I had an imaginary friend once. Well, he came from a book I read so he was technically the author’s imaginary friend, but I liked to think he was mine still. I called him Dexter but he said his name was Patrick. We never agreed on that. It didn’t matter too much because he’d still respond when I called him Dexter, even if it was with a visible annoyance.
We used to hang out. Well, he’d come out the book and then start trying to get out the house but he couldn’t work out how the doors opened. That made me chuckle. I guess the author didn’t think about that aspect of his character when he wrote him. He didn’t like it that I laughed at his misfortune. He used to call me a bitch and start slapping me.
One time when he was giving the old palm off I told him to get back in the book if he didn’t like it here. It’s not like he needed to come visit me. I had plenty of friends that came from other books. He didn’t like that either (I didn’t really have any other friends, but he wasn’t to know that). We got into a heated discussion, well, argument, about it. He said I was a whore who used him for my sexual perversions. I had no idea what he meant. I told him he chose to come here. I didn’t care if he never showed up again. I certainly didn’t care to have sex with him. His temper really turned me off. He said fine and stormed in.
Occasionally I’d turn to random pages of his book and sure enough, there was Patrick being sweet to his girlfriend Sandra, or he’d be helping out feeding homeless people at a shelter. I didn’t get why he was such an arsehole to me when he seemed so kind in the book. I eventually lost interest in him anyway. Other characters came along who were much friendlier.
My favourites were Martin and Ian, twins from some town in the North. Their accents changed quite often but they always had a northern twang. Secretly, I did actually want them to fuck me, but I worried that they were too sweet and would be disgusted by me if I broached the subject. We used to just talk about what our favourite shows were and whether we’d ever go somewhere else, like London or New York even. Those were good times.
I think God might have lobotomised Himself. I don’t blame Him. I can’t get an objective view of what my constant complaining to Him is like exactly, but I have a pretty good idea. People tell me that I annoy the fuck out of them.
I left a dozen answer phone messages for Him just today, and I’ll leave a dozen more tomorrow. He’ll pick up one of these days, by accident or whatever, and when He does, I’ll give Him an earful. Christ knows I’ve got a lot to say to Him.
I called Him a cunt because He ignored me for several days after I asked Him a question, thinking that would get some kind of a retaliation, but the cunt just carried on ignoring me. I thought maybe it was that I just wasn’t important to Him any more. Maybe He found a new thing to play with. Maybe He just got out before He did something He would regret. After all, there’s only so many years worth of resentment towards somebody a person can store before they have to bludgeon that person’s head to smithereens, right? Maybe He terminated our relationship before it went too far, before I got the wrong impression. Maybe I was just wrong for him.
I thought God was better than these kinds of head games – the doubt, the worry – God knows what kind of fucked up thoughts I have when I am left to ponder on the absence of a sign. Just a little kiss, or a “fuck you” even! I would be satisfied at least. But I guess my satisfaction is not of God’s concern. His satisfaction isn’t of my concern, I know that for sure.
I did apologise for calling Him such a nasty name, but even that wasn’t enough to get anything back. If I ever saw Him, I’d slap Him hard across the face and see how He ignores me then – Not if He actually has lobotomised Himself, that would just be weird. Like slapping a coma victim… But if I saw Him flirting with another? Man, that would just drive me up the wall with anger. I wouldn’t help but fly into a frenzy and fatal flying guillotine His omniscient head clean off His omnipotent shoulders.
It happens some times you know?
A machine wakes up, goes crazy; bursts like a supernova. Only, it don’t look like no supernova when you’re so close to it. You can’t help but get burned up in the process.
The beauty of the moment can be appreciated from far away, over distance, over time; it don’t look like no sickness from there.
But it was a death.
The death of a sick machine.
I woke up and I was surrounded by an ugly, malformed reality. I had to choke back the tears that kept rising as I took in what I was seeing. They were, all of them, just little boys sitting in silent catatonia, a frigidity broken only by cracking fits of despair and self-mutilation. The idea that, before I woke up I was like them, well, that shook me. I used to climb my friends – they were mountains – I would climb them to get the best vantage point, to be able to see farther than any other person. To think, all those distances were really just reiterations of the same lie, and right next to me, far closer than I could envisage, was the truth of the situation…
A building crescendo of rabid wolves howling diminished chords; electric rat squeals like glass being scratched, played out on a million microscopic speakers buzzing like a great swarm of flies in the air. Rusted, decaying, metal machines poked holes in some of the boys; they had so many leaks and so much stuff fell out of them that I thought each must be a universe haemorrhaging galaxies.
Wires made of bone emerged from my penis, snaking their way down into ports in the ground by my feet. I knew I had to castrate myself to sever the connection; I ripped my penis off and all my guts fell out. I knew I was just a machine because my blood smelled like raw circuitry. I fell, forward onto my knees, desperately clawing at my insides oozing out. I cried in agony and tried to scoop them up but they were slick with blood and kept slipping out of my grip. I couldn’t stop crying and my tears swept them away like a purging tsunami.
