Friday, October 24, 2014


I got an email from some pretend college in Canada offering weekend courses in how to write fiction and get published.
"We're Ready When You Are."
They make it sound as if you're building a deck. 5 Easy Steps To Being A Nuisance!

The course will "Launch you toward the top tier in the highly competitive world of modern fiction." But it doesn't say where you'll land after being launched toward the top tier.


I love this Ikea style branding. It's 10 hours over 2 days of "a simple and easily understood assignment and peer-review based learning process."

PT Barnum and Ripley got rich off these rubes. Incredible they'll pay $350 each to be diapered and stroked by some loser in a plaid shirt.

But the really depressing part is the "Instructors."
Paid pretty much shit, a dumpy middle aged schmendrick must drag his sorry ass outa bed on a freezing Saturday morning in some obscure hick town called Parry Sound and go deal with the aspirations of a bunch of angry housewives and the one geeky gy who's got half a foot out of the closet door and wants to start a magazine.

So here's the "instructor" - driving his shitty little leased car across the wind swept plains of some Canadian steppe, full of dread at the upcoming two days locked in a room with a herd of big mouthed yentas who'll sit at the front and kibitz and openly compare him to some other asshole instructor and demand their money's worth.

While getting his drive-thru ten dollar coffee from the new Cognoscenti's outlet, he prays for a willowy little English lit major to show up and sit at the back of the class and shyly pull out a copy of his pointless novel, hoping he'll personally sign it. He'll tell her she has talent, she's not like the others, her pussy's definitely not like the others, etc etc. He checks his bald spot in the rearview mirror and wishes he had the money to buy Rogaine on a regular basis. 

Then he curses himself for being such a putz to marry that fucking cow who ditched his ass after screwing some hockey player and she's now living downtown in HIS condo with their ingrate kid going to a fancy school, while the dyke cunts who run the government force him to pay through the ass and he's the actual artist in the family and he had to move to this whitebread buttfuck end of nowhere and beg for a job as an "Associate Instructor" at a former agricultural school after they took government money to create an "arts based curriculum" for the hags who bought big boxes houses up here a hundred miles from town because they're too cheap and stupid to have cashed in on the red hot real estate market in the city and now he's making $175 bucks for 10 hours of HIS time to teach them how to get published. What the fuck.

If he had any balls he'd drive to the city, find that other bitch, his so-called publisher, and beat her to death with a tire iron. His most recent novel, A Dog's Breath, won two "non-monetary" but noteworthy awards and then he once again got zero attention because his grant-whore publisher couldn't give away free money, let alone sell a fucking book.

And forget having his bonehead students work on whatever garbage they type on their laptops worth more than he makes in a month. Noooooo. He, a published author, will be harangued, harassed and hammer-locked into giving them the Secret to seeing their slop published - ie: shoved between the covers of some cock-eyed Print On Demand piece of dreck.

As he drives away with his coffee and settles back into the more soothing notion of a willowy little thing grasping his genius, he takes a sip and almost vomits onto the steering wheel. He very specifically asked for a Neo-Grande Double Naught Despresso Famagusta and they gave him fucking coffee!

In a rage, he tries to reverse but a giant SUV is already at the window and to get back in line he must exit the parking lot, drive three miles to get around the concrete divider then wait ten minutes to make a left turn back into the official drive-thru entrance and once again join the parade of waiting cars.
hey, teach...

Monday, October 20, 2014


I still get some manuscripts sent to me, a few per week. People who want to be writers tentatively reaching out. Some seem to believe since I've gotten published somehow, and I'm living in SE Asia, I've figured out something they haven't.

Honestly, I wouldn't recommend writing to anyone. For me it's a terrible compulsion. I spent 2.5 decades or so as a narcotics addict and a general waste of space. It left a huge hole in my life when I came to Thailand and quit using. I mean, anybody with a keyboard is a 'writer' these days. You'll make more money begging and get far more respect if you can actually do something useful, like fix a flat tire or screw in a light bulb.

