DON KEEDIK: RUNNER
by
Hugh Mungus
© 2018. Hugh Mungus
CreateSpace
© 2018. Hugh Mungus
First Edition
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1717415400
ISBN-10: 1717415407
CreateSpace
7290 Investment Drive, Suite B
North Charleston, SC 29418
"You are the Universe expressing itself as a human for a little while."
― Eckhart Tolle *
To altruism.
“There is an Optical Illusion About Every Person We Meet."
(Ralph Waldo Emerson) *
DON KEEDIK
RUNNER
FATHER'S DAY
NIGHT OF THE LIVING BBW
MOTHERFUCKER
THE BEARDED LADY
RENTED SEX DOLLS
FUCKING ANGELINA JOLIE
JUST ANOTHER TOWN
WHITE MANDINGO
DON KEEDIK
All children are born geniuses; 9,999 out of every 10,000 are swiftly, inadvertently degeniusized by grownups.
― R. Buckminster Fuller *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/935484
What follows are the adventures of a man you've never heard of; a man who took Vegas for all it had. His name is Don Keedik.
Don has never played a slot machine, nor been dealt a single hand of Blackjack. When it comes to poker, he sucks more than The Waltons on Ice. Counting cards? He leaves that for Ben Mezrich and Claude Shannon, since the only thing he can count on is himself.
Keedik is able to hold onto money as well as Burt Reynolds is holding onto youth.
In the context of gambling, Don's credentials are shorter than a list of famous people named Tiger.
So, how did a guy ― who finds gaming more difficult than making love to a housefly ― zealously devour Sin City?
Only two things are certain on this planet:
1) Oprah will never stop eating, and
2) Don Keedik isn't "saving himself for marriage."
Even those severely retarded ― mentally, physically, or both ― have vices. Bedridden ― unable to move from the neck down ― a person will awaken at a particular time, to enjoy sunshine through their window. They'll hold chocolate mousse in their mouth longer than strained squash. They'll squint to make everything in the room fuzzy, providing entertainment.
In a bullshit society ― founded on suffering and death ― everyone has "transgressions." Existing without temporary escape, in this prison paradigm, is harder than 14 year old cookies.
Don's debauchery was sex. He aspired to be the best at obtaining it in the Entertainment Capital of the World.
His goal? Two hundred women in five months.
The stipulations?
1) No hookers, unless they offered it for free, and
2) "repeaters" didn't count twice. One entry per woman on the resume.
Other than that, Vegas was "a great, big pussy just waiting to get fucked!" **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZFvdpE3YUfM
Everyone around Don had gone mad…
It was time somebody went happy.
Psychopath Tom Wheeler prepared to roll out 5G ― "marking his territory" on everything. *** ****
*** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xRhISwY42nQ
**** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F0NEaPTu9oI
Eric Schmidt lubed the daunting dick of artificial intelligence, ready to fuck us. *****
***** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bY3CVNxWwVs
Government systematically reduced the dimensions of our prison cell, and the proof was right there for everyone to see. º ºº ººº
º https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WDsI-zk6gfE
ºº https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eLfkdquHotY
ººº https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a5rBc4GS06s
All the while, Keedik hungered for that lost connection with his kind.
He'd forego the chips, until Wheeler perpetually provided enough non-GMO, RBGH-free, strontium-90-exempt dip for everyone on the planet. In a society devoid of actual intelligence, he didn't require the artificial kind. Government? Fuck government. From taxes, to torture, to termination, the only thing it ever does is fuck us.
As with anybody, the answer was within him. Don knew it. He said his name three times aloud for proof:
"Don Keedik."
"Dong Keedik."
"Donkey Dick."
RUNNER
You better keep on runnin'
Don't stop runnin'
Keep on runnin'
'Cuz you can't catch me
― Y & T *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j1yKJBw-Zg8
Used egg slop splattered over the rim of the fat dish, pouring down Hiroshima Black Rain on Don's grease-drenched kitchen shoes. Keedik's fingers were the color of the coffee he continually made, as he burnt his hands on the industrial-sized "joe press."
Outside his cage, ravenous carnivores devoured flesh of "lesser" animals, while slurping copious cocktails, and battling one-armed bandits.
Don's clothes ― your standard black-on-black, food and beverage attire ― fit as well as a finger condom on Mandingo's cock. The "tailors" at the corporate office had briefly eyed him over, as opposed to ferreting out the measuring tape, to fit him properly.
Thus, Keedik sweated profusely, sporting pants he could've worn in third grade, and a shirt made from less material than a pocket square.
The haze of Indian reservation cigarette smoke filled the venue like San Francisco fog. Whistles whined, while the money monster ― in the shape of a Sin City casino ― devoured paychecks with the ferocity of 10 billion starving piranhas.
Burnt toast was the daily special, as servers balanced heaping pyramids of food on carpal-tunneled palms, like some sort of Criss Angel trick. Each gnawed on breath more stale than 20 year old bread, while bitching about shitty tips, malevolent managers and why Don couldn't keep the goddamned silverware stocked.
Fuck the roadside greasy spoon outside Diminutive Dick, Delaware! This was the ultimate coffee shop. With a seating capacity rivaling the last venue Whitesnake played, more dishes than the VLA outside Socorro, New Mexico, and a location firmly grounded on the Strip, this GMO dispensary was Denny's on horse steroids.
Don wasn't here due to love for the ol' F & B. He would've kicked that mouthy hitchhiker to the curb 20 years ago, but like all slaves on Earth, he needed money in order to survive.
Muscling a cart burdened by enough ceramic plates to make a bong the size of Kentucky, he passed by a row of Big Screen TVs. A stadium full of the ignorant stood for the national anthem.
Keedik grimaced in pain, aware everything around him was a pyramid scheme. This whole system was a ruse ― more rigged than World Trade Center Buildings 1, 2 and 7.
That said, the sports arena ― packed with astronauts hurtling through space on a 25,000 mile diameter ship called Earth ― were unaware. They butchered Francis Scott Key's horrible contribution to the scam.
Images of the three pussies he'd pierced the previous evening spanned Don's synapses.
"American" flags flapped insipidly in the breeze, even though "America" didn't exist. Keedik had known this truth after flying above the planet at 33,000 feet, and gazing down to find no borders.
