the fuck junky tres
by
Hugh Mungus
© 2019. Hugh Mungus
Kindle Direct Publishing
© 2019. Hugh Mungus
First Edition
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1981102570
ISBN-10: 1981102574
Kindle Direct Publishing
7290 Investment Drive, Suite B
North Charleston, SC 29418
To regaining our autonomy.
"Sleep was always difficult. If he could
sleep three hours in 24, he was satisfied."
sleep three hours in 24, he was satisfied."
― Hot Water Music *
* Hot Water Music
To regaining our autonomy.
"If There's Life on Other Planets, then the
Earth is the Universe's Insane Asylum."
Earth is the Universe's Insane Asylum."
(Voltaire) *
FUCK CLUB
THE ORGAN-IZERS
A GORDIE HOWE HAT TRICK
MAJA THURUP: GANGBANG SPOILER
DOES THE PRESIDENT HITCHHIKE?
HELLION/ELECTRIC EYE
TEARMONGER
HENDERTUCKY
THE BART BRAVERMAN 5000
FADED
* Voltaire
* Voltaire
FUCK CLUB
I learned a long time ago that reality was much weirder than anyone's imagination.
― Hunter S. Thompson *
* Hunter S. Thompson
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/293646
I am Joe's nine inch cock.
My name is Hugh Mungus. Actually, my name is something else. Provided the necessary research, you'd probably be able to figure out what that is. Not that this matters.
I reside in a one room hovel farted out the rectum of McCarran "International" Airport, in the fictitious "city" of "Las Vegas." That would be in the equally fake "state" of "Nevada."
I use terms like fake and fictitious ― when referring to "cities," "countries," and "states" ― because these territories don't exist in reality. It's the Overview Effect; no boundaries viewable, once you leave this planet, and gaze back upon it.
Even if humans were to erect borders, nature wouldn't recognize them. Grass growing in "Estonia" continues to do so through whatever illusory barrier one pretends to create with "Russia."
It's the reason we exist under the constant fear of nuclear annihilation ― endowed with enough atomic weaponry to destroy our species multitudinous times over.
"Countries" are nothing more than a ruse ― a mindfuck ― employed to divide and conquer our breed, and coerce it into fighting itself. And if "countries" don't exist, neither do "states," nor "cities."
Should humanity awaken to reality, crushing it's self-imposed imprisonment, the ideology of "countries" will be viewed as asinine by future generations.
But you didn't come here for a lesson in Reality 101. You came here for the fuckin'!
As such, let's begin.
For the past 27 years, I've been on a quest to copulate. My goal is 5,000 women. As of the writing of this chapter, I currently stand at 4,823. The aforementioned Number was reached via any type of sex ― analingus, blowjobs, cunnilingus, fingering pussy, handjobs, intercourse, etc. As long as it's sexual contact with another, the Number is entered into my raunchy resume.
I've fucked my way through the suburban sprawls of "Denver" and "Colorado Springs." I've pummeled pussy in Pulp Fiction motels amidst the sketchiest portions of "Mesa," "Phoenix," and "Tempe." I've pushed penis in "St. Louis," racin' across the Mississippi, to the infamous eastern portion of the "city" in question.
Participate in porn, atop the Hollywood Hills? You bet, and many thanks for the opportunity! From the frothy foam of the "Pacific," to the neon gluttony of Sin City, I've incurred homelessness, slavery, and monumental rejection, in an effort to attain my goal.
This is your life, and it's ending one minute at a time.
― Fight Club **
** Fight Club
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5LQ6ybb0wA
How much can a person know about themselves, if they've never fornicated in front of dozens of people? Is it possible to understand who you are, if you've yet to facefuck a housewife, while her sister watches? Can you comprehend what you are, without some shemale porn actress telling you your cock is too big, when you're only halfway inserted?
Everyone smiles with that invisible gun to their head.
― Fight Club ***
*** Ibid.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5LQ6ybb0wA
Do you feel your "career" ― an endeavor you solely engage in for cash ― defines you, as an organism?
You are not your job, you're not how much money you have in the bank. You are not the car you drive. You're not the contents of your wallet […].
― Fight Club ****
**** Ibid.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5LQ6ybb0wA
When asked what they do, most people answer: "I'm a retail store clerk"; "an insurance claims adjuster"; "an advertising executive," etc. So, as a kid, you grew up chompin' at the bit to be the manager of a Chili's?! Come fucking on! You've conformed to what this system demanded of you, and you know it!
We've all been raised on television to believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, and movie gods, and rock stars. But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very pissed off.
― Fight Club *****
***** Ibid.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5LQ6ybb0wA
I'm Hugh Mungus, and I'll never be any of these things. What am I?
I don't know. None of us knows what we are.
When asked what I do, I respond, "I fuck." It's what we all wanna do. Sadly, or otherwise, it's what most of us don't do.
"If you don't know what you want," the doorman said, "you end up with a whole lot you don't."
― Fight Club ******
****** Ibid.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5LQ6ybb0wA
Instead, we pursue "careers" we don't realize never existed until we're pukin' up our final breaths in a rotting hospital bed. Adjacent, some doctor ― who sees us as nothing more than a means to another Mercedes ― feigns compassion, as we "depart."
Warning: If you are reading this, then this warning is for you. Every word you read of this useless fine print is another second off your life.
Don't you have other things to do? Is your life so empty that you honestly can't think of a better way to spend these moments? Or are you so impressed with authority that you give respect and credence to all that claim it?
Do you read everything you're supposed to read? Do you think everything you're supposed to think? Buy what you're told you want?
Get out of your apartment. Meet a member of the opposite sex. Stop the excessive shopping and masturbation.
Quit your job. […] Prove you're alive.
If you don't claim your humanity, you will become a statistic. You have been warned.
― Fight Club º
º Fight Club quotes
https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/68729-fight-club
Fuck Club. It surrounds you; engulfs you; embraces you. It's the whole of humanity, yearning to connect with itself, yet forcing its constituents to do so in darkened basements, amid the sickly glow of waning fluorescents.
The first rule of Fuck Club is: You talk about Fuck Club. The second rule of Fuck Club is: You talk about Fuck Club!
The third rule of Fuck Club is: As many people as you want per fuck.
And if this is your first time at Fuck Club,…you don't have to do anything. The choice is yours. That's what freedom is; the ability to do what you want, when you want, without repercussions from douche bags claiming to be "authority."
Such stated, if this is your first time at Fuck Club, I highly recommend you fuck!
Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we can buy shit we don't need.
― Fight Club ºº
ºº Ibid.
https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/68729-fight-club
On your death bed, what do you think you'll regret more? The fact you didn't "own" a BMW, like your "friends," or the truth you only fucked one pussy?
THE ORGAN-IZERS
There is no crueler tyranny than that which is perpetrated under the shield of law and in the name of justice.
― Baron de Montesquieu *
* Baron de Montesquieu
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/203711
Nothing green touched Vegas Vic's plate. The fired circle of porcelain was off limits to anything grown in the ground, at one time hanging from a vine, or initially dangling from a tree.
The dinnerware obviously had an invisible barricade around it, keeping that which didn't perish in a slaughterhouse from penetrating its perimeter.
I wondered if V2 ― i.e. The Rocket ― was allergic to vegetables. Not wishing to tread on distressing dirt, I didn't say a word.
In the afterglow of the Palace Station buffet, I stuffed my face full of leaves, roots and stalks, while V-Squared solely engulfed that which had bled.
We couldn't have been more opposite. Twin-V appeared to never miss a meal. I, on the other hand, was a poster child for the undernourished. Swinging adjudicates no one; the only glue necessary being the desire to fuck, and fuck like mad.
As such, we'd just completed yet another gangbang ― this one with a Dungeons & Dragons aficionado, and his cock-craving concubine.
Riding the elevator to the event at the Rio, I'd stared up at an ad for Chippendale's male revue. Six topless torsos, attached to dudes who spent more time in the gym than they did breathing. "Who do you think gets laid more?" motioning to the airbrushed poster of perfect corporeal specimens. "Those guys, or us?" I'd asked.
Vic chuckled. We didn't have a definite answer to that one. The correct rejoinder may have seemed obvious, but it was just another example of what this system offers, and what we decide to take on our own.
"Tough to tell, man. Tough to tell," responded Sin City's premiere Organ-Izer.
At best, we were…grubby. I'd never heard my name mentioned in the same sentence with the phrase "hot stud." Vic, although at least tolerable, wasn't gonna be featured on The Bachelor anytime soon.
Still, here we were, more fucked than the only Fleshlight in a prison.
I was averagin' eight to 10 new women per week, at that time, and I don't think Vic was too far behind.
The LP of my mind skipped a groove, recalling a recent memory.
"You should really work on your career, man," asserted Marcel. Three days later, he died in his sleep. Since that time, I'd fucked another 400 women. That was a year ago.
Marcel had been energetically toiling at his "career," when he exhaled for the last time.
Skipping ahead on the playlist in my brain, I gazed down at the sleeping secretary in my bed, her nude body glistening in her own urine, sweat and cum. She was breathing heavily now ― probably trapped in an insipid dream about Bernie Sanders and Bill Clinton sharing a double dildo. This system gagged us with the most jejune "entertainment."
She'd pumped my penis harder than the handle on the last water well in existence. Mike Tyson delivering uppercuts to his own chin, she'd knocked herself out.
"A 'career'?" I quietly cogitated. "And miss all these gems buried beneath Bourgeoisie Beach? Think I'll just stay on this road. As rocky as it is, at least it has a handful of street signs, and a fuckload more sights to see than Career Highway!
And so, I floored the accelerator, as I dropped into high gear, barreling down my own uncertain interstate.
The ambrosia spraying from the smoldering hot blonde's covetous cavern was flowing directly from the Fountain of Youth, as far as I was concerned. "If cocks were cognizant, mine would think it was being water boarded, right about now," I mused.
"Holy fuck!!!" the demigoddess squealed. "It's been 10 years since I've sprayed!" At that, another blast released from her heavenly hole, hitting her point blank in the eyes, temporarily blinding her!
Standing between honey-dipped thighs, thrusting like a fencer wielding his blade, I lost traction against a tile floor that had become an oil slick, thanks to pints of womb water. Repositioning the blue raspberry-flavored barmaid ― shaved snatch, bald bowels, and all ― a couple feet to my right, we recommenced our routine.
Her ditch continued to douse, and soon enough, this new portion of the floor was more slippery than a Mike Pence initiative to provide "full transparency."
And so, the migration again transpired. Every 10 minutes, we were forced to move to the right, or risk incurring the pitfalls inherent to the perfidious combo of goddess grease and hard, smooth tile.
"Let's see," I ruminated, as the nude, playful pixie attempted to stand, and slid like a weak foal across arctic ice. Both our naked bodies were soaked in so much señorita semen, it was dripping from our hair. "This," I mentally continued, "or this?"
I conjured up scenes from Steve Cutts' brilliant animation In the Fall, which perfectly exposes work as slavery. ** Rotting in some cubicle, or perpetually immersing oneself in a live porn? Which door do I choose, Monty "Motherfuckin' " Hall?