Tons of writing sites tell you to post your stuff in exchange for 'exposure.' Pay you money? Don't be gauche. Nobody can tell you if your writing is any good and really, does it matter? Maybe it's just about quantity and nothing to do with quality. Agents tell me to write what 'appeals to readers.' What readers? Who reads anything longer than a couple lines? Why would they? Soon, the Google created Googerator will allow 'readers' to absorb information through an extremely fine wire thinner than a human hair which is inserted into the anus and works wirelessly, the beta version was called Satellass, btw.

So... you will be sodomized with a slow enjoyable pulse and absorb data at quantum rates. Farts will be transliterated to texts for a select group of recipients - your 'friends', so to speak. There won't be any context since experience is an extremely difficult algorithm to parse and of little practical use. However, consumers craniums will house a vast array of admittedly circumscribed human knowledge and also convincingly ape countless human activities, ie: reallyreallyreallysmartapp.

Anyway... I know, it was bizarre to come to one of the world's great narcotics producing centers and quit using but I did. Why did it work when rehab, headshrinkers, beatings and the like didn't help? My theory is the ready supply, high quality and cheap price allowed me to keep postponing what seemed to be the inevitable. I could delay buying good drugs and not worry they wouldn't be there later or tomorrow.

Back home there was constant panic to raise the money, find good stuff and stock up since it likely wouldn't last. Even my doctor there joked he'd come to the airport to take delivery of my body bag.

So writing became a way to try to fill the huge  hole left by a chaotic and time consuming lifestyle. Selling dope, running whores and racing around on a baffed out old Japanese sportbike was very involving. Constantly in a state of rage, I felt I was spitting in fate's eye - like, Fuck you! Kill me now or fuck off! I don't care if I live another minute. Do your worst, Fate, you dirty bitch! Snarl and howl inside my helmet as I'd rip through traffic, take mad chances and near misses. Really stupid stuff.

So writing became a kind of compulsion, something to do in lieu of violently killing myself. No, writing is not something I really enjoy. It's cathartic in its way but mostly I try to write about friends dead or imprisoned or gone nuts, try to keep them from disappearing entirely and I fear I'm forgetting so much, my addled mind losing cohesion, losing clarity, a mad jumble.

But the worst thing about sobriety is waking up every day to once more face myself. Oh, great. You again...

So I write. Not cuz I'm dying to but it might be a way to keep my dead from abandoning me entirely because I am certain there is nothing else out there. No gods or aliens or ghosts or spirits or magic or "earth-like" planets. There is nothing but us and our here and now and this one life you get to try to somehow be human.

But don't fall back on having children to compensate for your own failings. They have their own troubles...

Monday, October 13, 2014


Check this out. I stumbled across some Magick Guy's blog. He seems nice enough, trying to do some holistic type crap with magick. Its sad but whatever, harmless enough hobby.
So he writes some spiel about a very funny demon called Sitri, who has the ability, if properly conjured, to make women drip with heat, basically swallow your cock where you stand, right out of the blue.
A super hot, snooty nose-in-the-air girl goes by, wouldn't piss on you if your hair was on fire, but then she's suddenly gorging on your suddenly massive cock. Great magick trick, right?
Impress the hell out of your friends. Hey, guys, watch this!

So some whiner writes in to Magick Guy bitching he's famous but it hasn't gotten him any extra pussy. A few meek homely women shyly rubbing against his leg a couple times a year but no cock crazed knock-outs begging for some stinkin' hot perv'n 24/7.

Okay, here's his whine, and I didn't make this up:

magus93 said...
So...even if you are correct about sitri shinig forth his light from your soul, who gives a fuck. As long as you get laid, so what. I haven't been getting much more than once or twice a year and I've grown to become a public figure from all my non goetic efforts and hard work so far. Still haven't got much sex. I say it is about damn time for me to get sex and love but mostly sex on a regular basis and who gives a fuck even if you are right. I'd be getting what I want thus I will use goetia...I am almost ready to start once I finish jsut a bit more studying.

