How My Breast Milk Fetish Went Sour

How My Breast Milk Fetsih Went Sour

Even in my earliest memories I can recall being pretty obsessed with breasts. I was a toddler tit connoisseur, able to distinguish between shape, size, firmness and placement far beyond the abilities of my peers. Yet I cannot remember being breastfed, or if that was still going on by the time I had developed my particular must for bust. Shortly before she died I finally came clean to my mother about my ‘lifestyle’ in hopes that she could provide some clue as to how things turned out the way they did for me. She said she had breastfed me until I was a year old and then weaned normally. Yet a year later when I saw her breastfeeding my baby sister, she says, I became outraged with envy and had to be out of site whenever future feedings occurred lest I throw a spasmodic tantrum.

For most of my early childhood it was just the jugs that got me going. Then when I was ten I went on a visit with my mother to a her friends house. This was the first time I had ever met the woman and it was the first time that I ever fell in love. She was the most beautiful person I had ever seen. And on top of that she had the most perfect breasts I had ever yet laid eyes upon. Every detail about those globes was absolutely perfect. They were a masterpiece in every conceivable way. The advantage of being ten is that you can blend into the background and stare without being noticed, and I sat there for an hour pretending to be reading comic books while taking in every glorious breath and subsequent upheavals of those marvelous mounds.

And then the single most formative moment of my life occurred. From afar a baby cries out, and mom’s friend shuffles off, returning a moment later with her bundle of joy. She sits back down and pulls one of those epic melons out right before my eyes, exposing her nipple (my Holy Grail at the time) and teasing it into that blessed newborns little mouth. I glance over at my mom, just as she glances questioningly and a bit nervous at me, and I pretend to go back to my comic book. Yet I cannot help but to stare raptly, no longer capable of any stealth pretense, so my mother politely suggests I should go outside and see if there are any children my age in the neighborhood. Awed and embarrassed I am unable to argue or shrug her suggestion aside, so I head outside and climb the first tree I can get myself up into.

As I sat there splayed out in the branches I had the most intimate moments of my life. I imagined myself as that lucky little baby, slurping freely from that monumental mammalia, while the entire world around me became whiteness and warmness and a song that cannot be heard except as gentle vibrations tracing the furthest reaching tendrils of my entire soul simultaneously. Heaven.

On the way home my mom asked me if I understood what I had seen. I told her I ‘kinda’ did and she gave me a simple run down on the mechanics and psychology mother’s milk. And even though I was still reeling in a haze of newfound love, I can remember every word she said to this day.


My fascination soon became fetish, even before the throes of puberty. Yet these desires remained my own private fantasy for several more years, which in retrospect, was the golden age of my compulsion. It was only when I eventually tried to act these fantasies out in real life that things became complicated and painful.
Thankfully I came of age during the time of the internet. Finding a partner to indulge my fantasies was not always easy, but it was far less difficult than most of the actual encounters themselves. I would put out ads detailing my kink, although I never thought of it as anything less than beautiful and wholesome myself, and would generally get a reply once a month or so. Only about half of these ended in me guzzlin’ jugs, and almost all of them ended in complete disaster.

With few exceptions the women who I hooked up with were young single mothers desperate to attract a partner to help them through the struggles of parenthood and life. And while it generally all began as an agreement for discrete occasional encounters, it always eventually came down to my partner wanting to “pursue the relationship further”. A few times I actually tried this, but as the relationship progressed, the expectation that I would wean off my fixation ultimately ended the relationship before I ever even got to the moving in together phase. That is, until I met Victoria.

From the moment I met her I could tell that there was something off about her. First of all, she was far more attractive than the vast majority of women who I hooked up with. Which made her apparent attraction to me mind-boggling. Her vigilance to visual perfection extended to every inch of her perfectly sculpted and groomed body. She had a face of eternal youth, a little girls coy smile on a sex goddesses face. Framed by the most beautiful wavy blue black hair you have ever seen, which accompanied her porcelain skin tone highlighted by only the most gentle brushes of pink. And her breasts…

Victoria had breasts that could start an apocalypse or bring world peace and end hunger. Maybe even all on the same day and in any order. There is no way to describe them. If I tried to put into words the perfection they encompassed, even if I achieved the highest possible form of descriptive compliment, I could still only manage to convey only a fraction of their globular glory. But how and why they were so perfect was a flaw I would not understand fully until it was far too late.

She came from your average American town. The kind small enough to have just one high school, but big enough to have over a half dozen fast food joints on the main strip. Her whole life she had been everyone’s princess, despite having been born on the wrong side of the tracks in a below average family. She was charming, congenial, witty and clever – on top of beautiful. Everyone loved her, but nobody loved her more than she did herself. As her body blossomed into that of a young woman her breasts seemed to hit a growth standstill, just shy of her minimum expectations for their development. Despite the fact that she was considered perfect in almost every conceivable way to everybody else who knew her, she came to view this shortchanging of the bra as an unfathomable slight against her by all of existence. She was, she reckoned, one cup size short of total perfection and thus – completely flawed. In her last few years of high school her insecurities led her to experiment with promiscuity, although she always chose older men for one night stands out of discretion and decorum. That is, until senior prom.

Despite her growing anxieties about her perceived flaw, she was voted Prom Queen, just as everybody she had ever met knew she would be since the first time they met her. She was born prom queen material, and destiny owed that to her, regardless of her incompetent mammary glands. On this night she made an exception to her ‘no romance with peer’s rule and went as the date of the boy in her class who was crowned king. They then went out together for the rest of the school year, and on the night before graduation, she let him fuck her. It was uncomfortable and boring and would change the rest of her life.

As everyone else was heading off to college, she got got an apartment in a town a county away and took a job as secretary at a printing company. Shortly after her ‘king’ had marched off to four years in a frat house, she began to show. He never had any idea, as he had broken up with her a few weeks after she became pregnant because, “You know, it’s college, babe. I’ll never forget you.”

While her body began to swell to accommodate the child growing inside her, so did her breasts. She would come home from work after a long day and stand topless in the mirror scrutinizing them for new growth, and partially out of fear that they would engorge themselves unequally and she would become loptitted. She spent a small fortune on oils and creams and support bras, and as those little b-cups transformed themselves into firm, plump c+cups, she fell in love.

After she gave birth she was vigilant about getting back into shape, and soon her body was more curvy and toned than it had ever been before. So long as she breast fed, her hooters remained in that perfect pristine state. They were the only thing that had ever been missing, and so long as she could keep them, she could be happy. Her, her beautiful baby boy and her glorious gazongas; she could live with that. So she vowed to herself and whatever powers the universe might behold that she would breastfeed as long as she could.


When Victoria responded to my ad her son Merrick was five years old and just getting ready to go to kindergarten. Despite the fact that neither of them were willing or emotionally ready to end what had already gone on too long, she knew it had to be done. She found another mouth to suck and began weaning the child. When I first came into their life this change had thrown them into absolute dysfunction. Both of them waged an emotional war against each other that will likely last the rest of their live, but in the beginning it was especially bad.

It was not that I did not notice the insanity I had walked into, I had seen it clearly from the very first step. But Victoria’s breasts were so absolutely perfect that nothing could have dragged me away from them. On top of this I reasoned that things would eventually even out and I would be living my lifelong dream. And as time went on, it sometimes seemed things might turn out that way.

After about a year and a half of 2-3 feedings on the world’s greatest fun bags, things suddenly took a turn for the worse. One night while we were up watching television and I was helping myself to a late night snack, Merrick woke up and caught us in the act. It was the first time he had ever seen me foraging from his former source of ambrosia, and it did not go well. He jumped on me and began screaming and swinging and kicking and biting and clawing. It was total rage and before I could make it stop without hurting the kid, I was bleeding from a dozen places.

The result of this was that Victoria took Merrick to see a therapist. However when the boy revealed his story, the therapist told Victoria that she was likely the source of his troubles and would need to seek therapy herself if he was ever going to get better. So she did. But the therapist continuously told her that nothing would get better until she let go of her attachment to her breasts and keeping them up with lactation spurred by sexual encounters. She became sullen, depressed, angry and bitter. I could taste the milk in her turn sour as her inner struggle tore her apart. On one hand, she loved her son and wanted the very best for him, but on the other she loved her breasts more than anything she had ever loved about herself. Not only would quitting now mean they would lose volume, the years of breastfeeding would likely leave them deflated like grocery bags filled partially with lumpy stew. Yet fake boobies were never an option, as they had always been a deadly sin in her book of bodily perfection. She was not ready to face the eventual demise of her bosoms prime, and so things went on between us awhile longer.

One day as Merrick was supposed to be outdoors playing, I latched on for a little taste. As the warm drug slid down my throat I lost track of my surroundings. I did not notice that Victoria had fallen asleep to the sound of my gentle suckling, nor that the boy had quietly returned as I lay there sipping ecstatically, almost full and to the point of orgasm. I had no idea until the scissors punctured my left buttock halfway to the handle. My shrieking sent the boy scattering and his mother flew to her feet joining me in audio histrionics, as I ran around in circles like a madman trying to get a closer look at the damage. And that is the last thing I remember before losing consciousness and waking up later in the hospital.

