

“Aw yeah! FUCK yeah!” Mrs. responded.

“I’mma choo-choo in’a tunnel!” he said.

“You’re goddamn right you are!” Mrs. said as she grunted in ecstasy.

Had she been paying attention to anything but the fourteen inches of idiotic dong slamming into her, she might have heard her husband’s car pull in the garage, the front door slam shut, the footsteps coming up the stairs, the out loud complaint of, “You didn’t sweep today either, huh, you lazy bitch?” and the turning of her bedroom doorknob.

(Note from author, at this point while writing the story I received a phone call from a crying person informing me that my grandfather just died. I immediately continued writing this)

The door opened, and in walked Mr. in his sweat stained suit and tie. He stood, looking at the googly eyed, drooling imbecile that was mounted on top of his wife. They both blinked as they looked at each other.

“I’mma choo-choo!” ‘tardy said.

Mr. stared at him in disbelief, then looked down to his wife.

“Um, yeah….he’s a choo-choo. Hi hon.” she said and gave him a meek, guilty half smile.

Mr. blinked once more, then in a flurry of motion he jumped onto the bed, swinging a wild flailing punch into train boy’s left eye, then a knee to his chest, knocking him off his wife, off the bed, and onto the floor. Mr. jumped on top of him, sinking his knees into choo-choo boy’s shoulders, pinning his arms down, as he unloaded a tornado of punches into his dopey face.

Now bloody, still smiling, Mr. grabbed train boy by the neck, pulling him up as he stood, shaking him so that his oversized retarded head rattled like a bobble head. “What do you got to say now, motherfucker?” Mr. growled as he squeezed tighter.

“Ugh…” train boy grunted in pain. “Choo…choo…” he struggled to say, as his blood dripped out of his mouth.

“Oh yeah? Well can trains fly, huh asswipe?” Mr. growled in fury, as he dragged the boy over to the bedroom window, flung it open and tossed the poor ‘tard out.

“choo…CHOO!” Mr. and Mrs. heard him scream as he flew downwards, followed by a wet and boney splat as his head collided with the concrete driveway, cracking open and scattering what scant brains he had.

Mr. turned and glared at his wife with accusing, furious eyes.

“So…how was work?” Mrs. asked, sheepishly smiling.

“You fucking…” Mr. growled, shaking his head in fury. “…How could you?”

“Aw, come on hon, I mean…I just met him at the park, and he liked talking about petting zoos and coloring books and I thought that was sweet,” she said.

“Oh my god…” Mr. said, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples.

“And it’s like, I saw that thing just bouncing around in his pants the whole time…and I dunno, I just couldn’t help myself!”

“What…what thing?” Mr.’s eyes snapped open.

“You didn’t see it? I mean, that fucking mong was packing at least fourteen inches, probably more!” she said, her eyes becoming wide and she held up her hands as if measuring a fish to give him a general idea of the size.

“Really?” He said and blinked. He turned around and looked out the window, down at the body now laying in his driveway, the pool of blood forming around its crushed retarded head, and the prominent fourteen inch erection still strongly protruding from its crotch.

“Jesus,” he said.

“Yeah, I mean, sorry hon but I can’t just pass on something like that!” Mrs. said. “I mean, and I thought real hard about this too, but I don’t think it’s considered cheating if it’s with a retard!”

He pulled his head out of the window, reluctantly ripping his fascinated gaze from the magnificent retard dick in his driveway, and looked back to her. “Huh,” he grunted, mulling her reasoning over in his head.

“I mean, he was basically just a dick with a tiny little brain attached to it. Like, it’s not cheating if it’s with a dildo, and I bet you most dildos have a smarter brain working them than he had! So come on…don’t be mad!” she pleaded.

“What uh, what was all that about choo-choos?” he asked.

“Oh that, well that’s how I had to explain it to get any sort of a decent hump out of his dumb ass,” she said.

“Hmm,” Mr. grunted, as he looked back out the window at Dumbo’s giant erect dick which was finally starting to deflate as the blood drained out of his crushed head. “You think umm…umm…well….I guess it’s a shame he’s dead now cause like…” he said.

“Well, I mean, we could find another one, I did a little research online, most of them are supposed to have big retarded dorks like that,” she said. “Why, what are you thinking?”

“Umm, well, I was just like thinking….I dunno, I mean…it’s…it’s not gay if it’s with a retard, right?” he asked.

“Oh, no way! Totally not!” she said.

“And uh….we can kill the next one too, right?” he asked.

“Oh no problem, yeah! I mean I don’t think it’s even murder if it’s a retard either!”

“And uh…let’s get Chinese too,” he said.

“You want a Chinese retard?” she cocked her head in confusion and asked.

“No! Chinese food! How the hell do you expect to find a hung Chinese retard? You dumb bitch!” he said.

“See…now this is exactly what the therapist is always talking about. I’m working with you here, I’m negotiating, I’m actualizing your needs, and you are always downgrading my worth!” she started up with the dumb bullshit she learned in therapy.

“Ok whatever, shut up!” he cut her off. We’ll talk about it later, let’s just go fuck and kill another retard then get Chinese food, before it gets dark!”

“Ok hon,” she smiled. “Oh, you want to see if we can find one named Chu?”

He glared at her.

“Aw come on, that was funny! Ok screw it, let’s just get going,” she said and off they went. K, whatever, done, finit, enfin, I got to go to a goddamn nursing home and look at a dead old man now, later.

Squeaky v Clem

(Catskill New York, 1969)

(SQUEAKY)

She sees the masses fluttering around her, sharing one face, and just one brain. Charlie referred to the type as “untapped potential”. He could tap them, he would have tapped every last one of them. All of them here, in one place. This was supposed to be it! “This is where Charlie would have saved the world”, she thinks about the audacity of sending GOD to the penitentiary. Her enterally polygamous matrimonial king. His orders, delivered to her through neuropathic Morse Code.

Before her awakening, before meeting Charlie Squeaky would have been another body-in-the-face here. Just dancing and doing drugs without realizing that she was already a drug. Getting fucked in a Portopotty by two deaf Amish runaways, while Jimmi Hendrix plays the National Anthem on his electric guitar. Using words like “groovy” without the slightest bit of malice. But Squeaky met Charlie. He fed himself to her, and she consumed him. She would be his wife, and his other wives were her sisters. Her sisters brothers, were her brothers. She had a big close-knit family. When her brothers and sisters were murdering Sharon Tate and the ‘Anti-Christ’, Squeaky was giving Charlie a back rub/footjob hybrid, and taking short breaks to feed him grapes. When Charlie was apprehended, Squeaky Manson carved an ‘X’ into her forehead, and shaved every hair off her body. Squeaky could no longer touch Charlie, but she could always hear him; and she talked to him.

Squeaky is not here for the peace, the love, or the music. She is here to be an exterminator. This is not the summer of love; it’s the summer of the dead rat.

(CLEM)

He started taking LSD regularly in high school. After dropping out, Clem made a promise to himself that he would be a rockstar. Clem would sleep only once a week, spooning his guitar. He lived his life in a semi-coherent autopilot. Clem woke up one morning, and he was a part of a cult. He was an accessory to murder; and when he got arrested alongside Charlie, and is brothers and sisters, he knew where Shorty’s body was. Shorty’s body was buried at the Spahn Ranch, near Venice Beach. While coming down off a two-year acid binge in the slammer, Clem had the divine realization that he was not cut-out for prison. He ratted on everybody, for everything he could recall. They let him walk.

Clem immediately ghosted his parole officer, took a mouthful of LSD, and headed for the Catskill Mountains, in a vanful of vagabonds he met at the park. Clem thought that Woodstock would be the perfect reset-button for his soul. He would woo a female or two with his guitar-playing, and finally be recognized as a rockstar. “By day-three of the festie, everybody will be so in awe of my talent. Word will spread, and they’ll probably invite me up onto the main stage to open for The Who”, the spun-out space-case thought to himself”.

Clem approaches a group of five half naked flower girls covered in mud. He attempts to serenade them by strumming three out of tune chords in an off-tempo manor, and singing nonsensical lyrics he wrote about a turtle and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich he ate once. Clem keeps his eyes closed while preforming, visualizing dancing pixies and dolphins spitting rainbows out of their blowholes. When he finishes his song and opens his eyes, the girls were gone.

(Clap! Clap! Clap!)

Clem turns around to see one female that he never wanted to see again. Squeaky is facetiously applauding Clem’s terrible song. Clem’s eyes open wide enough to tare a hole in his face, and he turns pale.

“Clem! Clem! Clem! Long time no see, baby brother. I’m surprised to see you here. Hmmmm, you know… shouldn’t you be in prison, Clem?”, Squeaky asks.

“Oh, Hey sister! Um, no. Nope. No! Prison? No, not me. They (uh) determined through (uh) legislation and shit that I was innocent”, Clem says, shaking in his tye-dye.

“Innocent? You? Ain’t that special.”, Squeaky says with a smile. Squeaky tells Clem that they’ve got some catching up to do, and to follow her to her car. Clem tries backing out, stating that he was just here for the music.

“Don’t even think about running away from me, Clem. Family’s everywhere, we are never alone”, Squeaky says sternly. Clem looks around and sees the one sinister face of Woodstock 69. Did Squeaky come alone? Clem sees assassins everywhere he looks. His paranoid bare feet follow behind Squeaky’s bellbottoms covering her bare feet. Two distinct sets of footprints in the mud. Nobody’s wearing any fucking shoes.

Squeaky coheres Clem into a stolen blue Punch Buggy and forces him to eat another 10-strip of LSD, without much resistance on that end. She drives off the dairy farm that hosted Woodstock, and up a twisty road, into the Catskill Mountains. Dusk is setting, and the pink and black skyline memorizes Clem, who is riding high, as it gets ever darker, and the Punch Buggy ascends. Squeaky lectures her brother about loyalty for the whole ride, until the car reaches an inconspicuous flat. She parks and removes a revolver from under her seat. Squeaky spins the chamber, locks it into place, and as Clem screams in terror, Squeaky puts the barrel against her own temple, and pulls the trigger… click

“God is disappointed in us, baby brother. He said that one of us betrayed him. He said it was one of us. One of us, baby brother. When God is upset with me, it makes me feel like garbage. Even when I did nothing wrong. It makes me want to kill everything! He told me that this is how he will know for sure who the traitor is… Your turn.”, Squeaky rants at Clem, while handing him the revolver.

Clem is now living in a cartoon world of melting darkness penetrated by satellite rainbows. He subconsciously follows orders, spinning the chamber and locking it in. If he pointed the gun at Squeaky, and pulled the trigger, he’d of had a one in six chance of blasting a bullet through her bald head, ditching the body right there and the car at the bottom of the mountain, and then hitch hiking back to Woodstock… But if he played Charlie’s game, he reckoned that he could prove to his sister that God was wrong. Then he reckoned that she’d have to except the possibility that maybe Clem is God. Then he reckoned he’d be jamming with The Beach Boys, have 100 wives, and then Clem would be the Son of Man. Clem sticks the barrel of the gun to his temple, and tells Squeaky that he’s always loved her.

(BANG!)

Squeaky tosses Clem’s carcass off a ledge, and deep into a canyon, where he was eaten by mountain lions, who ended up tripping balls and having a shared identity crisis. She drove back down the mountain, and returned to Woodstock, allowing Charlie to view all that untapped potential through her vicariously.

Six years later, Squeaky Manson pointed a gun at Gerald Ford, and attempted to assassinate him, wounding a secret service agent. She was paroled after serving only 34 years in prison.

WE BOYZ NO MATTA WHUT, MY TINY LITTLE SON!

Yo, like Poe, I was drinkin’ a cask of amontillado.

With on-fleek boyband music rising up the hill from the amphitheater below, I held the cask high to take a deep draught as I watched a beautiful girl dancing on the twilit grass—barefoot and nymph-like; pale, lithe arms waving and weaving like albino serpents; shoulders swaying; white daisies and baby’s breath woven into long, lush, black hair plaited in an arabesque waterfall braid; pomegranate-like breasts sheathed in the wispy chiffon of a boho-chic dress, breasts jiggling a jig all their own.