Yeah. This guy is for real. Either that or he's a very sublime satirist. It'd be great if he was but I wouldn't bet real money on it.
"love but mostly sex"

Friday, October 3, 2014


Sorry for late reply.
Another couple for money? They'll be dogs generally.
Hot fuckables usually don't need to pay.
Actual 3D pervs, esp guys, are pretty tough to find.

I know one white guy, awesome cock, nice bod, good brain, but stuck at not wanting to give or receive anal or ass whippings. He's into suck and sucked and handjobs, that's it.
The gruesome bi-curious thing.

Im still at the seaside. She's genuine Aussie, blonde, beachy, her old hubs asleep by 8. She reads him into a snoring coma as I lean in the bedroom door. It's watching grass grow.

I have an idea to line up your two asses next to one another and teach you both a thing or two about manners. She's a jealous, greedy little cunt. Enjoys my verbal abuse and trying to please, slinks on the floor, writhes on my fist and makes puddles almost as big as yours.

At the poolside all these buff lads who look like hot fags to me, they put the moves on but treat her so gently and they're so concerned, long winded convos, frowning with deep interest while they scope her long lean bod. They ignore me entirely while I read the Herald and wait for her to get her rocks off on blueballing them. She's raised cockteasing to a cruel and unusual cock torture war crime. 

She sits up straight and rocks on her clit, a severely controlled orgasm shown only in her little girl mouth parting slowly at me.

She sends away one young Russian hardon and some Euro beef kit sits in the still warm chair after she makes eyes. He takes his shot, goes for the direct route, tries to hold her hand in both of his. I watch her fingers squirm out of his grasp. He doesn't know what to do with his paws and pulls out a giant kinda smart phone and loudly makes 'excuse me, is business' call.
Yells about 'millions of millions.'

When he hangs up I put down the paper and put out my smoke and I look at her and say:
"Let's go. It's time for your ass whippin."

"Yes, Daddy. Thank you, Daddy."

She smiles at Igor or Sven or whatever and gathers my phone and smokes and paper and lighter and puts them in her beach bag. I clip her long silver leash to her silver collar and she trots off ahead of me, proud little doggie excited for a run in the park.
I smell her. She's wet her shorts at the look on the poor bastard's face.
It's actual piss this time. I think he smells it too.
He gulps so loud it's a door slammed shut.

I would take her money to do what I want to do but she'd come attached.
Caveat Emptor.
Some days I really hate my guts.

Wednesday, September 24, 2014


When I get home at dawn I hear Ren bangin around way back in the workshop. I find her standing over the bench, single bulb on, some hand tools scattered about and wears vintage black and gold Tony Bettenhausen coveralls, cinched at her waist with a stainless steel leash.

“What are you doing? What is this?”

She doesn’t look at me but continues to turn a box in her hands about the size of a car battery. It is upholstered in rich black leather, finished with dimpled brass studs. A brass S shaped crank sticks out of one end. Its handle is made of dark, polished hardwood. The underside of the box has two half-moon section cut into it, a large brass lobe protrudes between them.

“It’s an artifact,” Ren says and hands me the origin nal documentation, a small square of embossed and yellow Byronic paper.

Instrument For Use by Qualified Physician when Carrying Out Relief of Chronic and Occasional Female Hysteria. Her Royal Majesty’s Patent Registrar as granted to Messrs Maw. London.

I’m mystified. “What the fuck...?”

Ren reaches for a tiny eyeglass screwdriver and adjusts the handle.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“This little brass screw,” she shows me, “keeps falling out so I cleaned it and re-cut the threads.”

“Kudos, baby. I’m impressed.”

Ren finally turns to me. Her smile is benign.

“Well, I have picked up a thing or two watching you mess around with your bikes and cars. I wasn’t always idly playing with my pussy at all your sweat and muscle and grease.”

“A girl who can handle tools. Very fucking hot.”

“Isn’t it? Okay, let’s give this thing a whirl.”

I wink at her with a gravel-voiced leer. “As you command, Mistress.”