The damage was minimal. I had fainted out of revulsion, horror and fright. The next morning I still had not heard from Victoria, and I was okay with that. A nurse said I should try to take a short walk if I was up to it, and I was. I strolled around the hospital and ended up in the maternity ward. As I looked into those little faces with their little puckered mouths I felt an overwhelmingly ethereal sense of shame and disgust, but only with myself.

I tried to calm myself by imagining my moms friends tits, those perfect proto-hooters of my life’s lust, but as I did I felt nothing. Going through a lifetime catalog of picture perfect memories of mammaries, I was left cold and empty. When I tried to imagine the slow trickle of earthy sweet warmth in my mouth from Nobel-worthy nipples, nothing within me stirred.

At first I panicked. I returned to my room and told the nurse my walk had prompted lots of pain, and was able to coerce her into a nice dose of drugs to calm me. I went over it again and again but my lifelong obsession was now just a distant memory. When I got out, I immediately broke it off with Victoria and we have never spoken since. (I later heard she married a car dealership owner and former high school quarterback and prom king, and Merrick became a cross between a Brony and a Juggalo, which enraged his stepdad to no end.)


Over the next days, weeks and months I came to find freedom in the release from my fetish. I could walk down the street and gander at the most marvelous racks and not feel a single thing, not even a sliver of that ancient thirst. Eventually I was sure that I was free at last and tested myself by watching several nights worth of breastfeeding videos online without even a slight stirring.

As this happened, I also began to notice things about women I never had. Or at least I began to notice differences between them that had never occurred to me in my narrow-minded obsession with breasts. For instance, I never realized how certain voices were more attractive than others, or how a balance of confidence and coyness could turn the mere act of walking into a show of unlimited seduction. I noticed this and hundreds of things that had never occurred to me before. And so the time came when I decided to try dating like a ‘normal’ human.

I wasted a whole year around bars and other pick up spots, but this turned out not to be my style. Eventually I tried online dating sites, but there was some ineffable quality about the women I met there I could not put my finger on, but which left me feeling these were souls even more desperate than I. At the same time I had noticed that I had become almost immune to arousal. Where once a few sips of chest nectar would excite me to the point of orgasm, I had not so much as had an erection in months. I even tried several kinds of porn, but nothing fanned my flames. I dismissed this as the need to make a real connection with a real woman, and not as some terrible harbinger. So I redoubled my efforts.

One day I was at a diner reading the newspaper when I came across a personals ad that seemed promising. The paper belonged to the diner but the waitress said that it would be okay if I wanted to snip a bit out, and ran off to grab me scissors. Scissors. The word lept electric into my mind. Scissors. Waves of potential ecstasy rolled wildly just under the surface of my whole being. Scissors. My erection threatened to bust out of my pants and overturn the table. If not, I would have gotten up. I would have ran. I would not have been there when the waitress got back. But I was, and as she handed me those scissors my entire body convulsed and I let out a low guttural moan and my eyes must have rolled a dozen times backward into my head as I sat there sputtering in horrified delight at whatever had just happened.

Scissors.

Coming soon – Part II: How My Scissor Fetish Went Dull In the Hands of A Racist Barber

From the Ashes of A New Moon

Madison curled her toes as brave autonomous flames tested their freedom outside of the fire pit and sent their tendrils rollicking in her direction. She took in the potent smells of the hardwood and dried dung with olfactory aplomb, turning her head to follow a wisp of the smoky perfume. It was a learned aesthetic preference. In the world where her childhood had lived such smells were merely historical footnotes. Now that world was gone and the habits of the world before it had come full circle. A bat swooped down to snatch up a moth that had revealed itself in the fire’s trembling light, and drew her attention upwards. Although she had developed a pleasure in things like the scent of burning excrement, the sky was a book of revelations she could never quite get used to. Ever since the OMG, reality itself had changed, and no place was that more evident than when she gazed upon the two moons above her.

“Your brother should be here soon, Maddy. I am going to fill the kettle and grab an extra cup. Would you like anything while I am beneath?” asked Jayden, the woman’s husband of nearly sixty years.

“Popsi…”

“…ICE COLD,” he cajoled along with her. It was a very old joke between them. It had been even longer than they had been married since anyone had drank an ice cold Popsi. The memory of sugary things always excited an almost primal urge in them, but over the years they had learned to appreciate even that urge. Anything that mutually connected them to the old world was welcomed, as it was the only remaining evidence left that they had not gone absolutely insane.

“B-R-B,” he said, again summoning a past that had become even less than the threadbare memory that preserved it; and shuffled down into the tunnels whistling an extinct melody.


The OMG had blanketed the skies with ash for fourteen years after. During the first six months the skies were almost completely black and the world beneath them either died away or plummeted back down the ladder of human history. When the first noticeable light began making its way through the post-apocalyptic smog, the sun was entirely unvisible as an object. Its rays stretched out into the ash and clouds and the focus of its fiery beams dissipated over the facing hemisphere and beyond. Refraction, or something like that, the last surviving scientists had said. While the moon still was still noticeable as a celestial object, it no longer held all its singular glory as a glowing orb in the sky. Some other trick of light and matter had caused the moons beams to split as they passed through the suffocating atmosphere, which created the perceptual effect of dual moons. The old priests, the scientists, had tried to explain the effect. As years passed, those who had been frightened right out of their old belief systems, as well as the new generations, began to believe that there actually were two moons. In fact it was the birth of this new moon, they believed, that caused the OMG in the first place.

Despite the protest of surviving academics, experts and authorities; the belief in the two moon theory became widespread. And so fourteen years after the entire thing began, as the ashen curtains began to part, two beautiful moons sat defyingly obvious in the gloriously deep, open skies. Absolute faith in the methods, models and myths of the pre-OMG world were abandoned and the oldest human truths began to replace them. Beliefs are not based upon reality, as the world of their childhood had imagined, but precisely the opposite.


“Don’t even try to sneak up on me, Connor. You have the grace of a wooden bull and are likely just to hurt yourself again,” Maddie called out at a slight rumbling in the near-distant darkness.

“Hush it, sis. These are the creaks of an old man, not the squeaks of one who sneaks,” Connor rhymed in his equally charming and infuriating way. Slowly, achingly, he ambled up next to her and took a seat. “Where is Jayden?”

“Fetching refreshments. He will be back shortly,” she answered. “Lovely night. Thanks for coming over.”

The two of them sat in silence waiting for Jayden. The three of them together represented nearly half of the surviving humans from before OMG. So far as they knew, from the small portion of the world they had contact with, at least. That is why they had gathered on this night. To prepare their final report to the council of elders. It would be the last time they would meet and their final edicts would breathe one last breath into a world that they were too old to recognize or shape any further.

Little sparks were pushed by the smoke up to the tops of the trees only to disintegrate into the night sky. Like man, they had been born of a great fire that reached with all of its might for the heavens, only to come floating back down as ash. Someday that ash would mix with the earth to create fuel and a new fire. Such was the cycle of things, growing and collapsing, gasping for new heights in which to set new fires, and then falling yet again. Where the ego of man saw this unending cycle in the terms of successes and failures, the world recognized the process as rebirth and renewal. A chance to begin afresh and become something entirely new. Individual humans measured this as a failure or loss but the great mass of human consciousness renewed itself through these events like the rising and falling of waters in the fountain of eternity.

Jayden returned to the fire with a great rumbling of laughter, “If you two aren’t the most serene geezers the world has ever seen…” he trailed off back into a fit of coughing and laughter.

“Grab me a Popsi while you’re up.” Connor joked. The three of them were a trifecta of anachronism and they reveled in that mutual difference even more as their days grew shorter.

The three of them sat around sipping a tea made with herbs, roots and bark. It was no Popsi, but it was still a special treat in this world of diminished resources and practical rationing. They caught up on personal and family news and gossip and occasionally drifted off into bouts of silent fellowship. The spring sky was full of insects and the flying mammals who ate them. While most species of birds had not survived OMG, and those that had crept cautiously through the shadows of the food chain, bats had fared quite well in the new landscape. Their whirling dives and aeronautic playfulness were endlessly fascinating. As they wove dizzying paths around one another they flew through the dual beams of the twin moons, like some fantasy story from the old world, or a science fiction Halloween decoration.

“Yesterday Viv got back from Melvinville. She says the journey took them only two days. When we first came here it took a full four days of steady travel. As the years have gone by that number has halved. I don’t see any other explanation. The world is shrinking.” Maddy stated her opinion confidently and waited for an argument to counter her suspicion, but none came. The two old men made barely perceptible nods of agreement.

“What the council wants cannot be done. It is a fools errand. When even the world shrinks to fit the beliefs of those living in it, no edict from old farts like us is gonna mean anything to anyone,” Jayden lamented quizzically.