Black Max wasn’t black, but his penchant for necrophilia often had him caked in slick mud. It wasn’t unusual though, most people took to the trend when they saw the benefits. It wasn’t just sexual gratification that they were after, no, nothing quite so superficial. It was much more advantageous than that. The sex was just a bonus if you like. They’d exhume a corpse, preferably at least a century old, and tie it to their backs like a dusty rotten rucksack. The older they were the better, because otherwise they might drizzle innards on your trousers, Max had found out first-hand. Anyway, they’d tie them up and scuttle off home where they had previously prepared an exquisite dining table, complete with candles and wine and other such luxuries. After dinner they’d mull over a nightcap, perhaps puffing on a fine cigar, discussing deeply complex social issues, attempting to find a resolution that was in everybody’s interest. Then, retiring to the bedroom, they’d make love, sometimes this was more awkward than they had bargained, with limbs dropping off or worse, holes disintegrating. It has to be stressed to those of you who don’t partake in the practice of necromancing that it’s all consensual and in good taste.
Also, firm advocates will hasten to add, it, without a doubt, led to the modern world as we know it. There was a real sense of achievement if you got yourself an Einstein or some philosopher whose ideas simply revolutionised the structure of society. After the love making you see, the corpse would reveal its ideas to you. Nine times out of ten they’d be rehashes or duplicates, and you’d feel slightly cheated and perhaps a little dirty at what you did to find out, for example, that if people pooled some of their surplus money together they could run a national health care service. But that one time where you get told an idea that simply blows everything else out the water, that’s worth trying again for. Black Max also knew this first hand. He was the reason the trend began in the first place. His first time (the same time he found out a fresh corpse drizzles) he was told to spread the word. To spread it far that corpses ideas were better than the living’s. In fact, he was told, living ideas that are good shouldn’t be used until the person is dead. They’re more palpable that way.
He couldn’t explain how he would have known to have sex with a corpse (after dining it!) to find out that having sex with a corpse would lead to this revolutionary discovery (and the subsequent utopian state that arose because of it), it just happened one night he says: He had cut right through emo rhetoric and waltzed passed Gothic idioms and concepts. He had no faith left in the lucid seduction of vampirism or the mania of lycanthropic transformation. He was left wanting something more insane than the darkest fetish of Wednesday Addams, something weirder than Satan’s favourite sex position. But, having tried these things and finding them not to his taste after all, he instead settled for the standardised practice of necrophilia, and you should count yourself lucky that he did!
The men folk salivated through slack jaws at the sight of her gorgeous plump cheeks, God’s cheeks perhaps, squeezed together over a tight sphincter, hidden away like a nut in a squirrel’s pouch; her tiny coccyx, gently swaying side to side like a stumpy but seductive tail; her toned glutei maximi flexing in a carnal rhythm. Ah, here were some more now. A group of them, all helpless but to acknowledge and appreciate her sumptuous curves and mesmerising hips swinging side to side like a hypnotist’s pendulum.
“hey, hey, check it out. You all right babe?”
“Oh yeah, shake it babe!”
“Wiggle that tush!”
“I gotta get me some of that cooch!”
Ah, so simple and easy to convince. They didn’t even notice the veins, arteries and nerves hanging loosely down like overstretched foreskin so the elasticity has gone, or how her femurs swung uselessly below her like stripped chicken legs. They had a single track mind, and it was aimed solely at her hairless cleft between two taut pimpled butt cheeks. She spun for them, showing off her best angles so that they could see her pelvic girdle, woven through with the piriformis, superior and inferior gemellii and the two obturator internii, sensually straddling her ischia before inserting onto the greater trochanters of her femurs. There were no labia, no clitoris, no urethra or bladder, no vagina, ovaries or uterus. There was no rectum or anus. No organs at all, just the squinty sphincter tucked neatly behind the layered muscles all caked in icing sugar sweet skin.
Still, as she passed by they slapped her and crudely enunciated all the things they’d do with her if she was theirs. She mentally chuckled to herself, ‘if only they knew’. They’d be ashamed. But how were they to know? As far as they were concerned she was just an arse, freely floating around, begging to be fucked.
What Would Happen If I Didn’t Masturbate Once A Day If Not More?
What would happen if I didn’t masturbate once a day if not more? I’m afraid to find out. It could be something drastic, something unbelievably bad that if it happened would mean that my having found out what would happen if I didn’t masturbate once a day if not more would be inconsequential, instead I would have to focus entirely on what had happened because I didn’t masturbate once a day if not more.
Or what if it was something that creeps up, a slow burner, something I wouldn’t notice for longer than I care to run the experiment for, so I miss out on the result that way? It may have turned out to be a profound experience, or some kind of revelatory idea that would enable others to achieve great happiness in their lives, but was doomed never to be unveiled due to its dependency on a greater length of time than I was willing to give to its expression. Of course, it may in turn be something quite ridiculous or hideous perhaps. Something best left unfathomed, untapped, a pure possibility with no hope of actuality. Something that would burden me just so, so as to deprecate my experience or cause strain upon relations I have no wish to bear force against. Oh well, too late to start now anyway. I suppose there’s always tomorrow to begin though.
It has come to my attention that I didn’t do a few things as well as I could have when I made everything. I’ve decided to make a short list outlining some of the mistakes I did.