** In the Fall
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A-rEb0KuopI
Enter guys like Vegas Vic. For whatever fucked-up reason, should you have difficulty deciding between an existence of orgiastic fantasy-made-reality, or Death on Two Legs, V-Dub will clarify things. ***
*** Death on Two Legs
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kqVpk0qxmfA
More lost in the crowd than a kernel on the cob, in prosaic society, Vic would never be mistaken for possessing one of the most laid lances in Vegas. Such stated, his balls are more widely used than Spalding.
What's the secret to his magic?
Vegas Vic is what's known as an Organ-Izer. Organ-Izers coordinate threesomes, foursomes, moresomes, gangbangs, and orgies.
It doesn't matter if you have one eye, three fingers, and more hair in your nose than atop your head. Can you coordinate? Desire being fucked more than an ignorant prole hitting the ballot box every four years? If you answered, "Yes" to both questions, you're on the path to humping more women than 99% of men on the planet.
Grab a cell phone, a free membership on FetLife, and begin your sexual sojourn. ****
**** FetLife
www.fetlife.com
You might have a 14 inch cock. You may be better looking than the prospect of freedom. Perhaps you have five testicles, are able to cum 50 times in 10 minutes, and "own" entire cities. You'll never be able to get laid as much as…
The Organ-Izers.
Are you 75 years old, and physically resemble a character from The Muppet Show? Maybe you're hung like a spider. You might be shorter than the line at a deep fried Cocker Spaniel restaurant.
None of this matters. If you wanna get fucked like the public under government rule, all you need do is possess the desire, and the ability, to coordinate.
I've seen 65 year old social security recipients, poundin' two and a half inches of rigid rod into 25 year old XXX actresses ― free of charge ― all thanks to the awe-inspiring power of The Organ-Izers.
I've witnessed forgotten high school nerds ― who didn't even make the yearbook, let alone a nomination for "Most Likely to…" anything ― receiving record-breaking head from multiple prom queens.
I've been privy to Laser Tag addicts ass fucking college cheerleaders, and it was all thanks to a proficiency to organize one's medicine cabinet.
Do you have what it takes to clear out the floppy-eared dust bunnies in your garage, and turn that area into an efficient storage shed? Well, then you've all the tools necessary to get fucked like the forerunner for president changing his campaign slogan to "911 Was an Inside Job!"
What's the secret, here? Take 10 seconds to solve this conundrum.
If you organize a gangbang, you'll also be participating in that event. The more you coordinate, the more you'll fuck. Simple.
A GORDIE HOWE HAT TRICK
Those who fear the facts will forever try to discredit the fact-finders.
― Denis Diderot *
* Denis Diderot
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/1459242
"I shot a machine gun in Vegas…
It backfired, and tore my face off."
"I drove an Indy car on vacation in Sin City…
Jumping the track, it killed two kids."
"Skydiving in the Entertainment Capital of the World was the perfect birthday gift…
Until my chute failed to open, I bounced off desert floor like a kangaroo on crack, and became a quadriplegic."
It's that hidden side of Ben Siegel's wet dream you never hear about. The above are examples of a self-enslaved population straining to live, if solely for a few moments.
Fuck the all-bacon diets; the gastric sleeve; or washed-up celebrities hockin' multi-level marketing weight loss programs on late night TV! Most people would shed a hundred pounds, if they trashed their stupidity.
Should you fail to have received the memo, the underlying theme of my blogs is awakening to reality. Only when you do will you inhale the 65-inch ass thick aroma of life, and stop buying into this system that imprisons us.
It's impossible to live, if you're a slave. Such stated, you can nibble at the crumbs, lick the corners, and snort a wonderful whiff of what we should be doing. For some, such will be all it takes, and they'll crave more!
For others, they'll kill to perpetuate this system corralling us into our cells. So many folks ― you refer to as "close friends" ― react radically different than you'd envision, when faced with the prospect of freedom.
And when you babble about bein' a slave, and wantin' out, they'll do whatever it takes to drag you back into the bastille with 'em. They'll mercilessly coerce you to conform, as if they were cult members.
Naw, that can't be, even though we're forced to sit in school, listening to pitchmen ― doubling as a "teachers" ― pumpin' us full of propaganda about the wonderful "U.S." You buy the bullshit, and next you know, you're forfeiting your life, in order to "live" in the "land of the free." You sacrifice your dreams for the "American Dream," never realizing "America" is simply a brand name, a cult, and a sales pitch to sell you into slavery.
If you do comprehend you've been scammed, typically you're breathin' your last breath, imprisoned for decades by a mortgage, or a wife who's fucking everyone but you. You've got 2.2 kids you want to asphyxiate; a dog you've jacked-off in secrecy, due to sexual frustration; and a "career" you love as much as cold calls from telemarketers. At this point, you're considering impaling yourself on the proverbial white picket fence of this; the "American Dream."
For years, those propagandeers ― doubling as pedagogues ― test you on the brainwashing they've crammed into your cranium. Ain't bleedin' red, white and blue? You can just sit your ass back down and conform, until you're able to upchuck the bullshit on command. Twelve years is your prison sentence in this panopticon, and they simply send you to another stockade, once you "graduate."
And whaddya' receive for being a good, little indoctrinate? You're "allowed" to move up to the next level in this hierarchy of menticide, where conditioning is even more complete.
Look, if you wanna fuck thousands of women, there are multitudinous routes you can go. Such stated, most Numbers Guys seem to follow one of two paths:
A) They accumulate a fuckload of cash, and buy their avenue to achievement, or
B) they denounce this system, and begin thinking for themselves.
"A" means compliance to this order ― or lack, thereof ― while "B" denotes obvious rejection of it.
I highly recommend option "B" over "A." Traveling the latter can easily translate to getting a girlfriend, marrying, pursuing a suffocating "career," producing progeny, etc. These impediments make it an agonizing affair to accomplish your objective.
And why would you want the Thoroughfare to Thousands to be anything but pleasurable? Traversing this Life-and-Death game of Monopoly ― people call their existence ― results in enough pain. You stress to pay bills, retain a "job," dump money down the tax compacter, etc. Making agony out of the one aspect of your existence that most resembles life, would be irrational.
By choosing "B," your time aboard Spaceship Earth becomes perpetual adventure. When you reach the end of your particular path, you'll have extremely few ― if any ― regrets, and riveting stories to tell!
In addition, by selecting "B," you learn about reality. Should you choose "A," you'll more than likely remain blind to the fact you're a slave, existing within a system that's been designed to imprison you.
"B" leads to comprehension of your enslavement, and thus the ability to free yourself. "A" leads to perpetuation of this system that incarcerates us all.
And maybe it's just me, but doesn't willfully supporting a system that's architected to subjugate and slaughter you mean you're suicidal, and therefore mentally ill?
If you haven't read my previous blogs in this series, Don Keedik: Runner, The Fornication Files, the There's No "E" in Horny trilogy, etc., my name is Hugh Mungus. Outside of "shitface" and "hack," folks also refer to me as Don Keedik, Mike Oxhard, and the fuck junky.
For the past 27 years, I've been on a quest to play with 5,000 women. By "play," I mean have sexual relations with; i.e. blowjobs, eating pussy, handjobs, intercourse, etc.
Striving toward my goal, I've documented as many adventures as I was able. Throughout, I've simultaneously attempted to keep from drowning in this paradigm of corporate cupidity; this government gulag.
What you, the reader, receive are the lowlights ― as I like to refer to 'em.
This isn't disturbing elitist erotica, like you'll find on HBO's Real Sex ― which is anything but real.
This is toolin' down Trop' in a six-tone Chrysler Dynasty, after fucking a stripper from the Hustler Club, and a female-to-male tranny, who drowned your bed in girl goo! This is an older sister taking a load of her younger sister's cum in her face, while you service the second's cervix with your scimitar. This is fucking more women in a seven day span than hours you've slept during the week in question.
Don't get me wrong. This isn't life. Again, it's impossible to live, if you're a slave. And since we're all vassals, none of us will experience life, as long as we allow this system that imprisons us to remain in place.
You may have tremendous moments, but you'll still be a serf, while doing so. You'll still awaken at some fucked-up hour, and beat on yourself at a "job" you despise. You'll still feed the flesh-eating albatross around your neck called a mortgage. Government will still sodomize you, every time you receive a paycheck.
That said, when fucking, at least you'll get a brief nosh of what life would be like, if we grabbed its cunt, and penetrated.
Since I'm just a regular guy ― who happened to set a goal, and ruthlessly hunt it down ― realize you, too, can do whatever you want. Don't allow this system to erroneously inform you you're too young, too old, too poor, not good-looking enough, etc.
You're a honed machine, specifically designed to excel. Anyone who asserts otherwise is red-linin' on the bullshit meter, and covets control.
Do what you want, when you want, and don't permit anybody ― especially yourself ― to fallaciously apprise you you're "not enough," "inept," or born to watch from the sidelines.
Speakin' of sports, a Hat Trick is achieved in hockey when one person scores three goals in a game.
A Gordie Howe Hat Trick is accomplished when a single player notches a tally, adds an assist, and gets in a fight ― all in the same match.
Second only to Wayne Gretzky ― in terms of most goals scored in National Hockey League (NHL) history ― Gordie Howe played in the NHL until he was 52 years old. "Mr. Hockey" ― as he's known ― is considered one of the best skaters ever.
Fucking a homeless woman, receiving a handjob from a beautician, and prematurely ejaculating on a live-in nurse ― all in one evening ― I'd successfully completed a Swinger's Hat Trick.
When it comes to such, intercourse equates to the goal scored in the Gordie Howe version of achievements. It doesn't matter if this is a 14 hour fuckathlon, resulting in a rewriting of the Kama Sutra, or a "thrust and done." Fucking is fucking, and I'd accomplished that at a gangbang with a 20-something who'd been abandoned a year prior in Vegas, and was still couch surfing.
The second element of a Swinger's Hat Trick is the oft-enjoyed, albeit widely chastised, handjob. It's typically concluded this is a feat you can accomplish on your own, in your moldy bathroom. Palms stinking of saliva, you bang your nuts on your ass like Mongol hordes pounding a battering ram against the castle door of an opposing army.
Such stated, a female hand feels entirely different than your own, un-moisturized paw ― fissured and producing blood, due to days spent drinking nothing but cola and beer.
"Hugh, this is Susan."
"Hey, Susan! It's nice to meet you!"
"It's nice to meet you, too. Sal says you're 'quite gifted.' "
"It's Susan's first time to a swing club, and I told her you have a 10 inch dick."
"Actually, it's 9 1/2."
"Whatever. She wants to see it."
A drunk in the corner ― an animatronic robot on a Disneyland ride ― sits up, bangin' out an '80s porn tune on a Korg M1.
My fly is unzipped; my cock flops out, and a handjob commences.
Susan's palms are more gritty than mine, due to the fact the only hydration she's received in 72 hours are the ice cubes lightly chilling her Malibu and Metamucil.
"But, you're so skinny! How'd you get such a…?
Tinklin' the ovaries, "Chopin" increases the tempo of his cacophonic canticle, as we race for the confines of a private room.
Strained fucking commences. My cock won't fit; I'm low on lube. It's a combo as disastrous as Oprah and no food. In the end, however, Susan does a remarkable job fakin' a half dozen orgasms, and I'm back out in search of more sex.
"Condoms are mandatory!"
"Got it. No problem. I never fuck without 'em," I assert, producing a handful of wood hoods from my bulging, left sock.