“You are right, you are both right. We are all too wrong to be right anymore. We are obsolete. Museum pieces. The younger people have humored us long enough.” chimed Connor.

“So we won’t go?” asked Maddy.

Her toes curled again at another escape of flames in her direction. She drank in its warmth and smells. Life was good. Even when it wasn’t. The acrid aroma of the fires fuel sent her spinning back into herself. The night was music. The bass sounds of frogs and the groaning of dying and growing trees mixed with the high pitch sounds of insects filled the nights natural auditorium. In the harmonic center a cacophony of other living instruments filled the aural spaces. The music was alive under the twin conductors of Earths two moons.


Carson sat alone at the great table that once seated many of the greatest survivors of OMG. The five remaining seats around him stood empty. The final meeting was a bust. He didn’t blame them. He wouldn’t of come either, if he didn’t live here. For some unknown reason he pulled his tired old body up onto the great wooden table and lay on his back. Looking up into the clear blue sky he relaxed for the first time in over sixty years. It felt good. Life was good. Even when it wasn’t.

People Against the Exploitation of Historical Peoples

The chronological displacement field (CDF) has undoubtedly been one of the most novel discoveries of the 21st Century. When the two physicists, Timea Kolchik and Robert Dupast stumbled across the ability to use wormholes to remotely view past events it changed our understanding of human history almost overnight. Religion and science were dealt some crushing blows, as investigations into their claims began to overturn much unexpected evidence against them. As we came to know the historical figures and our ancestors and how their lives differed from our accounts we began to see the absurdities of our own mythologies. The CDF was so informative that humanity was transformed in ways that prevented its impending doom. Through such deep introspection of the past, we were able to see ourselves more clearly and we responded by changing our deleterious course. And yet for all that humanity gained we are still human beings and it was not long before this new technology began to be perverted in a most undignified way.

Historical Reality Television has inarguably been the most monumental entertainment trend for the last few years. While scientists, theologians, historians and anthropologists had already made most well know historical accounts available for public viewing, there exists an almost infinite amount of potential entertainment content in humanities past. Especially in the recent past. In the century before our transformation, humanity had become increasingly volatile. And in retrospect the results were often hilarious.

Human economies have shifted largely into a loose system of commerce centered mostly around the sharing of information. Information is discovered, created and consumed in lieu of most physical and service labor from the past as a result of automation and energy to matter converters. Where before mankind had toiled with time and energy over resources and more energy, man now subsists from the eventual benefits of industrialism and bases his worth on his reputation by means of his ability to add to the information market. When CDF technology became available to every gal and guy, many of them used it as a data mining device, combing the lives of human beings past in order to glean from them moments which could be edited into an entertaining package. Suddenly, every human being who had ever lived might possibly become the subject of a historical reality television show.

The first popular video series depicting actual historical people in a humorous entertainment context was ‘Kick Boxing with Chet and Linda’. Chet and Linda were a married couple who lived in the mid nineteen nineties amidst a Midwestern US meth craze. In the introduction to the series we see a young Chet and Linda full of love and life and dreams. But as the opening sequence moves along we see a series of unfortunate luck and poor decisions transform Chet and Linda from young lovers to maniacal middle aged meth addicts with a propensity for colorful tirades and (sometimes extreme) violence against one another. In this way, from the most poignant moments of their existence, we have become voyeurs into the tragic comedy that Chet and Linda never meant to become in their sad lives. This is a scene from the fourth episode.

Chet- “Bitch, you better leave me that last line or I am gonna shove my foot up your rotten cunt and walk you around like a god damned snowshoe.” [Chet jumps across the room in a flying kick maneuver and yells] “KI-YAH!”

Linda- “Well shit, Chet, that shoe would be the hardest thing you tried to put in my pussy for five years.” [Linda let’s out a bloodcurdling scream and throws an ashtray at Chet. In his moment of confusion she bends over and snorts the last line of meth.] “What you gonna do, shoelace dick?”

Chet- [After rubbing his shoulder where the ashtray struck, he lunges over the table at Linda in another flying kick maneuver.] “That’s it whoremouth, time to teach you some respect!” [But before he can land the kick, Linda moves to the side and grabs a beer bottle from the table. As she raises it overhead he lets out one last threat.] “You better knock me the fuck out with that bottle or I am gonna fuck you in the ass with it, you trechr’us skank!” [The bottle lands squarely against the side of his head and despite all the meth already in his system, he is knocked the fuck out.]

Linda- (to no one) “Fuck, now I’m horny.”
This was the most popular video in the world last year. It has been viewed by over 4 billion people. It won numerous awards for the greatest video series in several categories ranging from historical reality to humor. Last fall Chet and Linda were the most popular Halloween costume design available on-line. Chet and Linda have become icons of our time. Their entire existence reduced to technological schadenfreuade. Yet in their own lives they were subjects of poverty, addiction, violence and other maladies that humanity has mostly treated. Yet still, having evolved beyond those horrors, we still take pleasure in the suffering they inflicted and endured.

Let us look at another popular video series in the genre of historical reality television. The series ‘Uh, Oh!’ follows some of the most horrific crimes of the last century. In the series we are shown a person stalking another person about to commit an atrocious act. During this footage a narrator tells us about the people involved and suggests some details about what is about to happen. And just as the perpetrator lunges at their victim the video cuts to scenes from the criminals past. The scenes are comic, like a blooper reel, depicting the attacker as an impossible oaf. And while this is happening the narrator gives a chilling account of what happened to the victim(s). Every episode ends with a little musical number with lyrics containing a number of tasteless puns depicting the events of the episode in any number of musical styles.

Probably the most undignified show is the niche-popular ‘Homelessexuals’ which depicts the romantic and sexual escapades of men and women who suffered through the most extreme forms of poverty before it was eradicated. Because those men and women often also suffered from mental illness, addictions, tendencies towards social deviancies or just plain bizarre social skills; the content of their sex lives was often even more revealing and awkward than healthy adjusted folks whose sex lives are riddled with all sorts of strangeness and faux paus. A memorable scene from the series shows two rather large and hairy men huddled in a tent just prior to coitus.

Man 1- “Alrighty, heads I go first, tails its my tail.” [Man flips coin into the air. It lands in his palm and he flips it over onto the top of his other hand. Both men look excited and nervous and intoxicated.]

Man 2- “Okay already, what is it?” [He pulls the other mans hand up, revealing the coin. It is heads.] “Oh Jesus Christ, I shoulda never taken that halfa pill ya gave me.”

Man 1- “Hey, I didn’t know it were a Viagra.”

There is no doubt that these shows are funny. Often even hilarious. I have watched them myself and was not immune to great bouts of laughter. What our species endured before our transformation was awful. Several forces aligned against the individual to create billions of unique manias. While I understand that it is the nature of humor to explore the incongruency between our values/expectations and phenomena outside of them, I worry more that what we have done is exploitative. The lives of those who suffered to carry us towards the more hopeful era we now live in were often comic in their tragedy, but to entertain ourselves at their expense WITHOUT THEIR PERMISSION is such an obviously immoral trespass that it betrays how much work humanity still has to do. We have dissolved non-consensual surveillance in our time and worked as brothers and sisters to balance our privacy with the necessary visibility of the information age. We have failed to give our ancestors the same ethical consideration that we now consider the inherent right of every living being.

This is why I call on you to help me end the exploitation of CDF technologies to invade the privacy of those who came before us for undignified entertainment value. While this technology has been fundamental in our progress towards a harmonious and sustainable existence, it also invites some very ethical trespass against real human beings, even if they are long dead. We must start by boycotting any such works and by down-voting them so as to discourage their creators from that content. Together, we must intellectually explore and create an ethical framework by which this technology can be employed productively without being used as a weapon of moral destruction for our entertainment. I call on all who hear this to come together and use peaceful market forces to discourage the continued production and consumption of Historical Reality Television or any other dubious usage of the Chronological Displacement Field.

Maxr Toobin, People Against the Exploitation of Historical Peoples, May 2042

Resume- Devils Expert

Resume for Devils Expert

Summary

Classically trained practitioner of the Dark Arts and foremost expert on Satan with degrees in Luciferian history, science and philosophy. Extensive knowledge in all things devilish with twenty years experience within the forbidden field. Desire to extend my practice and experience into all arenas of life where knowledge of the Deciever would benefit myself, others and the Shunned Lord.

Career Highlights

*Held the first ever Black Mass in a public school disguised as a motivational speaker and collected 665 virgin souls in single delightening, missing Lucifers record by only one.

*Testified as a scientist or expert in hundreds of court cases defending prophets of the Morning Stars works.

*Devised the ‘weapons of mass destruction’ marketing brand which helped the international banking and defense contractors increase profits several fold while decreasing potential prophets.

*Author of a dozen popular children’s stories.

Experience

Primary Consultant-
World Governments
July 1996 – Present (18 years 1 months)
The Illusory World
Adversarial Adviser to Authoritarians

Creative solutions for overcoming the problem of Original Grace and subverting mankind to its base instincts while constructing systematic artifices to uphold these patterns of evil.