Somehow, the other prisoners aboard this floating gulag had elected to ignore that obvious fact. Now, they sported enough red, white and blue to perpetuate the hoax until some Earthbound asteroid took them out, while they were busy voting for used car salesmen pretending to "lead" them.
Don's dilemma was as agonizing as a two hour make-out session with Jacob Rothschild, after the billionaire had eaten several cloves of garlic. Such stated, here he was ― wide-eyed and aware ― amidst a sleeping sea of his kind, who were hellbent to destroy us all.
From a "vocational" standpoint, Keedik was lower than the volume on a broken stereo with no power cord. He wasn't even near the totem pole, let alone at the bottom of it.
In a city bursting with nightmarish "employment," Don's "job" was shittier than the diaper bin at a maternity ward. He was a runner. Not only a runner, though, he was the newest runner at a Sin City coffee shop on the Strip.
As a result, he was belittled by those who'd made their existence servitude not solely of food, but to this system designed to destroy them.
The previous evening, Don had slept two hours, as he had the night before, as well as the one prior. He had no time for sleep. He was too busy fucking.
A step from homelessness, Keedik had bedded down more women in Vegas than any man during the past third of a year. It had been 120 days since Don moved to this make-believe town. He'd made it his goal to play with at least 200 lasses in five months.
Currently at 179, the Entertainment Capital of the World had been quite productive for one third of a sidereal cycle aboard Spaceship Earth. That said, he still had 21 women left to go, and wasn't leaving anything to chance.
One hundred other "employees" enslaved themselves at the greasy spoon. Unless a handful of them were Numbers Guys, or closet nymphos, it was a safe bet Don had engaged in sexual relations with more people than all of them combined…perhaps numerous times over. During his time on Earth, he'd been with in excess of 4,000 females.
A hand the size of a Domino's large crushed our hero's shoulder, terminating his frenzy to clean up used food. Spun on his heels, he faced Luis — "king" of the runners. "Why didn't you put the juice order away?" the mountain of a man bellowed.
"Oh, my god! Your cock is fucking huge!"
"Do you wanna touch it?"
"No way!"
"Don't you like huge dicks?"
"They're gorgeous to look at, but painful to fuck. I don't need that donkey dick ripping my uterus, in order to get off."
Six hours prior, Keedik had shown his wares ― a nine inch cock and a smile ― at a local swing club, and his mind had suddenly dropped into reverse.
"J— Juice order?"
"Oh, c'mon, bro," Luis rolled pea-sized ojos inside a cranium the dimensions of a semi-truck tire. This guy could've vaporized Don with simply a thought. "The fucking juice order. It came in with the other shit this morning from the distributor."
"Where was that?" Keedik queried.
"There it is!" Chick jizz fountained forth, showering Don's emaciated chest, as he removed his solid salami from the pulsing pussy, and slapped it against a clit so swollen it could've doubled as a ping pong ball.
The mohawk-sporting butch lesbian tore the bed sheets, as her submissive lover kissed her neck, and Keedik pleasured her engorged labia. All the while, two women and five guys watched from the shadows, either playing with themselves, or each other.
Once more, Don penetrated and pulled out, just as the geyser sprayed forth it's precious payload, covering the curious onlookers, who raced for cover.
"The juice order...Is that what those boxes in the corner are―?"
"Oh, bro! You gotta be―"
"...kidding me!!!" the BBW screamed, her cum cannoning one last time, before she collapsed off the bed, onto the floor below. Dazed ― covered in her own jizz and piss ― Keedik stepped aside, as her female counterpart moved in to hold her.
Don reclined on the couch, stroking his rock-hard rifle, in hopes one of the female onlookers would step forth, desirous of adding their name to the love list.
Keedik wasn't Tucker Max. He had no inclination to demean anybody, since he comprehended people are all one. Thus, what hurts you, hurts me, and vice versa.
Until we begin to see each other as ourselves, nothing will change. We are one planet.
― Peter Joseph **
** http://www.azquotes.com/quote/586119
Don realized long ago society was insane. As a result, he refused to adhere to it. If you're logical, why would you conform to an insane system? Why would you give a fuck what those who believe in that insane system, think? They're insane! Following them will lead you down a road of insanity, and regret.
Rather than looking back on an existence of achievement, you'll recall a prison sentence, during which you complied with lunacy, and never accomplished anything.
We live in a world where we have to hide to make love, while violence is practiced in broad daylight.
― John Lennon ***
*** http://www.azquotes.com/quote/440426
Keedik's goal was to hump as many women as possible. Via this approach, it was logical he'd experience as much as he could, even in the face of society's self-imposed adversity.
He'd heard tale of a Numbers Guy in the deep south puttin' up 200 New in a six month stretch. The figure seemed astronomical; unattainable; the grist of legend.
Don didn't have dates, locations nor names, so perhaps it was just a myth. Such stated, he'd hit 200 New in a year's span three times in the past, and 199 during another 365 day period. Thus, he had firsthand confirmation 200 new women in a year was doable.
So asserted, we were talkin' doubling that!
He'd recalled the Herculean effort necessary to attain those figures in a 52 week span. What would it take to put up a deuce in six months?!
Visions of a one-toothed Cajun kayaking through a swamp ― pants around his ankles ― fucking housewives, cousins and gators filled his mind. All the while, the theme from Deliverance played at high speed in the background.
It was a picture pretty as the murals of dead children and rifle-wielding stormtroopers at Denver International Airport. Even so, he'd been intrigued as to how that stat, if valid, could be realized.
A sprinter can only run so fast, right? There's a speed at which she maxes out.
A weight lifter can only lift so much weight, correct? There's a number that athlete is unable to surpass.
The human brain is no match for supercomputers, and definitely not imminent artificial intelligence; AI. Is such accurate?
But what about the woman racing from rapists in Central Park? She was alone at night, horrified beyond measure, and drowning in adrenaline. There were no time clocks present to record her speed, but for 73 seconds, she sprinted six miles per hour faster than Usain Bolt ever ran. That's 34 MPH!
And who considers the enervated office temp returning home to find his son pinned beneath a three ton truck in the driveway? In order to save his progeny, the corpulent slave had lifted 6,000 pounds at once — thereby demolishing previous weight lifting records. Since this hadn't been planned, no one was present to document the proceedings.
And what of the lone soul in the desert straining to mentally solve algorithms ten times faster than any supercomputer in existence? Faced with either accomplishing the above, or certain death, he chose the former, and reached his goal.