- The stars are too hot. I don’t know why I decided to make it so stars had to be so hot. I think I must have made some fire and gotten excited and, well, you know the rest. While I’m at it, they’re too big too. I wanted a sense of grandeur about the place, but…
- The stars are too far away. I guess as a corollary of the size of the stars I had to make them far away from each other, because otherwise they would fall into each other (what was I thinking when I made gravity?). I think I may have over estimated the size of space necessary for life to exist. Turns out I only needed to make one planet. Now they look like tacky bits of glitter stuck to black card and it totally ruins the effect.
- Too many stars and planets.As I said above, I wasted a lot of stuff on stars and planets that don’t even do anything. They don’t even look pretty. Just tacky.
- Planet not big enough. I hadn’t planned ahead very well. Turns out that even though I only needed one planet after all that fluffing about, I went and made it too small for the amount of life it could create!
- Arseholes In both senses. I guess I was having an off day. I must remember in future endeavours not to bring my bad vibes to work with me.
George is Cross
I really fucking hate dragons. I hate everything about them. Their slitty eyes, always shiftily darting about, eyeing our women and our treasures. Their revolting skin, sallow and leathery, all cracked and broken, it looks diseased it does. I hate their customs and the way they do things. Like, where we move about by horse-back, noble like, they fly for fuck sake. I wouldn’t mind so much, if they didn’t come over here and start making out like we’re inferior some how just because we can’t fly. Or how about how they can’t even speak our fucking language, and yet we’re supposed to tolerate them? How are we supposed to do that when we can’t be sure they’re not insulting us every other sentence that comes out of their drooling fanged snouts? It makes me sick it does. Bleeding heart liberals, making excuses for these animals. That’s what they are you know. Animals. No better than dogs. In fact, they’re worse than dogs. At least a dog knows who its master is. Try telling a dragon to heel. I’ll tell you what, you’d better like barbecue pork, because that’s what you’ll be. Still raw on the inside too I’ll bet, fucking weird ways of cooking those dragons have got.
You know don’t you, that dragons actually believe in a dragon god? How fucking ridiculous is that? It makes me laugh it does. A fucking dragon in charge! That’s what they want. To worm their way in. To usurp us from the inside, to gut our proud nation like a pig. Send us squealing or else be toasted. I’ve had enough. I say it’s time to make a stand against the dragons before they destroy our nation and turn us all into pork chops or worse. Those calloused, spineless, no good, stinking mother fuckers need to be taught a lesson.
The blood of the dragon jutted forth like a small frothy strawberry mousse fountain from the incision George had masterfully created with his sword between two of the bulky leathery scales protecting its long, serpentine neck. Its slitty eyes were pained and shocked at the turn of events, small puffs of smoke puttered from its nostrils on each exhalation, the next becoming more laboured than the last. The great beast’s wings, each the size of a family sized car, lay useless and flaccid spread across the floor by its side.
It had been a fierce battle, and more than once had George felt the searing heat of a molten jet of fire hammer into his upturned shield, blistering his armour and cauterising his skin, just barely managing to withstand the blast. But he held firm under the pressure, and finally, as the dragon made yet another pass, hurtling a wad of fire at the brave knight, he waited until the last second before launching upwards with his sword, finding a groove between two plates and, with a bellow befitting such a heroic action, drew the blade across the tender flesh therein, opening the dragon’s throat, sending thick spurts of deep dark blood out like a monochromatic rainbow across the sky. The dragon roared and gurgled, some nonsensical babble no doubt, and came crashing down. Its powerful wings beating until the last, attempting to drag its body up from the ground so it looked more like a spastic fly than a graceful sleek flying beast, kicking a whirlwind of dust up in the process, obscuring the demon from view. When the dust finally settled the dragon lay huffing and wheezing on the floor, its monstrous heart pumping the last of its blood out of the wound in its neck. Our George had done the nation a great deed. A legendary act that would be told for countless generations, and in passing, it would not be his extreme xenophobia or indeed, his inconsolable racism, that was ear marked as note worthy, but rather, his unimaginable bravery as he stood against the tide of darkness that threatened to drown out the very Sun from the sky, that threatened to cast our nation upon a cruel fire, stoked by the corpses of our fathers and mothers, only to be extinguished by the blood of our brothers and sisters.
Our hero was not done however, thought this part of the tale be loathed to be told. This fell beast had caused George a great upset and his revenge had not nearly been exacted. For in the deepest recesses of George’s memory, well blanketed by obsidian walls and iron locks, separated from its excitation by Freudian unconscious mechanisms, there lurked a terrible memory, one so ghastly that he dared not ever cast light on it again, instead finding an outlet for it in… less well known or perhaps, tolerable, practices than slaying and championing causes.