Hubby smirks, as though I was a kid trying to tie my shoes for the first time, without prior instruction. With a pretentious chuckle, the man snatches the week's worth of rod wrappers from my sweaty mitt, reading the expiration dates on each. "April, June, October." The incensed bastard discards each picklebag, in turn.
I watch in horror, as what equates to perhaps $30 in rubbers is carelessly tossed into the wastebasket beside the bed. "But― but, it's January," I protest.
The dogged dipshit stops, glaring up. "Do you wanna fuck my wife, or not, man?!"
"Well, yeah. I mean, of course―"
"Then you play by my rules. Got it?!"
"Yeah. Yeah, sure."
Grimacing, hubby squirts a puddle of sanitizer into his palm, as if he'd handled a hunk of plutonium-235 dunked in dog shit. Grabbing an unopened box of Magnums ― like he'd planned this all along ― he places his personal stash on the bed. "We'll just use these. Glad we came prepared," he superciliously snaps.
Glancing at the metal detector through which I'd entered the room, I wonder how things had gotten this far.
"You do have your papers with you, right?!" the dominant dude barks.
"Huh?" I spin 'round.
"Oh, good Christ! Don't tell me you forgot to get tested!" the man rolls his eyes.
"Oh, oh no. I mean, uh, yes." Removing my backpack, I rifle through its contents, while hubby's penetrating gaze blasts my frail frame with depleted uranium.
It's as though I'm attempting to cross from West Germany to East, prior to the eradication of the Berlin Wall. Uncovering my most recent STD test, I bequeath it to the man, who snatches it up with a motion sharper than a George Carlin joke.
The dude dons bifocals, scrutinizing the document, as if it were a top secret communique during the height of some major war. Gazing up from the memorandum, he smiles. "Congratulations, son! You made it!" Hugging me, he walks me toward the bedroom, where his trophy wife allegedly awaits.
"Now, the rules are as follows: No kissing; condoms are mandatory for any, and all, contact with the penis ― including handjobs. She absolutely will not suck cock. You are prohibited from eating her pussy."
Grabbing my hands, the man takes a close look at my fingers. "Your nails are disgusting. Whaddya' been playin' in the sewer?"
Nonplussed, I gaze up.
"Tell ya' what. Why don't you give yourself the handjob, and make sure to wear a rubber when you do? Those mitts look pretty grimy. Also hit the head, and wash up beforehand, okay?"
At this point, I abandon the idea of intercourse, and am solely seeking a Swinger's Hat Trick (SHT). Such would mean I somehow have to coerce the awaiting woman to suck my cock, since an SHT equates to fornication, a blowjob, and a handjob ― all in one evening, from three different females.
"I'm so excited!" The giddy, little man kneads his hands together in anticipation. "I can't wait. I can't wait!" becomes his exuberant mantra, as he opens the door to a private room at the swing club.
Atop the bed reclines our featured female ― who appears less interested in having sex with me than facing the gallows pole.
By now, the feeling is more mutual than Omaha. It's as though I'd just completed a triathlon, nude and trippin' on 50-cent acid tabs I purchased from a homeless guy with no ears. I'm exhausted and frazzled, and haven't even gotten my pants off, yet.
As soon as we enter the room, and the door is deadbolted behind us, hubby gleefully turns to me. "Let her see it. Let her see it!" he motions to my cock.
Like a concentration camp prisoner headed for a "complimentary shower," I already know this isn't going to go well. Peeling off my shirt, I drop my pants, and hold my semi-soft shaft out for the woman's perusal.
"Oh, Jesus! You're too big for me. I'm not gonna be able to take that," one of Sybil's more capricious personalities decides to enter the conversation.
As confused as Jeff Bezos having to decide between eternal life and another billion dollars, I lose track of what I'm allowed to do, and what's off limits. At this juncture, I'm uncertain why I'm still here, being brutally beaten in this orgiastic Octagon.
All I can recollect is the emphatic stipulation condoms are compulsory. Acting out of pure instinct, I unwrap a boner blanket, and roll it over my tumescence.
It seems I have no options left, except ― I suppose ― talking to these people. These people who are obviously fuckin' nuts. These people I want nothing to do with.
That said, was conversation really a choice?
I don't know. At this point, I don't care. Dazed like a slave discovering on his deathbed he's never been free, I stare straight ahead, unable to do anything else.
From somewhere within the darkened surroundings, maniacal laughter cleaves the pork rind air. Glancing about, I realize hubby is standing beside me, with a cell phone in one hand, and a kidney bean ― that appears to be his dick ― in the other. He's more excited than a defendant on trial for mass murder hearing the verdict, "Not guilty!"
My luck instantly changes, as the creepy companion decrees, "Suck it, Mary Lou!"
"What?! But I thought we agreed―!"
"I don't care what we agreed to. That's a monster cock, and I wanna get pics of you suckin' it!"
As the hesitant honey complies, I strategize to myself, "Pic, as in the singular, 'cuz I'm gonna blow my load as soon as your wife kisses condom, pal. I want outta here more than an 18 year old sixth grader wants out of elementary school."
This whacked-out woman gets three sucks in, and I can't release the Hounds of Hell fast enough, as I race for the nearest emergency exit. In my shamelessly scribbled book, one suck is all it takes to bake a blowjob. Three is just showin' off!
The door nowhere near hits me in the ass, as I cerebrally celebrate Mr. Hockey, and how he selflessly sacrificed himself for my sex life.
MAJA THURUP: GANGBANG SPOILER
I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all the kinds of things you can't see from the center.
― Kurt Vonnegut *
* Kurt Vonnegut
https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/kurt_vonnegut_132753
"What up, señor?" I launched my wee hour text into cyberspace.
"Good morning, sir," came Vegas Vic's rejoinder. The Rocket was enslaved graveyard shift ― five days a week.
What do you wanna work for?! This has gotta be stopped! […]
Jobs? They can get fucked! I've had enough! Why do we have to do them? Everything's fuckin' built! […]
It's time we stop working. It's a trap. It's a fuckin' trap! Five days on, two days off; five days on, two days off; five days on, two days off; five days on, two days off—
How long does this last?
'Til you're fuckin' dead. […]
It's made up by the ruling "elite," so we're tired, and poor, and can't rebel, and philosophize about our own existence, and actually fuckin' evolve properly. […]
It's slavery, but we've gotta get our own accommodation, and food.
― Steve Hughes **
** Steve Hughes
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A4-3TKy2A28
As such, I knew he'd be awake at this inhumane hour, trollin' for online sex.
"Any new developments?" I queried.
"Setting up a gangbang with a couple in town from Florida. These are her pics."
The forwarded media caused me to deplete my supply of baby oil, and moderately sprain my wrist.
"She's here with hubby for three nights. They're staying at Arizona Charlie's. She wants five to eight guys."
"Sounds great! This weekend?"
"Sunday. 10 PM."
"Are we still on for Saturday, at Planet Hollywood, with that other couple from Idaho?"
"Reggie and I are, but you're out," Vic replied.
"I've been removed from the starting lineup? Too young? Didn't like the face pic?" I questioned.
"None of the above. She said your dick's too big."
Maja Thurup was overhung, vastly overhung. No girl in the village would accept him. He had torn two girls to death with his instrument. One had been entered from the front, the other from the rear. […]
Maja was a lonely man, and he drank and brooded over his loneliness.
― South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life ***
*** South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLyM2Kwe9sc
My apartment stank of burnt pussy, B.O., and dirty buttholes drenched in sweat ― resultant of low rent fucking. I was halfway inserted in the Ebony vagina of a UNLV student with a curiosity to determine what nine inches felt like.
"Stop!" the debt slave in training squealed. "You're fucking huge! Are you all the way in?"
"N― no," I spied down between my legs.
"Jesus!" the neophyte serf exclaimed. "I can't do this."
"When did you first begin to have love feelings for Maja? What exactly were the circumstances which tripped them off?"
"Well," said Hester, "it was…"
"She love me when I give her the thing," said Maja from the rug.
"He has learned English quite quickly, hasn't he?"
"Yes, he's brilliant."
Maja picked up his bottle, and drained off a good slug. "I put this thing in her, she say, "Oh, my god! Oh, my god! Oh, my god!! Ha, ha, ha, ha!"
"Maja is marvelously built," she said.[…]
Maja took another drink. He looked at me. "You fuck her. I am tired. She big, hungry tunnel."
― South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life ****
*** Ibid.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLyM2Kwe9sc
"I'm gonna puke!" the Hispanic homemaker flipped over, atop my bed, gasping for air, as she clutched her chest. Not a thread defiling her perfect body, she fidgeted.
Vegas Vic and I stared at each other, less certain how to handle this situation than the president would be with the instantaneous awakening of the masses. As a result, V-Squared simply readjusted the cell phone cameras around my apartment, and continued texting the woman's Dom, providing him updates.
The lass raced for the toilet and wastebasket that comprised my bathroom, stridently re-examining her breakfast. The wretch of smoldering gears jammed into reverse emanated from the smallest room on the planet. Even from our vantage point, Vic and I could smell stomach bile.
A trip to the sink, and the Latina returned, Mascara streaming down her cheeks, and mucus clogging her nostrils.
"Are you okay?" I inquired.
"I'll be alright. Just go slow, please."
"Yeah. Yeah, of course," I responded. "Too much to drink, last night?"
"No," the Mexican Barbie replied. "You just have a really big cock, and it hurts, is all."
The woman might as well have been a waitress, forced to sing "Happy Birthday" to some 112 year old bastard, with a shriveled dick hanging out his shorts, while his family looked on in horror. It was obvious she was having the time of her life!
Outside my lean-to, perhaps a thousand gallons of alcohol were consumed in 60 seconds, along this desert rest stop. Shrieking livers sopped up the fermentation like 10,000 open pore sponges. Teeth fissured, and gums split, as 20 pounds of cocaine were snorted up bloody nasal cavities, inside Vegas city limits.
You fuckhead…You broke Millie's pussy!!! She said she's sore all over…lol.
I invited her to stop by the Palms after work and she said she's bruised everywhere…
Goddamn you and your monstrous penis!!!
― Vegas Vic ****
**** A Vegas Vic text
The initial dagger penetrated below the rib cage on my left side. Since I didn't see blood, I couldn't be certain of this, but that's where the first jolt of pain came from. It hurt more than the realization you're gonna be a slave for the rest of your existence, because most of the population is stupid.
I didn't have a clue which organs were located in that region, but I could tell at least one of 'em had been pierced.
The second dagger got my left thigh. I knew this, because Tyler knew this. Kidding,…but he probably did. As soon as I attempted to stand, I fell on my face, only able to stabilize myself with my right leg.
The third, and seemingly final, dagger grazed my right shoulder. This injury still allowed me full mobility of my arm.
The $89,000,000 Question was: How the fuck was I gonna get outta here, alive?!
Although there were only three of 'em, that was 300 percent more than my army of one, and each was gunnin' for my scalp. After all, when the woman centering this evening's erotica threw in the towel, my name was uttered in the same sentence as to why the match was being forfeited.
I had hidden my most cherished treasure in the woman's treasure box. Ostensibly, said bin hadn't been designed to accommodate riches of an oversized dimension. Subsequently, I found myself without a coffin in which to lay my stiff.