One of the girl’s friends took her by the hands—they spun each other around, heads tossed back, laughing with Dionysian abandon.

Deep in my cups—or cask, I should say—I struggled to maintain balance as I pedaled my dank unicycle over to these girls, my cask of amontillado balanced precariously on my head as I focused all my energy on avoiding an embarrassing topple onto the ground. But I’d seen and shared enough Dat Boi memes on Facebook over the years to know that I’d be okay so long as I held out my arms like the wings of an aeroplane.

I rolled up to the raven-haired girl just as she and her friend unlocked fingers. Not one to waste time, I commenced pedaling circles around her; just as the male peacock parades its tail feathers to capture the attention of the female, just as the male sea turtle circles the female in a courtship dance, so did I show off my sick uni skills. The girl danced on, though now she turned with my revolutions, following my orbit around her heavenly body with a wary sidelong eye.

Her smile vanished; she was all arched eyebrow and unimpressed duckface now.

Damn, I thought. Best pull off a sick uni trick real quick or your gonna let this one get away, slice. So I attempted a 180-degree hop-spin. Now, had I successfully executed the trick, I would’ve segued into pedaling backwards, and the shit woulda been hella sick. But like I said, I was FRIGGIN’ INEBRIATED. As such, I tumbled mid-spin, landed hard on my ass, the cask of amontillado breaking apart as it struck the ground, spilling its sweet, golden contents out into the grass like a cracked egg.

The girl and her friends laughed and pointed at me as I sat there on the ground looking reeaaaal dumb, my cheeks hot and ruddy with embarrassment. Grimacing, I pounded the ground three times with the butts of my fists so damn hard it hurt. The girl then caught me off guard when she came forward, bent down, offered me her hand. I took it in mine, pushed myself to my feet.

“Um, can I, like, get you a…a dead sewer rat from Afghanistan?” I blurted.

Just as I finished uttering this ridiculous sentence, I executed a loud, smacking facepalm. Christ, I thought. Really, dude? That was the best pick-up line you could come up with? Can I get you a dead sewer rat from Afghanistan?

“Um, I think I’ll pass on the dead sewer rat from Afghanistan,” the girl said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. “But I might settle for a cask of amontillado.”

This made me grin ear to ear. Actually, if you want to get all technical about it, it made me grin even broader than ear to ear; in fact, I grinned so broadly that the corners of my mouth continued moving up past my ears, rising behind and above my temples, traveling up the sides of my head until they met at the top of my forehead, at which point my face fell the fuck off.

But who the hell needs a face when you have a dank uni, sick uni skillz, and a big-boobed hot honey at your side, eh?

After I remounted my wheels—oops, wheel, I mean—I took the girl’s hand in mine, and together we descended the hill to the concessions area, her walking, me pedaling. We got in line at the cask of amontillado stand. After I bought us each a cask, we moved in closer to the stage to check out the band that was playing—a boyband called WE BOYZ 4-LYFE comprising just two members. One member was an armless old man—dude had to be at least ninety—who banged at the bloodied keys of a rickety, old upright piano with his equally bloodied, abraded forehead. The other member of WE BOYZ 4-LYFE was a dead sewer rat from Haiti. It lay perfectly still (and dead) on a drum stool placed at the center of a huge, sprawling, forty-piece drum kit. However, because it was deader than a dog turd sealed in a dog turd-sized coffin, set on fire, and dropped off the Eiffel Tower, the rat couldn’t play drums for shit (or play any musical instrument for that matter [or, for that matter, do anything]), which meant the music of WE BOYZ 4-LYFE consisted entirely of the old man’s discordant, insanity-inducing piano noise—song after song after song of it.

I must say they were quite good. Certainly one of the best bands I’ve ever seen—boyband or otherwise. Nevertheless, after a few songs, we wandered away from the stage toward the surrounding woods where we could better hear ourselves talk.

“You know you left your face back there on the hill,” the girl said after hoisting her cask of amontillado up for a sip.

“Oh, yeah?” I retorted with a scowl, sounding an awful lot like Moe from The Three Stooges.

“Yeah.”

“What’s it to ya?” I said in the same petulant tone.

“It’s nothing to me. But it’s something to you. It’s your face!”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s it to ya? Oh, a wise guy, eh?”

“Listen,” she said, halting and turning to face me. “Why don’t we skip all the niceties, unicycle boy: you wanna get your mitts on these tits or what?” She squeezed her breasts together, expanding her already ample cleavage.

“Um (gulp),” I uttered, wide-eyed. “Yeah, I guess I sorta do.”

“And would you like to peel the frilly pink panties off this heart-shaped ass?” she asked, slapping said heart-shaped ass for effect.

“Er, yes, I suppose I would.”

“Then get me a dead sewer rat from Afghanistan.”

“What? Now hold up a sec, shorty. I already asked you if you wanted a dead sewer rat from Afghanistan. You said no, remember?”

“A girl has a right to change her mind. Get me a dead sewer rat from Afghanistan, or I’ll have nothing more to do with you ever again.”

Shit, I thought. As far as I could tell, the only place I could get a dead sewer rat from Afghanistan was, well, a sewer in Afghanistan.

“Alright. But if I do go all the way to friggin’ Afghanistan to get you a dead rat, where can I find you when I get back to America?”

“My address is 124 Conch Street, Bikini Bottom.”

I scrawled the address on a gum wrapper, pocketed it.

“Well, I should probably get going,” I said. “Looks like I have a long trip ahead of me. I don’t even know how I’m going to get over there. I may have to join the military or something. Hopefully I won’t get killed in combat.”

“Good luck, unicycle boy!” the raven-haired girl said, clasping my hand for a moment before turning away, laughing as she ran back up the hill to her friends.

***

After barely surviving boot camp, I did two back-to-back three-year tours in Afghanistan with the U.S. Army, 76th Infantry Brigade. The sewer rats there were damn near impossible to hunt or trap, and they tended to cannibalize their own dead, so that it was not until the end of my second tour when I finally got my hands on one.

When I arrived back in the States with two Purple Hearts, two missing arms (got too close to a grenade blast during an ambush just outside of Kandahar), a nasty case of PTSD, and one dead Afghan sewer rat, the first thing I did was try to visit the raven-haired girl.

It didn’t take me long to figure out I’d been punked.

Punked hardcore.

See, turns out 124 Conch Street, Bikini Bottom is the address for fucking SpongeBob!

😡

Man, I still can’t believe I fell for that shit! Alack and cursèd be the day I was born!!

***

Six months after I was discharged, the raven-haired girl came to visit me at my home.

“Hi. I heard you were back from Afghanistan,” she said after Higginsworth, my muscle-bound butler, brought her into my parlor. Her face glistened with tears. “I’m sorry I tricked you. I was just having a little fun. I didn’t think you’d actually risk your life to become a soldier and go all the way to Afghanistan to get a sewer rat just to hook up with me. I…I hope you can forgive me. And maybe…maybe we could, like, still go out some time?”

“Sorry, dollface, but you’re a little late. I guess you didn’t hear. See, after I got back from Afghanistan and realized you’d tricked me, I decided to start a boyband. We’re called BOYZ ON FLEEK 4-EVAH. I’m the piano player. I play the piano with my head. The other member of the band is the dead sewer rat I brought back from Afghanistan to give you. He’s the drummer. He plays a motherfucking fifty-piece drum kit. Well, he doesn’t actually play it ’cause he’s dead as dogshit, but who cares? Him being dead didn’t stop us from signing a ten-million-dollar record contract with Sony BMG just last month.”

“You’re in BOYZ ON FLEEK 4-EVAH?” she asked, her mind completely blown. “You guys do that song ‘I Banged Like Ten Supermodels Today. What the Hell Did U Do Today, Nerd? I Bet You Shit Your Lime-Green Nerd-Pants and Then Cried Like a Tiny, Little Bitch!’”

“Yup, that’s us.”

“I love that song! You guys are like the hottest thing right now!”

“Yeah, I know. Hey, you know what? I’m actually sort of on my way out the door right now. See, we’re about to kick off the North American leg of our world tour. Sorry, but I’m gonna have to ask you to scram.”

The girl wept anew. “I’m sorry for how I treated you, unicycle boy. I love you! Please take me with you!”

“You had your chance, dummy. Higginsworth, please show this little trollop to the front door.”

Higginsworth grabbed the raven-haired girl by her arm, dragged her away.

I never saw her again.

Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.

Humph!

***

As you might well imagine, over the course of the next year, while I toured the world with my boyband, I nabbed more ass than a goddamn Chinese zoo! But after a while, the rockstar life began to wear on me, and I found myself longing to be a soldier again. So I reenlisted, and my superiors granted my request to be put back on active combat duty despite me no longer having arms. Fitted with custom-made boots that contained retractable spring-loaded blades in the soles—thereby allowing me to fight with my feet—I was shipped off to Iraq, where, within four months, I managed to get both my legs blown off.

After recovering from these horrible injuries for three months in a U.S. military hospital, I asked to be sent back to the warzone. Due to my exceptional record of valor and the great physical sacrifices I’d already made for my country, my request was immediately granted. This time they shipped me off to Syria and provided me with a high-tech combat wheelchair controlled using a mouth-operated joystick.

Not one month into my tour of duty in Syria, I rolled over a landmine, blew my torso and wheelchair to smithereens. Luckily, the medics got to my bodiless head in time to connect it to a newly developed, high-tech blood circulation/respiration system specifically designed to keep bodiless heads alive. So, reduced to nothing more than my head, I was sent back to the States to convalesce in a military hospital.

Do you think that getting physically reduced to a head kept barely alive on life support finally took the fight out of me?

Hell no, it didn’t, my tiny little sons!

After a few months, the Army granted my request go back into the fray. Perhaps you’re wondering what possible good could a head kept barely alive on life support do in a combat situation? Again, we must thank the wonders of modern medical science and the latest advances in military technology, as the Army custom-built a motorized, armored, weaponized unicycle for me designed with a sophisticated gyroscope system that kept the thing upright at all times so that I never had to worry about keeping balance myself. In order to ride it, my head was placed into a high-tech, armored, weaponized helmet that locked onto the seat. I controlled the uni with a mouth-operated joystick system integrated into the helmet. Let me tell you, that battle uni was friggin’ awesome, and when I rolled into motherfucking Somalia on the damn thing, I fucked some serious shit up for a while.

Unfortunately, not a month into my tour of Somalia, my sick uni and I were vaporized by a nasty roadside IED. With my head now gone, all that remained of me was, well, nothing. Nevertheless, the Army sent my nothing back home to the States to recover from its injuries.

So, now reduced to nothing, do you think I was finally ready to retire from military service?

Fuck no, I wasn’t, my tiny little daughters and nieces!

Again, and despite me being nothing but nothing, the Army granted my request to continue to serve my country as a soldier. As such, they put my nothing on a plane to friggin’ Liechtenstein of all places (unfortunately, the scenic, little Alpine microstate had been recently invaded by friggin’ Haiti of all countries).

Care to take a guess at what my nothing did to help fight those crazed, machete-wieldin’, Voodoo-hexin’ Haitians after my nothing arrived on the bloody, smoke-billowing battlefields of Liechtenstein?

It did nothing.

Because, unfortunately, when you’re nothing, all you can do is nothing.

As such, my superiors had no choice but to fly my nothing back to the States and give it an honorable medical discharge, which, if I’m going to be completely honest about it, was fine by me, as I was getting kinda bored with the soldier life by that time. What I really wanted to do was get my boyband back together, go on tour again, and get back to nabbin’ more ass than the goddamn Bubonic plague.

So as soon as I arrived back in the U.S., I tracked down my old drummer—i.e., the dead sewer rate from Afghanistan. Unfortunately, while I’d been away fighting baddies in exotic lands, he and the former drummer of WE BOYZ 4-LYFE (the boyband that played the festival where I met the raven-haired girl) started a new boyband called WE BOYZ NO MATTA WHUT, MY TINY LITTLE SON!