Skills: Avarice, Hubris and Ambition

Chief Dirtside Minion-
Satan
December 1991 – Present (22 years 8 months)
The Fallen Garden
Evil Management and Marketing Solutions

Performed a number of tasks disrupting the free will of the fallen human race in order to bring their souls to the enemy of their creator.

Skills: Patience, Humor, Bloodlust

Floor Sales-
Radio Shack
February 2006 – November 2006 (9 months)
Des Moines, Iowa
Sales and Service

This job was a front necessitated by Lucifers lust for a philosophy masters candidate working on her thesis on Nietzschean dialectics while working at Radio Shack to pay rent. My task was to bring her into the service of Satan so that He could anoint her loins with the seed of the Antichrist. Achieved in three months, stayed another six for the great merchandise discounts.

Skills: Bergeracian Poetry, Malevolence Marketing and Ruphynol Dispenser

Education

Institute of Eternal Suffering
Vocational
Devils Advocacy, Soul Procurement, Pleas to Vanity
2004 – 2006
Graduated Classless Valedictorian
Dishonor Society
Unscrupulous Certification

University Of Iowa
Doctorate
Marketing, Political Science, Ballet
1995 – 2003
President of Students for Satan and Chartering Founder of the Campus Antichrist Ministries.

Certifications

Strategic Expert
Illuminati
April 2011
Architectural Advisor for the New World Order

Lifeguard
River Styx
May 1999
Demon CPR

Evil
Lord of Lies
September 1994
Certified Evil in all Realms

Professional Memberships/Awards

Knights In Satans Service- K.I.S.S. Army General

Westboro Baptist Church- Doctrine Advisor

Most Maligned Agent of Hades 1997, 2001, 2004, 2005, 2009, 2012, 2013

Interests
Fall of Man
State of Oblivion
Animal and Pet Advocacy

Skills
Persuasion (Expert)
Deceit (Expert)
Conflict Causation (Expert)
Public Speaking and Debate (Expert)
Canadian Cuisine (Intermediate)

Languages
Human (Fluent)
Babel (Fluent)
Tongues (Fluent)

References
Satan
Fallen Angel, Inferno Inc.
666-666-6666
betrayer_kittenlover@reallyhotmail.com

 

The New Custom

We were doing a routine flyover of vast expanses of empty desert, looking for any stray ghouls that might still be wandering around. The war against the undead had officially ended three years ago, but the bastards still showed up in small pockets here and there. We were part of a U.N. force responsible for these clean up missions. It was a simple task, a pilots dream really, to fly around the world and occasionally debrain a zombie or two. This job promised to be more of the same.

 

Boris was the first to spot the lone straggler from the cockpit. You could tell one by the way they walked, but U.N. policy required that we land and send a couple of soldiers to visually confirm at close range before we opened fire. This ghoul was walking in a circle about 10 yards wide and had probably been doing so for some time before we found it. I located a level area within 50 yards and instructed the boys in back to get ready as I began to put the chopper down.

 

“Just a single, boys. Pop its brain and get it in the bio bag before I start sweatin’.” Sitting mobile in a copter under the heat of an Egyptian desert sun was one of the few drawbacks to this gig, but my boys were pros so I figured we’d back in the air in less than ten minutes.

 

Peter and Yogi hit the ground before the pads touched sand and made it all of twenty yards when all hell broke loose. One second it was just a barren desert but in a flash it began to writhe with putrefying flesh as over a hundred ghouls began to burrow out from under the ground with alarming speed and an almost choreographed efficiency.

 

“Oh Fuck!”s went up all around and Boris grabbed the controls, but I quickly disengaged them. From the air we could use larger arsenal to wipe out a large swath of the desert floor, but I couldn’t give up on Peter and Yogi so easily. I told Boris to sit tight and be ready to take off at my command or demise and grabbed my weapon, a fully automated rifle with a 2 hp chainsaw bayonet. As I hopped out the hatch I saw Peter engaging the enemy with his kung fu skills while Yogi the master marksman took precise head shots at ghouls. These two were a hell of a killing team and a joy to watch but I knew if I didn’t do something quick they were as good as dead.

 

I started up the chainsaw and began to cut a path for my comrades when I heard yelling behind me. I turned around and saw that the undead motherfuckwads were closing in on the chopper. “Fuck.” As I turned back again I saw that in the short time a handful of zombies had managed to get a hold of Yogi. Peter immediately yelled “I Love You!” and put a shot in his partner’s forehead, as was our custom when you were as good as gone. Peter spun around and in a flash of movement knocked several enemies to the ground but the effort was wasted. He grinned that stupid grin of his at me and yelled “I Love Me!” and fired a shot right into his own temple blowing dinner right into the enemies ranks.

 

I wasted no more time and turned back to the helicopter. The fucking ghouls were all around it and Boris was firing manically at the hatch trying to keep the stiffs out. “Leapfrog. North. Four hundred yards.” I yelled. My copilot responded right away and with one hand still poppin’skulls the other took the controls and lifted the whirlybird off the ground. There was almost a clearing heading north and I began to run in that direction hoping to meet Boris back on the ground in a few minutes. As the chopter lifted up I noticed it had several of the undead assholes hanging on. I took the minimum amount of shots possible and ran for my life but as I began to put distance between myself and my pursuers, I noticed that the hangers on had landed safely with Boris. He must not have had even the slightest clue, perhaps too rattled by this surprise attack, he didn’t notice the undead climbing into the hatch until what I confirmed upon my arrival was too late.

 

“I Love You!” I yelled. After pulling his and the other corpses from the craft, I managed to get in the air just in time to avoid being swarmed and feasted upon like some kind of carrion among these unliving vultures. Vultures. That’s exactly what these damn monsters are. Ground level bottom feeders feasting upon the carcass of humanities decadence. “This won’t hurt a bit,” I screamed at the top of my lungs as I unleashed a fiery hell storm of unbridled fury on a generous portion of the desert floor and then for sarcastic effect added, “bend over.”


 

This room is cold and I am tired of being locked in here. It was just a small tooth scratch and everyone knows that getting bit doesn’t always mean you become one of those things. I think it’s gotten even colder since that last sentence, and I am beginning to feel dizzy, which I am sure is a reaction to being locked in this damn quarantine cell all night. Just to make sure I walk over to the toilet and bend over to look in the polished metal for signs of the change. In the reflection I see my commanding officer standing outside my cell. When did he get there? I could have sworn I heard him whisper ‘this won’t hurt a bit’ so I turn around to ask…

 

I Love You.”

 

All the King’s Minions

all the king's minions

“Well, well, Sam. I finally got ya back.”

“Shut up and make the report already.”

“Ah come on, where’s your sense of humor, Sam ol’ boy? Fair is fair. You were going 40 in a 25 and I caught ya.”

“Yeah, I know, Dick. But you don’t have to take so much joy in it. I was just trying to get to my daughters recital on time. Besides, it’s Department’s fault that I am running late. You’d think they might cut us some slack, wouldn’t ya?”

“Rules are rules. We all have a duty to follow and enforce them. You know that. No reason to be so glum, its just a minor citation. Try to think of it all as a game. That’s what I do.”

“Sometimes I wonder if we haven’t all gone completely mad.”

“Well, the world went crazy several years ago, Sam-O. We all gotta do our best to live in it as it is, though.”

“Have you ever heard of the term ‘tattle-tale’, Dick? Of course you haven’t, why would you? A long time ago this is what you called a child who reported every infraction to their superiors. It was considered juvenile even for a child. But now this is what we all do. All of the time. Doesn’t it ever seem like it shouldn’t feel like a game, Dick? Like something went horribly awry along the way and now here we are, watchmen watching watchmen. Tempting each other into disobedience so that we get credits for the report? What kind of life is this, Dick?”

“Hey Sam, you haven’t been hanging out with those Individualists, have you? You know I would have to report you. You know what they would do if that happened, right? I like you, Sam. Why can’t you just accept things the way they are? Sure, it seems like a bit much to all of us sometime or another but rules are rules. Without them we would have no order. You gotta take the bad with the good.”

“I guess you are right. It’s just that sometimes I wonder if we haven’t created the worst to protect us from the merely bad. Ever since Department has had to cut back credits per report it just seems like all we ever do is cite each other. The only time I ever see a friend these days is when I am getting or giving a report on one. But you are right, we gotta have order and this is what we got. I do my part to make the best of it. Don’t worry about me, Dicky pal, i’ll be okay. No Individualism for this guy. I’m probably just jealous we are even on reports again. *chuckles nervously* I’ll have to keep a close eye on you.”

“That’s the spirit Sam ol’ boy! You’ll get me back soon enough. Hell, Evans got me two times yesterday for jay-walking. Each time I was sure nobody was watching. Wasn’t a soul around but he got me. Lucky bastard! Speaking of which, his lawn is looking a little too green if you know what I mean. I’m gonna go see if I can catch him watering it again. Thats a double credit report all this week! Good to see ya.”