Because nobody was there to witness the achievement, it went unrecorded. Hence, the man remains unknown; his proof of the astounding never acknowledged by anyone, including himself, since he didn't realize what he'd done.
Don comprehended these weren't isolated anomalies of "superhuman" abilities. These were common occurrences happening every day. People all over the planet were performing similar feats. They just weren't being documented. Nobody had prepared to chronicle them, because nobody knew they'd be taking place.
No girl with a measuring tape stood by when the guy racing from the lion on the plains of Africa leapt 10 feet further than the best long jump in recorded history.
We're so much more than lead to believe by those we've placed in positions of power. Thanks to years of wife fucking, Keedik was living proof! Runty guys like him ― less attractive than an additional income tax ― weren't supposed to hook-up with over 4,000 women. Yet, here he was, the most well-fucked man in Vegas, the past four months.
What happens when we tap into that 90 percent of our brains supposedly dormant? Was he the answer to that question? Was the woman obliterating Usain Bolt's record the valid response? How 'bout the minimum wage prisoner hoisting the truck off his son?
Was this sporadic "superhuman" ability something we should be doing on a consistent basis? Were we being prevented from such, due to a system brainwashing us to believe we're inferior; a system demanding we exhaust ourselves via constant slavery; a system imprisoning us in a perpetual state of fear?
Were people breaking records all the time, simply by tapping into that unused portion of their brains? Were these "milestones" going unnoticed because nobody was there to record them?
Light travels at 186,000 miles per second. No more. But what of that one beam unaware of this limitation, blasting through the cosmos at 186,001 MPS, before an "authority" figure informed it such was impossible?
Don pondered the modality necessary to hit 200 New in five months. What's the point of replicating a record? If humanity wanted to advance, new benchmarks had to be set.
So, the challenge was on: Two hundred new women in five months.
He'd moved to Vegas for this reason alone. Such was the perfect playing field for Numbers Guys. Inserting oneself into Buford, Wyoming ― population one ― would result in failure as dismal as the prospect of becoming president if you're honest.
In addition, he'd found a way to frequent local swing shack(s) more often than once a week ― as had been his modus operandi in the past. Playing three or four days, every seven, had been imperative.
On top of this, contact information for provincial party planners, and gangbang coordinators, had been permanently carved into his little black book.
He'd attempted to crack the Sin City Craigslist Code, but such had proven more difficult than hiring Steven Spielberg to direct low-budget porn. He couldn't keep an ad posted on "the List" longer than an hour before it was flagged, resulting in the classified being removed.
The List de C required a different approach when in Denver, as opposed to St. Louis. Los Angeles held online challenges that Phoenix didn't. Vegas was no exception.
Although he'd traveled far, and accomplished much, there was still tremendous work needing to be done. He wasn't Richard Dreyfuss. Twenty-one women weren't simply going to race up to him, seeking sex. After all, he was Don Keedik: Runner ― a plebeian slave imprisoned on a floating penitentiary called Earth.
FATHER'S DAY
If freedom is a requisite for human happiness, then all that's necessary is to provide the illusion of freedom.
― B.F. Skinner *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/396180?ref=illusion-of-freedom
"This is my father!" the naked, 30-something goddess announced, introducing the antediluvian bastard gripping her ass cheeks.
Don eyed the senior sporting a T-shirt reading: "World's Greatest Dad!" The guy had to have been present for the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
It didn't matter. Keedik ― who perpetually reeked of bacon, burnt coffee and detritus ― found the female counterpart to this whacked out duo more intoxicating than piping hot Internet porn, fresh from the server.
In less time than it takes Barry Obama to fail a polygraph, "Dad" was beckoning a cast of characters into a room at the club, spreading his "daughter's" asshole for all to inspect. Simultaneously, his little lass slurped his swollen scimitar, while Don and the other aroused admirers anticipated action.
Kickin' back on a mattress that smelled of señorita sauce, Pops savored his progeny's moist mouth. "Remember that night in Palm Springs when you watched your mother fuck 200 cocks?"
Keedik expelled a scant amount of bile. "This may be the first time, in the history of the planet, that question has been asked," Don silently reflected.
"Oh yes, Daddy! And I licked each one clean."
Three worried wooers wandered out the door.
"That's right. You were such a good little girl. I do wish your mommy was still alive, hon."
"So do I, Daddy."
"Aww. You miss her, don't you, precious?"
"I do, Daddy."
"What do you miss most about her, baby?"
"Eating her pussy, Papa."
"That's Daddy's good little girl."
"Being a single parent must be so difficult, these days," ruminated Keedik.
"I loved picking you up from school ― you wearing your short uniform ― and me buying you ice cream, as Uncle Gaylord Hartoonian fucked your bald cunt in the garage."
Keedik's eyes rolled like the wheels of injustice following 9/11.
Two more potential podnas scrambled for the safety of higher ground.
"Don't jump ship now, guys," Don excogitated. "This act is more fake than Sandy Hook. Her Uncle's name is Gaylord Hartoonian, for fuck's sake!"
"I'll never forget those wonderful afternoons, Daddy! Do you remember how Aunt Grogda invited me inside afterward for lunch?"
"Of course I do, hon."
The last man standing beside Keedik shook uncontrollably, obviously wishing he'd been born deaf.
Don leaned in, whispering, "Hold it together, bro'. Her aunt's name is goddamned Grogda? C'mon."
"Yeah, yeah. You're right," the petrified potential stammered.
"She fingered my tiny pussy lips, and dipped them in milk for Whiskers to lick clean," the woman continued.
School days
School days
Dear old golden rule days
Readin' and writin' and 'rithmetic
Taught to the tune of a hick'ry stick
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmUx6Dvxb9Q
"I love watching you try new cock, baby," Big Papa responded.
"Jackpot!" Don wordlessly rejoiced.
"Would you like to take new dick, tonight?"
"We're in like dishonesty, greed and indifference!" Keedik mutely mused.
"Yes I would, Daddy!"
"Robin Hood's arrow, baby!" Don noiselessly exulted.
"Look at those two cocks behind you, hon. Do you like those?"
More wasted than bullets on a carcass, the woman turned, and ― akin to whomever the hell shot JFK ― attempted to focus. "Yes, I do, Daddy. One of em's really big! Can I fuck it?" she queried.
At that, her ancient ancestor beckoned Keedik over, handing him a condom. "Of course you can, love. Of course you can."