The memory involved George as a young boy, perhaps no older than five winters spent in his family’s castle, certainly, he was without a single dark hair on his body. He had caught wind that his mother, the beautiful and illustrious woman of whom he had not seen nor heard for nigh on six months – her having been called away to some distant part of the land in an effort to appease a lord who grew displeased with her husband, George’s father, and his manner of leadership of the council upon which they both sat – was returned home and was in fact this very moment in her bedchamber, no doubt unpacking after her long journey. George had forsaken supper, a delicious barbecue out in the lucid summer’s eve, and instead sought to surprise his mother still in her room with a visit and a hug and a kiss. What better welcome than her only son smothering her with affection? He slung open the great oak door to his mother’s room, blissfully unaware that the deep panting sounds he heard were actually emanating from within, and, spying a lump beneath his mother’s bed sheets, proceeded to leap onto the bed, assuming it to be his mother, weary from her travels and resting of course. He planted his lips on what could only be his mother. Acute shock at her tough skin repelled him backwards, his mind horrified at the sickness that his mother must have caught when away. She had put on weight too, perhaps a symptom of whatever illness she was burdened with. His mother turned to look at him. Her eyes, two thin yellow slits. Her nose, elongated like a crocodile’s and puffing rings of smoke. Her wings, majestic, even as they were folded against her back. She turned fully. Her barrel chest armoured by two sheets of leather. Her penis, sizeable and rock like, prolific veins running the length of it, and capped by a fist sized helmet. Behind, a pink puppet lay sprawled and limp as if the hand operating it had finished its performance for the night. George withdrew from the room at a speed even greater than he had entered with. His mother was still on holiday, or at a business trip. He entered the wrong room. He never even left the barbecue. The penis was a hot dog, the object he thought was his puppet-mother was really a succulent pork chop roasting on an open fire. The smoke rings rising from the flames licking at its juicy flesh were floating off into the beautiful red soaked summer evening sky, and not rolling over the swollen labia of his mother, spread eagled and huffing and puffing in some garbled language, occasionally managing a coherent exclamation that sounded suspiciously like more, I want more, between base guttural noises of ecstasy.
George sidled up besides the resting body of the dragon, glancing nervously around as he did so. He prodded it with his foot, yeah, it was definitely dead. Now for the fun part. His armoured pants slid down, his armoured vest discarded, the dragon’s thick muscular tail lifted so as to expose its most intimate parts, his flagpole proudly erected. In the name of all that is holy and right in the world, George set to work on the dead lizard with his flesh sword, ultimately climaxing and spraying a white sheet of mucus like sauce over its now still back, before cutting his call-sign into it with his actual sword, two perpendicular deep set thick red lines crossing over in the middle. Another notch for the proverbial bedpost.
It started off innocently enough. Some light mocking about his frail physique and gentle joshing about his special relationship with his right hand (fools, he was left handed). Nothing that Harold couldn’t withstand and hadn’t heard before. It didn’t change much that it was now cyber-bullying rather than in the flesh. Still, when Harold came across a blog dedicated to shredding his character post by post he decided he may have to put an end to it.
A quick search on Google provided him with a website promoting a product promising manhood like a horse and the muscles to match.
Bestial Virility Herbal Medicine For Beta Males will transform you from somebody who would lose a fight against a stick insect or who’s dick might just as well be inverted into a fuck-god-machine capable of benching your new model girlfriend’s parents in their convertible whilst deflowering their daughter by thought alone! Other men’s muscles will visibly shrink and their genitalia will desperately try to detach itself from their now pathetically wretched host and clamber onto you! You’ll be a walking hard on made of other men’s impotent cocks! You just have to try it for one week and it’s guaranteed you’ll get results so good you’ll be the baddest god-man in town! You’ll soon be heading into a fleshly world of sin, seduction and animalistic attraction with women helplessly flocking to you like moths to a bulb. Bitches’ll simply be helpless not to devour you!
Harold ordered the special rate discount limited edition for only today version that was heavily advertised as the deal to end all deals (and make a man of you!). At only seventy five dollars (down from the usual four hundred) it was a bargain fit for a fledgling demi-god such as he. He checked the Harold-hate blog again, just to be sure he hadn’t misread it, and sure enough, there was a new post poking fun of him. He so ugly, pussy shrivels up and retires to Florida whenever he walks by.
Finally, after a torturous week, the parcel arrived. Harold knew it was the real deal because instead of being wrapped in paper it was packed in steaks. He hungrily tore them away to reveal an object that looked suspiciously like a pink dildo and an instruction leaflet.
Congratulations on an outstanding decision punk. Yeah, it’s a dildo*. You shove it up your ass and let it fuck you good so it ejaculates the herbal remedy into you and you feel the results straight away. It may seem fucked up, but try it. You won’t be disappointed.
* In the event that you are unsatisfied with the size of the delivery device you can return it (unused!) and we’ll replace it with one of a more… suitable size
** You can eat the steaks
Taken aback by the tone as much as the information momentarily, Harold weighed the pros and cons of the situation. He could become a muscle bound hero that gets to fuck women and fuck men up. If it works. If it doesn’t work it could do no more harm to what people thought of him anyway to shove a dildo up his ass. Let them call him gay or ridicule him, speculating that was the only way he could get a fuck. There was no down side as far as he could see.
So, without further ado, he unzipped his pants, removed his underwear and looked at the glistening monster, all of twelve inches (the standard “large cock” size in the industry) and as thick as his neck. A pearl of clear liquid had formed at the tip and slowly ran down the length of the beast. It was slippery to the touch. Harold gulped, took aim, and lowered himself onto it. He started to move up and down the greased pole and to his surprise it felt good. Then the thing started to move of its own accord. It thrust forward, tipping Harold onto his hands and knees and continued to punch away at his insides. His starfish asshole puckered every time it withdrew, and he felt it pulsating as it re-entered, pushing itself through his sphincter. Finally it shuddered violently and Harold felt litre upon litre of fluid flush through his organs. Fluid that emasculated him at the same time as filling him with a surge of masculine energy. The spent dildo slithered out of him and fell to the floor, where it lay like a used condom, shrivelled and guilty.