Hubby had called the game, after he and his wife conferred in the hotel room's lavatory. Exiting the bathroom, he promulgated, "Guys, we're sorry, but Danielle is done for the evening." Motioning to me, he continued, "Hugh went a bit too deep, and her pussy is out of commission for the night."
Immediately, the three unfortunate bastards — who had yet to take the full tour of Danielle's pleasure path — launched their ocular daggers. Each hit their target, bringing me to my knees, pleading for mercy. But the denied dudes had none, and rightly so.
"Next time, Hugh goes last!" one of the triad shouted. The others in attendance laughed, but if murder wasn't punishable by lethal injection, the group would've exacted revenge.
"The Cromwell went great on Friday. She's a little hottie!!! They're gonna get in touch for their next trip."
"The Cromwell? What happened there?" I inquired.
"The couple from Indiana…Remember she said you were too big for her?" *****
***** A Vegas Vic/Hugh Mungus text conversation
Rejection: It's a lonely, one lane road with no room for U-turns. Cell service is nonexistent, here. What's more, there haven't been overhead land lines in these parts since―
Well, maybe never.
This thoroughfare has no street lights, no exits, and not a directional sign to be found. In conjunction, this region is a GPS dead zone. Garmin spins endlessly out here; perpetually seeking north, but unable to lock on.
Amidst a nebulous, black sky, you'd be lucky to find a star, let alone a constellation, or a satellite. No HOV lanes, and not a rest stop anywhere.
No, this is a trail everybody traverses at least once, and when they do, it's always alone.
One week you're sportfucking at an Olympic level; the next you're kicked outta the club, professing undying adoration to your lubed left hand.
"Now, without thinking about it, tell me, Ray. Say it. What is your winning tool? No, without thinking about it. Say it. My name is Ray, and I…"
"I've got a big dick…Now, what the hell do I do about it?"
― Hung ******
****** Hung
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F85UwQ6j4kQ
DOES THE PRESIDENT HITCHHIKE?
Man will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.
― Denis Diderot *
* Denis Diderot
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/78197
Stark naked, the pudgy asshole stood in front of a full-length mirror. Meticulously, he wrapped his body ― save for his hands, head, and neck ― in clear cellophane. His pre-adolescent-sized balls had been slathered in shit, prior to being mummified. His hairy bitch tits had been painted ― one neon green; the other, fire engine red.
A police-issue nightstick ― now jammed up his anus ― was why this scene had become reality. Well, that and the spray can of WD-40 he'd inadvertently toppled off the shelf. It was a "Two great tastes that taste great together!" moment.
Since his extremities were excluded ― when it came to being enshrined ― he was able to freely move his arms and legs.
Gazing at his reflection, he admired his craftsmanship.
In the background, the theme from The Merv Griffin Show looped from a portable cassette player. Hanging thick on the walls were photographs of Merv, himself ― some clothed, some nude.
Bulge-eyed Miniature Pinschers yapped, nipping at the clear plastic about the man's ankles.
It was just another day for the son of a bitch. For anyone else, however, this scenario would've been resultant of a Raoul Duke acid trip. **
** Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3PYpu66yyY
The sick bastard squeezed his nipples, before connecting jumper cables to his tits ― which oozed milk. Donning rubber gloves, he touched the opposite ends of the cords to the terminals of a car battery. His areola smoked.
Torrents of electricity overtook the fatuous fuck's body, as he convulsed uncontrollably. Before the surges of energy could devour him, the man tore the cables from his skin. Collapsing to the floor, his seizures subsided.
The diminutive dogs licked his face.
Prior to standing, the prick genuflected at the foot of a life-sized statue of Merv Griffin sodomizing a Beefalo.
On legs weaker than Bill Clinton's attempts to inform the public of the truth, he retrieved a business suit from a walk-in closet. Still reeling from the electricity coursing through his underdeveloped nipples, he punctiliously clothed himself, keeping the cellophane wrapping intact beneath his suit.
The photos of Merv surveilled the man from about the room.
It wasn't the strangest ritual occurring on the planet. The fact not only were billions of people voting, but believing in "countries," and thus "presidents" of those "countries" was the strangest thing happening. That said, the man's routine was a distant second.
Snapping his cufflinks closed, he stared at himself in the mirror. A freshly-tailored suit was all it took to hide the psychopath within. Mass murderer? Pedophile? Rapist? All of the above?!
It doesn't matter. Don a sports coat, a tie, some slacks, and none will be the wiser. Nobody will suspect you're anything but "successful," and oh, so erudite.
Moreover, not a soul will deduce you're mummified in fecal matter, beneath a bodysuit of Saran Wrap, just below your dry clean only Hugo Boss.
Collecting himself, the penile helm stepped through double doors, as resplendent lights engulfed him. Before the egress closed in his wake, applause thundered forth.
From the auditorium beyond, a magnified voice cut through the ovation:
"Would you please rise for the president of the United States!"
Wiping cunt cream from his chin, the fuck junky yanked his pants on backwards.
"That's right," the HVAC repairman popped his cock from the nanny's moist mouth, hypnotized by the Big Screen across the room. "This is that presidential address about the war on terror. He's doin' this one live!"
Transfixed, everyone at the gangbang but our hero turned toward the TV.
Stifling spew, tfj had pulled his stiffened staff from the Midwest Maiden, moments prior, amidst the ramshackle room at Texas Station. In response, the woman had sprayed solid streams of squirt across the pre-stained, mismatched carpet.
In the background, a waiter on TV screamed, "May I dredge my dirty-ass balls through your soup?!"
This is what the actor wanted to say. What he actually uttered was:
"May I get you folks some more thirst-quenching Pepsi?"
Clueless thespians ― playing ignorant diners ― joyously responded with puke-rendering bile, which caused those engaged in the fabrication to laugh uncontrollably.
A nanosecond later, a human prune ― with his $500 shirt sleeves rolled up ― French-kissed babies, and pretended to work on a farm with more actors playing proles.
"Fuck Donald Trump!" the hapless puppet on TV vomited forth "authority"-sanctioned drivel, credulously regurgitating the remains of his shit-soaked soul, as he did.
"I'll suck my own worthless cock on live, daytime television, and prove to you I've got what it takes to swallow not only my seed, but the rancid, inbred baby batter Washington pumps from its sickened sack. So, remember to vote for me ― just another wasted life, looking to confuse you, in my attempts to steal your innate autonomy." ***
*** The Right Thing
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NQiJKZEVaHg
The post-orgasmic au pair, and three out-of-shape suitors, couldn't stop staring at the flickering screen, hypnotized by the absolute nothing transmitted via its frequency.
"Help me accomplish not a goddamned thing, fucking not only you over in the process, but also myself, my kids, their kids, and the rest of humanity." **** The nameless nobody smiled, a moment before Ellen successfully deep-throated 10 inches of Great Dane dick onstage. Her rabid studio audience ― gorging on corporate-cooked crap ― leapt to their feet in standing ovation.
**** Trump is a Fraud
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZKIPR4LROMA
The senseless scene caused tfj to ponder:
Does the president hitchhike? In Jack Kerouac's On the Road, Sal Paradise had to, in order to see the "United States." *****
***** On the Road
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ucBESuXuidY
Shit! The president doesn't even drive, does he?!
When was the last time you took free Lyft rides everywhere ― chauffeured around, without having to pay for them?
Pondering this ultimate con artist ― who had duped the masses, like the 44 mountebanks before him ― the fuck junky silently mused, "Do you think the president ever has to go grocery shopping?"
It's something most will never consider. A person may spend 90 years on this planet, and visit grocery stores thousands of times. In that duration, it's highly plausible they'll never once contemplate what they're doing isn't something the president does…ever!
Grocery shop?! The president?!? C'mon! That charlatan will never wait in line at the DMV! For all we know, he may not be able to drive anything but a golf cart! Hence, do you think the president has to wait in line for anything at all, let alone the cashier at the supermarket?!
And how 'bout that cookin'? Bitch has his meals prepared, by others, for him.
We're the people who do your laundry, and cook your food, and serve your dinner. We make your bed. We guard you while you sleep.
We drive the ambulances. We direct your call. […] We process your insurance claims and credit card charges. We control every part of your life. […]
Do not fuck with us!
― Fight Club ******
****** Fight Club
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=K5LQ6ybb0wA
Whaddya' think rent is like at the White House? And the mortgage on a home of that magnitude?
What?! The president pays neither rent, nor a mortgage?! For that castle-and-a-half?! Fucker exists rent-free?!?
When was the last time you could simply forego payin' your lease?
Health insurance for someone in his line of whatever-the-fuck-the-president-does must be astronomical!
What's that you say? El presidente doesn't pay a dime for what is, by far, the best medical coverage on this planet?!
Joseph fucking Jesus up the ass, next you're gonna tell me the president doesn't have to pay a heating bill, for trash collection, HOA fees, etc., etc., etc.!
Dude's all over the globe. That type of travel must cost a fortune, not to mention the near endless hours he's detained by TSA!
All these burdens the president doesn't have jammed up his asshole are nightmares you're forced to deal with on a regular basis. And I've only listed a handful of encumbrances that bring people to their knees, weeping in anxiety. Although you're mired in this shit ― from which the president is exempt ― in some deranged way, you feel you and this fuck stain in the White House understand each other.
How could the president comprehend the regular anguish you incur, if he doesn't have to deal with it? And if it's physically impossible for him to fathom your strife, what the fuck is he doing making decisions "on your behalf?!"
"[G]overnment of the people, by the people, for the people" is an esoteric and vague slogan. Via the above citation ― from maniacal corporate lawyer, rabid racist, and steward of genocide, Abe Lincoln ― it's never specified who "the people" are. For all we ― the populace ― know, "the people" could denote two dudes in the Arctic Circle, or some chick and a couple guys in a dive bar.
Due to the fact the term "people" is plural, we can deduce whomever is headin' up this hegemony is at least two folks. Such stated, is it more than two folks? Could it be 100 people? One thousand? Are we talkin' a million here? There's no limit to how many could be governing in this scenario.
Again, we have no idea who "the people" are in the aforementioned sales pitch. That said, by all accounts, it isn't those of us who toil at "jobs" we despise, pay thievery tariffs, and struggle to keep from being homeless. It sure as fuck seems more likely "the people" are those assholes on TV baskin' in opulence, while the rest of us support a system that allows them to do so.
HELLION/ELECTRIC EYE
Up here in space
I'm looking down on you
My lasers trace
Everything you do
You think you've private lives
Think nothing of the kind
There is no true escape
I'm watching all the time
― Judas Priest *
* Judas Priest
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GhvzMGDzt70
As the bastard suffocated me ― wrapping my head in translucent rubber ― all I could think was: "This smells so good!" The aroma of new petroleum products, fresh in their wrappers. Hell, the wrappers, themselves! Superhero action figures; crisp Xerox copies; Barbie dolls hot off the assembly line; virgin merchandise; clean, pristine things.
Inhaling what scant oxygen remained, I silently surmised, "It's that new car scent!"
This wasn't the first time this motherfucker had attempted to asphyxiate me. The son of a fuck was doin' so 40 times per week! Rat cock kept claimin' it was for my benefit ― "in my best interest," he'd assert.
You're probably askin' why I allowed this shitheel to continually get away with such malevolence. Moreover, how was I still alive, if he was doin' this on a regular basis?
The fact was I didn't have any hands with which to defend myself. I'd been born limbless, and the sick bitch took advantage of that.
