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bugginoutofthisworld · 10 months

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Pandora's Shop (or, Bodega Triangle)

I’d decided to shed my skin, which had been flaking off for years, in a place of nightmarish liminality. Where the only variables are expiration dates. The neon mermaid bade her tail and winked at me as I shook dandruff from my scalp in a snow of powdery crust. A chill overcame me and my dry skin cracked further, an artificial breeze constricting my pores. The palms of my hands clammed, something that hadn’t happened since a childhood incident with a bullfrog who’s piss gave me warts between my fingers so big they couldn’t close. Leaving the quarry that day was a kid who didn't shake hands and his butterfly net of sun-dried tadpoles.

Chipped paint on vestibule walls. Nothing is less appealing to a customer than last year's eggshell under this year's ivory. How hard is it to slap a layer of varnish to wood panels so dry even the termites have gone? It would give the sticky handles of carts and baskets some justification; oh their money is being used on aesthetics rather than sanitation, can’t have both that’s for sure. The soggy coupon ad in the basket I grabbed plopped onto the trashcans rim and slid to the bottom of the bag with a squelch. The radio above reminded me, in the words of Sheryl Crow, “all I wanna do is have some fun.”

Shattered stained glass like that which belongs in a cathedral cracked under my fingers and scathed the wax floor that led to aisles of superfluous inebriation. I’d have stayed home if not for my inability to function without room-temperature vodka in my stomach. And knowing myself as well as I do, the half-fifth I had at home was full of water. Drunk-me had stopped putting my vodka in the freezer because most mornings I’d shakily wake up to it frozen. My ironic humor led my eyes to watch the shelves for new drinks I’d never try. Whenever my work friends and I go out to the bar they order seltzers, something their wives said would quell a beer gut. Frankly, carbonation and vodka sound as appealing as children and pedophiles, but as one might justify his pedaracy, what was the harm in looking?

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With a handle of the most acetone-like vodka tucked under my arm, sloshing a foamless tide, I was ready to pull a swig. To pickle your insides was the most common cause of death in my genealogy. Most of us died pre-embalmed. I told my mom before she passed that I wouldn’t turn out like her brother, my uncle. Who bisected himself and his car on a telephone pole while on the run from a townsworth of sheriffs who were called to chase the violent bank robber that smelled like cinnamon whiskey and could hardly stand, let alone point a gun.

She croaked, and out came the bullfrog; a warty beast of sebaceum so viscous that most flies were caught on him rather than by him. And fed from a stagnant pond with mosquitoes so bountiful they outnumbered the people that lived in the apartments below. Nests of eggs were laid at the pond's edge and under a mountain of muck at the bottom the bullfrog lay masked, waiting for the buffet of hatchlings. From that hill rooftops seemed like asphalt ground and trees like bushes that lined an infinitely expansive blue front door. What I’d always wanted was to knock and ask for directions home.

The cashier behind the till stared at a vacant wonderland ahead of him. If there was a dollar in that till for every zit on his face he’d have enough to break a day’s worth of twenty’s. A haunting atmosphere became of him and the white noise emanating from the humming soda coolers. Fluorescent light is a killer of organic energies, shattering the bone under the skin. Nothing about the cashier felt less than uncanny; human cartilage.

Breakfast was a meal I routinely skipped. In favor of a mug of black coffee and a glass with a raw egg, hot sauce, vinegar, salt, and pepper in it which, along with a shot of vodka, was the only cure for the gale winds and dead fire I awoke to every morning. With more skin left to peel than time I had I wandered with the hurriedness of a molasses snail. Cereal changed little after all these years. A shiny new logo, a thinner mascot, and forgoing box tops for education.

Post Honey Bunches of Toes: For the kid who hates corn chips but loves the smell. Never has breakfast been gamier. Enjoy our new sock fuzz edition! Watch the strands of fuzz swirl in your milk and forget the days of yawns at the breakfast table. Once you’ve finished, fish around the bowl for loose toenails and satisfy that childlike oral fixation! For every ten boxes sold we’ll donate toes to a child in need. Coming soon: new blister flavor!

Even before the hangovers, waking up in discomfort was as regular as morning dew or an oily nose. To remember falling asleep was to beg for memories that weren’t there. After a while of asking I’d just accepted that it was impossible for me not to fall asleep on the couch and have my step-dad carry me to bed. Food was a distant thought in my waking mind. Water was in orbit. But to rectify the pain was as immediate a concern as an asteroid barreling through the atmosphere. My step-dad was the kind of tough that you’d only come to realize was a farce after he succumbed to the hurt. Enough times of seeking help and only getting a fistful of painkillers was a lesson in complacency.

My childhood woes often lost themselves amongst my boundless imagination. Playing with action figures, who could be heroes, villains, cops, or teachers all in one day was my favorite pastime. Hesitancy overcame me in the toy aisle of the store. Although their heroes were more plastic than mine, and although their eyes drooped the way cheap paint runs, I couldn’t fight the melancholic nostalgia that made me bite through my gummy lips. I might not see a hero in Strongarm Mike or Daredevil Nick. But I do see the opportunity to create for them a life beyond their toxic Chinese parts.

Two princesses, in royal blue and purple gowns dance a waltz in a glittering ballroom. From them emanates a hue of sparkling magic which guides their dancing feet and tosses the tulle of their gowns in a dramatic flair. Under the glass floor two heroes’ barrel through the raining debris of a falling skyscraper, each with an unconscious construction worker thrown over their shoulder. A figure-eight of the princesses' wands invites the men into their realm and sets the workers in pumpkin-shaped ambulances. Mike grabs the hand of the blue princess who, with a wave of her wand, clothes him in a teal suit. Nicks’ purple princess bestows him a lavender colored ensemble. The pairs break off and sway with each other to the sound of fluttering piano keys.

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A tactic in self-preservation I’d learned early on was to piss in a drawer at the corner of my room. There was a book I’d read in second grade that taught me about pheromones, about the way animals secrete fluids that can invite or deter others. Like a sort of implicit instruction that finds itself teaching from the subconscious. The bullfrog hated the drawer. My experiment started once my fear of crossing his path overwhelmed my need to piss. On the precipice of an infected tract, I awoke one night to a strained throb in my bladder. While half-asleep I wandered over to the drawer which presented itself to me as a porcelain latrine. In a frothy gush like that of a breaking dam I flooded the drawer. And went back to bed. The next morning the bullfrog wasn’t standing over me nor did I wake up with the pains. After a few more weeks of using the drawer, I’d figured out the correlation.

