Take One From Satan

First a dream...

Well I was staying at a little ranch just south of Escondido waiting for Fat Jim to arrive. Fat Jim shows up, high as a kite, piss drunk and with a hard on that just won’t quit. I get in the car and we speed off to wherever the fuck it is we are heading. So in the car Fat Jim says to me, yo Shanny boy why you gotta make me do this. Well I smell bad news and blast Fat Jim in his fat fucking face before he ever knows the difference. Hows that for hard boiled you cock sucking sissy. Take one from Satan...

It was a dark and sordid night. The kind of night that makes you wanna lock the doors and get drunk by yourself The kind of night that sends cats screeching down alleyways and leaves strippers purses fat with tips. You know the kind of night. Ray was blubbering, his lips were moving, words were coming out, sweet words even, but Ray hadn’t the faintest clue what they were saying. 

"Wake up Ray."

"Oh, me? Asleep again?"

"Yah, at the wheel." 

"Oh shit" he says. Rays eyes flutter open long enough to take in one more mashed up scene. Ray is about to smash into a brick wall. 

"Yes please, may I have another" he screams as his car explodes in slow motion. First his face flattens, loses its elasticity and then his skull collapses. 

"Yes he cries", praying for the rest of his bones to shatter, but they never do. The revelation never comes.

"Ray when will you stop writing such trash", she asks. 

He thinks about it for a few minutes, realizing, well, he's twenty seven now, hes been thinking this shit up his whole life... go back to sleep you crazy bitch. Ray bristles under the sheets. Perhaps shes somehow drugged him, force fed him some sort of love potion and she is siphoning off his mental powers into her thick black hair.

Too likely, he thought. I could smell that one coming from a long shot. Ray mumbles. "What?" She barks. Ray incoherently throws the blanket aside to check if she has the implant still. Yes, a tight little knot of thorns still clings in her flesh just above her left breast. "That’ll do pig. That’ll do." he thinks.

The smoke starts to billow out from under the door. Oh shit oh fuck, ray thinks, his bowels dropping down like a smashed car. Not this asshole again. “You cant hide in there forever, Ray, I’m comin for your soul you little faggot. Take one from Satan!”

"Whats that poor man talking about", Rays wife asks. 

"Whats he talking about? What the fuck are YOU talking about you crazy bitch. Can’t you see its Satan's stinking lingam, in the flesh." "Dont be silly Ray, theres no such thing. here have another sip of the tea I made you." 

Oh no. She's in on this too. Rays lungs fill with smoke and the last thing he sees, smells actually is brimstone, lots of it and the clapping of hooves all around him.

Our Lady of Slutty Smiles

Charlie dog has his face buried knee deep in her crotch, a short cut turf of snatch hair running up her belly  to the deep canyons of her arm pits.

“Ah love”, Charlie sighed as Alicia moaned in happy agony. oh exquisite torture it is to be driven up the wall with an uncontained lust, to soothe for sooth, he thought. To calm the aching passions was a waste of time, a protoausterity he had no need to bow too. He was more like a bonobo monkeys he thought - a black and decker cocksucker, ready to shoot at the drop of the hat.

But about that snatch, the snatch of one Alicia Gerome, great great granddaughter of the forgotten Sons of Geronimo, and heretofore known as Blowjob Queen of Mercedes Beach, our lady of slutty smiles herself. She was wiggling around on the current of her breath, mashing her crotch into Charlies face like he was some sort of tongue saddle. and shouting at Charlie.

“I didn't know you were still in operation”, she said.

“The mission never ended”, he replied.

She looks down her belly at him and explodes in tears, an ancient galactic rhythm spiraling up her spine in slow undulations. Charlies hair is ripped from his head as she grasps him. She holds up her bloody trophy to the moon.

Fade to black.

The cunt queen of heaven, our lady of the endless stars, nuit. Twas a dark and stormy day, the kind of day that makes you wanna crawl under six pounds of blanket and tune out to the ghost music of Cydonia, the City of ten thousand names, the bone city, the dreamscape, passing echos and broken reflections, the Place we met before we met. You know the place. You can’t travel too far in any dream without reaching at least one road which leads to Rome.

A Door Into the Narrators Dream

The problem with this author is that certain images arise in his head, that seem to be certain ways of relating ideas, images in motion that make little sense when it comes to trying to fit these aforementioned images into a certain kind of narration. They do not fit well into the typical style of this came first and this came next and then this happened. They are moments, glimpses into the true nature of things, glimpses into an alternate way of perceiving the world, not mere sequence.