She grins and tilts her chin. “Come along, Igor.”

Ren lays on our four-leaf dining room table, her legs straight down, and sits the box on her crotch. The half-moon sections on the underside fit onto her thighs and hips. She fidgets and gets comfy.

“Aren’t you gonna take your clothes off?”

“No, this was done with women clothed.”

“What women?”

“Stop talking and do as I say.”

The brass handle at one end of the box points toward her feet.

“Okay, so now what?”

Ren raises her head a bit to see what’s going on.

“Now lean on the top with your open palm, but not a lot, just enough to keep it snuggly in place.”

I do so.

“All right,” she continues. “Turn the handle.”

I turn it. The heavy brass lobe inside the box is a big rounded tear drop shape. It begins to rotate, the fatter bottom end acting as a centrifugal weight.

“The idea is the round thing underneath presses my clit and pubic bone every other revolution. This is supposed to stimulate orgasm, thus relieving Female Hysteria.”

“Hm… ‘Kinky’ as the rubes like to say.”

“Turn it faster.”

I pick up the pace.

“It’s a Victorian thing,” she tells me. “Doctors would use these to basically get women off and keep them from going completely insane and killing their children and their maids. I’m also supposed to have a wooden bridle between my teeth so I don’t bite off my own tongue.”

“Very kinky.”

“Husbands would bring their hysterically bitchy wives to sanitariums. It was all very medical. A nurse in attendance to handle the bridle and pat the patient's forehead.”

I crank it a bit more. “Is it working? You feel anything?” I’m breaking a sweat, one-man dildo engine.

Ren gets up on her elbows to watch. “Wow…” she nods, impressed. “This is pretty good.” Her brow wrinkles, half mocks but her body begins to tighten. “Oooooh, that’s right, Poppa… crank it for momma.” Her eyes go wide suddenly, gulping for Jesus. Her mouth falls open, an expression somewhere between panic and paradise. “It’s kinda…” She spasms suddenly and grabs the table. “Oh, shit!”

“Oh yeah,” I grin at her but begin to pant and throw in my body weight to make up for failing arm strength. An evil notion to just stop crosses my mind but Ren’s molten green eyes find mine and I see all of her, my little darlin, remember all the times when she’s let go and I get to witness her from then to when as she casts too many shadows to count.

“You’re such a good girl,” I mumble, mesmerized by her sweet sulky woe. “So well behaved. You make me wanna cry my eyes out.”

Ren hums some dirty longing and gathers her breasts to herself, hips now rockin.

“Yeah, Poppa… you know me...”

“Uh uh… it’s all for you, baby girl.”

My arm aches, I try to encourage her without breaking the spell.

“You know how, momma. C’mon, cum in Poppa’s mouth.”

Her voice is irresistible, a child’s heartbreak. I battle the need to yank her ass to the corner of the table and fuck the living shit out of her. A rogue wave of blind desire lifts her ass right off the table as she stutters out a long and broken word. I put aside the Victorian jerk-off machine, grab her with palm up, two fingers slide into her soaked cunt and up under her pubic bone.

I stroke deep and deeper, middle and ring fingers enter now as my thumb clasps her luscious hump and rolls her rock hard baby hard-on. My forefinger and my pinky get into her and then the mounds of Jupiter, Saturn, the Sun and Mercury. Ren’s pussy snakes and flows, slides onto the hills and plains of Mars and over the Moon and my Mound of Venus is eclipsed.

She sits up for it, reaches down with both claws and grabs onto my forearm, my whole hand now. My dreamboat coughs and gushes and gushes, she sprays and grinds out Ishtar’s anthem; a tortured hiss of guttural urge. Her bitter salt sprays in my eyes and mouth, puddles onto my boot and onto the floor. I hum a quiet lullabye. My sweet little waterfall…

Aftershock tremors give Ren a few more shallow convulsions as she lays back in slow increments. I’m suckin wind, forehead on the tabletop, next to her hip. She strokes my neck, absentminded, processing what just happened.