I ran my nose up and down the cleaning aisle in marathon laps. Like some scentless apprentice I could distinguish clean linen from lavender serenity from April fresh from blossom and breeze from Hawaiian aloha from fresh lemon. They worked in harmony to create an environment that left my skin itchy and my lungs ablaze as the chemical compounds worked their way into my already clogged bronchi. And remembering the time I poured bleach into my piss drawer and created a gas so noxiously overwhelming it did the bullfrogs job for him I hesitated as I made my way.

Cotton fabric is a particularly absorbent material. My clothes always had a musk of cigarettes and nap sweat from my jackets to my boxers and socks. Yet, I was olfactorily unrecognizable. The ecosystem of sanitizing elements that watched me like birds on telephone wire, without trying, hid me in a drape of anonymous scent. Into the mirage of frost, I disappeared. And cried. Bees attacking my eyes with their sharp thoraxes. Gushes of salivation clawed my sunny eyes and bled onto my face. Into the freshly peeled skin of my cheeks, dry and raw, ran a tidal of abstract, toxic compounds. Underfoot the ground disappeared and became a crunchy and brittle surface. My blue toes, numb to thought, squelched in the swamp at the soles of my shoes. Fire engulfed what nerves were left to sing a song of damnation. Shaking so violently the world crumbled from its trembling axis. Fell into a clear void of thick fog which hissed from every point possible in the third dimension.

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The price of milk is only getting more expensive- I mean what is the deal with inflation? Whoever is behind this must be the same ladies working on my husband's tits. And it’s not just because he has a baby on the way- no ma’am. It’s because he has two babies on the way. If you’d have told me that my husband getting pregnant would make him horny and well-endowed I’d have stopped masturbating in the bathroom after he fell asleep years ago. No, no- I’m serious. Nothing makes me feel uglier than looking up into the mirror stained with his popped pimples and toothpaste spit and seeing the face of the gal who just came into her toilet to Three Latina Death Row Inmates Play Strip Euchre. Anyone seen any good movies lately? No? Sorry I forgot it was the great depression. Let me roll my eyes and exhale from my nose dramatically real quick. Anyway, I just got back from seeing that Everything Everywhere All At Once flick- It’s the movie about a dimension hopping mom and her evil lesbian daughter. Whatever, I got to thinking… I wonder if there's a universe out there where my husband is not such a bitch? Look I’m glad we got men's rights, but what about men's wrongs?

I tried to drown myself in that drawer full of piss. By the time the bullfrog was gone to another pond, it had become a murky, autumn colored liquid that seeped through the thin tile at the bottom and dripped onto my floor. But once I’d started pissing in there I couldn’t stop. Everything about that house scared me even after I knew, consciously, it was safe. But some tickle in the back of my mind kept saying it would be back. But I’d seen him hop over to the pigs and play in the mud; last I heard he was living with some birds in a steely nest. And the day came when I learned that it doesn't take much for a lilypad to sink.

The world is ending inside my head.

Find that fuse, which grows from the earth

like a juvenile sprout.

If we were in a hotel I’d say avoid the stairs

and the active shooter.

And when my dog was a duck

I still loved him.

While ants' lap spilled vodka from the couch.

This is like the third kid I’ve killed this way.

If you walk a little farther

you’ll save some money

and make sense of roadkill

and their absent eyes.

and I’ll never be on stage again.

Yet the world persists.

Horridly the presence of asparagus became on me. I’d never wanted again to smell piss so pungent. Artichoke and spinach danced a dip as one. The apples removed layers of caramel seductively and stroked their wooden sticks. Gleeks, sung a mashup of songs that swung and just barely missed a spot in the top 40s. Harmonizing ambiently was the chime of bell peppers. It was midnight all the time. Spicy germ chimed against the membranous wall and echoed toward the tall ceilings and their waning light. Words from languages foreign to human ears, ginger root communicated with a bug-like discourse. Belly laughing pumpkins. An assault of melon seeds against any thick, echoing surface: stone for a bass-heavy thud, metal made a rattling clang, and wood made for a thin, clapping instrumentation. But in a band all parts are made equal; it's the sheet music which permits bias.

Those tomatoes in the corner creating martyrs of themselves, by Florence, they call to me. I’m at the front of the classroom being pelted by spitballs from bullies who might just yank my underwear by my autographed waistband. A match held just under my nose takes hair in sulfur wisps; melting that thin septum of mine to a drippy goop. I believe in protein powder for its glamorous-physique- inducing milk chocolate goodness. Granola makes for too harsh a meal; no yogurt can dull the stalactite-sharpness of any grain. I believe they are coming and I shall light another match and put my nose back in place. Spuds on the floor hear me when I say to you, “por que no los dos?”

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Forsaken by my skin and now as fresh as a newborn chick. Where my feathers are dangling stems of chewy nerves and I am dressed in a clear-orange sauce of fluid. The shelves no longer behold themselves to merchandise and the only light is that which comes in from the moon and street lamps outside.

My cashier exploded, like pressurizing a can of tomato paste there are streams of meat that cover every-inch of in a six-foot-radius from where he stood. I suspect the bills in the till are still fresh and crisp, however. All I can audibly distinguish is the whir of machinery that keeps fridges cool and freezers frigid.

“Underdog, underdog.” Croaks an appalling voice. “Speed of lightning, roar of thunder,” it continues, “stare directly into the sun and see how clean that makes your clothes. Stains do not a good boy make. Your mother would be so disappointed in you. Those scuffs on your white shoes would send her reeling. You know I could clean them up for you. Go ahead and take off your shoes.”

I step from my formerly white tennis shoes, the color of their underside.

“That’s a good boy.”

“Thank you.”

“Thank you, what?”

“Thank you, sir.”

“That's better. Now let's get that shirt and those shorts into the washer, I thought you hated playing in the mud? That was the first thing your mom told me about you, and something I never forgot, ‘this boy of mine hates to get dirty,’ she said.”