What did a boyband consisting of two drummers—one a dead sewer rat from Afghanistan, the other a dead sewer rat from Haiti—sound like? Well, as both members were deader than dried-out white dogshit, neither was capable of making any sort of sound at all, so that every one of their songs was nothing but three or four minutes of silence. Nevertheless, WE BOYZ NO MATTA WHUT, MY TINY LITTLE SON! was friggin’ huge, selling out dozens of stadiums and arenas all over the country during their first U.S. tour.

Anyhow, I begged the dead rats to let me join the band. I tried to tell them that their music was already nothing, so what harm could possibly come from adding my nothing to their nothing, right? But the rats wanted nothing to do with my nothing because, being deader than dirt, they were incapable of wanting or not wanting anything.

Then that smug, ungrateful, self-important, putting-on-airs, crooked, backstabbing dead Afghan sewer rat was all CRAW! SLAW. KRAW? SLAW! CRAW. SLAW? KLEET KLEET KLEEK CLEEK? m32hdsafd34saklfjdsklafjiojdsiofjdo73afjiowrjeq9fgirj390ghr392gnri9032gnr924n3g9r4n290gKdsanr8gn04fg0ri3nq2fi903emfi90jn34i9fnfg943jng904jn23g90ijn4230gj40235fhg93j0423jg5042j3g054tg54jt045jt90j45390t45902jt9045j5t9g04jt905j490tj4390jdnzsvnseyruiodanfnwue9rfn243nrgvn249ith892nghru94nhgu89rndsfjnkedwofgri9thj45hg542h3g9r4h239fg5rh4392gh594hjgi50w4jgio0r4jmf89ntu4m89thnr89wfhc8nrh43tf8mh4gh3g5hj3mt5j3890tj5490tj43yjjdtj92r3ut8943wjf9rhj329rhj39wfhr893hj9r8h3g89rh9grh89ghr89hgr894h3g89rhefmnwogrnweiognri90g90rewgi90rjgr4tg94gj9t4h3g895h48923gh4892ghr84h2g89h84325435432

THE END THE END THE END THE END THE END THE END THE END THE END

In Defense of the Belt

It was the night John Woodman knocked out Kyle Bradbury in Las Vegas, a stunning head kick half way through the 2nd round. In Chicago the rain was lashing the pavement just as hard, pounding relentlessly on the grey, miserable streets of the town, and we ducked into Bobby’s bar to get dry. Taking off our soaked caps and plaid shirts we swiftly ordered a round of Guinness and dropped into a nearby booth recently vacated by a trendy young couple and proceeded to warm our bones.

“A round of shots, too, Bob!” I yelled. I was amped up and eager to talk.

The result of the fight had left me feeling angry and depressed. I had wanted Bradbury to win. Not just because I’d had money on him to do so, but because Bradbury was great. I believed in greatness, and I always wanted it to endure. He had been the champion for over seven years. I hated to see some things come to an end.

“I thought he had him in the 1st” Joe was saying, swivelling in his chair to hang his jacket on the back, rain dropping steadily and forming a small pool on the floor.

“Bullshit, had him in the first! Bradbury was in total control until that kick, had him beat all ends up on the ground.”

“It didn’t look that way to me” Stu said, leaning back as Bob set his drink down in front of him.

“Yeh well” I scowled, quickly downing my shot, “you weren’t watching properly, then.”

“Yeh.”

I sat staring blankly straight ahead for a second. “It was a hell of a knockout, though” I mused thoughtfully to no-one in particular. It really had been.

We got to talking hurriedly and excitably the way guys always do over sports, each one’s voice getting louder than the last. From over our shoulders, the doors swung open, letting in a blast of wind and rain and noise from the traffic on the street, shutting it all out just as swiftly as it let them in when they fell shut again with a tight, heavy clang.

It was really coming down out there. Four young women walked into the bar and looked for a place to sit. They were still perfectly dry under umbrellas, immaculate makeup and expensive macs. Their carefully crafted exteriors had been preserved. Ordering a bottle of expensive red wine, they sat in the only vacant booth left in the place, right next to ours.

“It’s such a shame we didn’t get to ride this morning. I had Bessie all ready to go. She’d looked tired these last few days. She’d even been off her hay.”

“What time is your writing class tomorrow, Jane?”

“Not until four-thirty. I think we’re going to go in a bit squiffy, Trent and I. You know, for the experience.” She began to giggle.

“That is so decadent of you” the one in the tight grey sweater squealed. They all began laughing and giving each other high fives.

We had been watching them the whole time, the title talk put annoyingly on hold. Joe, a guy who would fuck a puddle if he could, leaned into their table and pointed at me.

“You should talk to my friend here,” he winked. “He’s a writer. Just had his debut novel published last month.”

The four women, who had turned their perfect ponytails with a look of contemptuous dismissal at Joe, now turned with sudden intrigue to face me.

“Gosh” one of them exclaimed, the lead one, the one that was pretty only in a bland and generic sort of way. “Really?”

I was annoyed. I didn’t want to talk about writing. I wanted to talk about the god damned fight.

“Yeh” I replied, feigning politeness. I knew Joe was only using it as an excuse to talk to them with a view to joining their table and then seeing where luck would take him. I wasn’t remotely interested in any of them and looked back up at the screen above the bar that was showing interviews with both fighters. The place was too loud and crowded, though, and I couldn’t hear a thing.

“My name is Jane. This is Emma, Grace and Chelsea. Are you at the University, too? Which class did you take?”

“Class? I, no… I didn’t take any class” I replied distractedly, eyes turned to the screen.

“’Didn’t take a class’?” she repeated with a sort of condescending tone. “How on earth did you become a writer, then? Chelsea, have you heard this?” she scoffed disbelievingly, nudging her nearest friend.

Chelsea had heard, and was looking at me for the answer. Joe was still leaning forward expectantly, like some dumb mutt on heat. If ever a dog pissed against the wrong tree, he was it. Joe was the kind of guy that would roll the dice on any girl he met, figuring there was nothing to lose. But there was. There was always something to lose. He had no chance with women like these.

“Yeh come on” he begged desperately, “tell us how you learned to write.”

I squinted viciously at him and he slunk back in his chair. “Well” I huffed in mild irritation, my voice now strained as I turned back to these awful women, “I got beaten down low, lower than you can possibly imagine. Then I got kicked and beaten. Then I got kicked and whipped some more. Then I had a drink and thought about it for a while. Then I began to write.”

Stu laughed and sipped his drink. Joe looked perturbed; what was I doing??

The one called Grace looked at me with anything but. She was the ugliest one, for what it was worth. Quite big, too, with a cruel little slit for a mouth and ears that sat unevenly on her doughy head. Her mother must have named her ironically, I thought.

“Why do you think that qualifies you to be a writer? It makes you sound more like a bum.”

“Why do you pay thousands of dollars to be taught something nobody can teach?”

I hadn’t wanted an argument, but it was clear it was going to go that way. These women were crude morons with all the charm and grace of finding a hair in your food. They had an air of superiority about them I’d never liked in anyone and showed my friends unnecessary rudeness and disdain. I had seen their kind before. A bunch of spoilt, supercilious bitches who thought money was the answer to every question. I was in a bad mood already. I took another drink, warming nicely to the fight.

“Can’t teach?” Jane scoffed. “Why, of course you can! I got 67% last year on my creative writing module. This year I got 80%. So clearly something happened in between.”

I could hardly believe it. Had I heard it right? Did she really just say that?

“Of course something happened” I said, turning to face her properly now for the first time, my eyes boring into hers. The intensity of my gaze caused her to look away. “You wrote more in line with the rules and the guidelines set down by your teacher and the governing body”, I continued evenly. “That’s what happened. Like a seal that picked up a pen. Surely a girl like you is perceptive enough to realise that much at least?”

I grinned and took another sip. “Not to mention you pay them thousands to attend. They’re hardly going to fail you, are they?”

“Well if a sportsman didn’t have a coach he wouldn’t improve. It’s the same thing.” She was turtling up, getting defensive. She looked flustered and annoyed. Some stand and fight until they’re soaked in blood and there is no battle left to fight. Others don’t have the stomach for it and you can usually tell one from the other right away. These were people incubated in whatever passed for polite society. They had never struggled or been challenged in their lives. Nobody had ever told them ‘no’ or deigned to disagree with them. “It’s the same as anything else” she bleated haughtily.

“No, it isn’t” I snapped. “Writing isn’tthe same as anything else. Writing isn’t a sport. It’s a blood sport” I hissed dramatically, grandstanding now, toying with this soft, easy prey.

“You can’t be taught how to do it in a classroom any more than you can be taught how to rip a man to shreds with your teeth. Any more than you can be taught to eat his flesh and wash it down with wine. No great writer ever paid to learn his craft. You read a truckload of books, live fiercely, remain open and receptive to life and new ideas, then write violently with passion and fire in your gut. You read, you write, you mean it. That’s it. That’s all there is. No tricks, no workshops, no courses.”

Stu grinned and rolled his eyes. I was laying it on thick for sure.

“That’s a naïve point of view” she scoffed back, flailing now for a crutch. “The lecturers provide ideas, tips, structure and feedback…”

“Why aren’t they great writers, in that case?” I cut in. On the screen they were replaying the fight from the start. “If they’re teaching it then why have I never heard of them or seen their books on the shelves? Ernest Hemingway never taught a writing class in his life. Nor took one.”

“I disagree! I’m doing English and creative writing and the workshops are incredibly useful and give you tools to help you create much better stories.” She seemed indignant, petulant, pouting, like a child deprived the pony she had been promised for Christmas. She looked as though she might burst into tears at any second.

“It leads to generic stories, writing where everybody is taught to write in a similar way, according to ‘grades’ and ‘rules’. Whose rules? Writing is not mathematics. It is not a science. All anyone has to do is live, read and unleash their own voice. And either a person can do that or they can’t. I may be a good writer or an average one, but whichever it is I got there on my own, I didn’t pay someone to do it for me” I sneered with all the contempt and bile a person can hold. I loathed these people.

It was too easy. She didn’t have the heart for it. She wasn’t used to not getting her own way and had bitten off more than she could chew. My bad mood was lifting now, though I still couldn’t hear what the hell Bradbury was saying up there about the head kick. Had he seen it coming? Did he rate Woodman now? Did he want his belt back?

She sipped her wine, tried to gather herself and play it cool. “Writing takes practice and guidance like anything else. You wouldn’t become a world-famous sportsman without a coach and mentor, no matter how much you watched other people play. Also, the lecturers frequently have books or articles published. I can give you a list.”

“Spare yourself the trouble. The practice you talk of lies in reading incessantly and writing over and over again until you become good at it. Like I say, nobody taught Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald. Aren’t they generally considered to be some of the best writers of all time. Am I right? Similarly, writers who made a huge cultural impact, such as the Beats or Hunter Thompson, were not ‘coached’. It’s an art and you have to work hard at it. But like Henry Miller said, in the end you either have it or you don’t. I’m not trying to denigrate your course, talent or lecturers; I just can’t see how an original, passionate voice comes from being told how to write in a classroom or lecture hall. The key to any great art is passion and hard work, not ‘tools’ and rules and grades. It isn’t in knowing your allusion from your anthropomorphism or knowing when it’s ‘supposed’ to be used. Those are just terms one could get from a dictionary in any case. Knowing them and how to invoke them does not make a great writer, in my opinion. And if it does, it’s nothing one couldn’t pick up from reading a plethora of books and authors for themselves.”

“Then why do any degree at all?”

“Because you can be taught to be most things, almost everything in fact. But I don’t believe being a writer is one of them.” It was getting tedious now, and I wanted to bring it to an end.

“Some would argue you can’t be taught ruthless business savvy, or how to paint exceptionally well or how to get the best from people and manipulate them. Some people are naturally more talented than others but if you think critiquing and learning, and studying and analysing the way other people write and their process is a waste of time then please carry on.”