“It does have possibilities,” Ren ponders. “Retro… steampunk sort of idea… Beautifully upholstered, three point five millimeter cowhide and genuine brass studs. Could you rig up a motor of some kind so a woman could control the cranking herself?”

I raise my head and mull over her question. “Sure. Maybe just a big flat coil spring you wind up with the handle. With a one-way gear that takes time to unwind.” I reconsider. “Naw, that’d be too heavy. I know. A small but powerful electric motor inside the box so you could have a choice of push-button start or hand crank – just like a Land Rover.”

Monday, September 22, 2014


Doc’s laid back, sliver leash running from around her neck down between her breasts, along her stomach, over her little hump where it drops to her wet pussy. Another few feet of leash is gathered loosely between her open legs. I wrap it around the top of one thigh, then circle the other, go up between her ass cheeks around her waist and clip it at her belly button.

Doc observes, amused. I take a phone pic from my POV and show her. “Hot er what?"
She purses her lips and considers. “The aesthetics are nice. You’re right, I do have a pretty good body.”
“Pretty good? Are you nuts? You’re burnin fuckin hot. Valleys full of toothless peasants have been butchered for much less.”
“So you keep saying.”
“Seriously. I’ve read about it. The Janissaries would bring their favorite slave girls pearls soaked in the blood of men who’d died fighting to get at them.”
“Slave girls?”
“Fuck yeah. A well trained, beautifully gracious, modest and skillful slave girl was worth her weight in diamonds. Still is. Those guys didn’t take that shit lightly. They weren’t into industrial sex like us morons nowadays. A well-to-do Janissary officer protected his concubines most of all. After gold and high quality slave girls, what the fuck is there?”
Doc indulges me with a chuckle. “All right, fine. Slave girls."
I toy with the tampon string hanging from her moist pussy.
“Yeah. I'd definitely have you in my hareem. I like your color.”
“My color?”
“You’re a fair skinned WASP white girl so your pussy is a lighter hue of pink, like a pastel pink.”
“There’s that much difference?”
“Sure. It’s not radically different but different. I’ve just happened to notice cuz I dig suckin pussy, y’know... I get up close and personal with women of various backgrounds. They don’t all have the same exact coloring on the inside.”

Doc accepts my thesis with a shrug. I tug on her string a bit more and a stronger waft comes up. I’m astounded and slap myself in the head.
“But it still fucks me up.”
“What does?”
“This whole thing  – the pink and the black.”
“The pink and the black?”
“Yeah… always kills me… The blackness of your open hole and the pinkness of your open cunt.” I struggle with the idea. It bangs around my head and comes out my mouth. “It’s a kind of conundrum, something I can never totally figure out. But then I think nobody else can either cuz there’s so much constant everything about it. Books, movies, wars, empires, whatever the fuck. Guys flippin out over the pink and the black.”
“Yes… and?”
“Well, it’s like…” I let out a frustrated sigh. “It's like... there’s a lot to overrun when conquering places. Genghis knew the score. He’d tell his troops the pussy was all theirs and sure they wanted their enemy’s loot and horses but it was pussy driving them through a hail of arrows and catapults of flaming tar. Nothing organizes and motivates a mob of psycho guys like the prospect of fine clean pussy at the end of all that bullshit.”
“You seem a little obsessed with what is normally referred to as mass rape.”
“Well, what else would I be obsessed with? I get the atrocity thing but it’s more the motive I can’t figure out. Sure, it’s about power and domination and owning everything, calling the shots, humans as chattels, fifty shekels for an old testament mule, ten for a woman. Yeah… okay, I get it. But it’s no joke. You can easily get yourself killed, maimed, castrated, imprisoned and tortured. But it doesn’t stop too many guys when they have even a sliver of a chance.”
Doc's eyes begin to glaze over. "Yes, I'm well aware."
“All right, maybe those maniacs also thought about some hot boy ass on the side but it woulda been a secondary pay off. Looters and raiders have grooved on pussy forever. Smash and murder your way into the inner sanctum, wounded and covered in chopped up guts, you find them cowering in their silks and finery and painted hands and eyes and nipples and you’re able to say: “Sh… It’s all right, baby, don’t cry… Daddy’s finally home.”
“I’m not sure The Golden Horde was quite so easy going.”
“No, I get I’m being hugely romantic and unrealistic. But I’m talking like core subconscious motive, not practical application.”
“Speaking of which, are you going to pull that out or…”
“Yeah, gimme a second. I’m not allowed to talk?”
“Yes, of course you are. Whatever you need to say.”