As if it wasn't difficult enough just existing, I had to do so minus arms and legs. In addition, I had this malicious monster suffocating me multiple times a day.
And that was one of the sickest parts of this nightmare: Not only would this anal ridge asphyxiate me, he'd bring me to the brink of death every time, before releasing me, so he could come back, and do it all over again!
I was so fucked! Without a voice, how could I scream for help, much less protest? My only option was gulping as much air as possible, before he smothered my face with the thin plastic―
Oh, fuck! Daylight! He retracted the curtains on the window. This was how it always began!
It would only be moments before―!
Wrapping his bursting boner in a condom, the fuck junky pondered what it would be like to be reincarnated as a cock ― especially one as often used as his.
Although he was livin' a live porn ― and had been for the past 27 years ― his pleasure was probably perceived as pain by his horny hard-on. Perpetually smothered by a plastic placenta, crammed into close crevices, existence as a dick had to have been one horrific―
Standing above the dread-locked goddess ― who could've commanded six figures, performing in XXX flicks ― I held my hemoglobin-hardened shaft.
"Ooo! Look at that massive thing!" commented the Hellion/Electric Eye ― a squat, bald voyeur beside me, who reeked of coursing adrenaline and nicotine patches. "And it's so stiff!" the crazed caballero proclaimed.
I pierced the labia of the brazen beauty ― who had skin the color of freshly-dispensed tar. With one overt thrust, I immersed my cable to the base of my sweaty testicles ― "making my mark," and setting the tone for whatever was to cum next.
The monochrome misfit of our slave species recoiled into a fetal ball, punching my abdomen, in order to push me away.
"That's so fuckin' hot!!!" the Electric Eye squealed. Turning to the impaled imp between my legs, he questioned, "Too big for ya', baby?!"
"Yes," the agonized angel moaned.
In response, I retracted my member a couple of inches.
The cutie clutched her bellybutton in pain, as I gently massaged her carnal canal from the inside.
"You like that huge dick?" the Hellion queried.
"It hurts," the woman whimpered.
Drooling, the maniac scooped up a pair of shit-soiled panties from the mattress. Smothering himself with the stained undergarments, he inhaled machine gun breaths, rapaciously grinding the ruined fabric between false teeth.
Invisible spiders spun strings of saliva that descended from the corners of his mouth, as the Electric Eye plunged his free palm into a Ziploc baggy at the edge of the bed. Removing a handful of chicken wings dripping in oil, he stuffed as much of the fried poultry down his pie hole as his gaping maw would hold.
Viscous aviary fat coating his lips, nose and cheeks, he vigorously gnawed bone, cartilage, and tissue. Gulping flesh, he was a man obsessed.
All the while, he pressed his nose as close to the action as possible. The pop of gristle between his jaws, as he watched the live show centimeters from his pockmarked face, was so animalistic and primal.
The liquified epidermis descending down his trachea ― both inner and outer ― appealed to his most fundamental needs. His lust was insatiable, consuming his every waking thought.
The smell of iodine and frying chicken was in the halls. In one room, somebody was gettin' fucked, and making no secret of it.
― Hot Water Music **
** Hot Water Music
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vToK4iqXsBI&t=3s
Born in a Hawaiian shirt, the Electric Eye was perpetually vigilant. Racing from one end of the swing club to the other, he probably ran the equivalent of a 10K, every night.
Always on the lookout for more sex, the Hellion was the only true voyeur I'd ever met. From time to time, he'd have offers to join in the fray, but would invariably decline.
"Haven't had sex in 21 years," he'd proudly promulgate.
This said, he'd get as close to the combat as he could. The smell of sweat; the reverberation of orgasm through cum-besmirched mattresses, were his thrill.
"Got a wall of 'used panties' over my bed," the Electric Eye proclaimed, with hubris.
Years of hunkerin' down in the foxholes of fucking, brazenly asking, "May I sniff your undies?" resulted in affirmative responses. Decades of, "May I keep 'em?" led to an underwear collection rivaling that of a Victoria's Secret warehouse inventory.
Each item of lingerie was lovingly affixed to the stark walls of the one room apartment he and his wife shared. None were washed, after the women they'd belonged to wore them. As such, the homey hovel smelled of spicy slit.
This, of course, was exactly the way the Hellion wanted his environ to reek. He worshipped heavenly hole, and his residence was a testimony to such; a shrine to snatch, if you will.
Other people collected baseball cards and bottle caps. He accumulated panties, and did so as often as he could ― typically while observing me fuck at a local, discount swing club, deep in the beaten-down desert.
While the masses eagerly watched Ellen indulge her pathological money addiction ― selling her soul, in the process ― the Electric Eye was cornea deep in live porn.
Rather than shellacking the shit most falsely refer to as "their lives" ― taking family trips with families they hate, building 401Ks more useless than a soul in Jeff Bezos' body ― the Electric Eye would gorge at fuck feasts.
In lieu of pointlessly filling his bank account with inconsequential cash ― that would provide him no solace on his death bed ― he'd stock his memory banks full of vibrant visions.
In the end, the money would be meaningless. Streams of squirt splashing his face ― sea spray atomizing in the wake of a speeding ship ― brought him pleasure the likes of which the psychopaths would never know.
"I've got an idea," the Hellion pulled me aside. I was a moderately successful bare-knuckle brawler, with a local following. Continually coverin' the spread, the few who chronicled my edgy and tumultuous rise to cult fame wore my last name on sports jerseys, and asked me to sign a photo or two.
I didn't have any talent. Footwork eluded me. I couldn't put a combination together, if it meant doin' so kept me above ground and breathin'. That said, I had one long punch that either ended the bout, or resulted in fierce female orgasms that were a cross between a Tasmanian Devil attack and a mile-wide tornado.
Drenched in sweat from my latest bout ― a three rounder with a BBW who tapped out early, and retreated for a jimmy rizlet ― I stood amidst the empty hallway.
"You live alone, don't ya'?" the Electric Eye questioned.
"Yeah," I replied. Abuse by my most immediate slave master — i.e. my "job" — had denied me time to engage in my typical roadwork regimen. As such, I was gulpin' more O2 than normal.
"Say, uh, why don't we rent a place together? My wife and I can share a room, and you can have your own bed. That way I can watch ya' fuck women you bring home on a regular basis."
It was a solid plan; one he'd diligently blueprinted, consecutive evenings beneath the sheets, staring up at the ceiling.
"I love the concept, but," sopping sweat from a brow containing extra lines, due to a constant battle to evade homelessness, I continued, "I don't think the women will go for it."
Determined, but logical, the stout man put himself in the shoes of a female visiting my apartment for the first time. His eyes widened. "Oh, yeah. I see what you're sayin'."
"See what I mean?"
"Yeah, yeah. They expect only you, and here I am ― wanderin' around the bed — askin' to sniff their panties, while you two fuck."
"Exactly! Might be one too many ingredients for that award-winning recipe we're seekin'."
"Yeah, I understand."
"We may have a blue ribbon prospect here, but we throw in too many dashes of hot sauce, and we end up in last place."
"Yeah, we wouldn't want that," the committed coital consumer considered. Pondering, he continued, "Hey, would you mind if I got a picture of you, and a lock of your hair?"
I'd heard far more unorthodox requests, during nearly three decades of swinging:
"Will you fuck my sister? Will you fuck me and my sister? Will you fuck me and my sister, together?"
As such, I took the petition in stride, initially thinking voodoo, before thinking definitely voodoo, prior to no longer thinking at all, as...
Returning from her Vonnegut Rocket, the BBW climbed atop the bed, and stuck her pungent pussy in the air, ready for Round Two.
"Shall we?" I motioned to the mattress.
"Yeah, yeah!" the Electric Eye grabbed a front row seat ― deep in the mosh pit ― cheering me on with each thrust. Midway through the lightweight brawl, we reverted to high fives, pretending the fist pump had never been invented.
We were pals, and although others found a pure voyeur bizarre, I found those who willfully supported a system that slaughtered them, and their loved ones, to be far more peculiar.
TEARMONGER
No one is more hated than he who speaks the truth.
― Plato *
* Plato
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/668173
Dried snot caked his nostrils, forcing the playground bully to breathe through his mouth.
Fists balled into cords of sinew, he perspired amidst the four square diamond, in the midday Sun. He'd definitely lost control of the situation.
Across the pitch, staring him down, was the entire student body ― minus the faculty. An unwavering gaze, they stood as one.
Where could he run to?!
The playground was surrounded by a chain-link fence, with only one breech ― an alloy gate ― on the northwest quadrant of the yard. But that had a lock on it, and it was never certain whether this would be open.
In addition, the gate was 30 seconds away, at a full sprint. Could he reach the egress before the ravenous throng descended upon him?
Even if he was able, did he have what it took to manipulate the lock, or would the witch hunt devour his shrieking face in redress for years of torment he'd unleashed upon them?
The only way to determine such was to race for the opening. And so, that's what he frenetically did.
The valves of his diminutive heart gaped, as he reached the fence in record time.
Maneuvering the lock, he lunged through the portal. Spinning 'round, he tensed in preparation for the vicious mob that―
Was nowhere near him?!
Confused, he scanned the playground.
What the fuck―?!?
The student body hadn't moved. They were exactly where they'd been when he'd bolted for the gate, still staring at him.
Drowning in adrenaline, he fidgeted with the lock, in attempts to secure it, in case the horde decided to rush him.
They didn't. They just continued to gaze.
Incredulous, the bully had no idea what to make of the situation. After all the milk money he'd stolen from them over the years. After all the threats he'd levied; the mental abuse he'd perpetrated, and the cerebral anguish it had caused.
How many of them had pissed their pants in abject fear of him? How many of them had feigned illness, staying home from school, to ensure he wouldn't make good on his promise to "beat the fuck out of" them?
How many broken arms did they endure, because he'd been repeatedly raped by his parents?
Where was their enmity? Where was their disgust?! Weren't they going to seek retribution?
And suddenly, he had his answer, although ― at the time ― he hadn't comprehended what that answer meant.
In unison, the mob turned and walked away.
Into the dusk, they dispersed, leaving him to be alone.
He was no longer feared. He no longer controlled his fellow students, because they no longer allowed him to.
The group had made the schoolyard bully, the schoolyard bully. And now, in the same fashion, they usurped him of that crown, transforming him back into what he'd been all along; one of them.
Should he revert to his terrorist tactics, they'd simply walk away again, and circumvent him at all costs. If he forced his malevolence upon any one of them, he'd be confronted by all of them.
His reign as tyrant was over because the students made it so, in the same way they'd once made him dictator. He was powerless against the group, just like any autocrat. Kings, popes, presidents, and teachers are only as powerful as the masses make them.
By believing those you perceive as your "leaders" are your leaders, you give these people "dominion." In the same token, you can remove that "sovereignty," by no longer recognizing them as anything more than your equal ― which is all they are, anyway.
It's what the fuck junky was contemplating, when he asked Doris if she'd like to go to a private room. Although he'd been chatting with her for over an hour, he couldn't get an accurate reading on the desperate woman. The ping she was producing was more hazy than 20/1200 eyesight.
Periodically disembarking his train of thought, our hero would temporarily comprehend what Doris was saying, before intermittently returning to self-speculation.