"Like a cordial conversation with a repo man attempting to steal my car, this can't last more than 30 seconds," Don quietly concluded. "I gotta extricate myself from Marilyn Manson's wet dream, before I'm more permanently scarred than a beheading victim."
Keedik sighed. The pussy was tighter than a size two corset on a 500 pound woman. Infiltration initiated, Don had sneaked behind enemy lines, secured the codebook, and could move on to the next Number.
Little did he realize the brazen broad was more annihilated than life at ground zero of a nuclear blast. As soon as she attempted to stand, she slipped in a puddle of her own surge, toppling like a retirement plan built on losing lottery tickets, expired coupons and a six-pack of recyclable beer cans.
At this, the maiden's second supplemental suitor vanished faster than Jared's contract with Subway, upon it becoming common knowledge the meaty mascot's hobby was pedophilia.
Again, the tipsy tart endeavored to become upright, and collapsed like the aortic valve of a lifetime cocaine addict in the throes of an overdose.
Don was still supine, caressing his club ― which was harder than getting the government to repeal income tax. As a result, he was no help.
Although Keedik hadn't seen it, the woman had been drinking with as much gusto as a new president, eager to impress his corporate masters by fucking humanity.
No work left to be done here, Don wandered into an adjoining room ― hard-on in hand ― and found himself trapped in a lesbian lair.
"Good god! Your cock looks like a cucumber painted the color of flesh!" Three liquored lasses reclined around a comfy couch, watching as a completely nude Keedik pounded his protuberance.
The boldest of the trio stood, gripping Don's conspicuous component, pulling on it with blatant brio. "This thing's huge! How big?"
"Nine and a half," Keedik croaked, recalling the useless shit his brain was filled with in school, so he didn't precipitately release his payload.
"Stand up," the horny "homosexual" commanded.
Don complied, as the woman ― a blonde version of Tom Cruise in the movie Cocktail ― wrenched his rod, repeatedly whispering in his ear, "I wanna fuck it."
Oddly arousing, the scenario culminated in Keedik helping the woman realize her desire, and our hero adding another indispensable Number to the list.
NIGHT OF THE LIVING BBW
Where are all the BBW strippers, let alone BBW strip clubs?!
― Don Keedik
From the tenth floor of the Four Queens, Don could hear the drunken droves below, as the six-foot tall, Chinese BBW jerked his javelin. This mental snapshot ― tattered, and yellowing with age ― graced the cover of his cerebral photo album.
Most broke out Polaroids of brainwashed kids, or holiday memories, inducing sleep faster than an Advil overdose. Before even opening Don's mind ― which may occur, thanks to neurotechnology ― the first image you'd see is Keedik's blood-engorged cock down this gorgeous gal's gullet. Big, bare balls clutched in her hungry hands; the Fremont Street Experience in the room window for context.
Views from most downtown or Strip hotels are more spectacular than a six-titted, bisexual chick with three pussies! Whether staining sheets on the 14th floor of Caesars, or sending sperm sailing off the wraparound balcony at The Cosmopolitan, a lighting bill rivaling the Black Budget, in the background, provides serious memories.
Don knew it. Still, he scampered from the event with the big, beautiful woman toward a destination far from the tourist traps. There, awaited yet another commodious cutie.
This new BBW heaved in rapture. Her squirt pooled five inches deep around her delicious body, as Keedik opened her up with as much zest as an IRS refund on rent day. The mattress beneath her was more dead than Kirk Douglas' chances of gracing the cover of Seventeen magazine.
Such wasn't uncommon. Our hero drove by the swing club four times a week, often finding box springs ― as lifeless as Carl Reiner's cock ― hauled to the curb. The slaves were rapacious for flesh. In this Phil Dick, dystopian chain gang of the cosmos, humanity gorged itself on any nibble of escape it could.
Blade Runner was our default environment. We didn't see it, because the Sun shined regularly. In the PKD tale, it was obvious shit was bleak, since our empyrean light bulb was nowhere to be found, leaving skies dark.
Here, though, we thought we were free, because a handful of psychopaths told us we were, and the yellow dwarf star in our Solar System danced on us invariably.
Not that it mattered for Don. This was Vegas ― a 24 hour town. Since being here, he'd proven one can survive on two hours of sleep per day.
Most folks strive for 56 hours of slumber a week. Don boxed up, and hauled away, 24 during a seven day period. Such was the personification of the masses napping, while a faction of the populace ― alert and aware ― devoured as much as they could, before departing their physical form.
Between Thursday and Sunday, Keedik crashed two hours per night. The three remaining evenings of the week, he'd cast the nets, ensnaring six hours each. It was exactly the amount necessary, if he was to achieve his goal of 200 in five months.
Awash in darkness, the familiar report of a text message pierced Don's short-lived solace like Chris Tucker's voice at an opera. Keedik was thrust back onto the field; given the opportunity to race for the end zone.
Grappling consciousness from the greedy clutches of slumber, he sat up, unsure what time it was, nor what day. Fumbling for his cell, he scanned the prospects, and sickly blue illuminated the slovenly surroundings.
"Work" clothes ― his prison uniforms ― were draped over everything.
Tip money scattered across his dresser, interspersed with unused condoms. Bottles of flavored lube ― some full, some with but a few strokes remaining ― littered the particle board counter. A pair of cock rings had been lovingly placed beside car keys, and his casino badge name tag. A stack of laundry quarters held down a mismatched pile of phone number-bearing cocktail napkins, swing club passes, and "work" schedules.
Don tapped the "Messages" icon on the phone, displaying a sole text.
"You up for a gangbang, tonight?"
Photos were attached, revealing what would be an "unattainable" BBW wet dream for most, but standard daily fare for Keedik and the group grinders with which he ran.
Retracting slats from the lone window of his hovel, Don exposed a sea of neon. After all, this was Vegas. A tasty Moon defined a Martian landscape beyond the Strip.
"What day is it?" Keedik responded on the two-bit talk and text machine.
A pause.
"Wednesday," came the reply.
And such was the backstory to the event at the Four Queens.
Now, naked at a swing shack, Don peeled away the tinfoil lid on a delectable chocolate/vanilla pudding combo. He stood beside the moaning mattress, where a charcoal BBW blended seamlessly with an alabaster cutie. The two treasures devoured each other like a pair of starving zombies.
Keedik gazed on, gripping his gonads.