I stepped into near-nakedness by taking off my shirt and shorts, left in my underwear, socks, and forsaken knees.

“There we go. Oh you must be so cold. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a warm shower? Wash some of that dirt off your face and get yourself clean before dinner.”

“Yes, sir.”

I abandoned my briefs and cotton socks on the bathroom floor where they became fabric mush; abstracted by sprinkles from the cool shower water. Shampoo de-greased my hair, conditioner made it soft, no soap was strong enough to rinse from me the oil of hands that caressed my up and down and smoothed my skin from the roughness made by the peach fuzz of a fawnlette. And I’d always been grateful that in a shower there were bountiful excuses to dismiss what looked like crying. And what may be blood washed down the drain never to be seen again. And what was pain could be dulled by making the water hotter.

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bugginoutofthisworld · 1 year

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SUN DOGS - from Tales From the Dickt: Cumplete Edition

“I know that what you call ‘God’ really exists, but not in the form you think; God is primal cosmic energy, the love in your body, your integrity, and your perception of the nature in you and outside of you” - Wilhelm Reich, 1945.

The energy manifested in that public restroom on that harrowing day was unlike any conceived before. Its limestone, tile walls had become washed with a lavender hue and the air itself took on the limber physicality of waves in the ocean. Swathes of people sat on the sticky, urine-soaked floors and gawked in amazement at something that beheld a capacity for beauty which was not meant to be seen by human optics. I had been engrossed in its divine aura for an afternoon so long it seemed like it would never end, oh how I wish it had.

Customer service is a dehydrating occupation, it begets the kind of thirst that can only be quenched by diet coke and bi-hourly smoke breaks. It’s the kind of career that demands you forgo the physical sensations of poor health and consume inhibitors that provide you with fleeting feelings of energy. Generally, working customer service is like taking deep breaths at the summit of a high mountain, bad for you.

I liked to occupy myself on lunch breaks with a book. In equal parts due to my love for literature, and also the complex character it presents to the boy in the bakery I've wanted to scramble my insides since the day I started working there. I was remiss that day to have to end my time with Kafka’s The Trial sooner than I’d like because of how my bladder berated me that it needed emptying. My assumption that not drinking water for four hours would correlate to less bathroom breaks couldn’t have been more wrong.

An empty bathroom is always a pleasant place to be. Ever since an uncomfortable middle school locker room interaction where a boy a year older than me laughed at the size of my flaccid penis I’ve been detrimentally pee-shy. It wasn’t until earlier this year I was finally able to use the urinal without having to add numbers in my head in order to suppress the fears that filled my blood stream with adrenaline. As I pissed I thought of how far I’d come in my journey with public restrooms. It's a frightening place, but when you work at a grocery store any vacant space is a safe one. While washing my hands at the sink an older gentleman walked in. He was of the decrepit type. His cane bent and creaked like an old tree as he shifted his weight onto it with every other step.

Much like me, he’d gone for a piss. I jumped when as I was leaving, he shouted in regret. The old tree lost its battle to the violent winds.

“No! No! No!” He yelled. The old man fell onto the floor with the kind of force that makes you want to avert your gaze it looks so painful. With embarrassment his face grew red and hot, he groaned and writhed on the floor.

“Sir!” Shouted I, concerned. I knelt beside him.

“Please don’t.” He grabbed for my shoulder. But it was too late. My eyes trailed down his shirt, wet with piss, to his exposed lower stomach, following the hairs that went from his outie-belly button and into his pubes, and landed my gaze on his cock. His wonderful cock. The magnum opus of all God’s creation. A blue halo of plasm shone from his genitals. It waved from east to west to east to west like a dowsing rod scanning the room for information. Words cannot describe the influence of the old man's junk. Human words would simply be reductive to the inexplicable effect of his cock.

A later player would verbalize its effect as being “like that of something with an extra dimension our eyes are too rudimentary to perceive.” The later player stepped into the bathroom, momentarily aghast.

“What the…” he trailed off. His hard, leather exterior was in a single moment

completely disarmed. He’d fallen to his knees and like a child toward the cookie it salivated over crawled impishly at the old man and myself. Not a word was spoken by him, the motorbike man, he could not steer his eyes from the trance the old man's cock had upon him. Tears welled and spilled from the ducts of his eyes and caressed his cheeks like the loving hand of a mother.

“Sir?” I asked.

“Oh god no.” Murmured the old man.

With the application of his large, callused fingers, the motorbike man swiped at his eyes and presented to us both the contact lenses he had just removed. No sooner had the significance of that fourth dimension become any clearer.

“I can see again,” the motorbike man said as he swallowed a large globule of phlegm and pride.

“You stay here,” I told the man. Leaving the side of the older gentleman and having exited the bathroom. I pondered the nearby dairy aisle for the sort of person who might prove this hypothesis. Who stared at the shelf of cottage cheese but a man whose arm was slung in a cast. “Excuse me?” I asked him as I neared.

“Huh?”

“I work here and I was just wondering,” thinking, “if you’d be interested in trying a new flavor of cottage cheese?”

“What flavor?”

“Uhhh,” thinking, “colby jack.” I said, with the type of unsteady confidence that led my statement to sounding like it should have ended with a question mark.

“Sure.” Responded the mad cow man, indifferent. Without another word I led him into the bathroom where the motorbike man still wept and the old man still lay in agony. “Why are we in a bathroom?” He asked.

“Uhhh,” the presence of the cock seemed to have quickened my wit, “it's an inbetween place, so you won’t be influenced by outside stimuli when you taste the cottage cheese and thus provide us with an unreliable and biased opinion.” My ability to sell cheese had filled me with pride.

“Okay.”

“But real quick I need you to step over here and lower yourself-” I hadn’t needed to finish. The orgonic energy of the cock had mesmerized the mad cow man and he was on the floor without a moment's hesitation.

“Oh my god,” he said. “Holy shit.” His arm wriggled in its sling and he pulled it free, waving it around and grasping at the air with his healed fingers as if that capacity of movement in that arm was completely foreign to him. There was a knock at the door. I’d opened it and was amazed to see a line of people compelled by the overwhelming energy that leaked into the store and compelled them to the space.

