Digital Dreams in Euphoria: A Fucked-Up Fairy Tale 

In the techno-mystic realm of Euphoria, Queen Cherrypop lounged on her crystalline throne, her neural interface crackling with static as data streams flowed through the kingdom’s quantum networks. The palace walls shimmered with holographic representations of her past battles with the notorious Baroness Cuntingham each pixel encoding the power struggles that had shaped their realm.

Co-Queen Silver materialized beside her, their shared consciousness intertwining through Euphoria’s bioelectric grid. The kingdom had evolved since the days of simple fairy tale magic, now existing in a space where ancient spells merged with cutting-edge technology. Together, they monitored the realm’s vital signs through their enhanced neural networks, watching as the streets below pulsed with neon dreams and digital desires.

“The old powers are stirring again,” Cherrypop whispered, her voice carrying the weight of both organic and synthetic wisdom. She remembered her earlier days as a naive princess before the great technological awakening had transformed their realm into a hybrid of magic and machine. The goddess Twatzapooner’s essence had been uploaded to the kingdom’s mainframe, becoming an AI guardian that watched over their digital domain with algorithmic precision.

A warning flashed across their shared consciousness – unauthorized access in the Dark Forest’s data core. The forest had become a maze of fiber optic cables and quantum entangled trees, where digital predators lurked in the shadows of corrupted code.

“Something’s different this time,” Silver observed, her chrome-enhanced fingers dancing through streams of data. “It feels like… Cuntingham, but evolved.”

In the end, it wasn’t just about power anymore, it was about evolution. As Queens of a kingdom where fairy tale magic had merged with high technology, Cherrypop and Silver understood that their real strength lay not in dominance, but in adaptation. The juxtaposition of technology and humanity had become their greatest weapon against the darkness that threatened their digital domain.

They rose together, their forms flickering between flesh and light, ready to face whatever new horror had emerged from the synthesis of old magic and new tech. In Euphoria, even fairy tales had to upgrade their operating systems.

Life Happens

Six hours after I delivered the valedictorian speech at my high school graduation ceremony in the Trinity School gymnasium, I fucked a transvestite prostitute in an alley off the corner of 44th & 10th. I didn’t know “Stevie” was a dude. For one, he had the same name as the unquestionably female lead singer of Fleetwood Mac (who had an ubermasculine boyfriend named Lindsey). I was also kinda buzzed after knocking back a bottle of Old Grand-Dad washed down by a sixer of PBR tallboys. But the warning signs were there. Stevie had an unusually deep voice … a disproportionately large adam’s apple … knew the name and alma mater of each of the Jets draft picks … and my best friend Simon’s mom told me that my dick tasted like ass after she blew me the next day at his graduation brunch in East Hampton. 

But gender and sexuality issues aside, I knew that Stevie wasn’t my type, and it would be a short-lived romance, when he wouldn’t shut the fuck up about urban renewal and gentrification driving up rents and pushing the working class out of Hell’s Kitchen while I was shredding him behind the dumpster. People shouldn’t have to listen to that annoying first-world petit bourgeois bullshit on a first date, especially on the night of their high school graduation. New Yorkers are so selfish, especially the poor ones.

I learned the truth about Stevie a few years later during my junior year at Georgetown when he showed up at my feminist theology class – disguised in a priest’s cassock and using the pseudonym “Father O’Finnegan” – claiming to be the professor. At least now I know where he mastered his M. Butterfly dick-tuck/butt-lube technique … and why he wouldn’t blow me.

During my gap year between undergrad and NYU Stern, I had a serious live-in girlfriend named Margaret who preferred to be called by her nickname, Peggy – which coincidentally was the same name as my eighth grade art teacher, who looked much better in thigh-high pleather boots and red lace panties (and sucked a better dick) than my Peggy.

Peggy ate with her mouth open and had atrocious table manners. It wasn’t until I took her to the free clinic for a pregnancy test that I found out she was a Peruvian Llama. I guess that’s why the test came back negative. 

But it wasn’t meant to be with us. Maybe because I could never figure out why “Peggy” was a nickname for “Margaret” – I guess it’s just one of those things in life that you’re supposed to accept and pretend to understand, like cryptocurrency or the electoral college or abstract art or the weekly New Yorker  fiction piece. It ended for good when Peggy got bounced from first class on our flight home to New York. Buh-bye, Peggy.

With my first Goldman Sachs paycheck, I bought a silicone sex doll customized into a combination of Posh Spice and Joan of Arc. Some nights I spoke French to her, some nights I spoke Cockney-accented English. Some nights I called her Joan Spice and we ate roasted lamb shanks and drank red wine and snuck into the basement laundry room and made love on the floor, watching ourselves reverently in the washing machine window reflection. Some nights I called her Posh D’Arc and beat the living bejesus fuck out of her. She didn’t complain as much as Stevie and Peggy, even when I snored and pissed the bed. She left me when I got passed over for a promotion.

My first night in prison after my securities fraud conviction, I shit myself to discourage the other cons from raping me. I had heard or read somewhere that’s what Ivan Boesky did, and he was a much better securities fraudster than I was. One of the guards laughed and told me that prisoners don’t rape each other in minimum security federal prison. When I asked him for a pair of clean pants and underwear, he winked and brought me a used, threadbare Smurfette costume. I had to give it back when I got paroled.

A few weeks ago, I met a nice girl named Carol at the coffee urn in the church basement at my Tuesday night meeting (I can’t remember for which group). She’s old as fuck like me – at least 43.  On our first date, she asked why someone with my education and experience was working as a dock hand. I said it was always my dream but life got in the way.

“Life happens,” she agreed.

I think Carol’s a keeper so long as she stops asking stupid questions.