Breathless, cocoa separated from cream, and sidled up to our hero. "Your cock is gigantic," the darling debutante drooled, staring at Don's throbbing hard-on. "We were watching you stroke it in the dungeon. I'm Sherry, and this is Melissa."
The bountiful beauty motioned to her nude friend ― covered in her own cum, and reclining on the happiest bed on the planet. "It's Melissa's birthday, and—
Drum beats kicked in, as a disco ball the size of Anderson Cooper's sphincter descended from the ceiling. House lights dimmed, and more lasers flashed about than a scene from Star Wars. All to the sporadic thrusts of Keedik, his bargain basement boner, and a pair of buxom beauties bursting with bliss.
Adult beverages sloshed in abundance, while voyeurs scooped out a hearty eyeful, and plenteous girl goo oozed down thick, bourbon-colored thighs.
When said and done, Don felt compelled to push deeper into the mysterious night, unlocking adventures with his nine inch key.
The two remaining señoritas with whom he played that evening couldn't have tipped the scales at more than a buck twenty, each. Hence, we'll leave that for another blog.
In total, we were talkin' close to 1,500 pounds of glorious goddesses that night.
MOTHERFUCKER
The trick is to combine your waking, rational abilities with the infinite possibilities of your dreams. 'Cuz if you can do that, you can do anything.
― The Waking Life *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w8OZistCNls
Soaked in her BFF's girl cum, the woman released a nut that could satisfy an 800-pound squirrel. From a nearby couch, her mid-20s daughter watched with more intent than the Koch brothers do rising balances in their bank accounts.
Adjacent the progeny in question, a butch lesbian — said best friend forever — gazed on, fingering her pulchritudinous pussy. A pussy, no less, Don Keedik had penetrated moments prior.
Employing his nine inch rudder, our hero steered this version of the Lusitania through the play pot of the dominant dyke's lover. The result had been a hard tile floor, at the edge of the bed, more drenched in girl goo than New Orleans was in Katrina piss.
Oozing from a mattress as sullied as a politician's checkered past, Mommy Dearest crept to the sofa where her daughter awaited. A rook flirting with checkmate, Don positioned his hard-on between progenitor and offspring, proudly displaying his shaft, the way a hunting dog does a bird caught on the run.
The young woman was transfixed.
"Would you like to touch it?" inquired Keedik, offering his aching member. The gorgeous girl's mother grabbed her daughter's hand, guiding it to Don's dick. The neophyte caressed the silken skin over the pulsing length, and began stroking.
In order to stave off an early end to the festivities, Keedik envisioned Wolf Blitzer in a fishnet bodysuit, boasting a CNN tattoo above a moderately-sized zit doubling as his penis.
Moments prior, the offspring in question had been watching Don drain her mother ― a loosely-practicing lesbian ― in front of orgiastic onlookers, at yet another swing club. Removing his straining spear at the moment of release had caused mom to burst, depositing cups of kitty cream on the slick floor between Keedik's legs.
The scene encompassed about 50 fantasies. Don realized if he was ever to compile a highlight reel of his most memorable sexual moments, this would be the Miracle on Ice.
Keedik had lead two generations ― from the same immediate clan ― into uncharted waters. The matriarch had been more game than Monopoly. Initially, however, her daughter had forgotten to pack shoes, prior to reaching Antarctica, and gotten cold feet.
Now, as the younger woman stroked his ribald rod, Don relished in the culmination of his tireless efforts.
"He's worried you no longer love him. You should give him a kiss to calm his fears," Keedik stammered. More stupid than believing politicians serve you, Don had to emit some sort of idiocy, to keep this Kursk from sinking.
The line was a 100 year old light bulb still providing illumination; Keedik couldn't believe it worked, as the dissolute daughter smooched the titanium rod pounding between his powder-white chicken thighs.
A foursome starring our protagonist as the sole male thespian, Don pretended his luck was a lone button capable of launching the entire nuclear arsenal, and didn't push it.
Having successfully completed a mother/daughter high wire act, he reveled in blazing his own path, rather than following the white picket fence to Hell the system had erected for him.
He'd never "own" a house, but neither would anybody else. The difference was Don knew this, while others pretended not to. We all rented, and if you erroneously believe otherwise, try not paying your mortgage, property taxes, or HOA fees. See how much you "own" then.
And even if the bank/government doesn't steal your home, try taking it with you when you bite the big one.
Ownership is an illusion, and Keedik had discovered such decades prior.
Don knew he'd never get married, as doing so was nothing but a prison sentence from which others stand to temporarily benefit.
Voting? Just activate autopilot and glide…straight into the erupting volcano.
The system will garrote you with images of "perfect" bodies, unavailable unless you offer cash. When you do, that same system will jail you for paying. It's lunacy!
Don departed the sex shack, and headed down the Strip to relish in the experience. Passing a stretch Hummer, a man in a tuxedo leaned out, "Premium dancers to your door for two hundred dollars an hour." Again, what the system offers.
"No, thanks," Keedik responded. "I just had a foursome with a mother, her daughter, and her lesbian lover for free. Why would I pay you, so I could watch women — who have no desire in me — dance?" What you experience, once you denounce the system.
The man's smile faded. "I, uh― Where'd you―? What the hell―?! Shit, why wasn't I invited?"
"Because you were here,…enslaved," Don replied.
THE BEARDED LADY
There are television sets in every home, every restaurant, every hotel room, every shopping mall — now they're even small enough to carry in your pocket like electronic rosaries.
It is an unquestioned part of everyday life. Kneeling before the cathode ray God, with our TV Guide concordance in hand, we maintain the illusion of choice by flipping channels (chapters and verses).
It doesn't matter what is flashing on the screen — all that's important is that the TV stays on.
― Anton Szandor LaVey *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/770581?ref=illusion-of-choice
A she-devil depressed a button on the remote control.
Unsure what would happen next ― if anything at all ― the swingers braced for Armageddon. Some bolted for the exit; others cowered, anticipating an explosion.
Instead, an emaciated, male waif ― clad in female lingerie ― dropped to the floor of the brick-lined dungeon, howling in agony.
Suspecting a heart attack, Keedik raced toward the stricken soul.
"Stay back!" the violent vixen screeched. More powerful than garlic breath, the bellicose beldame was a cornered honey badger. "The bitch is mine!"
The homicidal harpy once again activated the remote, and her slave once again collapsed.