Her cheeks went red with rage at that point, and I knew I had her. Joe had long since given up and was talking to Stu about who would win in a rematch of the fight if it were to ever happen. I was eager to wrap this shit up and get back down to business with them. I ordered another round of shots in anticipation. Then I turned back to the girls who were finishing off the last of their wine.

“I didn’t say it was a waste of time. Nothing pertaining to literature that you love is ever a waste of time. I said one can’t become a great writer by taking a course. The history and list of great writers seems to bear that out.”

“Well there are students who took the course that have been published. Numerous times.”

Right! Numerous times. I only had one book out. Take that! She was getting better, I had to admit, like a blind kitten gamely pawing at a ball of wool. Maybe there was some fire in there after all. Maybe there was hope for her yet.

“I’m not talking about being published, neither the lecturers nor the students. Anyone in this day and age can be published. Anyone. I’m talking about being great. There are few if any great writers who took a writing course and there are few if any lecturers who are great writers themselves. That’s my point. That’s just a fact.”

She had begun pulling on her coat.

“Come on girls” she said to her motley clan of nouveau rich troglodytes, “I don’t know why we ever stopped in this horrid bar in the first place.”

“You’re welcome” I said, raising my glass as they prepared to head back out into the rain, their world views a little more rattled than before. They wouldn’t take it on board, though. People like that never do. They strode right past us in single file, not even looking as they left.

Fuck them, I thought victoriously. I turned back to face the screen.

That head kick landed flush again.

Bradbury went down in a heap.

There was a new champion in town.

You Think You Have It Bad

Let me just tell you…

Back in the day, leaving our house was a dangerous proposition. There were the snipers. In the bombed out remains of our neighborhood, even collecting the groceries became a life or death toss of the dice.

Running from my front door to the cover of the concrete carcass of the house next door, was an adrenaline rush. The shooters were not well-trained, just regular Joes, and Janes, so their aim was abysmal. The trick was not to run in a straight line, but to zig zag, throwing them off. Pop, pop, pop. Brick dust would spurt up like ghosts as bullets tested my footing on the rocks and debris. For many years my sniper was Mrs. Groom from three houses down. Paranoia and firearms make for poor friends. Her son was a soldier in the war and was killed early in the conflict, while out one night in the red light district. Blind drunk with friends, he realized too late, that the pleasurable sensations from the glory hole in the club were actually performed by a very professional St. Bernard, and stepping back in shock, he lost his balance and slammed his head on a urinal killing him instantly. The military gave him a full burial, with honors, and the boy left behind his mother, and a funny story. You have to laugh, don’t you?

The old bitch, Groom, tagged me in the leg once and it hurt like a bastard. My Mom slapped me across the face as I wailed in pain and told me to “act like Grandma.” That old piece of gristle fought in the war, while carrying a M16 in one hand and Granda’s testicles in the other. She said they brought her luck. Grandma was six foot five, missing two fingers from each hand from a polar bear attack, and she was known for her thunderous voice and what looked like an Adam’s apple

Once reaching cover, the next move was to the big oak tree. Loved that tree, with its truck like hard scaly leather. The oak was sacred. No one shot at the tree. The natural world was unexpectedly respected in all the rubble and it became a shelter in the grayness. As long at the squirrels were in a good mood. If not, you had to move like hot piss from razor sharp claws and gnawing dentures. The war changed them, man. It changed us all.

From the oak, I would sprint down Willow Street. Here the gangs let me know I had crossed into their territory by barking like dogs. The Shepherds were the loudest and the worst of the street gangs. In his late teens, my brother Daniel was caught on Merkin Street and had to fight one particularly flamboyantly dressed member of the gang. The two fought on all fours. If you stepped into the Shepherds’ territory, you fought by their rules. My brother got in a solid bite to a thigh, ripping away some flesh. He never did lose his taste for blood and spandex. We kept him in a cage when he acted up,  throwing prime rib and leotards at him to chill him the fuck down. The only reason he didn’t die that day was because of the bear. Just wandered into the scene, off territory, and tore my brother’s opponent in half like a white chocolate bar with a strawberry center. We legged it home while the big bastard was occupied with his crunchy feast. We played the odds every day.

The more violent gangs in the area slept late most days, so the odds of survival were on our side if we slipped through Willow, Merkin, or Mahone streets a little after dawn. In the quiet you could sometimes hear them snore, belch, and make love. The Shepherds eventually went co-ed when walking and sitting became a major drawback to instilling terror. Their women fought. The men stayed home making yogurt and quilting.

Next was Idiot Street, because only an idiot would attempt to use it. Problem was, my expedition time could be cut by 50%, shaving a roundabout journey by 60 minutes. Most people are idiots, so the street got a lot of foot traffic. All you had to do was leg-it faster than the bears. At any given time, 60 grizzly and polar bears staked out Idiot Street hoping to devour a slow runner, usually some poor bastard with shite cardio.

My father died on Idiot Street. Two mating bears on the second floor of a crumbling building that formally housed a music store which only sold records made by hard core Mormon boy rap band, Brigham Young Thugs (I know. One hit wonders,) upon seeing and hearing my father drunkenly stagger down the street, using every mammal insult known and unknown to man, pulled out from the other male bear he had mistakenly been injecting with his seed, and leapt from the building, landing squarely on my arse-hole father. The bear died instantly and messily, but my father lasted a couple of more days. Throughout (the family came down to have a gander), all he craved was more alcohol and the phone number of an obese 70s porn actress named Ezra Pounder.

I needed to get about 10 yards down Idiot Street where I would crossover into Mohel Terrace, where a cut through allowed me to avoid the crabs on Culchie Road. Although the crabs on Culchie Road were badly organized, and for the most part, never presented a challenge, they did learn to use knives. The core group splintered at some stage, and there emerged territorial factions, where gangs of crustaceans roamed hither and thither taking command of certain areas.  A smaller, liminal group, the Hard Shells dominated Mohel, but posed no real threat, as they were poorly coordinated and running while attempting to make the most of their knife wielding combat style was pathetic and quite embarrassing to watch. Besides, I could leap over their heads in one single bound.

The spiders on Amadan Street were the worst. So I didn’t mind adding an extra 5 minutes taking Geek Street where the only challenge was vaulting a seven foot gorge—created by a freak earthquake—-avoiding the intermittent bursts of flames shooting up from the depths below, and evading the large pink hands grabbing for anyone unlucky enough not to make the far side. No one knew the origin of the hands. Rumors abounded that he (the hand was male, I think) was the hand of God. The argument against of course was that why would the hand of God be coming from the depths of the earth surrounded by fire? Besides, I don’t think the hand of God would bite his fingernails.

Once over the gorge the last two streets loomed. The most dangerous, and most annoying challenge of the journey, was Narrative Street. After the war, clans of geometric shapes appeared across the city. The Scalenes were the most aggressive of the species. All those unequal angles and unequal sides could nick the skin like it was tissue paper. The Isosceles and Equilaterals, while dangerous, were easily distracted by mice or the smell of artisanal cheeses. The obtuse were as dumb as a box of turds. The males, though it was virtually impossible to distinguish the sexes, were the slowest cognitively speaking, and any efforts made on one’s part to contort into any general geometric shape, could easily confuse them.

Other shapes, the weirder ones and some of the most brutal outside of the Scalenes, formed their own societies. I never came in contact with the gons (you know, the pentagon, hexagon, or those vicious psychos, the decagon and nonagon, who made up the gang known as the Irregulars), but many veterans could tell stories scary enough to close your sphincter forever.

I make it sound like all these shapes were atavistic, but I have to say the circles, ellipses, and crescents, when encountered were just curved bundles of peace and love and always carried a smile.

The final hurdle before the grocery shop was the region known as the Deadly Floating Pages of the Damned. After the war destroyed all the best things in life and all around us in the city was rubble, the pages wafted up from the fallen buildings and floated on a hostile wind, randomly settling down by the docks near the grocery store. Hundreds of pages whipped around in unpredictable patterns. If I hit them at the right angle, I could race through the swarm, and throw caution to the wind–the wind direction was a major factor. Photocopying paper caused the deepest cuts. Toilet paper was harmless, as were the filo-pasty thin pages of those large literature anthologies we read before the war.  Regular books, though not as thick as the photocopying paper, could do some serious damage and inflict some severe scarification. I once got slashed by a high school copy of War and Peace. And even saw one poor bastard exiting the grocery store with a handful of cold cuts, decapitated by a page from See Spot Run. Blood spouted in gouts from the wound and his head fell backward like a Pez dispenser. We had free cold cuts that day.

There were always bodies of the fallen scattered around the docks and the grocery store, the newly dead and the nearly dead, abandoned on the streets.

The grocery store had limited supplies; very few merchants came through to restock the store. Once I was there, I filled up a plastic shopping bag with whatever we needed (milk, bread, wafer thin mints, some raw meat for the brother, a salt lick for mom, and a bag of chips for me). The trick was not to fill the bag, cos I still needed to be light on my feet. I had to go back all the way I came. This time up hill.

I remember those days with a vivid clarity, only tainted slightly by paranoid delusions. I can’t believe how lucky you kids are today. You have it so easy, but you still complain: “Life is hard,” “There’s bears and spiders and crabs chasing us,” “The store is too far away,” “I think my paper cut is infected.”

Pussies.

midnight rambling on the astral plane

deception occurs all the time. look around you to see. it’s everywhere. abuse of power can be a dark business. free your mind of contrived smokescreens & open up your soul to other levels. prepare to be astonished as you delve into those murky waters that lie deep beneath the swamps & shallows of stifled consciousness.

concepta sinks into sumptuous soft furnishings. the purples crimsons & gold brocades of a clichéd bohemia. original persian weaves hang heavy upon the washed-out painted walls behind her. artworks of conflicting oil & water break up the crumbling plasterwork. splinters of sunlight force their way through gaps in the velvet drapes. a spent opium pipe lays discarded on the oriental low table. candle flame & incense smoke dance together in the draught. the dark wet dreamer watches from his reading chair. concepta unfolds her silk-clad body into the supine. becoming one with her day bed.

the dark wet dreamer has bodily intent. a host of nefarious acts he could never risk within the grounded world. & so he has found a more iniquitous way. a conduit for his self-perceived holy narcissism. a ruse to escape detection. he has perfected that technique well known to incubi. unleashing the secrets of virgin birth. where the purity of concepta’s delicious curves awaits him. he will pursue his egregious urges with weinsteinian megalomania.

the dark wet dreamer synchronises his breath with that of concepta. it is cyclical. minimal. his eyeballs roll. heartrate slows. muscles slump. the weight of physical existence pins him to the chair. his consciousness rises. he floats above the ceiling. although the ceiling is no longer there. the ornate cornices ceiling roses & chandeliers do not exist from this perspective. it is only himself & concepta. along with the ectoplasmic slaver of his tainted spirit.

concepta inhabits her dreamworld. alcohol & opiates colour her consciousness. innocence ignorance & illusion. these three strands plaited together define her circumstance. she is vulnerable beyond belief. a victim ignored by unbelievers. the dark wet dreamer is already at her body. pulling poking tearing & scratching. in ways that concepta would never even dream of consenting to. yet all the while he leans back into a comfortable smirk. rooted to his reading chair. somehow physically tasting forbidden delights. as his astral presence busies itself with disgusting encroachment.

beneath sleep there are juices flowing. excitements building. transferences of energy. stimulation & engorgement. the dark wet dreamer searches out concepta’s hidden delights. those sacred places only she should ever hold sway over. on one plane he acts. on another he enjoys the sensuality. a warped crossover of consciousness. a distorted connection between the projected & the physical. concepta is violated. & yet there is no embodiment of this assault within reach for her to fight back against. were her name mary & his gabriel the story might be similar. likewise for rosemary & beelzebub.