I slowly drag the wet tampon from her body, watch it slide out. Not much blood. I toss it over my shoulder and pull upward on her leash, tighten her fine savory slit. I get another, stronger whiff. Feel my hardon crawl under my abdomen and twitch. I spread Doc’s lips wide, bite them, get my tongue under her hoodie, feel the tiny stone of her clit.
“Hey, do you ever get tired of me suckin your pussy all time? I know I’m kinda hung up on it.”
Doc shifts her ass a bit and gets comfy. She takes her nipples between index and middle fingers, rolls them. “I’ll let you know.”

When my tongue pulls on the underside of her pubic bone, I catch her menstruation, powerful and acidic and metallic. I groan at the taste and reach down below for my hard on, leakin all over the place. Now the real blood begins to flow, smears onto my lips and nose and face. I got my muzzle buried in her hole, lap and suck and grunt.
Doc snarls deep in her chest, ass lifts and shoves herself into my gob. The blood is sloppy and thick and loud, runs down my chin to my throat and drips onto my chest. I can’t get enough and neither can Doc.
She curls up and grabs my head like trying to ram a baby back in. I choke and gag and draw her blood through my nose. She bares her teeth, says ‘Fuck’ a lot, her hips pound at my face, she masturbates against my shnozz and brow, uses my head as a big sexy toy.

I finally break free and get up on my knees. I pant and scald and our eyes sear one another. She leans back on her wrists, scowls at me up and down, groin and thighs soaked in her gore. I lick my lips, taste iron and salt.
When I reach down to unclip her leash, Doc grabs the back of my neck, pulls me close enough to bite open my lip, lick my blood. I unwind a couple feet of chain from her waist. She watches me wrap it round my steamin hard cock. When I’m done there’s a good length of tail left.
We’ve never been this far but she doesn’t need no instructions and takes hold of it as I use my cock to slap her clit, work myself into her bloody maw. Doc yanks on the leash soon as I’m at her pussy, pulls me all in. I get one elbow behind her knee, pin her leg at her shoulder. My free hand goes to her throat. We begin to rise into a grinding screw, the chain wrapped round my hardon bangs into her clit every time we slam together.

She hisses while I howl. She could castrate me here and now but I’d snap her little bitch neck before I bled to death. That’s what I call a fair shake.

Friday, September 12, 2014


I’m chaperoning Opium at the jammed apartment of Fil’s father, Max. We’re wedged into his pack rat life, a shabby little place in Christie Pits, owned by the noisy Porkchops yabbering downstairs. A lot of incandescent lights are on, red paisley pattern wallpaper. Tables and bed are supported by boxes of third and fourth hand war books every chairborne commando must own. A raft of plastic bags fills one corner.
Max always asks me about his son and I never reply.
He nods and mumbles, “Filmore P. Mann. Whereabouts unknown.”

Opium picks her way through this overheated overstuffed crap pad, idly scoping tiny soldier figurines and boxes of hot rod postcards. Her black hair is in long pigtails with plastic devil barrettes. She wears Oxfords, white knee socks, kids training pants and a child-size wifebeater, as if about to finish dressing in a navy blue pinafore with sky blue ribbons. She sucks on a lollipop while examining Max’s collection of scale model WWII British fighter planes hung from the ceiling by fishing wire.

Max is missing his left hand from mid-wrist. I’ve heard a bunch of different versions how it happened, from an inexplicable cleaver attack to the extremely rare Doctor Strangelove Syndrome, where the hand was removed because it kept trying to tear out his throat.