As the injured incarcerate lay prone on the frigid floor, Don discerned a thick metal ring around the man's shriveled genitalia. Each time the murderous maiden triggered the fob, the contraption crackled with electricity. And each time resultant, the vanquished vassal crumbled like freedom under government rule.
"An electrified cock ring?" Keedik pondered. "I wouldn't be surprised if Henry Kissinger's name is on the patent for that baby. Only somebody devoid of a soul could dream up such a sick invention."
Still contemplating intervening, Don's desire to rescue faded, as the horny hostage professed his love for the abuse. "I've been a sub since high school. I can't get enough," the captive confessed.
"Pathetic, little slave!" the savage siren shrieked. "His cock used to be nine inches." She triggered the remote.
The tortured toppled to the tile, hands cuffed behind his back, preventing him from removing the buzzing band.
"Now, thanks to my special treatment, his sorry excuse for a dick is less than four."
"I gotta get outta here before my brain melts like reactor cores at Fukushima," Keedik quietly concluded. Fleeing, he caught what occurred next in his peripheral vision.
"Son of a bitch!" the brutal broad emitted a war cry, racing toward her consenting captive; six inch stilettos chipping tile floor as she went. Sparks flew from the harmful heels ― four decade's of misogyny taking palpable form. "I own you!" The horrifying hellcat's howl caused plaster to rain from the ceiling.
With weaponized footwear, she stomped mercilessly on the slave's testicles―
Or, at least that's what appeared would happen, before Don breached the doorway.
A muffled scream in the background, Keedik catapulted from the room.
Rounding the corner, he came face-to-hole with an amazing ass perched atop a bed. It was all he could see. A glow emitted from the posterior, as the superfluous faded. Everything became stationary, except for the asshole, which called to Keedik.
"Don," the orifice beckoned. "Come taste me. I'm all yours."
Uncertain if this was the computer simulation in which we reside malfunctioning, our hero stood dumbfounded.
"Don," the puckering butthole repeated, "pleasure me."
Captivated by the gorgeous gap the way a politician is transfixed with greed, Keedik was caught in a tractor beam pulling him forward.
Whomever the perfect, undulating ass was attached to, she was orally servicing a cock at the other end. Soles of black business socks ― upright and clenched ― on either side of the holy hindquarters, were an imperative piece to this puzzle.
Keedik queried, "Is it okay if I taste you?"
Shrouded in darkness, from somewhere atop the bed, came a definitive, "Yes!"
Our hero dropped to his knees, inhaling as much succulent, dripping pussy as possible. His hunger temporarily satiated, he wrapped a condom around his bursting boner, and drove a nine inch, commemorative spike halfway into heaven.
"Owww!" the woman attached to the consummate cavern pulled away.
"Sorry," Don retracted, allowing for acclimation. Slowing his overzealous strokes, he queried, "Is that better?"
"Mm-hmm," came the purred reply.
The pussy was as pleasurable as the thought of awakening to find all this was just a bad dream. Upon opening one's eyes, one discovers politicians have vanished, the word "authority" has been omitted from the dictionary, and nobody's heard of such an insane ideology as government.
Immersed in superlative slit, Don took it in stride when the woman attached turned, sporting a beard that would make ZZ Top jealous. It kept things interesting. After all, if the cutie in question had spun around, and simply looked like so many others, this chapter would never have been written, and you wouldn't be perusing it.
Rather, you'd probably be doing something productive…like reading Fakebook posts about the defecation preferences of a family pet.
RENTED SEX DOLLS
It's the terror of knowing
What this world is about
Watching some good friends
Screaming, "Let me out!"
― Queen and David Bowie *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a01QQZyl-_I
Licking sweaty housewife pussy in a room at New York New York, you watch the hotel's roller coaster jump its tracks and catapult into Las Vegas Boulevard. Destroying your rigid cock on the cervix of somebody else's girlfriend, you gaze from a suite at the Rio. All the while, the lights of Sin City make the horrific seem magical.
Step behind the illusory veil of glamour, and you'll find the occulted truth beneath. Those relegated to death in sizable sewers here are omnipresent; i.e. the homeless are everywhere. Reality beyond the velvet curtain is anything but attractive.
It's all a fiction. Such was the case with Carlos Alejandro's Used, Rentable Sex Dolls.
Don met "Chaz" on the periphery of this alien-infested landscape, where Black Budgets turn the anecdotal into the tactile, and insane fantasies become reality.
JUMP CUT TO:
"The guy pays these women to fuck me! Can you believe that shit?! I'm a reverse hooker!" Vegas Vic marginally piloted his dismantling, dust-dipped Dart through Sin City traffic at 12 AM.
"The dude has swimming pools of cash, and a hard-on for rub and tug." Unshaven, the mad genius' eyeballs rolled in dehydrated sockets, as he regurgitated his latest victories on the gridiron of the groin.
"I don't shell out a dime! All I do is show up at whatever massage parlor he specifies, he hands me $160, and the women are down with the scene."
In the passenger's seat, Keedik soaked it all in like a clean liver does a bottle of 3.2 beer. Behind Vic's crazed cranium, tractor trailers careened off the 15; Maverick helicopters exploded into the interstate; and Teller fucked Penn up the ass in retribution for decades of second billing.
Beneath the phony volcano at the Mirage, an actual volcano erupted, drowning the city in a contemporary version of Vesuvius. The bungee broke on the Stratosphere SkyJump, as the hotel snapped in two, collapsing to the cold asphalt. David Copperfield actually sawed a woman in half onstage, her innards spraying over the audience.
Outside the window was pandemonium, as reality replaced illusion. Inside were the ramblings of the most proficient gangbang coordinator this side of Primm.
"They get a hundred bucks for the massage, and if they complete their assignments―"
" 'Assignments?' " Don queried.
"Yeah, I'm not certain what that means, either. All I know is if I get 'em to do certain things ― like watch porn on their cell ― I'm supposed to give 'em the extra $60 as a tip."
"And you get to play with all of 'em?" Keedik questioned.
"At the very least, I get a handjob out of the deal. At most, I'm bangin' one of 'em over the massage table, while the other watches."
It was the gripping conversation engaged in, as Vic and Don raced to the latest gangbang at the Hard Rock Hotel. There, a 115 pound, gym rat housewife awaited more cock than a rooster coop.