Yet the author knew that sequence was important, crucial even. Sequence could be done away with to some extent, that was not so much the problem, but keeping a particular narrative tone, a way of conveying a whole idea, rather than dancing around the outskirts of what made little sense. It did not matter to him one bit that the number 9 did not rhyme with the letter H and for that matter, or letter or whatever it was, the letter H had become a hateful thing to him, inconsistently  jamming up and not releasing its precious H fluid into the glowing screen that the narrator desperately craved. After all, certain habits had been created, certain ways of assuming that if the fingers moved in this order and the proper clicking and clacking was heard, then in fact the H juice would appear exactly where the narrator assumed it would. It was a form of future prediction, a modern day oracle in fact and yet it was often ignored by those stoic and dodgy charlatans who claimed that oracles did not actually exist. They make informed guesses, just like everyone else, but there sources from which to make these guesses came from a realm entirely “other” than the realm of science, in which the most sturdy and irrefutable of believers dwelt. It came from an inner world, a world of imagination that made the links between this thought and that object. What does an idea and a light bulb have in common? Nothing, but one is short hand for the other, and you see, dear reader, that some of us think in this imaginary short hand, not to mention write in it. So I may describe to you a character and certain events that happen to this character, but I am not in fact to you a character that has particular weight to a narrative. This character is a short hand symbol, a thing I the narrator use in which to convey an idea that may not be conveyable in terms of the more limited approach of descriptive imagery, plot, narrative direction. Why do I tell you about Ray and Ray’s exploits over and over again? I do not know. Why do you read Rumi or any of the other poets?

But these are just ideas dear friend, words that flow out from the mouths of babes. And beware, here there be wolves in sheep clothing.

On Dirty Little Girls and our Lord Adi Da

I’ll email you, she said as she got in the car. Our journey was complete and now I had time to reflect on what had happened. A friend, a submissive, a purring sex kitten, a wicked mess of a little girl.

Well, she said she would email me and that was all I knew. Away she went, but I was satisfied, satisfied that she was riding away in a friend’s car, safe and sound, satisfied that I had  facilitated exactly what I hoped to facilitate, satisfied that she had had a great time and I had gotten a precious little fuck thing. 

I thought she was a filthy little girl, almost eager to degrade herself, her backpack strewn open, red wine, cheese and sandwiches, sweaters and sex. The bottle of wine is tipped over and we are purring in heat against each other while Adi Da, the elven king, Presides over us, Hovering entirely too near our little circle of sex. And as eager as she was to be a little fuck slut she was just as ready to take orders, to follow closely, her mind turned on and sharpening its edges.

Oh fuck me Daddy, she squeals, as I bucked my hips into her. She likes it lying down, her face in the blankets and the red dust and dirt of the Ka’u plains. Green sand glitters gold on the blood running down her legs. Drunken accidents she says. I fell down a cliff she says. But it was just a tiny ledge at the bottom of the hill. A propensity for exaggeration. A trait dear to my heart. And then there was Adi Da…

Adi Da the faery fucking kingk

So Satori also known as  Adi Da, the faery king, both, names that were pronounced upon him at various points in our journey, traveled with Lady J and I from Pahoa to Green Sands and beyond. Revealed along that way was what an entire freak show of a human being Mr. Satori himself, Lord High Guru Adi Da of the Infinite Bliss Consciousness One Man Movement was. A squirly mess of a man-child hopelessly devoted to the Infinite Vagina and lacking any real abilities in the art of social mores, my ettikink’s opposite.

Lord Adi Da Satori Sir, freaked out on bliss wave pulsations, speaks the faery king’s tongue, oracular preaching false religion, calling the one true heart song believers unto him. Of course it was all a joke, one big tongue in cheek religious trip I could finally, out of total lack of credibility, get behind, and get behind I did. I worshiped the guru, feeding morsels of the most erotic eye glances deep into his hungry hole, penetrating him with my attention. I stroked his hair and held his heavy head in my hands like a slave while I threw my thumb to the gods of hitch hikery.  I gave myself fully to the bhakti Shakti pot vibration of our Lord Adi Da. I did what had to be done.

Merchandise Comes As Is

Merchandise Comes As Is...

“Master, where would you like the chairs to go” I asked.
“Why don’t you stack them like we did last time, next to the boxes of clothing in the garage.”
“Ok”, I said.

I bent over deliberately with a slow inhale and hoisted both chairs into my arms carefully and took them out through the kitchen and into the garage. Inside I stacked them away as carefully as Master had shown me in exactly the place he said.

I loved Master, in a way. I loved what he brought out in me, that element of service and submission. But submission that is of the sorts that wants to do its absolute best. And because I felt comfortable with Masters wishes and expectations of me, I felt comfortable with my best.

Once Master had me set the tables. I watched Him first, observing the order in which he set the China and then the silverware. And then I followed, obediantely mimicing his motions, proudly wearing the civilization he brings to the beast inside. And this delights me. And I know it delights Him.
But there is One thing that he must know…

Merchandise Comes As Is

How is the Merchandise…

As is ready

Is worn

Is torn out of

Porno

Magazines Heir’s

As you Are

As is

Verbs rebounding

Sounds a ruckus

Pounding

In my head

As SHIT SIT PISS

As his dreams

Of bliss

As a handful of money bought hand over fist

Well, remember…

Merchandise comes as is…

“Come on me, whore” I said.
And as he jerked off, he did. That was enough for me. I had gotten what I came for. A fantasy's load of semen blasted on my back. He came to kiss me and I laughed him off and said, "None of that".