So much raw potential. He felt it well up inside him. His neck grew powerful, his face chiselled, instantly framed by a dashing beard, his muscles bulked and ripped. He felt fantastic. Bitches would soon be screaming his name in ecstasy. But his name… He decided he would no longer be called Harold. Harold was the loser that spent his life getting kicked. No, he was a fucking legend now. A magnificent specimen, and he needed a name to match. Chuck Maverick. Stallion. Animalistic lover of all women. His cock and balls thudded like a hammer onto the floor.
Suddenly he felt all loose and floppy and collapsed. He couldn’t help but roll onto his back as his belly bulged. His arms soon disappeared into the growing mass. He tried desperately to stand but his legs turned to minced meat and gristle. His long trunk of a cock became covered by rolls of meat which soon merged with his legs. Only his head popping out the top remained human looking. Alarmed, he rolled over to the door way. He was too round to fit through the frame. This was it, he thought, humiliated throughout his life for being skinny, he’d tried to fix it, to redress the balance, and for his troubles he was to die a meatball. He had been a fool to think he could ever have become Chuck Maverick. Stallion. There was to be no animalistic attraction for Harold, no women in heat clawing to get a go on his over sized dong. The ladies would be even more revolted by him now than they’d ever been.
As he wept alone on the floor, Harold’s pet dog Candy padded into the room. She had been sleeping but awoke at the sound of her master in distress. Harold was nowhere to be seen though. This confused Candy, who could only see and smell the massive ball of meat before her. Well, since nobody was around to tell her no, she thought she may like to taste a little as it looked mightily attractive to her.
As he was devoured by his dog Harold could no longer even cry. He laughed instead, and thought to himself – well at least I attracted one bitch in my life.
On The Nature And Use Of The Discarded Foreskin
Catherine studies the shelves, she’s looking for a particular product. Her eyes glide past the traditional anti-ageing creams, the anti-wrinkle creams, the skin moisturisers and replenishers, none of them could deliver like this new product promised to deliver. The spray-on tans and toners don’t get a second glance, they had long since become obsolete to her sagging needs.
Catherine rolls her yellowed eyeballs in their crow’s feet sockets across the skyline of the health and beauty range and spies the branding that she’s seen splashed and sprayed across television and billboards for the last month – a pastel pink ring around a white toga. The brand’s name is Prepucii, which sounds Latin to Catherine. Despite repeatedly seeing and hearing the product on every advertising space and platform possible, Catherine still doesn’t have a clear grasp of what’s inside the small box, just that it can enhance her looks by tightening her face and neck skin. She feels it’s got to be worth a small investment. Catherine’s face droops and billows; a morose vaginal cleft; her saggy, loosely puckered lips a dank and dusty anal sphincter. Her waddled neck; flea-bitten with broken blood vessels; an obscene fold of fatigued scrotal tissue.
No sooner than being two feet across the threshold of her Barratt home, Catherine hastily discards her department store trappings to the floor. After a little deliberation she had bought the Prepucii along with the special, introductory offer lubricant and scalpel (set at 25% off the top price). As she picks up the pack of Prepucii Catherine reads the warnings; the usual: do not swallow as may cause choking; ectopic nature of treatment may lead to altered appearance (which was good because that’s what she bought them for); product can constrict airways, be sure to have Prepucii scalpel to hand when applying; contains fibroblasts. Contains 12 prepuces (note: there may be differences in tone and size of prepuces, this is normal).
Content and readied, Catherine unfolds the lid and pulls out the first baby blue sachet. She tears along the perforated edge to separate it from the others. On one side there are instructions: Tear open sachet. Stretch Prepucii to desired size. Lower over head. Allow to elastically snap back around desired area. Leave a gap between Prepucii. The other side is clear so Catherine can see the prepuce. A small pink ring. No bigger than her index finger. It looks like a tiny pink spaghetti hoop vacuum packed in plastic. This is going to stretch over her head?! She tears open the packet as instructed and places her thumbs and index fingers inside the little Prepucii so as to stretch it like an elastic band. It has a surprising amount of give and, feeling more confident, Catherine begins to lower it over her head. It pulls on her hair as she attempts to slide it down over her head. Her eyes water. It’s too painful, so she tries stretching it further but it suddenly snaps with a loud ping. ‘Shit’, she thinks, ‘maybe I ought to try the lubricant?’
“Urino Infantalis. Liquid lubricant for the lady with the fuller head”. She splashes some on to her palms and massages it over the top of her head like a leave in conditioner. It has a unique, pungent smell that she can’t quite put her finger on, ‘raw potato?’. Regardless, she tears open the second sachet, this one a pastel orange; again stretching the dinky pink hula hoop and begins to slide it over her head. It’s still a ridiculously tight squeeze and she grunts with the effort. Managing, with an unbecoming brutish effort, to manoeuvre it down to the bridge of her nose, Catherine then starts to wiggle it carefully over her nose. Once past the tip of her nose it slides relatively easily down to her deflated toad’s throat baggy neck, where it snaps back tightly, squeezing her windpipe. Her eyes widen in panic for a moment before her neck relaxes and she is able to breathe again. Looking at herself in the hallway mirror, Catherine notices a sheen over her skin; sallow lubricant dribbling down her face. The Prepucii about her neck has pulled her skin down taut, ‘not too bad’ she acknowledges to her reflection. Once again, lubricating her head and face, she slides another ring down over her head, grunting, gurning and sweating as she does so. It takes her over forty minutes to get all eleven Prepucii around her neck and head. She has to cut out a mouth hole, as well as nostril, eye and ear holes using the scalpel.