The henna honey was either austerely concerned over the disproportionate size of Steve Harvey's teeth, or how her husband had addicted her to large, strange cock.
Ostensibly, hubby hadn't realized his wife had been suffocating an inner freak for a decade. He'd been on the planet 30-plus years, yet never realized marriage ― like any prison sentence ― repressed innate desires.
Now, the wanton woman was freely displaying her unquenchable hunger for the biggest, hardest poles outside of Lech Walesa.
Even so, the fuck junky had been unable to lock the crosshairs on Doris, and fire away. She'd seemed interested, but in what he had no idea.
Thanks to her rejection ― in regard to tfj's advances ― he no longer had any doubt concerning her lack of intrigue in him.
Or did he?
Abandoning the hunt, he departed in search of other prey. Amidst the dungeon room, he spied a wounded GILF trailing behind the herd. Muscles ― or lack thereof ― tightening, he pounced, ensnaring the injured animal, taking her down to the mattress.
Here, boiling angst was ejected out the grandmother's release valve, and the fuck junky added a new Number to the resume. As tfj reclined ― raging hard-on in hand ― the octogenarian caught her breath.
It was at that pivotal point Doris walked in.
Right then and there, the fuck junky's cock had reached its zenith; straining to its full 9 1/2 inches. It was that perfect moment; almost as if tfj had planned it all along.
Spying the prurient princess focusing on his "calling card," our hero bookmarked the scenario; making a mental note for later use.
Doris stole one last glance before departing.
That was the fuck junky's cue. He packed up his affable apparatus, donned a shirt splotched with perspiration and groin grease, and scrambled for the bathroom. Beneath feeble lighting, he cleansed lube off his semi-soft shaft, in a sink that smelled of Cadillac Margaritas, and upchucked chimichangas.
Retying his ponytail with a shredded shoelace, and sudsing his mustache with mint-flavored soap, he washed away the aroma of freshly-plucked pussy. Tearing into the rear pocket of his food-encrusted slacks, he uncovered a half-melted breath mint fused to the inner workings of his pants. After being sat on for a month and three days, washed twice, and ironed once, the Tic Tac was still delicious.
He then sprinted to the backyard, where Doris awaited. Gulping a hand-sliced cocktail ― in an elegant, plastic cup ― she smiled, as tfj approached.
"How's your night goin', sista'?" the fuck junky queried.
"Nowhere near as good as yours," the woman exclaimed, alluding to the scene she'd just witnessed.
Feigning naiveté, our hero responded, "Whaddya' mean―? Oh, that. Yeah, y'know? This place can be fun from time to time."
"I'll bet, with somethin' that size," she motioned to tfj's crotch.
The fuck junky smiled, "Well, it opens a door or two…So, can I help you find a guy? What types of dudes do you like?"
Doris was more vague than, "as your president, I promise to foster hope by generating faith in me and my ability to foster hope…by generating faith in me." One thing was certain: Her preferred petrol was fruity and fermented. She was filling her frame with such by the quart.
Even from this distance, her breath was the stuff of almonds and cherry ― Amaretto and grenadine, if he had to deduce. "Do you like tall guys, short guys, black guys, white guys, older g―?"
"I was kinda hopin' I could take your cock for a ride," Doris interjected.
Feigning shock, the fuck junky placed a palm on his chest. "Well, I…I thought you weren't interested…"
"That's before I saw it," the girl sheepishly smiled, no longer sober, if she ever had been.
The proverbial light bulb illuminating over his cloudy cranium, our protagonist grinned, "Oh, okay. I get it…Well," he dug the heel of his fuckboot into the dirt, "did you wanna get a room?"
"No," Doris pressed into him, grabbing his cock through his trousers. "Let's just fuck right here," she motioned to the outdoor canopy bed adjacent them. "I can't wait for a room. I need to cum now!" she slurred each and every word in a perfect purr.
"Sounds like a plan to me," tfj motioned to her sweaty tits. "Do you mind if I…?"
Doris flopped heavy breasts out of her sundress, and our hero began to suck like capital punishment for jaywalkers.
"I have to be honest," the bashful bride divulged. "Your cock will be the biggest I've ever had."
Thong-clad, Brazilian dancers whirled into the foreground, shaking their asses, and sporting headdresses that made them eight feet tall. A nude Kenny G limped into frame, blowin' horn, with a raccoon tail anal plug danglin' out his non-existent ass.
In less time than it takes those within government to decide if they should butt fuck us, Doris and our hero were nude atop the bed, and a lustful lance was moments from penetration.
Gripping the fuck junky's hips, the curious cutie gazed into our hero's eyes. "Go really slow, okay?"
Tfj smiled. "Of course."
Shredding his bony sides with Freddy Krueger fingernails, the convenience store clerk drew blood, as the fuck junky impaled her atop the outdoor box spring. Punching tfj's chest, she bit through her bottom lip, producing still more hemoglobin. Flailing for a nearby pillow, she muted her shrieks.
A gaggle of lusty voyeurs ringed the bed, gripping their groins, or the groins of others. Errant ropes of sperm launched into the crisp night air, as the woman violently arched her back, and blew out a year's worth of minimum wage slavery. Another apogee achieved, and six months of anxiety ― regarding threatening letters from the IRS ― was expelled. A brief ebb, before the stress of facing eviction was extricated from the woman's blue collar frame.
With each orgasm came a tsunami of palpable fluid launched like rockets from Cape Canaveral.
Throughout, the woman vociferated with vehement velocity about the fuck junky's size, and how she was unable to take the frightened fucker's full tool.
The stage show concluded with the perfect grand finale ― a rousing round of multiple orgasms catapulted into the audience like splattered fruit at a Gallagher show.
When the house lights came up, what remained was a smoldering cinder of a woman ― completely nude, and caked in her own liquid love. Beside her, tfj relaxed naked atop the mildewed mattress, exposing his concupiscent culprit for all to see.
Listlessly rambling about what she'd just experienced, the freshly-fucked female's Yelp reviews convinced a chubby Chicana in the audience to request our hero's services.
This scenario culminated in the second sex queen riding ribald rod in a private room, while her hubby captured the coitus ― in moving pictures ― on his Android.
The fuck junky strangled the curb with his Datsun Dipshit, at the black tie event. Evacuating the vanquished vehicle, he was violent Ebola ― glowing fluorescent, sizzling in its own virulent juices. Not a soul would come near him, let alone touch him.
Dropping his pants, and erecting nine-plus inches of essence-energizing affection, he transformed into a fucked-up combination of Elvis, Andy Griffith, and Jeff Stryker. Not only was everybody scramblin' to purchase an E-ticket to ride his main attraction, they all wanted him as their official next door neighbor, forever and ever.
Four hours later, he was birthed onto the floor of the dirtiest restaurant in Vegas, and mercilessly shit on by his fellow slaves — i.e. "employees." One minute, a god; the next, a goddamned disgrace.
HENDERTUCKY
Everything shits until it dies.
― Charles Bukowski *
* Charles Bukowski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vToK4iqXsBI
Cuadrillas was high as fuck, as he dove into the Colorado River that brisk July evening. He didn't relish the idea of battling Great Whites, but what other recourse did he have?
ATF was closin' faster than a desperate real estate agent. He'd caught wind of their presence around Lake Mead, and had narrowly evaded 'em since.
Ditching the '73 Gremlin ― that had run the past two years, despite not having a drop of oil within it ― our hero was afraid it would come to this. Goin' the remainder of the way on foot was the only chance he had. His car was too high profile, and stood out like a piccolo solo in a death metal song.
As such, he'd been forced to abandon the rocket on wheels, and swim across the Colorado River from Laughlin to Bullhead City, in hopes of eluding his pursuers.
The near-freezing temperature of the water had reduced our protagonist's nuts to the size of gum balls. Hypothermia had been the least of his worries, though, since he knew the causeway was teeming with sharks. He'd seen their fins incising the waves earlier that week.
If he could just swim across to Ohio, there was a slim chance he'd survive the night.
Dirty plates piled around Cuadrillas in the dish pit of the dilapidated Boulder Highway casino. Outside, zombie hookers filled the streets. It was the early graveyard shift, and the dishwasher didn't give a fuck.
Watery mashed potatoes drained into chocolate chip ice cream, which coated the Reuben he'd pulled off one of the plates.
Bite marks torn into anything solid, everything was half-eaten.
His trip across the river would be a long one, and the slovenly stud would need plenty of energy to evade the Feds.
Devouring the "used" sandwich, he flipped the bird at the eyes in the sky, positioned at regular intervals along the ceiling. This place was a panopticon; a bevy of cameras that weren't even on, let alone attached to a video feed. Just empty threats to keep the subjugates scared ― performing their slavery, without interruption.
Uncovering a bagel drenched in red wine, maple syrup, and either hot cereal or snot, Cuadrillas gorged in preparation for the long trek home. It normally took half an hour to jet back to his condo. Tonight, he'd be takin' the scenic route ― hittin' a "Bible study group" along the way, and doin' his best to give the spooks the slip.
Snatching collins, highball, and pilsener glasses from the drainage canal before him, he chugged their contents. He knew half-finished cocktails contained alcohol, and it would take a dozen of these babies before he caught a buzz. Forty of the bastards, and he'd be annihilated like the population of Hiroshima, following the dropping of Little Boy.
Gin Rickeys, Mai Tais, Benedictine, Milk Punch and lager ― it all blended together in his stomach.
Inebriation kept the dish pit dweller warm, as he gulped porters, AMFs and single barrels. Grindin' ice between teeth more chipped than a population under surgically-implanted RFID surveillance, he'd need as much of this stuff in his system as possible. How else could he withstand the frigid temperatures of the raging river?
The rapids were another thing, entirely. And the sharks. Jesus fuck, the sharks!
Poundin' a Paloma, he envisioned Quint devoured off the Orca's stern in Jaws. **
** Quint is Devoured Scene
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pmLP0QQPqFw
And then, Bible study:
Everywhere Cuadrillas looked, he saw nothin' but flesh ― pores and perspiration ― amidst a landscape carpeted in crotch.
We were talkin' two suites, here, connected by a door. Out the massive bay windows of both rooms was a postcard picture of the Vegas Strip.
Beyond the plates of glass, forgotten comics ― desperate to revive their "careers" ― pumped the public full of corporate cum. Journey rolled onstage ― high on stool softeners and bunion cream. Roy Horn opened a restaurant servin' nothin' but lion meat. More fake than the news comin' outta CNN, it was all Vegas.
From singers nobody knew were still breathin', to musicians who couldn't play an instrument. From a bogus Statue of Liberty, to a false Eiffel Tower. From the orgasms your wife swore you gave her last night, to your chicken nuggets, your happiness, and your freedom, none of it was real.
Cuadrillas had no idea the aforementioned was so. Like most others, he didn't examine his environment. He simply accepted his role as a wind-up toy ― bouncing off countless walls, before running dry of juice.
All the dishwasher knew was that he'd found himself immersed in a 37 person orgy at a hotel on the Strip, and his erection had gone on strike. It was his turn to sing naked karaoke, and somebody had forgotten to plug in his microphone.
It wasn't a tragedy the magnitude of the fact Oprah will someday perish from this planet, but it still didn't make him feel good. It also was no need for panic; of this he knew, thanks to experience.