A pimply lady lowered her acne-ridden face toward the cock and the zits fell from her face like apples shaken from a tree. The scars of cysts past receded and healed flesh took its place. She left the bathroom and had scrawled three different phone numbers on her palm before she’d even completed the length of the line.

An athletically footed man removed his shoes and crusty, matted socks. Before the smell could even permeate the air the color of his feet had maneuvered from browns and greens back to a healthy tan and peach.

Hemorrhoids hung like bunches of grapes from the anus of someone who’d preoccupied themselves too much with fissure-causing anal sex. The grapes shriveled to raisins and plopped onto the floor. The person left the bathroom already in communication with the next person who might once more tear up their freshly healed sphincter.

As if she were sketching a ladder on her arm, a depressed girl with rungs of scars on her wrists rested her forehead near the crotch of the old man. Static connected between the two. Her heart pounded less ferociously against the cage of her ribs and she left the bathroom with a smile.

There was a mid-pubescent boy who’d come in soon after desperate to rid himself of the homosexual thoughts that plagued his mind. His dick was erect as he locked eyes with the penis of the old man but the blood had returned to his system after not more than a minute in communications with the whispers of the cock. His walk had less of a faggy-swish to it and the limp in his wrist had straightened itself.

A lady who hacked out her words as they dodged the lodgings of gunk in her lungs and throat when she spoke had snapped the cigarette tucked behind her ear in half after she’d spent a moment with her bosom near the cock.

A couple struggling with impotencey and infertility had gushed their problems to the therapeutic boober of the old man and left the bathroom having mastered the art of conception.

Hours in the bathroom came and went like vignettes of experience. Time progressed as if it were an anecdote being recounted at the end of a long and fulfilling life. As the couple left I asked them, “tell the next person in line just to wait a minute.” And alone once more in the bathroom was me and the old man.

“Feeling alright, kid?”

“No, honestly.” A monumental strangeness had overwhelmed my senses. The muscles in my face were stretched strenuously as I swallowed wave after wave of salty saliva. The rain pattern of my head had elevated from a drizzle to a hurricane. The symbiosis of my health and the power of the old man's dick had quickly become a negative relationship.

I’d darted for the toilet in an experience which felt like flipping through photos in an album. Just single moments of delirious nausea. Vomit climbed to the apex of my throat and I’d sprayed a gust of it all over the back of the toilet. A chain reaction was occurring which had caused the entire contents of my stomach to evacuate in a single motion. I gagged, choked on bile, and sweat swept in from the side of my face and stung my dry, red eyes. The atmosphere of the bathroom was dancing like the beating of the sun on hot pavement. Consciousness slipped through my fingers like snot through thin tissue.

The sound of gale-wind storms echoed within the pitch-black chamber that was once the bathroom at the back of a grocery store, whose waters had run dry and air had gone stale. Headache like the ricochet of a bullet off concrete which bounced around a vacuum of space. I’d gathered myself and stood with the weak knees that reminded me of the old man's cane. Where had he gone? My knowledge of the bathroom's floor plan was so familiar I was able to follow the length of the wall and make my way to the door.

On the other side was a landscape completely alien to the midwest environments I’d been used to. Dunes of sand piled high into the dark, navy distance and whipped in a flurry so strong I wasn’t sure I could stand it. In the distance lighting cracked and thunder roared. With my shoes tossed aside I ventured into the desert.

Grains of sand beat at my face so strong every half minute I’d assessed it for lacerations. No blood spilled but I’d come to realize that the force of the sand was such that it could create scars and congeal them just as quick. The muscles in the arch of my foot ached as they strained to climb the impossible walls of sand. I’d ascend a dune and frustratingly slide back down as the earth below me avalanched under my weight. All around me were flipped cars and loose groceries that would soon disappear under the sands forever. I finally reached the summit of the largest dune.

There he was.

Not alone.

Knelt at the feet of a beast.

His own pious devotion.

“Sir!” I exclaimed, still enamored by his potential. The exclamation caught both him and the beast by surprise, and they turned to me with bright rubies in their ferocious eyes. Inaudible to me, the old man moved his mouth but the sound lost itself within the fury of the sandstorm. Nearer and nearer to them I slowly grew until finding myself directly behind the old man and tapped him on the shoulder. He spun his head around. His eyes now a fury of green flame. I looked past him, and saw what I shouldn’t.

The motorbike man had previously remarked something to the effect of, “the old mans dick has the effect of something with an added dimension that our eyes are too plain to see,” at this moment the old man held something in his hand which had spilled drool onto his chin and made his eyes red. What he held were the beast's genitals, which had inspired a similarly grand feeling as the old mans, but in the opposite direction.

Like a mirage, they vanished into the dust and darkness, but not before the beast could utter a final, single, chilling phrase.

“A little privacy please?” With the conclusion of the last syllable they congruently disappeared.

Home was now possibly dimensions away, although it had just been down the road, I’d never found it. And for the rest of time, for as long as it took the sun to die I remained in the whipping sands. Eating nothing but bags of chips and cans of beans. Not once for the eternity that consumed me did sexuality ever cross my mind,

how could it?

#writeblr #writers of tumblr #queer writers #creative writing #fiction #short story #bugginoutofthisworld

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bugginoutofthisworld · 1 year

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illustrations from enough is enough: meditations for living dysfunctionally by Karen Finley

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bugginoutofthisworld · 2 years

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BOoTW: Genesis, Episode Two

Scene One

“Captains Log, star date: May 16th, 2421. We’ve experienced our first upset as a collective. After two at-home abortions in the span of 6 months this crew is in dire need of some rest and reproduction. The thin metal walls of this ship are hardly enough to stop us from fixating on the vastness and uncertainty we are constantly enclosed within as we travel through space…is the roundabout way of saying I’ve started masturbating to young pictures of my mom and I no longer feel guilty. I take it upon myself as captain of this ship, the glorious Rib, to treat my cum rags to a party they’ll never forget. Now if only I could find a Target at the next dwarf star, french onion dip is non-existent in this quasar. Harold out.” Harold drops his tape recorder like a microphone, and leans back into his captain's chair crossing his arms with a smug smile of satisfaction.