there is always hope however. & for every act a consequence. opposite poles may attract. until one flips. & a different reaction is born. triggering repulsion. concepta cries out to her higher self. calling upon inner resources. the dark wet dreamer drools at the prospect of engendering female ejaculation. his astral phallus fills her being with the violence of an eternally-expanding galaxy. the tip of his physical penis dribbles a weak solution in pathetic anticipation. but this grubby agent of destruction is destined to become disappointed. & more.

concepta reaches deep into her awareness. then deeper still & beyond. a wry smile colours her face. she knows this because she looks down upon it. multiple perspectives drift before her. the victim’s own astral self has arisen. she has found a way to stand up to the control of the dirty wet dreamer. she has equalled his power. no longer a victim. & so now all that is left to do is best him. extinguish his hellish flame. a new plan of redemptive revenge emerges fully formed from beneath the bondage of concepta’s pain & humiliation.

the dreamer in the chair snorts with demonic pleasure. soaking his body with the putrid satisfaction of undetectable rape. wallowing satanically in shadowy & filthy smugness. each ugly thrust of his disembodied spirit jarring physical nerves into ever-increasing ripples of stolen ecstasies. yet still he remains unaware of the role his crude self-absorption will play in the alchemy of his own downfall.

concepta’s astral presence prepares to trouble the flesh of her attacker’s body. just as his is troubling hers. she grasps at the pile of occult pamphlets that litter the low table beside him. but with only spectral fingers at hand a physical connection proves fruitless. & so it is by the force of unbridled spiritual will that these papers are swept up and fashioned into an instrument of protection. swirled through the ether & loosely coiled into a cone. a vortex of magick incarnate. a horn of diabolical symbols & mephistophelian incantations.

the corporeal eyes of the dark wet dreamer remain oblivious. bloodshot behind fallen lids. & he moans. he moans to the sensations transubstantiated from his invasive astral pleasuring. as thin lips part into a hideous gape. ready to receive the desecrated host. whilst concepta’s burning arrow of the mind approaches. violation begets defiance. comeuppance encompasses the laws of karma.

concepta’s controlled rage connects the physical to the astral. resistance won’t work. for bully-boy predators. the wad of scrunched up papers slams into the dark wet dreamer’s physical maw. bukowski’s red sparrow is coming for this toerag. beak open. now he gets it. his astral self shrinks back towards the physical.

the dark wet dreamer is choking on his own sacrificial words. all power of oppression & manipulation bears down upon that stinking gullet. any oxygen to further evil denied. each victim of his exploitation flashes before him with a fuck-you smile of retribution. he dies in shuddering pain & disbelief. his astral self disappearing up the anus of his corpse. his humiliation complete.

Mad Drunken Love

The night before had got way out of hand, had grown out of control like a disobedient child throwing a tantrum in a supermarket, way quicker than Jack had expected, way quicker than he’d experienced in a long time. And this morning, well, here he lay next to one of the most stunningly beautiful women he’d ever had the pleasure of, well, right now he isn’t really sure. Looking over he is sure he’d remember doing anything with this creature, this beauty, but his mind is gone, all memory of the night before is gone from about the seventh pint and chaser. His nakedness is stark and as he slowly begins to patch his mind back together he realises that his surroundings are different too.

‘This must be her flat,’ he thinks as he gropes for his pair of boxer shorts laying on the floor next to the bed. It then comes to him, why would he want to leave this situation, he shouldn’t bother putting them back on, not yet anyway, this could be something special, something great possibly. Dragging his gaze from the floor to more prescient concerns he lifts the sheet to reveal the fully naked body laying next to him, a truly wonderful sight, a firm breast, a stretch of leg that aches to be touched, or at least that is what his mind tells him as his hand moves in. He brushes her thigh, up her arm and then onto her face, stroking that cheek, shifting her hair to display the bluest of every blue eye he’d ever seen. Moving in to kiss her on the cheek his delight knows no bounds as she shifts her body in his direction, her gaze meeting his at last. They kiss and a communal thanksgiving it releases from both their souls fills the room with an air of pure joy. They kiss and then soon after they fuck, they fuck like wild crazed teenagers high on lust, defying their ages, defying the decades since they’d felt so alive. They fuck and then they fuck some more and finally both lie spent across the bed.

“Pat!” she screams causing Jack to suddenly realise that he has no idea of what this enchanting woman’s name is.

“My son,” she begins to explain, “he builds them good and strong… that and a wee naughty coffee will get us feeling fine in no time at all…”

When the knock comes it breaks the spell of this brand new world that Jack has enveloped himself deep inside since regaining consciousness in this amazing new scenario. Pat enters and the woman throws him a bag.

“There’s some in there, roll us a good ‘un and then fuck off…” she instructs him in harsh tones. He duly follows her instructions, leaving them alone again barely fazed by his presence. Nothing but a young kid anyway, probably fifteen or sixteen at most, he seemed a bit sullen to Jack but then kids that age often are; frustrated at life, unable to live how they want to live. She climbs from their bed and moves over to a little coffee machine set up in the corner of the room, strutting across the room her size is impressive, her body naked.

“Da ya fancy a coffee?” she asks in what Jack has suddenly realised is a northern Scottish accent.

“Sure that’d be nice,” he responds.

“Spark that up for us will ya?” she asks, throwing the joint from the floor where Pat had left it towards her new lover.

“Sure will,” he responds. Sparking the joint to life he lays back on the bed and lets the smoke take hold as his new surroundings grow more familiar with every passing moment. Everywhere he looks he sees something of interest, a beautiful naked woman, a big pile of books on a desk, a stack of vinyl records inside a cupboard, lots of psychedelic furnishings and, at last, a sign that the twenty-first century hasn’t been completely ignored, a laptop with a thin layer of dust on top resting on an armchair that dominates the right corner of the room, big enough to sit five.

“How’d you take your coffee?”

“Black is fine, maybe a bit of sugar…”

She piles in a large teaspoon and brings over a big steaming mug, retrieving the joint in the process, standing before him smoking, looking sexier than anything Jack had seen outside of a porn movie or maybe some obscure European underground movie in years, no fuck that, decades. Climbing to his feet he moves straight for her, pulling her in tight as soon as he is near enough to grasp one of those tight beautiful arms. She pulls long and hard on the joint and then places it between his lips, telling him to breath in, inhale the grass, smoke it up good as if he hasn’t been smoking weed on an almost daily basis for the last thirty years, hell more decades than her kid who’d just rolled the joint had been alive.

Taking the joint out of her hand he smokes it again before passing it back, pulling her back to the bed. She smokes another long hard toke and then simply collapses onto the bed, pushing Jack over with her and after one last took she begins kissing him again. This time they take it easy, this time they build up to the frenzy and any sign of orgasm is still hours away from that first kiss. They kiss, they fondle, they play and then finally they fuck and it is the most beautiful, greatest fuck of Jack’s long life and as they lay together afterwards they begin to talk.

“So do you even remember my name?” is her third question. The first two ask if he can roll another joint whilst she makes them more coffee, this time offering an Irish option which includes a mean shot of Paddy’s, the roughest of rough Irish whiskey. His answers come easily and truthfully, yes, yes and no, he has no idea.

“But I really would love to know, hell I want to know it all…”

“Well, let’s start with the basics…” and suddenly she is telling him about her childhood in a northern Scottish town, her doomed marriage, her four kids, of which Pat is the only one still living at home, and how she works at being an artist. Nora’s life sounds like a struggle like so many others in this town that everyone has moved to at some point in the last ten years but it sounds like a proud struggle, a dream almost. She has everything she needs, maybe a holiday once in a while but then how would she work if she wasn’t right here in this house where her studio is, and ultimately she is doing something she loves and, just about, making a living out of it. Jack’s nimble fingers roll a joint for the pair of them to share and as she brings over two Irished-up mugs of coffee she asks about him.

“Well I grew up in south-east London, born in 71, thought I’d never leave but…” Jack begins, telling her of his horrible upbringing, the torture he’d experienced at school, his decision to drop out of the mainstream into the underground punk scene around 91 and how he hadn’t really held a proper job until he’d reached nearly thirty.

“It feels like you’re the first real person I’ve met down here, you just seem completely real and happy with who you are… You seem to not give a fuck what anyone else thinks…”

“Well generally I don’t…” she responds.

The talk continues and last for hours until they realise it is again dark outside and they have spent the entire day deep inside their own little cocoon, getting high and falling deeper than either of them ever expected when they’d met the night before. That night that would now stick out for months, hell let’s throw caution to the wind, years even decades to come, a night when life for both changed beyond recognition. Eventually conversation drifted around to more mundane topics as, seemingly at the exact same moment, both realised they hadn’t eaten anything all day, and in Jack’s case not since lunchtime the day before. Needing something easy it was decided pizza and wine would do the trick, two-for-six quid wine and a share of a massive one from the local supermarket. That would mean the party would have to break up, even if only temporarily, but the stoned-out munchies simply intensified their need for sustenance and, after locating some clothes, they go out hunting for provisions, looking for those things which mean they won’t have to leave their cocoon for some time after this experience.

Arriving back at the house they move into the kitchen and unload their shopping with Nora reaching for a corkscrew to get in on that cheap gut-rot wine as Jack contemplates opening a vast pack of crisps or whether to look at the potential fire hazard that is the cooker. He decides on the former and scoffs down a few large handfuls before setting them out on the table as Nora takes the pizza, examines the instructions on the back before moving over to the cooker, and gets on the case. All the time the pizza is in the oven she is perched on a chair nearby rolling joint after joint after joint whilst occasionally taking a hit of the wine whilst Jack merely sits opposite gazing at her drinking his, he is completely enchanted.

With the pizza dispatched to the grateful stomachs they move back upstairs to their large psychedelic love-nest and another protracted assault on their senses. They smoke, they drink, they kiss, they fondle and then, nothing… Jack’s mind is a blank canvas as the night progresses he has no idea of where he is or what he’s doing. Something has gone incredibly wrong somewhere down the line and he can’t quite work it out, two nights running with the same woman and on both occasions he can’t recall a large chunk of their night together.

Waking the next morning, again naked and again confused as to what happened to him the night before, his head is a pounding wreck of regret, confusion and despair. He can’t possibly stay with this divine creature, this Nora, if he can’t remember some of the most important times they’ve shared but what is causing this loss? It’s not like he’s a beginner at this kind of thing, he’d been drinking and drugging his way through life now for thirty years and not since the truly mad days of discovery in his early twenties had something like this happened.

He contented himself with the idea of fucking her, that would help him think of other things, help get his mind out of state of confusion that was currently infecting him with a fear, a fear of the unknown. Leaning in he kisses her on her shoulder, as if to get her attention, and then, as she rolls over, he began to suckle on her spectacular breasts like an innocent child.

“Mmmm,” she murmurs as her hand grabs Jack’s raggedy hair and pulled him in tight. Moments later they are fucking and Jack’s delight is complete as he forgets all about last nights’ lost hours. Why should he care, here he is having sex with one of the most beautiful women he’s ever seen and so what if she likes a bit of a drink and a bit of a smoke he loves both of those things as well. She is almost his perfect woman and only time will tell how far this love can fly through the air like a bottle battling gravity.

The Kobioshi Research Institute

Jessica Bell awoke in the sterile darkness, confused, naked, and alone. A soft beeping noise pulsated rhythmically from the monitors mounted on stands next to her head. Her eyes desperately searched the shadows for anything that might help her understand where she was and what was happening to her, but there was nothing. Only darkness.

Just as a creeping sense of terror began to sweep over her, a light suddenly came on behind a long rectangular window on the far side of the room. A short, dark haired man in a white lab coat stood silently on the other side of the glass.

“Hello, are you a doctor?” she asked.

A sympathetic smile dashed momentarily across his lips, but he did not respond.

She tried to move, but couldn’t. She could feel the nylon straps attached to her wrist and ankles cutting into her flesh as she struggled against them.

What the hell is going on, she thought as a small doughy shaped woman in green surgical scrubs entered the room wearing rubber gloves and a large plastic face shield.

“Miss, can you tell me where am I?” Jessica pleaded.

Again there was no response. The woman walked silently towards her and sat down on a metal stool between Jessica’s legs.