There is a pressure oppressing her skull where the Prepucii are uncomfortably tight, but she assumes this will lessen as time goes by, like new denim. Unable really to shake or nod her head; she twists her entire trunk to examine herself in the mirror. There are several brown Prepucii, but mostly they are pink, or peachy. The contrast pleases her; people will notice. Her forehead is tight and smooth like a baby’s buttocks, her jaw line is now taut and striking, the second skin flush against the bone. Her eyes are watery, but that’s to be expected, she’s pulled a few hairs out getting the damned things over her head. Catherine feels beautiful. She wondered how she had dared go out before, with all those lumpy varicose veins and dangling jowls that looked like those thin bags of minced meat one might get at a delicatessen. She can’t wait to let people see the new her.
A few weeks later and the pain has subsided. Catherine is used to the tight feeling now, and to seeing the bands of pink and brown prepuces circling her head, so she doesn’t really mind when the gaps between them are getting smaller. It isn’t until she is combing her hair in preparation for a date that one evening that Catherine notices things aren’t all well. Chunks of her hair fall out as she pulls her paddle brush through it. Coarse brittle strands come away like dust. Her head pulsates. It feels like her skull is trying to break out. Panicking as she feels that a large ridge has formed along the base at the back of her skull, she starts to cry and pats along the top of her head. She feels some sort of opening up there, and so bows her head to get a look at it in the mirror. A hideous fissure has opened up from just behind her fringe right to the crown. Catherine wobbles at the knees as she turns her head to the side slightly. Yes, her head looks just like a male glans, but with two bewildered human eyes peering out of it. Her jaw recedes rapidly as her teeth begin to fall out of her pulsating gums; her nose extends down her face, turning white as it stretches into a tough sinewy band connecting the multicultural foreskin surrounding her swollen glans head and throbbing penile shaft neck. The foreskin grows upwards, engulfing her face, covering her entire head; a horrific nightmare worm consuming a live victim. Clawing desperately at the Prepucii, she manages to pull it down, a pearlescent bead oozes pulpily from her scalp. She catches a last glimpse of herself in the mirror and is appalled by her reflection.
Dog & Bro
I only ever see things through my right eye. My brother has control of the left. In fact, he has control of the entire left side of our body. I’ve known about him since birth, but I can’t be sure that he knows about me. We can’t communicate because he suffers from aphasia, at least, he doesn’t respond to me when I talk to him. Whether he knows about me or not, we get along just about fine, one stepping forward then the other, or simultaneously swinging our open palms at each other in celebration of something witnessed. Sometimes we butt heads, metaphorically of course, as our face contorts, one half smiling in joy and the other scrunching up in disgust or sadness, that draws a few looks when we do that. Other times one of us may want to sit and the other stand at the same time and we end up sprawling across the floor, much to the amusement of my friends. I think they like me anyway, maybe they like my brother, and don’t know its me they talk to. Anyway, despite our difficulties, we manage to get by.
My name’s Dog by the way. My brother doesn’t have a name, because he hasn’t ever really lived. Our parents seem relatively normal. Each has a job and loves us immensely. I couldn’t swear to it, but I doubt either of them have a silent brother or sister living with them, in control of half of their body. Perhaps their siblings actually speak to them, so they work together all the time so that they don’t end up looking like a pair of idiots tripping themself up.
I kissed a girl once. I don’t know that my brother joined in the kiss, but he did grab her boob. She looked sore at that and slapped me. I tried saying it wasn’t me but she was having none of it. She said she was only up for a peck, and even then it was only a dare. She said my lolling eyes were stupid and I should see a doctor. I hadn’t thought about that. I don’t have a clue where my brother is looking. He could be pulling faces all the time, making me look like a fool.
I’ve decided to attach a full length mirror to my front, so that I can keep my eye on him. Sure it looks a little weird, but at least I don’t have to worry about what my brother is doing on the other side of our body.
“I’ll have a coffee please.”
“Certainly sir. Which of our ninety thousand combinations would you like?”
“Oh. Eh? Erm. Just give me an espresso.”
“Short, tall, grande or venti sir?”
“Can I interest you in milk or syrup or caramel or cream or chocolate with your coffee sir?”
“What? No, I, er, I just want a coffee thanks.”
“Yeah I am…” Carl feels his cheeks redden.
The barista smiles politely. “You’re new to this aren’t you sir?”
“Yes I am. I’m a little nervous to tell the truth. I hope other people like this book I’ve brought along to read. I don’t really know the author. Is it pronounced Sharlene or Charlene?” Carl showed the man his book choice.
“Ah, excellent choice. If you take a glance sir, you can see that a lot of other people had the same idea. And don’t worry about your lack of confidence about the book, you’re not the first to fear what the others might think. But usually, once people see other people reading the same book it calms them a bit. Do you feel calmer now sir, knowing that you’re not alone in choosing that book?”