“Will you please stop reminding us of the abortions? It's hard enough with them rotting away in the corner. Remind me again why we couldn’t just throw them in the trash? Or better yet have Gloria eat them. You know she loves red meat,” says Whitney, the panther in heat with enough pixie dust between her thighs to make a grown man start masturbating to young pictures of his mom.

“We can’t throw them away, Whitney. Lest you forget I’m pro-life and need them for propagandic purposes when we get to Eden,” Harold responds

“Speaking of which, what's our ETA? We’ve been traveling almost a year right?” Whitney leans down next to Harold who pulls up a digital countdown app that appears in front of them as a green transparent screen.

“At this rate, we’ve got 14 light years, 8 light months, 27 light days, 9 light hours, and 53 light minutes. But there’s construction about 7 light years ahead so anticipate 6 light months of wiggle room,” answers Harold.

“Well fuck, by the time we get their my forbidden fruit is gonna be rotted. Who's gonna take a bite of me then? Dammit.” Whitney begins slowly walking away, each clack of her 7 inch black bread knives signifying a new bubble of ideas that stems from her head. “Hey Harold, when was the last time we checked in with the Embassy?” Whitney asks, her white, toothy smile grows calculatingly confident.

“Definitely after the first abortion but not since the last. They looked the other way once, but I can’t count on them being cool with the rest.”

“The rest? We’ve only had two!”

“Yeah but I want more. You can’t get an entire culture to disavow abortion without abortion happening.”

“We’ll deal with that later then. What we need right now is a vacation!” Whitney grabs Harold by the shoulder and drags him from his seat.

Scene Two

The two sit in front of a lime green rotary phone in the living room, decorated like the 1970s. Whitney, with enough testosterone to kill a bull, coaches Harold through his anxieties.

“Okay so when we call them we need to be direct and assertive, don’t apologize, and never say please, got it?” Whitney asks a flaccid Harold who squeezes a brown velvet pillow to his chest, while wiping away his frequent tears.

“Whitney *GASP* I *GASP* can't *GASP* do it. I hate phone calls, I just freeze up. Its like improv but interpersonal.” Harold throws the pillow and tosses his hands around like a little girl terrified at the thought of what might be under her bed.

“You’re a big boy for doing this. Now pull up your pampers and talk to your boss like you’re not a little piece of shit.” Whitney pats him on the back and picks up the phone, “even though you are. Okay here goes.” Whitney drops her finger in one of the rotary’s slots and massages it gently. She rubs her finger on the outside of the slot and dips it back in quickly. She spits on it and rubs faster until the phone rings, she answers. “This is Whitney aboard the spaceship Rib, calling to connect with the World Embassy. In what regards are we calling? Uhm…It’s my money and I need it now?”

The phone makes a few crackling noises until the handheld shoots into the air, suspended in a spot a few feet above the receiver. It shakes a little bit and projects a screen from either of its ends when it stabilizes. Whitney lifts Harold’s sobbing head out of her ferocious bosom and they both stand from the couch. The screen starts a transparent green but fills with black after a connection is established. Two eyes like a set of snake-eyed slowly blink open. Whitney punches Harold in the balls with one hand and grabs his left tit with the other.

“Hello Embassy Apostle Judas,” Harold’s voice shakes as he speaks, “this is captain of the Rib, Harold Washington Library Dr. Suess Trump Rothchild How I Met Your Mother Davenport Esquire the first to report to you on star date: May sixt-,” Harold is interrupted.

“Shut the fuck up and tell me what’s good, bitch.” Judas speaks with a blood red mouth full of razor sharp white teeth that parallel his soulless eyes in their depth. the only features of his visible on the screen.

“Well apostle, what’s good is....” Harold wipes a tear from his puffy red eyes, “our time in space, we are so grateful for this experience, and could not be so gracious as to ever ask for anything more from you. You, like a white dove symbolizing prosperity and hope have delivered us eternal peace as we-“ Harold is interrupted once more.

“Shut the fuck up.” Whitney derails Harold’s train of platitudes. “What’s good apostle is that we’re stressed. Were so stressed we’ve started masturbating to pictures of our young mom’s. We need a vacation.” Acrost millions of light years, Judas and Whitney have a staring contest for the history books, neither willing to break focus.

“Did someone say vacation? God, it's been forever since I killed a hooker in the Hamptons on a weekend coke binge.” Patrick enters the room holding a bowl of cereal wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. An audience claps uproariously with his appearance.

“See it's not just me and this wet tampon,” She motions to Harold again sobbing in her breast, “that need a vacation, we’ve been under a lot of stress up here. All we have left to eat is mashed potatoes, and Patrick only has so many penis attachments.”

“It’s true,” Patrick replies, “they didn’t have enough silicone to fit a hog like mine.” His audience coo’s at the innuendo.

“What happened to all the opiates and liquor we gave you? That was a full trips supply!” Judas remarks like he’s never seen a group with such a hunger for inebriation.

Whitney points behind her at Peggy, passed out on the sofa. The 45 year old with a perm on her carpet and drapes is splayed across a loveseat, covered in vomit, and firmly grasping a nearly empty bottle of Moscato.

Harold rises with determination for the first time during this debate. “And Gloria ate all the Slim Jim’s. I’ve threatened suicide every day I’ve gone without a stick of meat in my mouth that doesn’t belong to Trent.” Harold gasps, remembering he has yet to threaten the group with a suicide attempt today.

“Yeah and I’ve gone through all the hookers you left for me to kill. It’s no fun once they’ve passed rigor mortis.” Harold and Whitney turn to look at Patrick.

“Patrick what the fuck? Is that what all those screams in the middle of the night are?” Whitney begets a sickened face toward Patrick.

“No that’s only me on the nights I masturbate with a knife.” Even Judas looks upon the Old New York stockbroker with disgust.

“Or that could be me screaming, this is the man who removed my tonsils with his swiss army cock.” Gloria enters much like Patrick, wrapped in a towel and enjoying a bowl of cereal. An audience laughs and applauds at her wit.