“Good luck, Dick. And just a tip, take a measuring tape. That tree on the west side of his lawn by the sidewalk had some branches that looked to be a couple of inches below minimum height code. You’re gonna need that three-for when I get you back and take my rightful lead.”

“Dream on, buddy, dream on! I’m clean as a eunuch’s jock strap these days. *laughs* Dick out.”

Justice Is A Clumsy Sword

justice is a clumsy sword

“You like that, dontcha? You like it when I punch you in the ass. Giggle, bitch, giggle. That’s right.” Howard was Mona’s favorite client. He liked his sadism mixed with an element of the absurd. “Am I your sexy, silly, nasty queen, Howard?”

Howard mumbled through the ball gag. His reply was muffled beyond understanding, but the look on his face said that he was in heaven. And pain. Even though these one-hour sessions cost him a days pay, he could not imagine living without the joy and subsequent tranquility that they brought to his life. Mona poured hot wax over his nipples while flicking his testicles.

“You want Mistress Mona to fart in Howie Wowies face, dontcha bitch. That’s right, maybe ill just press my ass right up against your face so you can get a good smell. You like that? Maybe I’ll just leave your face snuggled right up in there until just before you pass out. Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll piss on your chin.”

Mona was a big girl. She wasn’t obese, but she carried a solid girth on her almost six foot tall body. Most of the clients she had were men of a smaller stature, who liked being abused by Amazon-like women. She moved a small ladder over to the torture wheel, which Howard was shackled tightly to. “That’s right, giggle you little bitch, Mistress Mona gonna blow shit whispers right up your crooked, ugly nose.” She reached the top of the ladder and began to position herself as she had promised. Just when any mystery the scent of her anus may have held began to fade from Howard’s curiosity, the ladder broke, sending Mona falling heavily to the floor.

The room was filled with screams. The screams excited Howard, and he ejaculated immediately. The semen landed in Mona’s eye, causing the screams to do the impossible and raise several degrees in both pitch and volume. He thought all of this was a planned part of the session. If he weren’t blindfolded he would have seen that Mona’s leg had been broken severely during an accidental tumble.

“You fucking prick, you motherfucking prick. Nobody cums on Mistress Mona’s face.” She began to struggle as if to lash out at Howard, but the damaged limb and the accompanying pain made it impossible for her to move. There was still a half an hour before the session was over, and an hour before a new client would slip discreetly into her apartment, and hopefully rescue the mangled Mistress and the minister whom she had so thoroughly tied up. “You piece of shit, halfwit holy roller. This is your last session. LAST SESSION!”


Just as scheduled, Orson arrived for his appointment with Mona, and stood waiting in the reception area. Even there, closed off from the torture chamber, he could hear the distress in the mistress’s voice while she heaved harsher than usual insults and profanities at whatever client she was currently in session with. She had never spoken to him this way, and he was sure that he would not like it if she did. Either the current client must be a real sick fuck, he thought, or there was something very wrong going on. He tapped a bell on the counter several times, as loud as he possibly could.

Suddenly the hate stricken dialogue came to an end, and a short silence ensued. It did not last long, and was replaced by several high-pitched shrieks. “HELP!” came the manic cry, “Please Fucking Help!” Orson did not immediately make his way to the torture chamber. First he assessed the plausible scenarios that he might discover, and the possible consequences to his own person they might constitute.

After what seemed like an eternity of wailing her pleas to the visitor, Mona heard the voice of Orson come from the reception area. “What’s going on in there?” the squeaky effeminate voice attempted to bellow. “I broke my god damn leg, help me for fucks sake, please!” Another brief pause, then, “Is there anybody in there with you?” It pays to be cautious, he justified to himself. “Just some asshole Priest I got all tied up. Now quit asking me stupid fucking questions and get your ass in here and help me,” She begged with utter desperation. “Please.” Using the ‘P’ word with clients was not something Mona was accustomed to.

Dense was not an adjective appropriate in describing Orson. The use of the ‘P’ word by the mistress three times in so many breaths alerted him to the serious nature of her situation. When he came to the door to the torture chamber, he opened it slowly, half of his brain trying to assess the contents of this room, and half on standby for instantaneous flight. Finally something caught his eye, the priest. Underneath the eye mask and the ball gag was a face that would be forever etched into his memory. Father Howard Foster, the priest from the Sacred Heart Catholic Church, which he had attended as a child. Orson had not seen the mans actual face in fifteen years, but the ghost if it had haunted him in his dreams almost every night since then.

Despite the feeling of hatred for Father Foster, and the pity for Mistress Mona, Orson found himself laughing out loud. “What in the hell are you laughing at, get over here and help me you insensitive fairy,” Mona pleaded, adding a taunt just to remind this motherfucker who was the mistress in this house! When his laughter subsided, he attempted to affect a serious expression somewhat convincingly, and then he spoke to her. “I’m sorry.” He walked over to her and freed her of her various contortions, and gently propped her up comfortably upon some throw pillows taken from a black leather chaise lounge. As he did this, Mona related the gruesome details of the absurd scenario.

Orson only caught bits and pieces of this conversation; his mind was busy going over other possibilities. That wicked abomination affixed to Mona’s wheel of torture, had himself been the instrument of Orson’s own torture. Since the priest first forced sodomy on Orson when he was eight, until he ran away from home to escape Father Foster when he was thirteen, this man had ruined his entire life. This holy man turned child molester had stolen his innocence and left him feeling cold and dead towards the world. He had made him meek and paranoid and deprived him of any sexual identity. And here this man was, right in front of him fifteen years later, tied up and helpless. It was as though the universe had finally thrown Orson a bone, and that bone was the blind, blunt hammer of justice.

Orson went over to the priest and removed the ball gag, and then returned and knelt down, whispering to Mona, “I know that you are in a lot of pain right now, and I promise that I will help you, I do. But first there’s something else that I have to do.” “What? What else could you possibly have to do at a time like this? Please, Mona begs of you, help me!”

“Reverend Foster, what a surprise,” Orson’s voice trembled with rage and his words peppered the priests eardrums like acid. “It certainly has been a long time.”

“Who are you? What do you want? Why don’t you help her? Please, just untie me, so I can leave before anybody else gets here. Please, untie me!” The priests voice stammered dizzily, and the sound of his voice threatened to freeze the very blood in Orson’s heart.

“Oh I don’t think so, Father Foster. I don’t think you will be going anywhere anytime soon. I think me and you are going to have some fun, just like the good old times, Father.” Orson walked over to the priest and grabbed his flaccid member, gently squeezing and stroking it sensually. “Does that help, do you remember me now?” he prodded.

“No, who are you, why are you doing this to me. Please just untie me!”

What the fuck is going on? What are you doing to him, fuck him, just help me. Call a god damn ambulance all fucking ready, for Christ’s sake!” Mona screamed indignantly.

“Sorry Mona, not just yet, but soon.” Orson said sympathetically. As quickly as the icy hatred had melted away, it returned. “You don’t remember me? Well, isn’t that something. Because I remember you, Father. Every day and night since I was eight I have remembered who you are and what you did to me. Is this starting to ring a bell, father? Now do you remember who I am?”

“Adrian, is that…no, you couldn’t be Adrian. Matthew, is it, or, no…Christopher? Oh Dear God please help me! Who are you?”

“Its me Father, your little tit-mouse. Or did you have more than one of those too, you depraved fuck.” It had never occurred to Orson that he wasn’t the only child the priest had ever taken advantage of. Learning of it steeled his resolve for vengeance. His primal instincts begged for him to kill this monster, but his remaining cognitive facilities suggested that something more symbolic might be appropriate for this opportunity.

“Orson? Oh God, Orson! I am so sorry. Please untie me and we can talk about this, I promise, I never meant to hurt you. What do you want? Money? I can get you money. Oh please God, help me!” The priest was sobbing pathetically, now. The pitiful sound brought new waves of rage swelling up in Orson.

“I wouldn’t bother begging your God, Father. Don’t you remember when I used to try that? It didn’t help. Your God doesn’t exist, Father, you taught me that. More or less.” Orson removed the eye mask and spat in the priest’s eye. “Now lets see if I can repay the favor.”

“What the fuck are you doing? Help me!”

“No, please no!”

“Leave him alone, cant you see I need a fucking doctor you asshole! PLEASE!”

“Why are you doing that? Please stop, oh dear God…why?”

Orson took the priests penis into his mouth and began to work it slowly, and masterfully. When he started, the thing was completely limp; but despite the protests emanating from Howard, the warm wet mouth brought his cock to life. At this rate his vengeance would be swift, exacting it right before the moment of the priests release. He still remembered how the mans toes would begin tapping right before ejaculation. He would wait for this sign and then he would know when it was just the right time.

“This is seriously fucked up, Orson. How can you suck dick at a time like this? Holy mother of fuck, knock that shit off and help me! Help me you twisted prick!” Mona had a vague idea of what was happening but didn’t care. After the priest had came in her eye, she too, had wanted to make him suffer. But not now. It was too fucking obvious. She gave in to her pain, desperation and rage and began sobbing.