JUMP CUT TO:
"I'm gonna do rails of coke off my wife's pussy! If any of you have a problem with that, you can fuck off!" the Pillsbury Doughboy shrieked, racing from the bathroom.
The suite at the Hard Cock was four times the size of Don's dung heap apartment. At this point, the place was littered with hundreds of used condoms spilling pints of spent seed on a carpet that was a DNA expert's wet dream.
Caked lube fused Don's fingers, as he scanned the horny horizon. Dildos, vibrators, bottles of booze, photos of Diane Sawyer alone with six frozen knackwursts and her hidden desires; it was all here.
The five hour triathlon had been a 15-on-1 slaughterfest, resulting in a pussy more shredded than "sensitive" documents at Oliver North's office.
What equated to nearly two baseball teams had filed through a neat and trim hallway reeking of cleaning products. A parade of penis, to anyone watching that much testosterone pouring into one room, there was no doubt what would transpire behind closed doors.
Edward Bernays' indelible contribution to the decline of humanity was stamped all over Sin City. "What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas!" was the rallying cry for countless curious creatures who'd forfeited their lives, and were eager to regain their wasted existence.
Repressed sexual desires, and subservience to a system that was shredding them like Taco Bell cheese, caused folks to binge on 15 cocks in five hours, or force their hearts to the bursting point on rocket fuel.
Hubby resembled lard ― amorphous and pasty white ― as he shadowboxed his liver with fermentation. To keep things festive, he and his honey would periodically retire to the restroom for a "noseful."
"You rent sex dolls?!" Don asked, pushing his pulsating penis into the focal point of the event.
Both Keedik and Carlos Alejandro happened to be participating in the same group grinder. Both Don and the Latin lover were in the process of breaching the open orifices of the blue-eyed bride.
The entire gang was there: "Ten Shot" Tim, BBC Bob, "Samson The Slit Slayer," etc. All the while, Vegas Vic patrolled the perimeter.
"They aren't just dolls; they're a tribute to the beauty of women," Alejandro confirmed.
"How do you charge for something like that?" Don queried, his horny halberd servicing cervix.
"By the hour," Carlos explained, as the gulping girl gagged gonads. "Sixty dollars for 60 minutes; a buck a minute."
"People are willing to pay that much for sex with a doll?"
"Sandra and the other 'girls' are loving women, eager to provide pleasure. Made from the finest latex on the planet, their skin is extremely lifelike! They're weighted to feel like a real body, and absolutely gorgeous!"
You know things are bad when you find yourself eye to eye with an inanimate sex doll, your erection embedded inside latex vagina. Circumstances plumb new depth, when you've paid for the experience, the plastic pussy is used ― by who knows how many others ― and you're renting, as opposed to purchasing.
"It's the latest in 'love therapy,' " Carlos Alejandro explained. "No strings; no attachments. Just pleasure."
The astronomical amount of denials Don had incurred during his decades of swinging filled his mind. Being shot down by a plastic doll was less attractive than the thought of Walter Cronkite using a crude precursor to the Fleshlight, fashioned from a soggy loaf of Bimbo White, and Polaroids of animal sex.
But, consider the applications here. You're in Vegas for a convention. You're more lustful than Oprah floating down a river of melted chocolate, toward a cream-filled castle, where the walls are made of cookie dough. You've no desire to cheat on your wife…
Enter Carlos, and his "solution."
In a town where all yearning is catered to, Alejandro and his rented sex dolls had filled a new niche like putty in the cracked walls of this crumbling society.
FUCKING ANGELINA JOLIE
Nature is a totally efficient, self-regenerating system. If we discover the laws that govern this system and live synergistically within them, sustainability will follow and humankind will be a success.
― R. Buckminster Fuller *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/944201
Brad Pitt and Don have little in common. Brad is handsome; Keedik resembles Vic Tayback, post-prime. Brad has cash; others are indefinitely holding Don's cash for him. Brad is famous; our hero served Jeff Goldblum food once.
One of the few commonalities the two men share is, at one point, they were both fucking Angelina Jolie. Well, almost.
Don bought a new pair of track shoes for $11, and went running. After all, that's what runners do.
Suburbia ― behind UNLV ― proved to have the best routes. It was there he could reflect on the porn he'd lived the night prior.
His worthless sneakers disintegrating beneath him, he'd recalled the Angelina Jolie look-a-like who'd wandered into the swing club the evening before. Beneath the cherry-red glow of sex lamps, she'd spied him stroking his cock, and approached, her gaze locking on his dangling appendage the way a cruise missile locks on target.
Extending a hand more trembling than the 1906 San Francisco quake, she'd gripped the blood-stuffed object that was throbbing like a sore tooth. Squeezing it lustfully, she'd gazed into Keedik's sleep-deprived eyes, piercing his throat with her tongue.
Don returned the gesture, his pulsing penis getting a double-fisted workout.
Withdrawing from Keedik's mouth, the goddess demanded, "Fuck me with it. I only fuck guys with big dicks, and I haven't been able to find one who can do the job, since my last boyfriend."
Don couldn't be certain, but he could've sworn he'd heard the same insistence on a National Public Radio PSA.
The woman had more issues than Time magazine.
So, out where packaged liquors pop, and Chinese noodles crackle across the skillet, Keedik fucked "Angelina Jolie." Not well, of course, but it didn't matter.
The moment she'd groped his erection ― beneath the iridescence of fission-financed neon ― she'd earned a cherished place in the catalogue of credentials. She was right there ― alongside a pair of toothless lesbians, and a couple sucking sourced oxygen from a tank, while keeping the cigarette industry in the murder business.
"Watch your posthumous Yul Brynner public service announcements, kids!" **
** https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iikQoFpNBNg
It was a place of reverence, to be certain; wedged securely between the contributions to humanity provided by Morton Downey, Jr. Sings, and the person who invented the spork.
Yanking his sweat pants from his ankles ― with as much zest as a tax-beleaguered citizen does a corrupt politician from a burning pyre ― Don burst free from his "Angie" interlude, and headed out in search of subsequent sex.
JUST ANOTHER TOWN
"[S]ins of the flesh" is just a control mechanism — if you demonize a person's pleasure, then you can control his or her life.
― David Levithan *
* http://www.azquotes.com/quote/493350?ref=sins-of-the-flesh
Doom descended upon humanity. The "Sin" in Sin City had sizzled out. All that remained was just another town, where nothing amazing happened. Nobody experienced the extraordinary here anymore.