Gloria notices Judas on call with the three others. “If it isn’t my big eye in the sky Judas. It’s been a while since I sucked a dick as traumatizing as yours.” She turns to the group and holds her hands 14 inches apart, “this big but the texture of an earthworm. I just pray my mother never sees horrors like that…or me when I masturbate to young pictures of her.”

“Have you been drinking?” Judas asks Gloria knowing he paid for her AA classes in the 2410’s. “Anyway, why do you want a vacation? Has anyone told you that people on earth are slowly turning into the baby from Eraserhead due to radiation exposure? Or what about how some people are literally eating Olive Garden? It's gotten so bad that Kohl’s had to close. I had so much fucking Kohl’s cash I was saving for black Friday and now its fucking worthless. So pardon me for being aversive to you wanting a vacation so you can party and fuck and do drugs, which doesn’t seem much different from what you do anyway.'' The group don a unanimous puppy eye at Judas, like toddlers being scolded in kindergarten they cross their arms behind their backs.

“Have you guys tried blackmail?” Peggy rises from her filth, "you think his dick is bad? Guys prolapse is the size of a stovetop burner, and not the ones you use for soup."

“Fuck off.” Judas hangs up, the screen disappears and the receiver falls from the air. Peggy returns to slumber in the stew of excretions she’s coated the sofa with.

Judas’s bite left an emotional mark on the crew, some more than others.

“I’m going to bed.” Harold walks away from the group with his head hung low. “At least I still have my dignity,” he says to himself. The ass-flap of his Ebenezer Scrooge pajamas falls, revealing his perfectly round butt and a tattoo above it that says ‘Mommas Fucktoy’; he seems not to notice.

Scene Three

That night Harold tosses in his sleep. He jolts awake, “oh my stars. This stress is really getting to me. I haven’t had a nocturnal emission in 30 minutes.” Harold pulls his knees to his chest and slumps his head in defeat. After a deep sigh from the depths of Harold’s chest, he turns his head, gazing his nightstand, looking for answers. On the table is a Garfield alarm clock, a box of tissues, a bottle of Jergens’ lotion he cleverly graffitied with sharpie to read Jerkins, and a framed picture of Celine Dion from her most recent farewell tour in 2415.

The Garfield alarm clock bats its eyes at Harold. “What’s with the long cock, Harold?” It asks.

“Oh I don’t know, I just feel like I have no control over this ship or my crew. If Judas always gets the final word, then what's the point of me being the captain?" Harold grows a frown as he begins to doubt himself.

“I assumed captain was a consolation title,” chimes in Celine Dion.

“But my ass is the one that leaves skid marks on the captain's seat. Not Whitney, not Judas, and not my stepmom Tracey. Whose to tell me what I can and can’t do with my own crew? They’re my cumrags for a reason!” Harold sits straight up in bed, the pecs of his barrel chest popping with each new confident breath he takes, the curled tip of his Clark Kent-esque bang throbs and firms.

“Maybe Judas is jealous of you. You’ve got the biggest loads on the ship. Word on the surge protector is that guy got his foreskin reattached twice, and don’t even get me started on his prolapse.” Garfield knows exactly what Harold needs to hear, he’s watched the captain masturbate with a shoe in his ass and the laces tied around his cock too many times to not know Harold inside and out.

“Thank you, Garfield, you’ve been a great help. And not to mention distracting me from the recurring dream of my wife and children being crushed to death by a giant shit covered bicycle in Ottawa.” Harold throws himself off his bed, standing on the cold metal with the confidence of a cockatiel and the throbbing erection of a dog in heat.

Scene Four

Dancing toward the captain's seat on the tips of his toes, Harold has something devious in mind. He reaches the skid mark stained chair and looks upon the panel of flashing lights, switches, and ice cream machines, meditating on what to do. “I think my best bet is gonna be to check the planet database and see what is habitable in this solar system.” Harold stares at the panels of colorful lights in front of him for a moment, he turns his attention to an old pc covered in dust. He runs a set of bike pedals under the desk and it slowly boots up. A retro green and black screen prompts Harold,

PASSWORD REQUIRED

“But of course,” Harold taps his chin. A smile crosses his face and he reaches his hand around to dig deep into his ass, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He opens it and attempts some of the passwords written down.

JESUSWASNTWHITE, he types, INVALID PASSWORD, the computer responds.

BLACKPINKINYOURAREA, he types, INVALID PASSWORD, the computer responds. ONE ATTEMPT REMAINING, the computer notifies Harold, a pearl of perspiration gleans down his neck.

IWILLKILLTHEPRESIDENTFORJODIFOSTER, he types…VALID PASSWORD, the computer responds. The screen dims, after loading for a moment displays a map, with the ship at its center and the galaxy that surrounds it.

“Fuck yes. Now if my one semester of community college has taught me anything, it's how to find a party.” Harold closes the map tab and opens a web browser in another, he types in Spacebook and clicks on the first link. “Awe geez I don’t know, I haven’t posted on my feed in a while, and there’s so many birthdays I missed, probably some dead grandmas too. How should I word this?” Harold taps his chin for a second, a lightbulb blinks weakly above his head.

Harold Ren and Stimpy Jaida Essence Hall Digiorno Black and Decker Trump Rothschild the First the Squeakquel the Xequel, status: ONLINE.

“hey sex toys and soft spots of the worm wide web. Are there any good parties happening soon in the Andromeda B, Delta Z, or Honorary Martin Luther King galaxies? DM with info. can bring a smoke machine. costume parties and petting zoos preferred.”

Harold posts the advert to his wall and kicks his feet up on the controls. “And now we wait. Might be able to bust a fat one in the meantime.” Harold pulls out his cock, the pubes of which haven’t seen a razor since before the ships first abortion. As he’s lost in the wonderful haze of working one's own moist tip, a video call comes through on the monitor above. A face appears and Harold scrambles to squeeze his rock hard member back into his pants. Despite tucking it away the tent remains pitched.

“Hello?!” Harold’s voice cracks with humiliation, damming his ability to notice the creature on the screen, unlike any he’s seen before. A split orange tongue licks plump purple lips out of a yellow pear shaped head, at the top is an antenna that twirls like a tail, purple spots decorate the creature like a cow with grape flavored milk.

“Bonjour, je m'appelle Richard. J'ai vu un Spacebook que tu cherchais pour une fête ?” The creature speaks in a bizarre tongue.