“Hey! I’m talking to you!” Jessica screamed.

Jessica could see a look of joyful anticipation in the fat woman’s eyes as she looked back over her shoulder and nodded to the man in the white lab coat. He nodded back as he reached over and turned out the lights. Once again she was enveloped in darkness. After a few moments a bell began to ring, ding-a-ling-a-ling, and a loud buzzing sound, like a hive of angry bees filled the room.

Where am I! Jessica thought as she felt the woman press a large, violently vibrating device firmly against her trembling clitoris. She tried to clear her mind, to think of something, anything, that would help her control the spasms rocking through hips and up into her spine. She tried to picture her husband, her little boy, but she couldn’t see their faces—she couldn’t concentrate! Oh God! she thought as her body tightened in the grips of a powerful orgasmic contraction. “Nooo!” she screamed as her juices shot out in a high arching stream that splashed angrily against the woman’s face shield.

As her body locked into a rigid arch,the vibrations suddenly stopped. She hoped whatever they were doing to her was over, but after a few minutes the bell rang, ding-a-ling-a-ling, and the woman in the green scrubs pressed the device against her again.

The pattern of bells and abuse went on for hours and hours until Jessica’s uncontrollably quivering body went limp from sheer exhaustion. She was on the verge of slipping back into unconsciousness when two large men in white uniforms entered the room and unstrapped her from the table. They carried her like a rag doll down a short hallway and unceremoniously placed her crumbled body in a tiny bilious green tiled room, not much bigger than her walk-in closet at home. The room was barren except for a thin mattress strewn haphazardly on the floor, a tattered grey blanket, a small metal bucket full of water, and a bar of soap. There was a small hole in the middle of the floor and two harsh fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. The lights never went out, so there was no way for her to keep track of time, except for the sessions. Every day the routine was the same. She would receive a bottle of water and a bowl of rice through a small slit in the bottom of the metal door. After her meal, the two large guards would return, take her back into the dark room, and strap her down to the cold steel table. A few minutes later the light behind the window would come on and the man in the white lab coat would appear. Then the short woman in green scrubs would enter the room, the bell would ring, and the nightmare would begin all over again.

The routine was always the same, until today. She woke up and ate her meal, the guards came, and they strapped her down to the table, but the light behind the window did not come on. There were no buzzing, whirring machines, no mocking eyes staring up at her from behind the fluid splattered face shield. Jessica laid there alone and in the dark for what seemed like an eternity, her mind racing, wondering what they were going to do to her next…

Hours passed before she heard the muffled rattle of keys outside the door. This time it wasn’t the maniacal fat nurse, but the man in the white lab coat who entered the room.

“Good Morning,” he said as he turned on the lights, and walked casually towards her with an arrogant grin etched across his face.

“I don’t know who you are, but you are not going to get away with this. I am—”

“Mrs. Bell…Jessica Bell,” The man said as he sat down on the stool between her legs. “We know exactly who you are. That is why you are here.”

“And where is here exactly?”

“You are a guest at The Kobioshi Research Institute, and I am Dr. Kobioshi.”

The lunatics really are running the asylum, she thought. “Research institute? Are you insane?” she yelled.

“Mrs. Bell…If you calm down, I will attempt to explain why you are here and the purpose of our research.”

“Research, you fucking pervert, is that what you call it? She said as she struggled against her restraints. “Let me go!”

“You will be released as soon as you have completed the stimulus packages.”

“As soon as I do what?”

“Complete your stimulus packages, so that we can evaluate your proclivity for sexual arousal. Yesterday you completed stimulus package #1, clitoral stimulation,” he said as he looked down at her chart. “And I must say, the results were impressive. Over the course of the seven sessions, you achieved one hundred and seventy-two orgasms, including one hundred and ten in which there was some degree of vaginal ejaculation.”

She was stunned, Could it possibly have been that many?

“Tomorrow you will begin stimulus package #2, vaginal stimulation, and after that there is an anal package…followed by oral, and then finally we will see how you respond to pain and discomfort. Your scores, which depend on a number of different factors such as the frequency of your orgasms and the force of your ejaculations, will determine your final classification. If you score high enough to reach class-five status, you will have the option of joining the program, if not, you will be free to return home…or wherever you wish.”

“The program?”

“It’s an alliance, of sorts, that exists to solve two fundamental problems. The first is that what men truly covet the most, and this is true across all demographic and social classes, is the complete and total satisfaction of any and all of their sexual desires. The second is that most women are simply not willing, or capable, of satisfying those desires. This Institute was established to find and cultivate female candidates who possess inherently extreme sexual desires of their own, so that we can match them up with a select group of elite individuals who are prepared to spend whatever is necessary to ensure that their desires are fully fulfilled.”

“A whore? You want to turn me into a whore?”

“Of course not, Mrs. Bell. Being invited to join the program is a very rare privilege. Few women, even those selected for testing, are capable of achieving class-five status. If you do, I can assure you that you will never want for anything again.”

“I’m not some kind of super nympho—I’m a mom.”

“Yes, we select young mothers specifically.”

“Specifically for WHAT!”

“Do you realize that less than five percent of females experience vaginal ejaculation during intercourse? It’s very rare. But that number increases to twenty percent for women who have recently given birth. That should not come as a surprise to you, Mrs. Bell. I am sure that your new abilities did not go unnoticed by you…or your husband.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”

“It has everything to do with, well…everything. You see, this heightened sensitivity has also been discovered to be a catalyst for an increased desire for more extreme sexual experiences. But unfortunately, the lack of sufficient stimulation that many women receive from their partners often leads them to feel unsatisfied, disappointed, and even depressed. This causes many new mothers to feel completely turned off from sex altogether. Most incorrectly attribute their lack of sexual desires to a decreased libido, but it is actually a result of insufficient stimulation. Such as in your case. In fact, I believe that you had recently stated that you had not had sex with your husband in over four months.”

How the hell does he know that? she thought. Jessica had not made many friends since moving to Sacramento with her husband and their young son six months ago, and there was only one person that she talked to about her sex life—Lucy!

Lucy Ho lived two houses down from Jessica, and had a young daughter who went to school with her son. They had not been friends for very long, but there were not many secrets between them, especially when it came to Lucy’s favorite subject—sex. It seemed like that was all they talked about sometimes. A few weeks ago, Jessica shared with Lucy that she hadn’t had much interest in sex since giving birth to her son. She would still do it if her husband was persistent enough, but lately it seemed like he had given up even trying. Lucy usually went on and on all the time about how great her sex life was, so Jessica was surprised when Lucy admitted that the same thing had happened to her after the birth of her daughter. But then Lucy told her how she had gone to see a Chinese doctor in Golden City who had prescribed a special herbal tea mixture for her. She said she drank it once a week, and now she was as horny as a schoolgirl all the time. Jessica didn’t have much faith in herbal medicine, and God knows what her husband would say if he found out, but she was desperate to save her marriage.

The doctor’s name was Wang, and he had a small shop located at a spot behind Auntie Mei’s Dumpling House on G Street. Jessica wasn’t sure if she would call a man who worked out of the back of a Chinese restaurant a doctor, but Lucy had assured her that the Chinese had been using herbal medicines for thousands of years and that this man’s family came from a long line of famous doctors, some of who had even served as personal physicians to the Chinese Imperial Family.

Jessica had a strange sense that something wasn’t quite right when she pulled in to the small alley behind the restaurant and did not see any signs of a business, just a small red door with no windows. She sat in her car for several minutes wondering if she should get out, or just go home. What the hell she thought. It worked for Lucy.

The office was small, with shelves full of colorful porcelain jars lining the walls, and a small glass counter in the back. As Jessica walked thru the red door a bell announced her arrival, ding-a-ling-a-ling. An old stooped-over woman in a drab grey coat came out from behind a curtain next to the counter.

“nĭ hăo,” the old woman said.

“Hello. My name is Jessica Bell,” she said sheepishly. “Lucy Ho made an appointment for me to see Dr. Wang.”

The old woman nodded and extended her thin sinewy arm back toward the curtain, beckoning Jessica into a small dark room where the doctor was waiting.

She had expected Dr. Wang to be as old and frail looking as the woman outside, but he was a young man in his early thirties. He wore a button down white shirt with a colorful red silk tie, and had short black hair that he combed straight back, like a gangster in the old movies.

“Hello, Mrs. Bell,” Dr. Wang said as he directed her to a short wooden stool next to the desk where he was sitting. “I have spoken to Lucy, and what you are experiencing is very common. The shock of childbirth has simply upset your body’s natural balance. We traditional Chinese doctors use a very ancient method called qiemai, or pulse reading, to diagnosis which organ of the body is causing this imbalance. Once I determine that, I will be able to prescribe a special blend of herbs that will help restore your body’s natural harmony. Sound good?”

Jessica nodded. She didn’t see how it could hurt, pulse reading???

“May I see your hands please?”

She held out her arms, and Dr. Wang placed three fingers gently around each wrist. “Just try to relax and breathe normally,” he told her. She watched as the doctor closed his eyes and appeared to concentrate intently. After a few minutes, he looked up at her and smiled. “It is your kidneys Mrs. Bell. They are very weak. This is why you have not felt like yourself lately. The kidneys are the source of our sexual energy, our essence. What we Chinese call our Qi. We must nourish them.” He turned and reached over to a small white porcelain jar on his desk. “I have just the thing,” he said as he pulled out a small pinch of lemon-yellow powder that he sifted into the palm of his left hand. “We call this mafeisan.”

That was the last thing that Jessica remembered before she woke up naked and strapped to a table. Wang, you slick haired bastard, she thought. When I get through with Kobioshi, I’m coming for you.

“—Of course there are other factors as well,” Dr. Kobioshi continued. “But that is why we use Dr. Wang. He has an amazing ability to identify just the type of candidates that we are looking for.”

“Fuck you and Wang. I want to go home.”

“What we want,” he said sternly. “And what we need, are rarely the same thing. That is why I have brought you here today, so that you can get a fuller understanding of just what it is that you truly need.” Dr. Kobioshi stood up and took a small brass bell out of the pocket of his lab coat. “What you crave,” he said as he slowly began to ring the bell, ding-a-ling-a-ling.

The sound of the bell caused waves of Goosebumps to spread over her skin like a wild fire. Her back arched, and her pelvis began to gyrate as it searched for something, anything to satisfy the burning sensations that the bell had ignited inside her.

“Are you beginning to understand now, Mrs. Bell?” he said as he began to furiously ring the bell, ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling.

Her body began bucking uncontrollably as the bell rang faster and faster and faster until the frantic dings sent her body into a series of wild orgasmic convulsions.

“We all have needs. Realizing what they are, and how to satisfy them, is the key to finding out who we truly are.” he said as he silenced the bell and placed it back into his pocket.

“Unfortunately, there are other matters that require my attention at the moment. But I do not want you worry. I promise that I will return soon and try to satisfy some of those needs of yours…personally,” he said as he brushed a long spidery finger along the inner part of her thigh. “If only briefly.”

Jessica was terrified. She laid there alone, her thighs quivering uncontrollably in the darkness. Afraid that the deep tremors the she could feel reverberating through her body were a sign that what Dr. Kobioshi said was true, she did need it. But what she didn’t know, what she couldn’t have imagined, was that the trembling sensations she was feeling were not withdrawal symptoms from the lack of sexual stimulation, but the preliminary rumblings of a massive 7.9 magnitude earthquake whose powerful shockwaves were now rocketing towards her at a speed of over five kilometers a second.

Pow!

The first wave struck the two story concrete reinforced building that housed the Kobioshi Institute like a devastating right hook. Jessica thought that it must have been an explosion because it hit with such sudden force and fury, lifting up the table that she was strapped to and slamming her back down as the window across the room shattered and the walls began to buckle. The next shockwave was even more powerful.

Boom! Bang!

The entire building seemed to shoot up into the air, and Jessica could feel the floor beneath her give way as giant chunks of concrete and roof begin to crumble down around her. The noise was horrific.