Meanwhile, the priest began issuing little grunts of pleasure, in between pleas to a God he knew damned well he didn’t believe in. That was the outcome of an education in theology via the seminary. One didn’t need to believe in God, to preach about him, no more than one had to believe in Santa Claus to celebrate Christmas. And wasn’t it the churches policy of celibacy that had driven him into compromising relations with young men? “Oh God,” he yelled, and his toes began the tell tale signs of tapping.

Orson noticed this and waited just a few more seconds before biting down with all of his might, and severing the member of the priest entirely. He immediately spat out the ragged protuberance, and rose up to spit the remaining blood into the priests face. After the ecstasy of catharsis faded from his mind, he noticed the Priest wasn’t screaming as he had expected. Neither was he thrashing about as might be anticipated.

“Jesus Christ, Orson, you killed him. You killed him! Please don’t hurt me, please, help me. Help.” Her cries fell back to uncontrollable sobs.

Orson sat there stunned, unable to respond to his surroundings. This catatonic trance lasted several minutes, and then as if nothing had happened he walked out of the chamber to the reception area and dialed 9-11.

“Where are you going, please help me. Help me. Why won’t you come back here and help me? Where are you going?” Her appeals went on this way, all the while Orson spoke to the 911 operator in a frank monotone voice, relaying brief details of the situation. When he was done, he didn’t return to the torture chamber. He exited the Mistress’s and ran to his car. He didn’t know what he would do, but his first move would be to get as far from here as soon as possible.

In his frenzied attempt to start the old Chrysler, he accidentally pumped the accelerator frantically, causing the engines firing chambers to become flooded with fuel. The car would not start, and panic ensued. He made several more attempts to start the vehicle, but all of his efforts were fruitless. At this point he broke down in sobs not unlike the ones that had been issued from the mistress and the priests moments ago. Fits of dread alternated with bouts of resignation. Both thoughts made him bash his head against the steering wheel until finally he opened up a small wound causing blood to drip irritatingly into his eyes. After about ten minutes or so, he heard the far off cry of sirens. The sound sent an alarm running up and down his spine, and he tried the ignition once again. This time, the car turned over and started as if nothing had happened. After he wiped the blood from his eye, he put the car into drive and laid into the accelerator with utter abandon.

He managed to get about three blocks away before he got to a busy intersection. Unaware of his surroundings due to the paralyzing affect of fear on his psyche, he did not notice that the stoplight he was heading towards was red. He made it half way across the street before his automobile was struck on the passenger side by a speeding ambulance. The shift of the momentum sent him into a spin, and a moment later he was struck by another fast moving vehicle, this time directly on the drivers side of his automobile.

“Holy shit, Laura, did you see that. Hurry, get on the radio and call another ambulance. Strike that, call several more ambulances and about a dozen back up patrols. This is going to be a long night.” Police Lieutenant Mickelson stepped out of the car and shook his head under the light of a full moon. “A long night, indeed!”

It had been a quiet night so far. Lieutenant Mickelson and rookie patrol officer Laura Juarez had only been on patrol for two hours, but had yet to even make so much as a traffic stop. This ran contrary to the fact that there was a perfectly full moon. It was a simple fact in law enforcement, a full moon brought out the nuttiest of the lot. The last time there had been a full moon he had arrested a man for drunkenness and public urination, who claimed to be a vampire, who would eat his soul if he didn’t set him free at once. As it turned out, the man was a high school janitor who had just been fired, and had spent the past three days swaying to the gentle sounds of heroin and scotch.

Immediately following that debacle he and Officer Juarez were called to assist in a vehicle pursuit. The driver of the offending vehicle was a seventeen-year-old boy, who ended a thirty-five minute chase by sticking the business end of a twenty two-caliber pistol into his mouth and pulling the trigger. Authorities were still unable to determine if the gun wound from the small caliber pistol had actually killed him, or if it was the fiery chaos the ensued when his car collided with a concrete structure that supported an overpass.

At the end of his shift Lieutenant Mickelson was informed that the ‘vampire’ had later confessed to a gruesome murder, and claimed that he had drank the victims blood to obtain super-powers. Until a body could be found and psychologists could examine the ‘vampire’ in a sober state, nothing could be verified, and all details surrounding this case were to be kept completely under the strictest of confidences.

This was what the last full moon had been like, and it hadn’t been much stranger than any before it. Sure, there were a few that stood out over the years, but as a rule every full moon brought out the wholesale insanity of the supposedly ‘complex’ human mind. But tonight had started out slow, and that could only mean one thing, that by the end of it, it would be a very long night. That is what Lieutenant Mickelson was thinking when the call came in. It was the call that he had dreaded most ever getting, because it would expose him, and perhaps ruin him. The address he had been asked to respond to was one Miss Mistress Mona, bondage queen and humiliator extraordinaire, of whom he was a weekly client. He looked over at his partner and wondered if she noticed the horror and panic that was welling up inside of him.

Reflexively, and because he didn’t know what else to do, he just turned on the sirens and began speeding towards the scene. But the dread just kept building up inside of him the entire way. Only the horrible hope that Mona would be too fucked up or dead to recognize and address him calmed him even the slightest. Now only blocks from the house he was about to burst with the weight of it all, when a horrible accident that would take precedence over the call to Mistress Mona’s, happened right in front of him.

“Holy shit, Laura, did you see that.”


Orson O’Hara lay in a coma dying in a hospital bed. He was sure he was dying because he could feel the world around him shrinking. All he ever was, had ever been and would ever be was slowly spiraling into a funnel of the final nothingness. As he approached that final pinpoint of his existence, he felt a comfort he could not remember ever knowing, and then this last thought slipped into the eternal void.


Father Howard Foster was in critical condition. The stroke that had accompanied the severing of his penis should have killed him. Despite the fact that he had survived this, it was an even more amazing feat that he should survive after the slow response time by emergency vehicles, which had partaken in another emergency along the way. The doctors gave him a better than fifty percent chance of surviving, even though he was still unresponsive after twenty-four hours. Much of this was due to the Fathers reluctance to face what this nightmare had exposed. Surely Mona would have given all of the details uncovered in this mess to authorities who would investigate the depravities he had delighted in all of these years. Death was what Father Foster wanted so badly, and though he reached towards it and tried to pull himself in, life was not willing to let go of him.

When he finally reconciled himself to his continuing existence, he decided he would confess everything, instead of dragging this ugliness out any further than it needed to be. Forty-seven hours after the stroke, Father Foster gained consciousness, and was ‘on his way to a full recovery’. When he awoke he did not immediately reveal himself, he decided it would be best to wait until he was in better health. Nobody seemed to mention anything about any of it to him. Everyone just went about being concerned for him, and helping to bring the poor Father up to speed on the tragic events. None of these included a mention of Orson. It had been assumed that Mona accidentally cut off the Fathers Penis when she had fallen off the ladder. Authorities had completely botched the investigation, and Mona didn’t seem to remember anything. He learned of Orson’s death only because of how it related to the emergency vehicles delayed reaction time.

Somewhere during this he decided that maybe he wouldn’t reveal himself right away after getting better either. Maybe he would wait until this whole thing blew past him. He felt like a new man, and without that awful cock of his bidding him to become a monster, perhaps he could get a new start. If Mona didn’t say anything, then neither would he. Of course they’d figured out about his thing with Mona, and sure he could probably never return to the church, but with Mona silent and Orson dead the other thing would never have to come up again.

It was so clear to him that the instrument of his own evil had been that wretched insatiable prick of his, that without it he was perfectly free from the monster he was forced to feed all of his life. An assumption is a shaky structure upon which to build ones revelations. With the force of all of his might he managed to move a hand to his groin to feel the freeing absence of his penis, but when he finally got there his hand was met by a mangled stump of meat, reattached through the miracle of modern medicine. A pathetic muffled scream was issued from his throat and continued to ring in his ears throughout the rest of his life.


Mona stood back on her crutches admiring the new sign. ‘Mistress Mona’s Fortune Parlor’, underneath that it said, ‘Tarot, Palms, Crystals and Channeling’. After that horrible night, Mona was done with sadism. While in the hospital she had already decided to move on to her real interest, her psychic abilities. She knew it wouldn’t pay as well, but she had already amassed a tidy savings while in the beating business. She spent her days in recovery brushing up on her skills with the tarot deck, her palmistry skills and reading the subtle details of the future in a crystal ball. Never had she actually channeled an entity from another realm, but she was confident that if given the opportunity, she was unlikely to fail.

While reading her own astrological charts one day she came to realize that the terrible nights events had occurred not only under a full moon, but also with mercury in retrograde, as well. That night Mona had a dream that the universe would become a just place if only she were to build the proper temple. She set about doing just that, but for whatever reason the temple was to be built entirely out of cards. On an altar lay a tarot deck, from which the cards were to be drawn from and the temple built around. Whenever a card was taken from the deck it was immediately replenished, and no matter how many times she drew a new card it was always the same one, the ace of swords. Mona built and rebuilt the temple countless times, but whenever that last card was put into place, the temple would collapse back into the pile of cards from which it had been drawn.