“Yes. Yes I do. Thank you.”
“Not at all sir. It looks like it must be a good one. Look at her smile.” The man points over Carl’s shoulder who turns to see a woman who is smiling like a maniac as she intently stares at a page. Her hand waits with the corner of the page ready to turn in an instant.
“Yes. She does seem to be enjoying it.” Carl ums and ers for a minute. “On second thoughts, maybe I’d like something extra in my coffee. Is that reasonable?”
“Of course. Latte?”
“Is it wise?”
“Regular, skinny, whole or soy?”
“I can’t be sure.”
“Sure you can be. Just say one of the words.”
“All right, I’ll say… skinny.”
“Ah, the healthy option.”
“Oh? Good. I’m trying to watch my waist.” It was true, Carl joined a gym just a month ago to battle the increasing layer of fat growing about his core.
“Most are. Most are.” The man looks round behind him and shouts something. A voice shouts back. “It’ll just be a moment sir.”
“I can wait. But, erm, should I read my book while I wait?”
“Yes, you can if you like sir.”
“What, here by the counter?”
“People tend to take a chair. If you look sir, that one by the window is free. That would allow you to occasionally gaze out at the street, and it would also allow a great deal more people see what an excellent choice in reading material you made.”
“That is a good idea. Thank you.”
“Not at all. I’ll be happy to bring your caffe latte over to you when it’s ready. Is that all sir?”
“Er, is it?”
“Yes, it can be sir.”
“Then I’ll go and wait over by the window. I’ll read my book to pass the time.”
“Very good. Thank you for your custom sir.”
Carl wanders over to the window seat the barista recommended for him. He sits facing away from the window, but realises he won’t be able to gaze out of it easily, nor will people be able to see his excellent choice of book, written by Charlene (or Sharlene) Handcock. A great author, very popular. He awkwardly shuffles around to the other side of the table, attracting a few glances that quickly return to the page they were reading. A few moments later his coffee arrives. The barista says that he ought to continue to read as the coffee is exceptionally hot. He estimates it will be another seven minutes and twelve seconds before Carl should take the first sip.
“If you need me to guide you on how to take a sip then please call me over sir. I will be happy to help. And don’t worry, a lot of people don’t know how to do it the first time. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Thank you very much. I’ll give it a try by myself first, but if I can’t do it then I’ll call you over.”
The barista nods and leaves for the counter. Carl continues to read the story. It must be very good because whenever he looks out of the window there are people standing looking at him reading it with expressions of approval. Exactly seven minutes and twelve seconds later Carl closes the book and prepares to sip at his coffee. He purses his lips and steadies himself. He gently touches the cup to his bottom lip and tips it slightly, a sip’s worth of coffee enters his mouth.
“Wow. That was especially well done sir.” The barista calls from across the shop.
“Ah. Merely beginners luck.” Carl puts the cup down and picks the book back up. He is unsure as to whether the coffee is too hot to drink still. He can’t let go of the nagging suspicion that it isn’t and so puts the book down and prepares himself to take another sip. This time he tips it further and allows a little more to enter his mouth. Upon doing so he has a revelation. He stands and takes his cup of coffee over to the counter.
“This coffee tastes shitty.”
The barista smiles slyly and his eyes twinkle. “That’s because it is.” He shifts to the side slightly, allowing Carl to catch a glimpse of the kitchen area. Appallingly, he witnesses a bulbous globe of a man wearing only a t-shirt kneeling on the floor with a thick tube piercing his anus. A brown fluid flows through the tube into the man. Once all the fluid has gone from the tube, it’s removed and the man’s hole plugged up. He is then shaken by two large mechanical arms that pinch around his equatorial waist, they turn him around one eighty degrees and his anus is unbunged so that the fluid explodes out like blood from a split artery, filling a waiting tray of cups and glasses. The man has continental sweat patches underneath both armpits and his brow is dripping.
The barista steps back in front of Carl, “You probably won’t like it if you see where the latte comes from though sir. Oh, and it’s pronounced Shar–le–nay sir.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” Carl says casually and takes his post-enema coffee back to the table by the window and continues to read the latest novel by his favourite author.
Radiators and exhaust pipes and coins and cutlery all jostled for space. Entombed by car bonnets and thrown out bed frames, a walking junk yard. A metal meatball. In the centre of the magnetic maelstrom, Richard Hornbutt, feeling slightly cheated. He hadn’t wanted this.
In hindsight he realised he had only himself to blame, the ad hadn’t specified the nature of the secret. Only that there was a genuine cheap way to become more attractive discovered by a single mother of three. By paying a one off charge of nineteen ninety nine (plus tax and admin fees) you could become the most attractive person in your neck of the woods. It seemed too good to be true, it obviously was, but Richard was thirty eight and still hadn’t dunked his junk yet, because, and it was truly a sad state of affairs that this was the case, women tended to sidestep him in favour of the better looking men. It wasn’t that they didn’t notice him. With a lethal hook nose that could have an eye out, and acne scars like Vesuvius, Richard had always drawn some attention. Just not the kind he cared for. Not the kind that cared for him.
The day after he paid the fee a burly man came to his door, flashed him an id and instructed him to follow. Richard did so, feeling somewhat apprehensive and excited and optimistic all rolled into one. They got into a car and drove to a secret laboratory where Richard was given a drink that made him pass out.