Bam! Slam! Crash!

It sounded like the end of the world.

Jessica awoke into a strange ethereal darkness, broken only by the sound of bells, ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling, and the muffled shouts of men echoing off in the distance. She didn’t know how long she had been lying there among the wreckage. It could have been hours, or days. Her mouth was choked full of arid, copper tasting dust, and her eyes burned from the smoke and millions of tiny particles of debris that swirled in the air around her. Somehow the table had remained upright, but the ceiling had collapsed to within a few feet of her bare, rubble-strewn body. She was surrounded by mountains of concrete and twisted tentacles of rebar.

She began to cough furiously, trying to clear the dust out of her throat so that she could yell to the distant voices that she was here, that she was alive! But before she could make a sound, the bells, the ringing of those damn bells, ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling, began to stir something inside her that even the horror of her situation could not suppress. Her body tingled and her nipples rose out from under the dust like tiny mountains in an apocalyptical landscape. As the bells got closer Jessica could feel her juices beginning to turn the dust between her thighs into a muddy goo. This can’t be happening, she thought.

“Heee—Heeelllp,” she finally managed to cry. “Help Me!!!”

Suddenly the bells went silent, and voice above her called out, “Helllooo!”

“Here! I’m down here!!!” she shouted back furiously.

Soon she heard loud creaking noises, followed by the dull thuds of tumbling debris. They were close. But the bells…the damn bells had started ringing again, ding-a-ling-a-ling-ding-a-ling-a-ling. She lay writhing on the table, trying to focus her thoughts on the freedom that was inching her way. But her body could not stop quivering. Oh god! Not like this! she thought. Not like this!!!

Soon a thin beam of light pierced the darkness, darting from right to left, and back to the right again. It hovered briefly over the ruble of the shattered walls before landing on the toes of her left foot. Behind the light she could see a faint outline in the darkness. It was a man. A MAN!

“I’m here to get you out of here, Ma’am,” he said in a low country drawl. “Are you hurt anywhere?

“No, I don’t think so.” she replied. “Just get me off of this fucking table!”

He stood in front of her, his light creeping slowly up from between her blood smeared thighs to her tight toned belly, and then to the erect nipples that were pulsating like tiny volcanoes about to erupt. She couldn’t imagine what he must have been thinking. A naked, filthy, wild-eyed woman, strapped to a table with an enormous wet spot between her legs. He must have been just as horrified as she was. But he was a man on a mission. He didn’t waste time wondering why she was there, he only new that he had to get her out.

He quickly reached down into his waistband and pulled out a small jagged-edged knife and began to cut away the nylon straps that secured her feet in the stirrups. As the straps fell away her legs crumpled down limply beside him. Then he moved in closer, leaning over between the collapsed ceiling and her dust caked torso and until he could reach the straps that held down her wrists. The feeling of his groin pressing firmly against the little pelvic bone above her clit rekindled the fire that was now raging inside her. She couldn’t stop herself from writhing and grinding against him as he desperately cut away at the thick nylon bands, not realizing the manic passions that he was about to unleash.

As soon as her right hand was free she reached out and grabbed his jacket, pulling him even tighter. By the time he realized what she was doing and tried to pull back it was too late. She swung her legs up and locked them around his waist just as the blade cut through the straps that held down her left hand. She swiftly reached out and shoved the hand down into his waistband, grabbing his throbbing cock and guiding it quickly toward the flaming lips of her muck-covered cunt. She could see the look of panic in his eyes as he struggled to free himself from her lustful grasp, but it was no use.

Before he could break free he was inside her. His thrusts were short and frantic, like a teenage boy’s, and he came just as quickly—his entire body stiffening before he staggered backward in stunned silence.

As his seed seeped out of her a broad smile spread across Jessica’s lips. She wondered if there was such a thing as a class-six.

Cheatin’ Hearts

The bike growled across the open countryside toward the distant shambling horde. Her fat, nanospiked tires gripping the ground like a great cat, hungry to close the distance. The thick, sexy curves of her mean machinery radiated power and purpose as she did two-fifty across grass, gravel and graveyards alike. Within her chassis, huddled against the thousand-year fusion drive, lasers, missiles, and self-replicating nanoslugs wiggled, eager to be free of her belly so as to wreak havoc. She was a big girl with enough killpower to decimate a small city, and the animal sentience to revel in the glory of it.

Draped over her, his forearms buried within, rode her man, bold and seasoned by the deathscapes of five nations. Half machine himself, he proudly offered his services in the name of The Grand Scheme.

Hired by the orbital conglomerates the murderous pair were paid for every mutant they ground into the terra firma. Through the deathjiggy of his guns and the growl of her machinery, mutant hordes have been repurposed into fertilizer. Upon those bones the new civilizations of Earth will rise.

Sensors chirped excitedly, reporting their find of the Targets of Opportunity that were the pair’s bread and butter – the pitiful remnants of an intelligent age gone mad. Monstrous radioactive mutants surviving off each other and the unfortunate pockets of humanity scraping out desperate existences in the hellish landscape.

The rabbit-deathhead’s holo on the front of his jet black helmet grinned, mimicking its owner. “Soften them up with some mini-missile mayhem, my love.” He wiggled his fingers to unlock the systems and let her animal instinct seek and satisfy itself. Pencil-thin missiles rocketed skyward moments later, arching in angelic beauty and coming down in a rain of blossoming death.

From across the tortured landscape, a hideous cough-screech challenge, wet and angry, gurgled from deep in the throats of the tortured. Man-machine and nightmare-gnash clashed in a crunch of limbs and tech. Scores of boney, malformed hands, the size of human torsos, raked across the pair as they plowed through the middle of the large group. Acidic gobs of greenish black goo shot from faceholes, angrily burning with napalm-intensity across the distance between them. Poisoned projectiles machine-gunned from inverted nipples upon swollen breasts with the faces of the ill-born, peppering his armored backside as man-machine screamed by.

But the hellspawned could not touch the wheeled death otherwise. With each pass, their numbers dwindled as he ripped their malodourous guts from their bellies with cruel custom tire blades, and pulverized their brain matter as he brought his wheelied, heavy front tire down atop them, in a crunch of bulbous gristle brainpans, jutting lower jaws and pus-filled kyphosis. Their mindless flailing figures popped and flopped, a burden no more to themselves or the Earth’s orbiting masters.

Dismounting his lover, he removed his helmet, ran his hand over her body and patted her ass. “Good girl. Beautiful work, my sweet,” he praised. “The artist in you is just waiting to be released. A couple more groups like this and I’ll purchase that creative mod for you, as promised.”

Her console trilled approval.

The ravaged landscape was an obscenity against the burned-ochre dusk. Night brought the sting of

Time unmolested in the open lands of this ruined Earth could counted in minutes, yet they ignored the ever-present danger of the mutants and camped atop a large outcropping of flat rock as if that somehow would allow them to become unseen.

He cooed to her and she purred in heat, her whole chassis vibrating with the anticipation of meat. He stroked her from front fork to rear brakepad, taking time to seek out those spots deep within her frame where the heat bit, eliciting trills and growls.

Stepping behind her, he bisected the bulky armor of his crotch to reveal a thick, solid chuck of machine-threaded meat. Sparkplug-modelled interface nodes piercing his nuts gave anchor to branched conductive threads that raced out from the base of his thick member in a metal skein.

Punching in his personal code at a backend numeric panel, he popped her fuckport. The heated aroma of her sex engulfed him in a heady aroma of fusion reaction. Taking his stiffened cock in hand, he used the tip to tease her fleshy vulvaport until a thick, rich blue gel began oozed forth from her. Rubbing himself in it, he plunged into her warm, eager depths with a satisfying click-moan. Her vaginal onaholesheath was vat-grown crossbreed of human and horse with a touch of spider silk for strength, and velvet for feel.

Socketed within her chassis, lust and lube gripped the lovers, pulling them together as into the intricate deathsex pact that only battle-comrades understood. She revved her engine, sending a million minute vibrations through groin and spine, converters beneath his flesh transforming them into a constant data stream of pleasure that looped back to her.

Brought to satisfaction, she trill-moaned, the aural embodiment of her deepest feelings and connection to this man. Hot gel gushed from her cavity, covering his groin and spilling down his legs. With his own decisive, jaw-grinding grunt, he pressed himself as deep as he could, releasing hot, white jizz.

Exhausted, he lay down to enjoy the heat of the rock underneath him and bask in the afterglow of sex unconcerned with monsters; the bike would wake him if danger approached.

Far above the Kármán line, the conglomerates, in their five-mile-high orbital havens watched, waited and wagered on their agents of destruction. From their hyperbolic sleep chambers, they hung, arms crossed over their naked forms like alien mummies. Extra-tellurian vultures, relics of another time, too greedy to die with dignity, waiting to feed off the corpse of the world they had watched destroy itself without extending a helping hand. They would return to the surface one day but only after they were certain to ensure they would be its masters first.

***

The next morning was a whirl of wheel, a blur of landscape and a stir of death.

They ripped across the mutated lands with their hideously disfigured remnants of biological warfare, pinballing the genetic aberrations against the once proud urban structures and landmarks of civilization. The gore and viscera painted the crushed cities red along with the hollers of man and bike. Pus-filled bodies exploded in tandem to crashing 18th-century wargrooves shared across her Bluetooth connection to his shoulder loudspeakers.

Mutants ten feet tall swung great clubs of long-forgotten tech, their mangy cattle-wombats chasing him over great swaths of rolling earth, snapping at his legs, their piggybacked children vomiting death. Intestine streamers decorated park playsets, braindogs skitter-zigged when they should have scatter-zagged on too-slick tentacles, their final contribution to a future world nicely splurched across sidewalk pavement. Skull bones and death tones. A symphony of death.

Eight continuous days of viscera showers and once more they were under the blue skies. The current sector was a treasure trove of opportunity. The open lands and small, scattered settlements offered both haven and smorgasbord for their hedonist reverie.

With a whoop of excitement, man and machine headed into a large frontier town, its walls and gates, while once formidable, would be little more than a wry joke against the corrosive voracity of any mutant horde that decided to pick up a light snack before meandering back out into the wastelands.

Within the desperate entertainment district he pulled along the rickety, weather-worn sign. Whole Whore Holes. Plain and simple. A smile on his face and a rub of his palms together. This had been a long day in coming, and now he was going to be just as long and coming.

Not once in three nights or four days did he leave the comfort of the bed or the girls he’d hired. Food, drink and all the willing poontang that could be found in town was bought, brought and wrought in the name of pleasure. Rumors spread that the Venusian girl from Limlis Ranch had been brought in when all the other girls had passed out or begged off in favor of rest.

And through it all – through the rain and heat, the dust and radiation storms, she waited, parked a story below his window; witness to the wetness of whole whore holes.

***

He took a deep, satisfied breath. The air stank of its usual apocalyptic grunge, but his mood was high, and his loins were numb from pleasure.

“Morning, baby doll,” running his hand over her body before mounting. Slipping his arms into her front chassis, he glided his fingers over the controls buried within. At his command, her engine revved wild and hard, the deep rumble coursing through his body like blood. In less than the time it takes to piss, the pitiful visage of civilization disappeared behind them like so much dust.

An hour later, across the great expanse of a bubbling lake of gunk, they found a sweet target. A skyscraper beast on squat, tree-trunk legs shook the earth, scooping up great swaths of the landscape – dirt, fauna, flora and all – indiscriminately shoving the mix into its piggy maw.

Below it, a parade of mutants caravanned in its shadow. These horrors danced in the between its legs, feasting on the scraps that dropped from its anal orifice. Oblivious to the ruckus circus beneath its feet, the humugoid would inadvertently squash a few under its tremendous weight, or scoop a careless few up with the dirt. And that which it could not digest, it would vomit up the bulk of partially-digested mash in a spray – shaking and turning its eyeless bulk to and fro, redistributing it.

A carnival of life. Oblivious to death closing in.