Night of the Assholes: Part 2

 

“Hey, Brice, ya cock-pocket! We gotta get the fuck out of here. Can’t you hear the assholes coming? How are you still alive, dude?” This guy was something else. Here we were about to be attacked by those fucking monster things and all he wanted to do was listen to me tell him stories about my musical history. I guess it is awfully interesting.

 

“What about all these motherfuckin’ zombies, though?”

 

“That was the grindcore flat-earther polka band I had in high school, BUT WE HAVE GOT TO GO- NOW!” I grabbed him by the arm and dragged him from his swooning stupor. “Don’t you know what those things will do to you if they catch you?”

 

I wondered that maybe he did not, except for what I had told him. If he were lucky enough he may have not had many confrontations with the assholes in which he saw them victorious against one of us, fuckin’ ass-ugly shit humans that they were. If you could call them human anymore. Whatever had been released on the world had killed most of it, changed parts of it and for some reasons left a few completely intact. Although some of us were immune to whatever changed the assholes into assholes, we were extremely-fucking-mune to whatever they were now injecting us with to make us one of them; or kill us. I don’t suppose they cared much which.

 

The assholes used to be regular humans before SHTF. It must have been some secret experimental weapon that got loose or something fucked up like that, but in no time most surviving humans had completely changed. They were primal but highly intelligent. Pack animals with no social skills. They never spoke to us or one another as far as I knew. Yet they seemed to hate us intensely enough to want to kill us or make us one of them. This now-dead science douchebag I once met thinks that they have evolved into some ‘final physical-stage of human consciousness’, but he was also eating a lot of weird shit he picked in the woods so I could never tell if he was smart or all fucked up. But is there really a difference?

 

Back when I was the chief lyricists for Anal Surrender we were writing a concept album about how miserable it would be to have super-intelligence. It all centered around this man named Fucky Bowler who one day ate a mutant pineapple that gave him super-intelligence and made his junk shrivel up and die. He can no longer communicate with the world around him because he is so far ahead of them and eventually he cannot take the horror of the human species, so he creates a weapon to destroy the entire planet so that it doesn’t infect the universe. The scientists and this business with the assholes reminds me a bit of that. If I remember correctly we were going to call that album Super Intelligent Christ Killer

 

I got Brice to his bike and he snapped out of it. Despite the fact that Brice is a fucking moron, he is brilliant with bicycles and other mechanical things. He used to be a bicycle messenger and male stripper but now he is like the motherfucking MacGyver of the Apocalypse. Keeping Brice alive is almost as important as keeping myself alive or at least equivalent to it. When the world gets back to normal, he says, we should start a Juggalo jug-band. He wants to call it The Incest Clown Posse. Its not a bad idea. He is not without merits outside of his tinkering but he doesn’t have enough common sense to fuck his way out of a paper condom.

 

Another funny thing about the assholes is that they do not use weapons of any sort except those hypodermics they carried with them. That was one of the ways in which they were primal. Like pack animals they hunted by pooling their physical resources and strength to subdue their prey. Since weapons are now almost impossible to find you have to rely on hand-to-hand combat for defense. Something else Brice brought to the table is the ability to be able to fight from and with a bicycle. He is like the love-child of Jackie Chan and Lance Armstrong without all of the cocaine and steroids. As much as he is good for, you might wonder why I insult him so much, but if you knew him it would make sense. It’s like having your own retarded leprechaun around. A retarded leprechaun that can do a bunny-hop/spin kick that makes you want to cry and cum at the same time.

 

This is the very move he uses to subdue three of the assholes while I give a wheelie/uppercut to a particularly fiendish looking one myself, because, I am picking this shit up fast. That is more out of necessity than out of Brice’s pedagoguery, though. The two of us manage to clear ourselves a path with unhindered ass kicking and get the fuck out of there. It will be night soon and they will disappear until dawn and we can collect some supplies, sleep and then as Brice likes to call it, ‘Go pedalin’ for bitches’. This is his term for our nomadic lifestyle. It is his greatest wish to locate and inseminate as many women as possible before he ‘goes to the Great Flat Tire in the sky. We haven’t seen a woman since I met him a month ago and neither of us for awhile before that. I hope we do, and soon, though. The other day he told me I had a ‘pretty decent pooper for a dude’. I vowed never to experiment with homosexuality again since I played drums for that homo jock rock band, Sports Fabs.

 

As soon as the sun begins to set we stop to take a pantsless shit and refill our colons with some canned herring and stale Doritos we just nabbed. As is our custom, we excuse ourselves after dinner for some privacy and masturbation. We have three porno mags between us that we cycle regularly even though we both have our favorite. I like Big Black Cocks In Albino Whores (There are more of the latter than you would ever have imagined.) while he prefers Cum Filled Cousins (The incest thing is always coming up with him and I wonder if he had a sister but am afraid to ask.). After this we discuss our plans then retire to get a little sleep before the sun comes up..

 

Just before dawn we wake up and begin riding towards the next town. It is a county seat so we are hoping it will be big enough to have some good structures to practice our bike parkour while we snoop around for anything useful or interesting. The only thing to do now is to stay alive although I still cannot logically ascertain how my continued survival is of any benefit to myself or others but living is a hard habit to break.

 

To occupy myself I have been writing a movie in my head. I am tentatively calling it Whore and Peace. It is a modern remake of the Greek drama, Lysistrata, about a woman who convinces the other women of her nation to withhold sex until the men agree to stop fighting. Only in my version, instead of withholding sex the women go fucking bonobo on the men, pooning them so often that they are unable to wage their silly wars any longer. My version has more scrogging so it will obviously be better. Also it will have Crispin Glover if he is still alive and I can find him. I believe.

 

I am shaken by my revery when Brice emits a squeal. Heading right towards us are two women on bicycles followed by a fuckhoard of assholes. The women approach quickly and we turn ourselves around to follow them. As they pass I notice that one of the women looks just like the upright bassist from the horror/snuff country band, Shank Williams, that I was in for a minute back when the world did not suck rear windpipe. I had the hugest crush on her but the girl on the bike is even more beautiful and even though I notice that she has shit herself I still have a massive boner. I tuck it under my waistline and pedal like hot fuck to catch up and Brice has no reservations about doing the same.

She is a skilled bicyclist and it takes me several minutes to catch up to her. When I do I have been preparing the perfect line I will use in just this situation but before I can belt it out I notice that she has a pink triangle tattooed just above her lovely bouncing left breast. Ahead of me Brice is talking to the other woman when she suddenly throws a leg out and sends him bouncing down the road bikeless, arms and legs akimbo. I think he just figured out what I did. It is the end of the world as we know it. For all I know Brice and I are the only men left on the planet, yet even if that were the case, these women would still not fuck us.

 

Luck!

 

Night of the Assholes: Part 1

 

It doesn’t really matter what the nature of the apocalypse is, it always means two things; death and assholes. While death gorged itself on the menu of seven billion human beings and countless other species, the number of assholes had still increased proportionately amongst the living. People like me. Lucky enough to live and too stupid to die already. If I were to count myself lucky to still be alive, that would be about the only lucky thing I had going.

 

Before all of this happened I was unemployed and about to be evicted. I was perpetually broke and unable to properly prepare myself for any doomsday scenario. I had a closet with about two weeks worth of canned food and my bicycle. Even though I suspected that humanity was due for a reset at any time and even hoped for it, I was not actually prepared when it came. Neither was anyone else really and some of the worst and first to go were those who were certain that their knowledge and preparations would guarantee their survival. When the world comes crashing down too much readiness can lead to inflexibility. Expectations and rigidity can be an obstacle even luck cannot overcome.

 

The sound of my chain snapping was more jarring than the loudest thing I had ever heard in my life. Every acoustic vibration emitted from that small piece of metal separating under pressure went straight to my ears and sent my internal ‘OH FUCK’ alarm into berzerker mode. I had not heard anything comparably awful since I used to play in a furry noise metal band called S.I.S.S.Y. (Squirrels In Satan’s Service Yternally). I had a hikers bag full of wood, water and other necessary supplies. Not much but enough to get to the next place, whatever and wherever that was. I had to make a quick decision. There were assholes in hot pursuit and I couldn’t afford to take the time to make rational decisions so I grabbed the bike and ran like hot fuck.

 

I was constantly running for my life with a bicycle in tow against all common sense, yet when I managed to return it to a state of repair it had saved my ass numerous times. It was my greatest blessing and my greatest curse. Riding a bicycle was one of the few practical things I had been fairly skillful at before the end times, yet I could probably have done a lot more by the way of learning to fix the fucking things. My friend Zeke was a kickass bicycle mechanic so he always hooked me up with parts at cost and free labor. We used to be in a gnostic christian hate punk band called God Hates Swedes together before I left to join Mandatory Abortion and he went on to Rape Brag. Zeke tried to teach my ragged ass as much as possible but there were a few subjects we hadn’t yet gotten to. Chains was near the apex of that list.