After recovering from the surgery Richard went out to the street and women flocked to him, some pressed their faces to his chest, eyes goggling as if being strangled, others appeared to be attempting to hear his heart beat. All of them, their hands frantically feeling all over his torso, had bewildered looks on their faces as though they were being forced into these intimate positions. Some seemed to be attempting to push their meat tacos against him, their backs arched as they thrust forward at his groin. He was flustered, but enjoying every moment of it. This was exactly what he had dreamed of all his life. Then the shit hit the fan. Small change flew like shrapnel, slicing and maiming the women surrounding Richard, their blood tracing arcs in the air. Cars started moving seemingly of their own accord, mowing ladies down like bowling pins as they careened towards him. Restaurant windows shattered as cutlery suddenly sprung from the tables, darting at the crowd about him, spoons cracking skulls like egg shells, forks whirling and pitching in ballet-esque movements, pirouetting numerous times before coming to a rest in some poor woman’s flesh. Soon the mass of women kind had given way to the unstoppable metallic abuse hurtled upon them. And, covered in the blood of damsels, surrounded by torn up car chassis’s and old iron works and tooth fillings, Richard sat weeping and alone.
I chose to have the augmentation because it seemed to be the thing to do. Unlike the fads and crazes that had happened recently this one really had sticking potential. People would still be doing it decades from now. It was dirt cheap to get the surgery done, merely the cost of a late night movie in the city or an easy meal from a fast food restaurant. But the results far outdid those mundane experiences. Imagine the most exquisite diamond cut from an ice queen’s favourite crown highlighted from behind by the first rays of Sun on a perfect morning. Or the halo of an angel cherub, doused in heaven’s crisp light. For the price of a pat of meat you could endow yourself with just such a beautiful accessory. One that everybody else would adore, and compliment you on. It just made sense to get it done.
It was a fascination of mine. The sublime tones from overt toxic yellow through shimmering white, the delightfully pungent odour and savoury flavour. I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather have done to help me fit in. Sure, friends had chosen to spend their money on the other options, and each had their own merit. But my mind was set. Nothing could say, this is who I am, quite like having my own glass bladder ornament crafted and placed into my torso for all to see and be in awe of. When it was empty it would be be a crystal clear spyglass. And when it was full, oh when it was full! It would be like a polished piece of amber, historic and radiant. Honeyed liquid sloshing around inside it. Or it would be like the elixir of life itself, glorious and sacrosanct. Yes! This fashion couldn’t possibly die out. It just made too much sense.
Of course, that’s what I thought before the crack first appeared. Just a hairline slither, weeping nicotine stained fluid like an infected sore. I had to take to sleeping on a rack above a series of buckets because the wee would dribble out constantly. I had to forsake my social life for fear of wetting other people’s furniture. Eventually I gave up drinking any liquids, hoping that I could stifle the flow of piss by drying myself out. I woke up one day to the sound of a hospital drip, drip-drop, drip-drop, and I desperately needed a wee, it almost felt like my bladder would burst.
Eye of the Storm
There is a monumental electric storm in a very specific locality. For the briefest of moments, the hind quarters of Geoffrey Poonsdale become a white hot furnace of electronic bowel movements. High voltage farts beep and chitter out between currents of faecal electrons. His face saturates with a fearsome purple before diluting to a bald white. Sweat evaporates off of his raised brow. Then, just as suddenly as it erupted, the storm dissipates. Geoffrey blows a breath out, steadily and noisily. He notices that there is the distinct smell of burnt hair and frazzled circuitry. His arse feels chaffed. Obviously, he thinks to himself, the stress is getting to me.
So nicknamed due to his mental deficiency, elongated, jutted jaw line, and penchant for chronic masturbation, Chimp held onto the hand of the abductor and followed him willingly, his short legs cantering to keep up with the long striding gait of the man. He was smiling at the people as he went by and they smiled back.
The Direction of Life
I knew immediately that something was wrong.
“Turpentine!” I shouted to my step sister, who I kept under my bed. “SOMETHING IS WRONG!”
“Something is wrong.” agreed Turpentine, waking up and sleepily brushing the cobwebs from her silver hair. “You’re turning into a road sign.”
“Call the doctor!” I commanded, trembling.
Turpentine was only two years old but she was no fool, she shook her head sadly. I had the classic symptoms. A stretchy feeling in my elbows and red, itchy palms. We both knew I was not long for this world. I kept thinking, why me? Why me? It was a stupid question, turning into a road sign was going around, it was only a matter of time.
But what would I become? A stop? A slippery when wet? Or maybe something special like ‘Old Northern Road’? I deeply hoped so.
I decided to write a “goodbye and thank you” letter to every person I had ever met. I would write to the swimming coaches, the shop assistants, the school secretaries and the whole host of others beside. I thought of the cat that our old cleaning lady brought along with her on a rainy day in August last year. The cat was an old tabby. It lay in its basket in the hallway and slept the whole time, even while the cleaning lady vacuumed around it. Why did she bring it? I asked myself, thinking back to that strange day. Why that day and not any other? It was a mystery all right, but a cute one.
“Thank you”, I would write to the tabby cat, “for being a part of my life. A sleepy little part of my life.”
Animals count too.