The goddess beneath Cuadrillas had "dollops," as he called 'em. Dollops were scoops of pecan ice cream ― his favorite. The kind of boobs he'd fantasized about, since he was a kid, beatin' off in middle school, after the football team kicked the shit out of him.
They were the same type of fuck pillows stuffed beneath the prom queen's underwire bra. Cuadrillas knew this because ― even though he'd been the school loser ― he'd fucked the prom queen…twice.
The first occasion was on a dare from her girlfriend. The second, because our hero had a huge cock, included not only the prom queen but her girlfriend.
Now, staring down at the pin-up model beneath him ― and her heaving dollops ― the dissolute dishwasher couldn't believe his typically turgid tadger was as soft as a Sumo wrestler's belly. Had he partaken in one too many dish pit Boilermakers?
Accessing his heart chakra, Cuadrillas snatched a used condom from atop the bed. With jagged teeth, he gnawed through the plastic casing, separating the tube from the elastic band. Tossing the pipette portion aside, he'd encircled the stretchable latex ring around the base of his balls and penis. In moments, he'd transformed an ordinary condom into the perfect, hacked cock ring.
Problem solved, our protagonist's prick rose to monumental heights, as he pleased yet another prurient princess. However, he'd be unable to elude the Great Whites amidst the murky depths of the mighty Colorado, later that evening, as he attempted to swim home.
It was The Perfect Storm, replete with 200 foot waves, and gale force winds! Record-breaking tsunamis towered over our hero! Gulpin' gallons of water, he knew he was goin' down! His heart sprinted for the finish line, desperate to end the race.
And then…the fins surfaced.
"Are you gettin' this?" Avery peered through Night Vision binoculars at the flailing swimmer in the calm waters of the Colorado River.
Beside him, Trent watched the same free show through his own field glasses.
Both men stood adjacent a shell-shocked mobile home, where they were takin' a break from cookin' meth.
Sharin' pulls off a gallon jug of Carlo Rossi Blush, they could hear the flailing swimmer fighting for his life against invisible forces.
"Sharks!" Cuadrillas shrieked in the background. "Fuckin' sharks!!!"
"Whaddya' think he's on?" Avery asked.
Trent paused, prior to responding. "Whatever it is, it ain't ours. Guy's seein' sharks. That ain't cookin' from our kitchen."
In the background, Cuadrillas' motions became even more exaggerated.
The meth burners watched from the shore, neither man intervening, as doing so would expose their "illicit" operation.
Eventually, the dishwasher's desperate attempts to stem a nonexistent tide, and invisible sharks, were overcome, as he disappeared beneath waves that weren't even there…in two feet of water.
"What if this Universe is a fuck-up?" Eighteenth Century philosopher David Hume posed the question in his book Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion. ***
*** Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CmcrFcI4VKg
It's a legitimate query. Our species produces commodities all the time, and some don't pass quality control ― lacking a specific part, or a victim of substandard craftsmanship. As a result, the items in question are categorized "rejects," and discarded.
What if such is the case with our Universe?
What if this cosmos is one of innumerable star systems produced on an assembly line? And what if our particular version of that product is a malfunction?
We just assume this Universe is a masterpiece. What if it sucks armadillo anus, in comparison to other Universes produced?
To what do we have to compare it?
As a species, our scope is so limited, we know only one Universe, and have almost no firsthand experience of that. We've barely been off this planet. For those who have, they haven't gone far. Hence, how can we comprehend what this Universe is, who or what built it, and why?
Defective cars are produced constantly. If they don't pass quality control, they're scrapped.
Upon being categorized harmful, certain children's toys are removed from the shelves.
When foods are tainted, or produced with dangerous ingredients, they're withdrawn from grocery stores. Unless they're GMOs, of course.
Hence, while we're praising the design of this cosmos, it may be a botched job ― held together by mucus and Band-Aids.
Moreover, the architect, or architects, of this Universe may be poorly trained, or neophytes at the creation of Universes ― this having been one of their first attempts, and thus ill-conceived in design.
What do the origins of this Universe have to do with Cuadrillas and his spastic delusions? Everything! We all bounce around this planet ― or whatever this is we're callin' Earth ― like metal balls in a gigantic pinball machine. None of us know a good goddamn about what we are, why we're here, or where here is!
Moreover, most of us never attempt to comprehend such. We simply react to our environment, and this results in some seriously strange shit!
I don't know what's going on, and I'm probably not smart enough to understand if somebody was to explain it to me. All I know is we're being tested somehow, by somebody or some thing a whole lot smarter than us, and all I can do is be friendly and keep calm, and try and have a nice time till it's over.
― Kurt Vonnegut ****
**** Kurt Vonnegut
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/1145862
THE BART BRAVERMAN 5000
The mass of the rich and the poor are differentiated by their incomes and nothing else, and the average millionaire is only the average dishwasher dressed in a new suit.
― Down and Out in Paris and London *
* Down and Out in Paris and London
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R03hRZDpvsc
Beneath the monumental tires of the gigantic limo, the husky, brown scorpion ― sunning itself adjacent The Palms Hotel ― popped like kerneled corn on a cherry-red skillet. The Bart Braverman 5000 was a leviathan, capable of crushing God! **
** Vega$ Series Three Opening
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X0ikuJuWPdE
Fuck Raoul Duke's pretentious red shark, or his ostentatious white whale. *** This mobile monolith was a city on wheels. A Herculean hulk, this testimony to the blight of internal combustion was responsible for a new zip code. A ciudad within a ciudad, the Bart Braverman 5000 floated fluidly through backstreets comprising the scoliosis-ridden spine of Sin City.
*** Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m3PYpu66yyY
The moving monster was a portable pump pad ― one deranged dude's dream. Clueless caballeros parted with a week's worth of what slavery — i.e. "employment" — provided, in order to obtain the prurient pleasures occurring for free within the Bart Braverman 5000.
Blowjobs, handjobs and good old-fashioned, puritanical butt lickin' were staples on the regularly rotating menu inside this stretch limo. Such said nothing of the chef's special: lubed fingers massaging one's anus, while a tongue ― white with the stinging sensation of an Altoid addiction ― caressed covetous clit.
The above became reality, all thanks to desperation, and one resourceful bastard's campaign to circumvent vagrancy.
"I'm livin' in a shower, now."
"A shower?"
"Yeah, it's nice. Real glass sliding doors."
― Hot Water Music ****
**** Hot Water Music
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vToK4iqXsBI
Lorenzo was on a crusade. Within this prison disguised as a free society, staving off vagabondage had become a full time gig with perpetual overtime. Stories of years spent in cardboard condos were common. Everybody had a tortured tale to tell, when it came to food stamps, homeless shelters, and welfare.
Hunger reduces one to an utterly spineless, brainless condition, more like the after-effects of influenza than anything else. It is as though one had been turned into a jellyfish, or as though all one's blood had been pumped out and lukewarm water substituted.
― Down and Out in Paris and London *****
***** Down and Out in Paris and London
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R03hRZDpvsc
Having been in Vegas eight months, Lorenzo had discovered no success in securing subjugation; i.e. "work."
[N]obody cares whether work is useful or useless, productive or parasitic; the sole thing demanded is that it shall be profitable. In all the modern talk about energy, efficiency, social service and the rest of it, what meaning is there except "Get money, […] and get a lot of it!"? Money has become the grand test of virtue.
― Down and Out in Paris and London ******
****** Ibid.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R03hRZDpvsc
Thus, he was unable to pay steady rent. As such, he'd been denied from leasing an apartment, since deploying his personal version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.
You can't live off your soul. You can't pay the rent with your soul. Try it sometime.
― Hot Water Music º
º Hot Water Music
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vToK4iqXsBI
Arriving in Sin City, Lorenzo's previous vehicle ― composed of so many parts, it was no longer the car that rolled off the assembly line ― refused to be. Whatever the auto had been, it was transformed into a Ship of Theseus ― comprised of too many disparate doors and side panels to verify if it was a Chevy, Ford, or mail truck. ºº
ºº Ship of Theseus:
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ship_of_Theseus
In the dystopian fiction novel Unwind, by Neal Shusterman, children in a futuristic society are harvested for their body parts. By mandate of a totalitarian state, citizens between the ages of 13 and 18 are often used for a process known as unwinding. Via this procedure, the young are dismantled.
In the book, thanks to advanced technology, it's become possible to transplant pieces from one human to another. Once embedded into the recipient, these eyes, limbs, and organs work as if they were intrinsic components of the original body.
Unwound children aren't killed, since their parts still exist and function. They're simply disassembled, and their individual pieces are grafted onto the physiques of a variety of other people. ººº
ººº Unwind
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=amWYOSr7NTs
Our hero's defunct beater was the automobile version of this composite methodology. At this point, his car had been more deceased than Hugh Hefner's chances of receiving one more liberally-lathered blowjob. We'd be free under government rule, before Lorenzo's ride would run again.
Eager to survive, the resolute man manipulated a string of penny slots at Boulder Station, and created a $1,000 buffer between him and a concrete mattress. Enthusiastic to sidestep meals served piping tepid in the soup kitchen, he'd spent his booty on a rigorously abused stretch limo with 473,000 merciless miles under its hood.
You discover that a man who has gone even a week on bread and margarine is not a man any longer, only a belly with a few accessory organs.
― Down and Out in Paris and London ºººº
ºººº Down and Out in Paris and London
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R03hRZDpvsc
This previously-prized, extended vehicle would serve as Lorenzo's ephemeral home. Rent had been reduced to enough chump change to keep the gas gauge from dipping below the empty line.
Fuck havin' to shell out shekels for a storage shed. The guts of the Bart Braverman 5000 comfortably slept eight. In addition, the limo easily accommodated Lorenzo's temporal possessions.
Still, there was the dilemma of personal hygiene. Things became stifling en El Corazon del Vegas. One could easily broil in one's own juices, within the confines of a tin can on wheels. Perpetually baking in desert heat, the interior of a limousine will rapidly become a TV dinner on tires, and reek like a locker room.
So, the question arose as to where one without a shower could bathe. Once again, Lorenzo's exigent need resulted in lucid analysis of the situation.
Nursing the vestiges of an Old Fashioned a paying customer left on the bar top of a rum-riddled gin joint, "Larry" masticated the libation's Maraschino cherry and tart orange rind, for nutrition's sake. Starin' at a TV above him, he watched some injury lawyer drop to calloused knees, and inhale a heinously engorged cock.
Grimacing, Lorenzo visually harpooned the unwashed ass crack peeking beneath the lacquered-on miniskirt of a Samoan cocktail waitress stumbling by in a soma coma.
"Are you keepin' your six-pack in your fridge, or under your shirt, these days?" the television shrieked. "Do your stockings run more than you?" Swallowing a load that would cause a semi to jackknife, the attorney's attempts to destroy his own species concluded, as a shameless spot for a local gym replaced his pathetic plea for cash.
"Do you find more rolls around your waist than atop the dinner table?"
"That's it!" Lorenzo quietly concluded. "A $40 gym membership. No contracts; just month-to-month. I shower at the club, and sleep in the Bart Braverman. I'm literally payin' $40 for rent! People paid way more than that 70 years ago!"
A plan as solid as stool produced on a diet of jalapeños, hot sauce, and ice cream. That said, innumerable people had taken to purchasing gym memberships, showering at their local fitness club, and sleepin' in their cars.