“One second let me turn on the translator.” Harold holds his index finger at the creature while he presses a button that causes a small cat with a microphone in its mouth to emerge from the control panel, tears streaming down the cat's face from its bloodshot eyes. “Sorry what was that?”

“I said my name is Bonjour, I heard you were looking for a party?” The creature reiterates.

"I am! Do you have one I could come to, and possibly accommodate my plus six?”

“And then some, our birthday is tomorrow, it’s a planet wide celebration that lasts an entire day. I’ll send you our coordinates if you wanna come. It starts in 16 eons, just park at the uterus when you get here.”

“Will do! And thank you so much. Bonjour, I bid you an au revoir.”

“How funny, that’s my aunts name.” The screen connecting to the two goes dark. Harold clicks on Bonjour’s message containing the coordinates; he copies them into a separate window.

“Looks like we’re only about 14 eon’s away, I could probably stop for some Subway if I speed at the next nebula.” Harold prints out directions from MapQuest and a BOGO Subway coupon. For the first time in its expedition the ship is pulled from its course toward Eden

Scene Five

In the morning Trent, the twink, walks into the kitchen, wearing an open robe and donning a massive morning wood. He pours himself a cup of coffee, as he turns away his cock slams into the coffee pot causing it to fall, shatter, and spill coffee on the metal floor.

“That’s the third one this week and it’s only Wednesday. Why couldn’t they have given us a fuckin' Keurig.” Trent sits on the couch and gazes out the window into space. “That’s odd, there’s a bit more space out there than normal.” Trent ponders his curiosity over a sip from his cup.

“Good morning jockstrap, how’d you sleep?” Harold emerges into the kitchen sporting the same open robe and hard cock as Harold.

“Not bad, it's my first night this week without having a nightmare of the time my uncle molested me. Or as the courts deduced, when I molested him.” Trent says with a pinch of sarcasm and his fingers fluttering as quotation marks.

“Good morning, Tweedlepee and Tweedlecum.” Whitney enters the room. She wears her white robe closed, but the tent pitched by her erection is less than subtle. “I’d ask how you slept, but if you said anything better than poorly it would just ruin my day.”

“You’re such a cunt,” Trent sneers toward her, “and I love it!”

Whitney steps around the couch and gazes out the window. “Hey Harold, what's up with that giant purple cloud in the distance? The one that sort of looks like a sperm...” she trails off. Trent and Harold stare with her.

Three of the other crewmates enter the room like a sex kabob. Wesley enters first, attached to Gloria through her strap on stuck in his ass, Gloria attached to Patrick’s member stuck in her ass, and Patrick the caboose of the sex-capade.

“Hey you guys…what the fuck is this?” Whitney raises a brow at the poo poo train that enters the room on condom-free tracks.

“That would be the result of trusting someone with an addiction to benzos and vodka over ice to be on lube duty. It's my fault for leaving the gorilla lube right next to the people lube.” Trent gets out despite his speech being muffled by Glorias large, meaty back in his face.

“What’s gorilla lube?” Trent asks.

“It’s a glue invented in the 2300’s to control the spread of the growing gorilla population in Montana. My fathers company stole the patent from a young scientist who eventually killed himself penniless.” Patrick answers.

“I’ve heard about this stuff! Didn’t they make it after Amy Schumer’s gorilla accountant went to jail for fraud? Wait. Why do you have any?” Asks Harold, although his curiosity diminishes beyond any interrogative questions.

“It gives me the kind of friction I need to cum after all the heavy-on-teeth blowjobs I got in Old New York.” Patrick shrugs. “Say, fuck me fucking her fucking him, there’s finally something on the horizon.”

“If it's not a guy behind a Home Depot selling tina out of a Styrofoam cooler I'm not interested.” Peggy says stumbling out of Patrick’s bedroom, distracted by her cataclysmic headache she crashes into the leaning tower of penis, causing all members to fall to the ground. Gloria and Wesley stand free from penetration.

“Guess all we needed was a good shove, I’m just glad no one got hurt.” Gloria smiles with her hands on her hips.

“Speak for yourself,” Says Patrick, who is left with a bleeding lump where his dick once was, “that’s the third one this week, and it's only Wednesday.” Patrick stomps into his room, slamming the door behind him. The crew trade suspicious glances as they hear mechanical whirring through the wall.

“Say, is that giant cloud shaped like a sperm or did I just drink too much Dayquil.” Peggy pulls herself out of stupor long enough to gaze out the front windshield of the ship to notice the ominous cumulus. Although her curiosity doesn't last long as she runs to the kitchen sink, emptying her gullet of the weeks bender.

“It's both.” Trevor stands from the couch, his brazen cock slowly going flaccid. The crew all share a moment of hesitancy uncertain at the object in their horizon. An orange planet, surrounded by golden space, its bodies of water are milky white, and above it a large, purple, sperm-shaped cloud that flickers bright electric light.

“This my beloved crew is the object of the Ribs' first ever vacation. We will land here like the pilgrims at Plymouth rock and fuck this place up the very same. You’re welcome.” Harold bows in front of his crew ready to embrace their thanks and adoration. Whitney throws a handful of mashed potatoes.

“Harold what the fuck?” Whitney darts after him wielding a small blade she pulled from under her robe, destabilizing her pitched tent.

“What about diseases Harold? Do they have a flu we don’t have immunity for? What if their atmosphere turns you into a school bus? DO THEY FUCKING BREATHE AIR?” Wesley begins hyperventilating, pulling a paper bag from his ass and gasping into it. His eyes roll back and he passes out, it was full of spray paint.

“Does Judas know about this?” Trent looks deep into Harold’s eyes.

“No…I just thought you guys would like some time away from the missi-.” Whitney’s foot connects to Harold’s scrotum, he falls to the ground.

Whitney grabs Harold by his hair and lifts his head from the ground. “I would like Starbucks, I would like to see my friends and family, I would like a captain who isn’t a complete knucklefuck and critically thinks about anything other than the hair on his balls. You’re a stupid little man Howard, I won’t be going down with you and I wont be going down on you. I wanted this for sure, but Judas said no. Have you seen his fucking teeth?!” Whitney drops his head and spits onto him, as much as she wanted to kill Harold all that she could focus on were the massive loads he shot in and on her, often covering her in a spiderweb of cum.