Lascivious lasses stopped handling more balls than a Dick's Sporting Goods warehouse, before returning to the Hell that is housewifery.
Tourists ceased humping BBW grad students, while their sorority sisters watched, drunk as Flavor Aid in Jonestown.
Husbands no longer had the means to ensure their wives were more fucked than a quadruple amputee, dumped with chum off the back of a boat, into shark-infested waters.
Instead, people in the Entertainment Capital of the World now stared at paper cards with numbers on them. They pushed puke green pieces of cloth around a table, pretending to be adventurous.
Unbeknownst to the zest-less, Casual Encounters on Craigslist ― via which copious cunts had been conquered, and countless cocks corralled ― was slain. This mighty mogul ― responsible for billions of orgasms ― died unceremoniously, while most slept.
It was a death nell the slumbering masses would never know about. To Don, it was anathema.
Gone were the days of sport fucking in the labyrinthian suburban jungle. Pre-moistened, female bodies ― awaiting the adrenaline rush of strange cock ― could no longer expect the delivery of such, at all hours of the night.
Again, this meant nothing to a snoozing populace pursuing non-existent "careers;" chasing the illusion of home "ownership." To Keedik, though, and the countless embedded in the swing scene, this was agonizing.
With Casual Encounters, one had been able to post a free online classified, and receive response from ordinary, interested folk. Within hours, sometimes minutes, people who'd never met prior, could get together and fuck, fulfilling sexual fantasies.
For years, this conduit had been a trusted friend to the horribly horny. And like all resources, government destroyed it, as if it had been breathable air in a gas chamber.
Bureaucracy fabricated a fatuous excuse, as to why they'd become "concerned" parents, taking our "lead painted" play toy away. And, of course, the masses pretended to believe their master, since they were too frightened, or lazy, to stand up for themselves.
Don's head spiraled like a washing machine on the spin cycle; his stomach convulsing like a butter churn on National Toast Day.
"We still have swing clubs," Keedik told himself, even though he knew those were dwindling faster than reality on CNN.
Without Casual Encounters, repressed regions like the Bible Belt would no longer be hot beds, so to speak, for swinging. Places devoid of carnal clubs would experience a rapid rise in hairy palms and blindness.
Was this a fitting end to his time spent in Vegas? What began like a cannon blast had the potential of becoming nothing more than an un-pumped BB gun.
Was it imperative he move on?
WHITE MANDINGO
Once you completely see all the control mechanisms for what they are, they no longer have power over your mind. When your mind is free, you've left the farm. […]
If your masters look you in the eyes at this moment of freedom, they will realize that they have actually always feared you. They are more enslaved than those that they enslave. The masters are the least free of all.
― Truthstream Media *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JuvO8ePz5KE
Evil Erika must've thought she was attending a funeral, since she'd been burying her face in pussy all night. The recipient of her latest tongue lashing concurrently cupped Don's shiny balls.
"It's absolutely gorgeous!" a third dirty dryad declared, as she caressed Keedik's cock.
Not quite the reverse gangbang guys dream about, it was a reverse mini-gangbang. Still, Don was more excited than priests, should the "legal" age of consent be reduced to three.
To prevent premature emission, our hero recalled his favorite Scott Baio performances as lovable Chachi Arcola in Joanie Loves Chachi.
Evil Erika didn't make things easy, since she sprayed like an exterminator working on commission. E-Squared left a trail wherever she went, losing her load faster than a semi truck jack-knifing at 100 MPH. Dropping the ultimate cargo, she was the Paul Tibbets of Sex.
An elephant over a pond covered in thin ice, Don maneuvered from one woman to the next, until he completed the triumvirate.
His dick had been a buck they'd been tracking for months, as photos were taken of two of the women smiling on either side of it, upon the culmination of carnality.
"White Mandingo," a fourth female ― watching from a sofa ― whispered, as Don exited the room at the swing club.
"I'm sorry?" Keedik responded, clothing himself in $6 sweat pants.
"That's what you are," the lovely lass elucidated, as she sat beside her husband. "Every time we look up, your dick is in another girl. Women love your cock."
"What a curse," hubby chimed in.
The sobriquet stuck like tape manufactured in 1934, and left in the Sun for 80 years. It was one of numerous nicknames ― The Arm, Donkey Dick, Asshole ― Don had been bequeathed by regulars, and it galvanized him down the home stretch.
Touched and inspired, Keedik went on a spree, putting up nine in a night.
The fourth came on command, her Master ordering her to assume the position, and take on all cummers. Complying, she'd mounted the mattress amidst the dimly lit room.
The Master in question offered up condoms to would-be suitors. A Dio song title, Don was the last in line. Since none before accepted the physical challenge, he became first.
Spreading the sub's buttery butt cheeks — exposing glorious, glistening anus — our hero hopped atop the E-ticket attraction, and rode until the Master closed the park for repairs. The woman literally orgasmed when ordered. Keedik had firsthand confirmation of such, as her pussy clamped around his palpitating pole, whenever her commander-in-chief bellowed the edict.
Rushing from the room, Don danced his debauchery on a damsel in the dungeon, before plowing through a lesbian on the rebound, a glory hole girl, and a handful of sorority sisters from UNLV.
When the fumes of decimation subsided, a pathway to daylight ― carved with 214 women in five months, as opposed to Tunnel Boring Machines ― was revealed. Keedik hadn't only attained his goal, he'd surpassed it.
With the Killing of Kraigslist, however, his pursuit of passion took rapid kidney punches. Collapsing to the canvas in a bloody heap, he'd been able to regain balance ― nauseous and wobbly ― and stand again. Whether or not he could maintain his breakneck pace remained to be seen.
Had he jumped the shark? ** What did it matter? He'd done what he came to do in Sin City.
He was already lookin' East toward the swamplands. There, a harvest of horny housewives flooded the furtive fucking grapevine. He was preparing to roam the Earth once more, and uncover the mysteries awaiting.
** https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jumping_the_shark
[When it comes to government, w]e have a criminal class who manufactures wars to make us believe we're under threat all the time, uses subtle forms of terrorism to keep us under control, and locks down our society — removes our rights at every opportunity — under the guise of keeping us safe from the "other guys."
It's a scam! It's such an absolute scam!
― Max Igan *
* https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YohThvC-BV8
Fuck this system!
― Don Keedik
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