Currently he’s using an old fleshtone prosthesis bought at a garage sale after losing his yearly allotment. The losses are down to Max getting boozed up and taking it off to play up some drunken gag then leaving it on the bar.

Pensioned off from the Transit Commission’s ideological purity division years ago, he whiles away his days building dildo attachments adapted to fit onto a universally swiveling mount he sticks over his stump, custom braced all the way up to the elbow. His dildo arm is twice as thick as his drinking and smoking arm so he’s ended up looking like a tennis player.

Max’s Friday night visits from Opium have been going on for quite a time  – months, I guess. To truly get off, he requires a very specific set up. She must wear her child’s underthings and sit in the oversized wingback opposite him, feet dangling as she reads aloud from a dumbed down fairy tale collection – one of those volumes with the pop-up 3D characters. Max then playfully menaces her with one of his dildo attachments, making it rev up and down with suggestive zings. She smiles shyly and continues to read, slow and unsure, as a child of five might. After about ten minutes of this warm-up, Max discreetly wacks off under a big coffee table volume full of those grainy old trench warfare photos from Passchendaele. Opium pretends not to notice.

Cooking up a shot, I watch Max fuck around with his latest contraption, “The Dildonator.” He’s used the mechanism from a reciprocating saw with a massive twelve-inch red rubber dong mounted on a metal shaft. The thing’s thick as the business end of a Louisville slugger. It’s powered by thick cables running to a 12 volt car battery sitting on the floor.

He plans to patent and market his creation through “gentlemen’s magazines.” This new device not only pounds up and down but he’s installed a mini gyroscope to effect random wiggles, waggles and figure eights. Max has been badgering me to ask Opium to take a test drive. Yeah, that’ll work. The chick’s got like an eighteen waist.
“Approximates skilled fornication method,” Max blurts as he waves it around.

He hits an On switch zip-tied to his upper arm and the dong begins a slow articulated rhumba. A hollow section in the middle is full of colored plastic beads. They rattle and clatter as a blue-lit greeting card diode plays the Average White Band tune, Cut The Cake. The thing does in fact wiggle, waggle and wondrously worm its way through a snappy little routine. Opium doesn’t look up from her fairy tales.

After a minute or so the Dildonator seems to get stuck and repeatedly swivels to the left. The motor whines as the mega-dong angrily pogos up and down, as if throwing a tantrum. Max hits the off switch but no dice. The beast howls and dervishes. Its centrifugal force almost throws him out of his wheelchair. Max strains and battles to unlock it from the gyrating base. It’s clamped on tight. He yowls in pain as the thing almost twists off a finger.

The motor bursts into flame, igniting the sparkle-filled red rubber phallus. It quickly liquefies black. Max shrieks as molten effluent runs down to his forearm. I grab the loco dong with the sleeves of my jacket and try to tear it off him. The thing deforms in my hands, its slimy napalm ooze sticking to me and anything else it touches. Pieces of it drip and run onto the carpet. The rug catches fire. I stamp on it but the goop comes up in flaming strings stuck to my boot.

Opium finally springs into action.
“Don’t get water!” I holler. “It’s an electrical fire.”
“What then?!” she yells from the kitchen.
“Something powder! Baking soda. Anything!”

I grab a dirty towel off the floor and swat at my sleeve, now going up. The dong motor spins and screeches. I duck as it hurls its remaining guts in a wild 360. The distended nightmare glob twists and sizzles, strung between me, Max and his chair. He screams again as the dildo splatters more flaming black rubber at his face. I try to corral it with the towel. It goes up too, a fiery white flag.

“Hurry the fuck up!” I yell just as me, Max and the rabid dong get hit with a choking cloud of laundry powder. The light blue crystals clump and smoke but finally kill the melted remains of the haywire dildo. The monster buzzes and burps a final time.

Opium stands there, jumbo detergent box in her hands. She wears an astonished grin. Max shrugs, sheepish, picks at the bits of melted rubber stuck to his glasses.
Babalon - Javier Pinon