 

The assholes chasing me were not the most well preserved examples of their former humanity and after shitting myself only once I managed to lose them altogether. I found myself soiling myself pretty often these days. When you pit a steady diet of canned beans and other colonically adventurous victuals against a fuckload of running for your life you are bound to have to evacuate yourself in mid escape every now and then. It is a part of surviving in this world yet when I sit somewhere between sleep and constant aural vigilance I often wonder if a world in which I have to shit myself while running in order to survive is a world I really want to go on living in. The answer appears to be yes, no matter how much I answer the question in the negative asked aloud.

 

One thing about bikes is that you can find them just about anywhere now. One in three of any garage not sealed off by other survivors still has a bicycle even if it is itself un-ride-able. The problem is that even the bikes that are still able to be ridden often turn out to be of low quality and constructed of parts not meant to fit any sort of decent bike. Only about one in any one hundred garages had the kind of bikes I was looking for and only about one in five of them might have the chain that I needed specifically. If I could not find that chain I would have to try to replace the entire gear set from a bike the same size. It would usually have proved much faster to just take another bike but I had grown accustomed to this one. It was like my only friend now and so I always did what I had to do to fix it.

 

Spontaneous Teleportation

spontaneous teleportation

They are calling it ‘spontaneous teleportation’. One moment you are sitting on a couch watching them talk about it on the news and the next moment you are three feet to your left melded into the wall. If you are lucky it will have disrupted a major organ and you will die instantly. If you are not so lucky it will just be your hips and pelvis and a leg as they try to separate you amidst the terrifying howling you emit while enduring the most awful pain ever known to man. Then, most likely, you will still die. If you ask me, they could have picked a more suitable name.

Nobody knows what the cause is. Or how to prevent it. It is completely random, or so it seems. The politicians say that they have ordered all of the top scientists to investigate but I bet at least half of them are still developing boner pills and exotic weapons of mass destruction. That is, the scientists, not the politicians. The politicians couldn’t develop a cold in an arctic daycare. I have just a bit more trust and enthusiasm for the scientists. I didn’t like the old gods and I sure as hell do not like the new ones.

I went to see my friend Jeff yesterday. He was standing in his backyard on stilts. I began to immediately laugh but he got upset and told me that I was the fool. I tossed him a beer and the poor sucker just about fell trying to catch it. I must admit he is getting pretty good at using those stilts. He says that he is hoping they become so second nature that he will be able to sleep on them shortly. I ask him what would happen if he were suddenly teleported three feet straight down. He says that it is unlikely but that he thinks this is his best chance. At least he is not a hanger, he tells me.

In order to avoid death by spontaneous teleportation many people have taken to spending most of their time hanging in harnesses. Since the furthest anyone has been relocated by this mysterious force is about five feet from where they started it is easy enough to find a large room or a tree that can put you five feet away from any other solid object. Except the harness itself. Only one person so far has managed to teleport a few inches directly into their harness. I asked Jeff if that was irony but he said the harnesses are usually made from nylon. Either he cannot hear me very well up there or all of this has not ruined his appalling sense of humor.

The religious folk have split into two camps. Some are calling this Gods retribution for the sins of man and the other half are blaming the scientists. Outside of the Hadron Collider facility on the news it looks like one of those old Frankenstein movies where an angry mob with weapons and torches has gathered. The scientists working there were the first people to speculate that their research had caused the phenomena. They shut down their massive gadget but it seems the angry villagers will not be pleased until there is blood. Then right there in front of the news camera one of the mob teleports right into another one. They are a nasty mangled mess of mixed flesh like something out of a Bill Plympton cartoon. I start to laugh but then I remember these are real people with people who love them and that what I have witnessed is tragedy. Then the mob react by accelerating their hatred tenfold and I decide it was probably okay to laugh.

My ex-girlfriend calls me to tell me that she teleported three feet up and to the right into empty space yesterday and was just fine after. I am not sure whether to believe her or to chalk this up to her constant need for attention. I tell her it is a shame she wasn’t teleported onto a running treadmill and she hangs up on me. If she was telling the truth her story would not be unique. Most of the spontaneous teleportations have been harmless relocation’s into empty space. The people who have experienced them were very vocal at first and some of them got paid quite handsomely to talk about it on television. However, once the word got around that the scientists investigating this were collecting these people to ‘examine’ them, most of them have kept shut about it.

First let me say that I am not a scientist. That should have been my first clue to leave things alone. What do you call somebody with an inordinate amount of curiosity but no skill set to engage it through? I am one of those. Mostly, though, I was just bored and lonely. I met a girl on the internet I really wanted to meet in person. I also had friends all over the country I would have liked to spend more time with. When I started having the dreams I disregarded them as just dreams. Before long they seemed to be more than just recurring dreams. They were persistent. I could not close my eyes without them immediately starting. Eventually I began to write down the bits that I could remember and little by little I had created myself a set of instructions.

It took me almost a year to build the contraption. I had to learn all kinds of skills I had not possessed before. I was about as adept with a soldering iron in the beginning as Stephen Hawking is with Jeff’s stilts. Little by little it came together, though. You would probably think that it would look like a phone booth designed by HR Geiger, but it was closer to a large bathroom scale attached to a much larger cube by tubes of wires. I did, however, take some time to paint racing flames on it before I was finished. Just because I am crazy enough to spend a year building a device I foresaw in my dreams doesn’t mean I have no sense of humor or style.

The hardest part about teleporting is calculating a set of coordinates much more difficult than compass readings. The movement of the earth as it rotates and spins around the sun means that everything is constantly in motion and must be accounted for. Remember how I said that I was not a scientist? Well I am even less of a mathematician and my first inclination was that it was my poor math that caused this whole debacle.

When I was certain that I had finished my teleportation device beyond all doubts, I decided to test it out. Knowing the number of ways it could go wrong I decided to first try teleporting a mouse I caught while it had been nibbling on one of the wire tubes. (Would the mouse have thought this was irony? I don’t know but I know he wouldn’t have had a dumb ass reply like Jeff.) I was going to teleport the mouse three feet to its left into a small empty aquarium. If he survived I would name him Goldblum and feed him only the finest American cheese. He did not, in fact survive. Instead a moment after flipping the activation switch the mouse reappeared with just his head sticking out of the bottom of the aquarium. I could see part of his body in the small gap below and the rest must have melded into the concrete floor. I immediately realized that I had not succeeded and that all of my life I had underestimated the vocal capacity of mice.

I shut the machine off and sat groaning with my head in my hands. Fucking math. I was so frustrated that I decided to give up for the day and headed over to Jeff’s with a six pack. We sat drinking all afternoon but decided that we needed to pick up the pace. Jeff and I had created a drinking game that could be played with the news so we tuned into the ten o’clock and put our drinking faces on. That is when we first heard of the phenomena. Already about a hundred cases worldwide had been reported since earlier today. You know how sometimes you just know you set off a global catastrophe that may have doomed your species to extinction? That’s exactly how I felt right then.

Pretending to be too drunk to drink anymore I excused myself with a few words and a belch/fart combo that left Jeff laughing so hard he vomited, although he would later claim it was the smell. As soon as I got home I began trying to sober up by eating a large meal and chasing coffee after coffee with glasses of water. I began to go over my math but I could find nothing wrong in it whatsoever, so I looked at the plans. That is when I noticed what I should have before my earlier mousecapades. The teleportation device was specifically programmed to transfer the information contained in human genetics. Because all mammals had nearly the same basic genetic code the mouse was able to be teleported, but not to the specifications. And besides that, something else had definitely gone wrong. I began to disassemble the device. What took me a full year to build took me only that one night to completely destroy. No two pieces were still connected and most of those had been smashed or thrashed into many smaller pieces themselves.

The next morning I turned on the news. The phenomena was still occurring and every government in the world had declared an emergency. Shit had connected hard with the proverbial fan. Rather than worrying about being teleported into a mailbox or my toilet I became extremely paranoid that I would get caught. I burned the plans and removed all evidence from my house carefully so as not to arouse suspicion. The one thing I had going for me was that I had not mentioned to anybody what I had been doing for the past year, less they thought I was crazy. Or crazier than usual. I sure as fuck was not going to say anything now.

I went inside to get Jeff and I another beer. Just to fuck with him I threw his three feet to his left so he wouldn’t be able to catch it because I can be kind of a dick when I am awake. At that very same moment Jeff reappeared three feet to his left and then fell to the ground with a thud and a can of Hamms embedded halfway in his skull. He must have died instantly. One time when we were drinking along with the news we saw a story about a man who had been cleaning up after hours at a brewery when a large vat burst open and the force of the fermenting liquid crushed him against a wall, killing him instantly. After downing the rest of our beers we both agreed that when it was our time to go we hoped our deaths would be beer-related.

Well, Jeff, do I chalk your death up to irony? Or would you have insisted that the can was, in fact, aluminum?