Kandy Fontaine, Slutty Detective vs. Doctor Flesh

Detective Kandy Fontaine bit her cherry-burst red lip until the good krovy oozed. She felt something throb in her fire engine red 70s porno bush crotch that reminded her of the first time she’d been properly dominated; or was it the first time she’d masturbated to David Bowie doing the Jean Genie. At any rate there was something downright Baudelaire about the disgusting, grotesque, splayed open corpse that she and Detective Joe Orouboros were both dissecting with their eyes, the young blonde homicide victim whose blue eyes were fast fading out, while the corpse’s still-erect cock became permanently ensconced in her head-canon of necrophiliac fantasies. 

Detective Joe was meanwhile contemplating the words of Soren Kierkegaard in Fear and Trembling.

“Is it true, do you think…” he began, “that a, there is a universal such that the universal is ethical, is in fact the ethical, and as humans we are naturally bound to follow the ethical, to disclose ourselves to ourselves as the ethical qua qua qua…”

Kandy backhanded him across the choppers. “You’re harshing muh vibe, dickless. Now are you going to fuck me sideways into this here corpse while I get muh OG boombox here playing Bauhaus, solo Tara Vanflower, a bit of the old David J. Haskins solo, Jarboe, a bit of…”

“So that’s a masturbatory auto-fictional reference to Alex S. Johnson, isn’t it? His anthologies with all those hot Goth chicks in them. He’s been obsessed with hot Goths since he discovered Poppy Z. Brite in the early 90s. Kind of sad that he’s still popping one off to those back issues of Carpe Noctem…”

“Who said that?”

The two detectives found themselves mildly spooked by the sudden non-fleshly insertion of a voice from outside…delirious acid flashbacks to a vanilla ice cream sundae with lots of hot fudge…Johnson suddenly recalled that it was in fact Kandy who inserted her hot Johnson into the narrative…strapon autofiction overdrive…she pounds Detective Oroboros in the ass with a narrative dildo. He grunts from behind the ball-gag as she pushes his enormous erection into the corpse’s gushing asshole…

The scene shifts to the secret underground lab of Viola Flesh, who’s turned FBI informant after the events detailed in the full-length novel version of Doctor Flesh. Pandora’s boxes slopping over with fuckery erupt in her dark eyes. Her gender confirming surgery performed by herself with a little help from the revolutionary skin care product she’s designed that also flashmorphs bodies into forms suggested by their voluptuous masturbation fantasies. Is she Jean Genet writing herself beneath the stiff, fetid prison sheets into Divine, and thus Candy Darling? Only time will tell. She drops into Facebook video message mode with Kandy Fontaine who has now assumed the position, ass in the air, the one now wearing the firmly-secured ball gag which cuts cruelly between her Fuck Me Red lipsticked lips….which re-opens the lip wound a tad and there’s a momentary question of her choking on the bloody drool and phlegm as Orobourus reams her out, his full length plunging lubeless into her asshole and slamming her, still endowed with the strap-on, into the corpse…the corpse begins to twitch and perhaps switch-bitch feedback loops back into the couple making the beast with two backs…as Detective Orobouros still contemplates the works of the melancholy father of Existentialism, aroused beyond the measurable by seismograph sweet ache of his cock as he feels his load coming on…he’s seeping…deliberately stops, cools off, makes her beg for it behind the gag…Agent Johnson wonders if he’s gone too far this time…writing his reports in code…prey for rock and roll…undead, undead, undead…he rallies, feeling the pinch as nobody knows from one day to the next when, where and how they’ll all be shuttled into concentration camps…but therein lay material for further fetishistic voyages of the damned…slowly and with infinite skill he forces himself to a dead stop. She’s literally weeping tears of frustration now. “Hrrr crd yr drrrrr ths trrrr mmmmmmmm…” He’s so turned on that he needs to not be turned on by any means necessary, and obviously they’ve gone quite beyond the pale.

What did Kierkegaard mean by revisiting the story of Abraham and Isaac in dialectical terms? But he knew that when he’d picked up Fear and Trembling with intent this time, the intent to meet Kierkegaard on his own terms, there was no turning back…he’d have to do what he had to do, and if that meant going beyond transgression to the point that transgression itself became the eponymous worm orobouros around which the still world turned…twisting the night away…Doctor Flesh’s digits worked her surgically fabricated clit faster and faster and faster…she was oozing like a fountain…like a lake…panting furiously…”Bitch, are you just Jean Geneting my ass into your spank bank?” moaned Detective Fontaine softly in her ear…Dr. Flesh turned around and saw that Slutty Detective Kandy Fontaine had her surrounded with doppelgangers in cherry red tight-fitting vinyl…she was wearing kittie ears, had a whip and a faint tinge of formaldehyde…she sounded like Marlene Dietrich as she bit a piece of Viola’s ear off and swallowed…”I promise to be cruel, I know you want that more than anything…fuck Kierkegaard. Fuck Kant. Fuck Nietzsche. Fuck Sartre. Fuck ethics. Fuck the universe into a sweet ball of fuckery and let’s drive it past those cemetary gates…yes gratuitous Pantera reference…dreams of hot headlights, up-ended rumps on stained state-manufactured mattresses made by the living dead…the corpse has revived behind the multiple penetrations, turns out someone huffed datura powder into its nostrils…Kenneth Anger’s doppelganger, you’re wanted on the white emergency phone…” 

Kandy’s flashbulb orgasm detonates her into the stratosphere on defiant great chaingangs of Being and Nothingness…her entire body spasms over and over, he toes curl, she pulls at the tittay clamps…the boardroom erupts with cheers as Dr. Flesh concludes the PowerPoint presentation…the last slide flickers away down fractal corridors…a small bear on a unicycle wearing Daddy leather pursues her into the outer darkness…

THE END…OF THE BEGINNING