And so, the Bart Braverman 5000 was after-birthed into this mental ward of our Universe. Dorsal fin just below the radar, this formidable fuck facility on Firestones flew through forgotten arteries of Sin City. Capturin' crotch along the way, Lorenzo had himself a swing club on wheels.
And then, one day, the sonar ping that was The Bart Braverman simply vanished. A Megalodon carvin' syrupy asphalt, it disappeared one letter from Harmony and Paradise ― a block off Harmon and Paradise. A mirage, it dematerialized where P. Moss runs the infamous Double Down Saloon.
Amid the "Fruit Loop" ― where men dress like women, and women keep assembly lines producing strap-on dildos — the Bart Braverman 5000 evaporated into the ether.
Was it possible to '86' an entire limo ― drivin' it 80 miles east on the Blue Diamond, and interring it six feet into the Earth's crust? This is Vegas. If somebody can construct entire bars from solid ice, in 110 degree heat, ººººº they can easily bury a fuckin' limo.
ººººº Minus 5 Ice Experience
https://www.minus5experience.com/
Ice 9 ― a theoretical incarnation of ice that has a melting point over 114 degrees Fahrenheit, from Kurt Vonnegut's novel Cat's Cradle — came to mind. ºººººº
ºººººº Cat's Cradle
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBARr39Zim0
In any event, the Bart Braverman became the stuff of ghost ships on the Salton Sea, La Llarona in the arroyos of New Mexico, and George Bush's heart ― nothing more than legend.
Akin to spectral schooners and weeping, ethereal women, the storied limo is purportedly periodically encountered, to this day. The same can't be said, however, for the 43rd president's ticker.
FADED
Despite all my rage, I am still just a rat in a cage.
― The Smashing Pumpkins *
* The Smashing Pumpkins
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8-r-V0uK4u0
En Ciudad del Pecado, faded is a color. You see it everywhere. Faded buildings; faded jeans; faded dreams. Sunbleached and sandblasted, everything eventually becomes faded in Vegas.
Faded was the last hue the female-to-male tranny saw, before passing out in the noonday Sun, stumbling to the bus stop down Harmon. More dehydrated than Betty White's pussy, the woman had staggered this far, after spending the past two hours deluging the fuck junky's shaft in señorita spore.
Expending half her bodily fluids, she'd depleted herself of the moisture necessary to keep her voluptuous frame ambulatory. 38-DD tits cushioned her fall, as she collapsed to the piss-crusted concrete.
Sin City had become an out-of-control funhouse ride, operated by a sadistic attendant on hallucinogens.
Being a squirter has its perks. Your cum is palpable. More guys want to fuck you, simply because there are no faked orgasms; either you squirt, or you don't.
Such stated, squirting has its drawbacks. Spend a mornin' blowin' loads on some guy's dick, and you're gonna pay for it afterwards, if you don't properly hydrate. Empty your cunt in the desert, fail to replenish that fluid, and you'd be wise to remain indoors. Wanderin' into 115 degree heat ― with no liquid to keep your brain from frying ― is suicide.
Darkness devoured the tranny's vision. She couldn't comprehend what she was experiencing. "What's happening to me?!?" the drained damsel quiescently questioned.
And then, blackness. It was the same blackness into which tfj slipped, as he fell asleep for three hours back in his apartment. One-hundred and eighty minutes ― every 1,440 ― was the most he could cobble together. There was sex to be had, and he wasn't gonna find it with his eyes closed.
That said, the fuck junky was having the dream again…
He liked the dream. It was…honest.
I was shakin' hands with an hombre who'd ground the bare bones of existence into fine powder, and snorted it off the gaped asshole of the only BBW stripper he could find.
Meanwhile, the rest of us were pretending to "own" homes, saluting the flags of our slave masters, and deliberately supporting a system that was created to destroy us.
The hardened fucker had that glint in his eye that shouted, "I've crushed more cunt in the past two months than you have in your entire time on this planet!"
I wanted to not only shove a stick of C-4 up the guy's pisshole, but stop wishing I was him.
How could I not? This bastard's cock had been sucked more times than I'd received inbox spam over the past 15 years.
I had, and still have, no name for whomever this character was. I only know he spoke to me as soon as my eyes closed. Given such, I'd refer to him as my Tyler Durden, if that appellation hadn't already been taken.
Hence, let's just call him as El Lobo (EL).
"You don't think we exist in an illusion?" EL asked. "Just go to a funeral for somebody you've never met. People praisin' some dead guy, who was probably the biggest bastard since Hitler, Stalin, or any U.S. president."
I liberally lathered the concept within its own succulent juices. The ideology spun slowly, creaking on a rusty spit above a cracklin' flame, regurgitating the delicious scent of deeply dried pinion trees.
"Oh, yeah," continued Lobo. "This fucker could've cut the cocks off dogs, deep fried 'em, and served 'em to assisted living residents, claimin' they were chicken nuggets."
Prepping for combat, prior a hotel gangbang, I stuffed unused condoms into my battleship grey socks ― which had morphed from white to a neutral shade, due to excessive washing in coin-operated laundry machines.
"Doesn't matter," Lobo continued. "The family of this demon are still gonna applaud the hellhound like he was a cure for cancer. Every one of 'em listenin' to the lies about this guy, without speakin' up."
Marrying two bottles of vanilla flavored lube, I slid the result into my ad hoc sock pouch.
"I've been hittin' funerals for decades, just so I could see how deep this rabbit hole goes," EL gestured wildly. "This whole thing's a fuckin' illusion. How 'bout vacations?"
Rolling the sumptuous hard candy over in my skull, I queried, " 'Vacations?' "
"Ever wonder why nobody takes 'em to the place where they 'work?' All these liars claimin' they love their 'jobs,' but none of 'em usin' their sabbatical time to drive into the daily grind, and hang out there for the two weeks they have off."
Loosely wrapping extra cock rings around my wrist, I listened intently.
"Since they feel they have to 'work,' they're just happy they've found somethin' to beat back the bills that doesn't make 'em wanna throw a noose over the rafters."
Donning my fuck boots, I laced up.
"If they loved their 'jobs,' why would they retire? Don't you do things you love as long as possible? Well then just keep workin' 'til your last breath, as you lie to yourself you adore that shit."
Opening my backpack, I strategically positioned three bottles of water and peanut butter-filled granola bars into its bowels. Hydration and instant energy: two essentials, when gangbangin'.
"Do people honestly smell like Drakkar, Polo, and CK One?! Of course they don't! People smell like shit, piss, and halitosis―"
"All of the above, in your case."
"Exactly! They're just so eager to play 'Let's Pretend!' So bursting with brainwashing, they wanna make-believe they smell like fields of lilac, honey, and salted caramel."
El Lobo's words battered the truth bell from the highest hill. "Everybody thinks some dung heap ― because that's the best aroma he'd emit, if he was mauled by a puma, flattened by a LeSabre, or eviscerated by a bayonet ― actually smells like creme de menthe!"
I jammed my phone into my sock pocket. The faceplate was greasier than alter boy anus at the Vatican. The cell, itself, was covered in more oil than the collective bodies at a nude beach. Examining my perpetually lubed fingers, I easily deduced why.
" 'Oh, he smells so good. What a handsome man! Doesn't he smell delicious, Margaret?' " my fabricated friend transformed into Rich Little on crank.
Depressing the activation button on the side of the sand-enshrined Android, my home screen came to life like Frankenstein's monster. A full-color, close-up photo of a nice, big cunt! Moreover, this was cunt I'd penetrated a couple nights prior, at the deprivation chamber disguising itself as my apartment.
EL's rant continued: "People smell like scat, adrenaline, and rancid meat. I know; I was a graveyard shift EMT for years, chasin' that rush. The thrill of bein' so close to the end, without goin' over."
I pulled a form-fitting beanie around my ears to not only keep my head warm, but my hair from falling into my eyes, in preparation for fucking.
Lobo took a trip down a stretch of memory lane replete with potholes and land mines: "Until I discovered swingin', I couldn't get enough! Severed limbs; exploded eyeballs; evacuated intestines. I was elbow-deep, and I can attest whether you're 117, and shittin' on yourself in some hospice, or 18 and winnin' beauty pageants, you look and smell exactly the same on the inside. But you'll sure as fuck do everything within your power to create the illusion such isn't the case, won't you?"
Donning a button-down shirt ― open in the front ― I could become naked, from the waist up, in under a second.
"If we all walked around without our skin, you wouldn't be able to tell the difference between that 18 year old supermodel, and the rotting supercentenarian. A thin epidermis is all it took to make us buy the illusion, just like the replacement of a few words was all it took for our entire species to falsely believe it was free."
I stashed mints in the drool-doused pocket of mi camisa, just in case I had to play the romance card this evening.
Takin' a deep drag off a dog toe, EL asserted "I know a girl who died because of the illusion."
"We're all slaves," I gazed up. "If you're a slave, it's impossible to live. If you can't live, then you can't die."
"Of course, but how else would you―?"
"Exterminated," I answered.
"Okay. She was 'exterminated' because of the illusion."
"Everybody's exterminated because of the illusion," I retorted.
"That's true, but this particular case seems pretty unique."
Intrigued, I chomped down on the wriggling worm, and ran. "Tell me more," I smiled.
"She was a server at a fine dining restaurant in Santa Fe. One day, while polishing silverware, she overlooked a speck of parsley on a spoon. The cutlery in question made it to the table of a high-end customer, who brought it to the attention of the manager.
As a result, the woman was fired in front of the client. This wasn't only a show of power, but an obsequious display to the customer, stating: 'Your money is more important to me than those I personally know.' "
"And the illusion?" I asked.
"The illusion is pretending the offending spoon had always been free from spent food, never having been inside anybody else's mouth prior. The cruel customer dined out so often, he'd probably eaten off silverware used by folks who'd fellated foxhounds!
Upon being fired, the woman looked for a new gig. Times were tight, and people were scared. As a result, she went months without income.
Having to support not only herself, but two kids, this meant stress to the magnitude she'd yet to experience.
With her daughters starving, she resorted to robbing a convenience store, and was killed in the process. Her children were suddenly without their sole means of survival. Lost, in the 'land of the free,' one was raped and murdered in an orphanage, and the other simply vanished.
All because of a piece of parsley―"
And suddenly, you're awake again ― or are you asleep? ― launching from a 30-person orgy at Caesars! A German BBW attempts to take your entire enchilada, but comes up a three jalapeños shy. A competing, female bodybuilder ― with a quarter century of dedicated gym training ― jettisons six bills in arrears on your twitching cock.
The only known fusion reactor in this Solar System is pressure cooking your deep-fried face, as you limp down Maryland Parkway, in search of more portals to penetrate. You're sporting a $3 pair of sunglasses. One of the lenses has long since popped free, dropping to the puke-soiled carpet of a locals' casino floor.
You're too high on the smack of award-winning sex to care. You could view mushroom clouds on the horizon, and still be happy, thanks to all the fucking you'd just done.
"Why the hell would you wanna have sex with 5,000 women?!" the casino serf queried, mopping errant piss off stained bathroom tile.
Doing his part to keep the urinal business a viable one, tfj replied, "How many people do you personally know who've been with that many chicks?!"
The man stared back, unable to refute what the fuck junky had shoved in his face. Both hombres knew the answer was, "One."
"Why be ordinary, when we can all be extraordinary?"