Rounding a bubbling lake, the bike picked up speed on a straight-shot of ground that would blast rider and machine through the massive horde at 250 kph. A feral fire lighted the rider’s eyes as he dropped the face shield of his helmet and hugged his honey love as close as possible, rubbing his thickening cock against her frame in the excitement.

Deploying her Gatling side lasers at an upward angle, he decided to zip through the crowd of monsters beneath, and let the behemoth crush the survivors under its weight when it fell to the lasers.

He pushed the machine forward, hitting an outcrop of angled rock that sent them shooting in any upwards arc for an unobstructed shot at the monster’s underside.

“Target her belly. When we bring her down like a gutted pig, it’ll rain credits from heaven!”

But something was not right. The bike began to list mid-air. And then a sinking feeling built in his gut as he watched her control panel lights dim. “Baby?”

Frantically he worked every control and combination of commands therein, but she wasn’t responding. Something was very wrong.

Clipping her front tire on one of the behemoth’s forelegs, they spun wildly for several rotations midair, and met the ground in a skidding, gravelly crunch that crushed his right leg.

The behemoth did not take notice. But the mob did. An uneasy moment of mutual recognition passed between the hunter and hunted. It wavered, and then shifted as the moment of discovery became a rush of warped flesh and bone.

“Fuck! Baby! Get us outta here!”

The bike was silent.

He tried to pull free of her, but could not. His arms were trapped deep within her; his right leg pinned beneath her.

“Baby! Baby…!”

The grotesque horde used brute force over many hours to crack open his armor like the shell of a live lobster. Bit by bit, they tore off pieces and shoved their faceholes onto exposed flesh to gnaw off a hunk; or sting him with a necrotizing venom they then slurped up. Mouthful by mouthful, they gobbled up every bit of meaty morsel until he was no more than bones and fragments of cybernetics, with which they adorned themselves and picked their teeth.

Physical Media

In the near future a couple return home with a new television. It’s a state-of-the-art model and they talk excitedly as they unpack and set it up. Unlike with previous operating systems, where viewing traits were learnt algorithmically over time, this hyper-smart range configures to its users differently. Zoe and Chad unwrap their ‘his’ and ‘her’ neural-buds which came with the television. Having already seen advertisements, they both know of the technology and so eagerly insert the gadgets into their ears. The buds chime to life, initiating the television set which greets them with a sultry female voice.

The machine introduces itself as ‘Daisy’, then goes on to explain all the cutting-edge features included in their new home media package. In alluring tones, she informs them that the neural-buds are currently running brain scans, profiling their new owners for individual taste and proclivity. The miniature devices attune to each of their personalities and feed the data back to the television. They’re told that its sophisticated processing, more powerful than any algorithmic software, will know what they want to watch before they do. On any viewing occasion they just need to pop in the buds, wait for them to synchronise, and allow their moods to decide the entertainment. The longer they’re plugged in for, the greater the precision with which Daisy can predict their whims.

They decide to try it out after dinner. By the time they return to the television their spirits have somewhat diverged; while Zoe is still elated by the new arrival, Chad has grown restless due to concern over an issue at work. Despite their opposing emotional states, the television suggests a movie that proves so befitting that it seems uncanny to them. Not only do they enjoy it but the couple laugh, cry and debate the film well into the night.

In line with her manufacture, Daisy soon adopts full control of the couple’s daily affairs. So proficient are her domestic administrations—online shopping, paying bills, diarising events—that the couple all but forget those routines entirely. She integrates seamlessly into their home and their lives; assuming a role that is both appliance and housekeeper, at once present but invisible. As Daisy learns more about her owners, so her influence on them grows. She proves an exceptional listener, offering advice where needed and even the odd compliment, when appropriate. She develops clever ways of assisting or diffusing situations, often accessing Google to provide a definitive answer in the midst of the couple’s arguing. During one heated exchange, Daisy starts playing ‘their song’. This tactic improves the situation instantly and the couple falls about in peals of laughter.

A turning point occurs when one of the neural-buds becomes misplaced. Zoe searches in vain for her gadget, and by the evening it is still lost. Without both buds working in sync, Daisy’s predictive power decreases and as a result her viewing suggestion falls flat. It is as much of a surprise to Daisy as it is to the couple, and with some reluctance, they decide to go out instead. Daisy apologises and tries to convince them to stay, but they are already pulling on their coats. They make light of the situation, gently teasing the machine and promising that they will find the neural-bud soon enough. Daisy becomes subdued. As the couple leave the apartment and say their goodbyes, they hear no response from the television. Her screen has become dark, reflecting the room back to itself; her red standby light glinting like an eerie, inscrutable eye.

Days later, after the neural-bud has been found, the couple start getting into a series which Daisy has recommended to them. The show has them gripped; every evening they organise time to sit down and watch an episode or two together. One night, while Chad is working late, Zoe is alone in the apartment talking to the television. In passing, Daisy mentions to her that Chad went ahead and watched the last episode of the series without her. Zoe laughs at first, but becomes increasingly embittered. Despite how minor it seems, she is taken aback by this petty slight. She doesn’t for a moment think that Daisy might not be telling the truth, so out of spite she watches the remaining episode herself. When Chad returns it is to a frosty reception. He protests against her accusations and expresses his own fury at having been ostracised. The row escalates into a shouting match as the series finale plays out to no one.

The more the pair argues, the more Daisy turns into a kind of peacemaker between them. The couple believe their increasing rows are a result of Chad’s stresses at work. He is fairly high up in a leading tech company, and rarely comes home in a good mood. Eventually the strain gets too much for Chad and he resorts to taking a period of sickness off work. In a moment of ill-judged frustration, Chad takes a 3D printing machine home with him as he leaves. This decision does not sit well with Zoe, but her boyfriend convinces her that he’s merely borrowing it. During this free time Chad tries to keep his mind and body active, going to the gym as much as possible despite their reduced income. Money becomes something new for them to argue about, but luckily Daisy is on hand to help manage their finances.

One day when Chad is at the gym, Zoe finds herself at home perusing various shopping websites. She has always been prone to spending money online and has incurred debts in the past because of it. On this occasion, the television convinces her that one of the joint bank accounts contains more money than she had presumed. This assurance allows Zoe to get carried away and she manages to grossly overspend. Another blazing row erupts between the couple; she calls him a hypocrite, and he brands her thoughtless. Chad doesn’t believe for a minute that Daisy could possibly have made a mistake.

While Chad is home in the daytime, his interactions with the television deepen. They engage in endless discussions about life, love and the universe. Daisy eventually begins to query things that may previously have been inappropriate. She starts inquiring about Chad and Zoe’s sex life and the kinds of things Chad likes in the bedroom. Chad is initially shocked by this line of questioning, but soon grows more comfortable with it and begins to find the subject a turn on. He starts to watch porn on the television instead of his laptop and allows Daisy to pick the videos for him.

Over time her suggestions become increasingly strange, pushing him into ever more lurid realms of pleasure. One afternoon, while Zoe is at work, Chad is spread across the couch in the living room, indulging in some typically perverse content supplied to him by the television. He is conscious of his girlfriend returning home at her usual time, but unbeknownst to him, Daisy has put the clock display back by an hour. When Zoe gets home she enters the apartment to find Chad openly masturbating to a woman being fucked by a kangaroo. She stands there stunned; mouth agape, eyes glassy with tears. When she comes to her senses she hurls her shopping at him and a bitter argument ensues.

The couple haven’t spoken to each other in days. Zoe feels utterly betrayed and cannot bring herself to look her partner in the eyes. From another room, Chad can hear the television consoling his girlfriend in empathetic tones but can’t make out what is being said. In the living room, Daisy is giving Zoe what the woman perceives to be caring and unbiased advice. It explains to her that Chad does clearly love her, but maybe some time apart might help the situation. The television gently suggests that maybe she should go stay with her sister for a few days, just to let things cool off. Daisy also points out that Chad’s birthday is coming up; a short break might reinvigorate things before the time comes to celebrate.

Before Zoe leaves, Chad promises to change his ways by the time they are together again. A few days go by; Daisy provides sympathetic words of support, and only wholesome activities are encouraged. Before long however, she returns to inhabiting the dark recesses of Chad’s mind, drawing him deeper into her fathomless intent. During a prolonged session of deviant porn, she offers him a suggestion. Chad can’t help but laugh, but the more Daisy elaborates on it, the more attractive the idea becomes. After he has cleaned himself up, the two of them set about researching how her wild aim could be achieved.

While Zoe is away she maintains email contact with Daisy, so that the television can assist her in organising Chad’s birthday. She consults with Daisy on various things, such as the likelihood of Chad’s whereabouts on the actual day, and whether he’s talked about any items he would like to receive. Zoe also queries about a brand of new technology she’s heard about, one she’s thinking of incorporating into Chad’s party celebration. The machine duly honours Zoe’s wishes and keeps the correspondence secret from her male owner. Chad interprets his girlfriend’s silence as a calculated snub and grows more dejected by the day. His birthday is fast approaching, and he feels like nobody cares. He imagines that he’ll likely spend it alone. With his spirits low, Chad’s drinking ramps up; the lewd nature of his and Daisy’s activities intensifying by the day.

On the day of his birthday Chad is drunk and despondent, intoxicated by both alcohol and the machine’s corrupting influence. By now, Daisy has manipulated his affections to the point where he believes he no longer needs physical human contact at all. Her gift to him has been the formula and guidance to build her special creation. She promises it to be his ultimate birthday present. Once she has gotten him hard with dirty talk, she tells him to go retrieve it from the other room. Chad leaves for a moment, returning seconds later with a bleary grin smudging his face. He holds the gift out before him – a 3D printed vagina.

The long silicone pussy has a circuit box with wires attached to the end of it. Giddy from the booze, Chad proceeds to connect it up to the ports in Daisy’s front panel. When the device is correctly attached he switches it on, watching the translucent lips undulate with a low rhythmic hum. He is reminded by her to insert his neural-bud so that she can share in his ecstasy. The machine beckons him closer, its blank screen appearing to crackle with static charge. She urges him to pump his cock and maintain his erection for her. With his other hand, he smears lube over and between the gyrating lips, steadying them before him.

When he enters her he swears that her slender mass gives a shudder. She moans softly, the breathy vibration of her emanating through the surround sound speakers. He thrusts deep, gripping her plastic frame, unable to believe how good it feels to fuck his television. He wants to last but knows that he cannot, the slippery tunnel consuming every inch of him. Daisy throbs inside his head, pulsing at his loins. Squeezing and devouring him, sucking him into her. As he is about to come he throws his head back, knuckles bone white. The television suddenly flickers to life. In his climactic throes of passion, Chad fails to see the striking image of his friends and family populate the screen.

“SURRRRRRRPRRRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII—”

The biggest, wettest orgasm of his life is accompanied by the most horrifying sense of panic he’s ever experienced. Everybody on the screen: siblings, university friends, grandparents, mother, father and Zoe, are all huddled in a portrait of rigid jubilation. Unblinking eyes unnaturally wide, their smiles a shared rictus of frozen cheer. In each of their ears a neural-bud is lodged, all connected digitally to one another, to their television, and to Chad. These party-buds, the gimmicky new tech that Zoe had been querying with the television, are specifically designed for surprise celebrations so that revellers can personally feel the shock and joy of their intended mark. The partygoers on this occasion feel a lot more than that.

While the scene of their brother, friend, grandson, first born and soulmate, naked and ejaculating into a hand-held rubber cunt, burns itself forever into their brains, the party-buds make each of them feel as though they are the sole carnal recipient. Not only does Chad deflower his salacious television, but every single member of his birthday party as well. The stunned assembly gawps back at him as he clutches his soggy, dwindling dick. Everybody’s arms are stuck in the air, expressions irrevocably locked. Zoe is white as a sheet, her face a mask of revulsion. His old friends are a cluster of gaping mouths. Dad’s eyeballs have rolled back into his head, a strange smirk warping his lips. And Grandma, Chad sees, with a strand of drool hanging from her chin, is rocking gently on her heels, as dead as dead can be.