“Whitney, I-“ Harold is interrupted by a sudden siren blare signifying that the Apostle Judas is attempting to reach them. The phones handheld shooting into the air displaying the same dark screen once more.

Harold stands, his balls still throbbing in pain, and his heart racing out of fear. Judas doesn’t speak, only staring with his opal-white eyes disapprovingly onto the crew.

“Hey…handsome…are those new fangs? They’re looking especially,” Harold gulps, “sharp today…”

“Harold. I trusted you to pioneer the Rib, no? Were you the smartest student at NASA? No. Did you spend your time getting high and exploring your sexuality? Yes. Did your parents pay millions of dollars to secure you a spot on one of the only ships off a dying planet? Yes.” Harold tugs at his shirt collar.

“How dare you deceive me and the trust I put in you. You were to be the pilot for a new era of humanity, the future, a promise made. You broke that promise and you will pay gravely. So go to your party, because once you return you will regret every keg-stand stood and every pussy ate. Count your days Harold Washington Library Hedwig and the Angry Inch Bonina Brown Pinkett Smith Toyota Schaumburg Goldstone, because they are numbered. Judas. Out.” The line goes silent. The room is submerged in tension as thick as clay. The crew members trade worryful glances.

Harold swallows a large dollop of spit and begins trudging to his captain's seat at the front of the ship. A single tear descends his cheek, caresses his jawline, and crashes into the floor. “Well my crew.” Harold squeezes the firm of his glorious chair, “you heard the man,” he makes a severe hundred eighty degree turn, “LET'S PARTY!”

Patrick exits his room holding a squirming penis replacement, “did I miss anything?”

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bugginoutofthisworld · 2 years

Text

BOoTW: Genesis, Episode One

Scene One

“Captains Log, star-date: October 3rd, 2420. Tomorrow marks the one year anniversary of Mission: Impossible, otherwise known as the end of the world. Bringing Tom Cruise back from the dead for a fifth time to star in another Mission: Impossible reboot was the first sign of the end, like locusts in the biblical apocalypse. Audiences of the film were shocked to find it to be an hours long compilation of two dogs having sex, they were promised three damn-it. It was after this global upset that the citizens of earth experienced mutually assured destruction from all the world's corners. An endless barrage of explosive, shit covered tricycles were sent to destroy New York City by the Russian government. It was a unanimous understanding that the apocalypse was unavoidable. After this the US government sent a crew of 6 fertile people and one gay man into space en-route for the only other habitable planet in the galaxy, Eden. Which brings us to now, I, Harold Dean Stanton Leslie Will and Grace Queen Latifah Trump Rothschild the third Esquire, captain of The Rib (sponsored by Trojan Condoms) am pioneering a ship of the 7 bravest individuals the universe has ever seen towards the future, on a never-ending quest of hope and prosperity. Harold, out.” Harold drops his tape recorder like a microphone and leans back in his captain's chair, crossing his arms in satisfaction.

“Why do you do a captains log everyday if you’re just going to say the same thing?” Asks Whitney, the wrathful one that no one likes. One time she taped Wesley, the virgin sex-nut, upside down on a door because he put her Go-Gurt in the fridge after taking them out of the freezer “THEY’RE BETTER FROZEN YOU NEANDERTHAL”, she screamed at him as he laid on the kitchen floor, face battered with defrosted Go-Gurt.

“I do them because I am slowly losing grip on reality and it’s the only thing that’s keeping me sane.” Harold says with a twitching eye.

“Slowly?” she retorts. Whitney would have been a bloated, frozen corpse in space by now if she wasn’t so god damn seductive. Harold watched her hips swish as she walks away, a whale tail peeking out over her low rise skirt made his tip sticky. A perpetual stickiness permeated the cruise as the 6 passengers were required to have sex with each other on a weekly basis in order to maintain the well-being of their reproductive systems. A seventh passenger, Trent, is gay, so although not required to have sex still takes full advantage of Harold’s ravenous bisexuality.

Scene Two

Later at dinner, the seven crewmates sit around a long wooden dinner table in the dining space of the ship. Attached on either side of the hall were a kitchen and living room, each designed to make the passengers feel as at home as possible. A taxidermy lion's head placed above the TV for Gloria, the pitcher and catcher who throws more balls than a baseball team but to no end, A bag of blood soaked cocaine for Old New York’s greediest stock broker, Patrick, and a wine fridge full of Riesling for Peggy, the alcoholically gluttonous 45 year old who could pass for 60.

Harold sits at the head of the table, his elbows perched on the stained oak and hands tented in front of a disapproving cowl.

“Harold is everything okay?” Wesley gulps, sat with a plate of steak sliced so thin it was transparent and mashed potatoes that were more butter than potato Gloria had prepared for him.

“No Wesley. Everything is not okay.” The group turns to stare at him. Gloria ignorant as she gnaws a bison thigh between her large, round teeth. “There is a traitor among us. This person has betrayed the trust of their crewmates and must be held accountable…Trent!” Harold quickly raises a pointed finger at the masc’ marauder who sits down the shaft of the tables girth. “I know you forgot to refill the ice trays.” Every member of the table gasps, Gloria drops the boar rump from her maw, shattering the plate below when it crashes into the table.

“Who cares you big dildo, go and fill them yourself.” Trent scoffs.

“It’s a principle Trent!” Whitney slams a fist on the table.

“We all signed contracts saying we would look out for our fellow crewmates. My glass of scotch and lady pee is lukewarm because of you!” Patrick swirls his sulfuric beverage.

“I don’t know if I can ever let you 36 me again knowing you could be so reckless with my feelings.” Harold begins to sob and runs off from the table.

“Look what you did Trent!” Peggy maternal instincts kick in as she begins to lactate and run after the weeping man-baby they call captain.

Moments later they both return, Harold with a changed pamper and Peggy a refilled glass of sauvignon-cock. “We're not mad at you Trent, we’re just disappointed.”

“By the way, what's a 36? I’ve heard of 69 and even 42,” asks Wesley.

“Its like anal, but instead the butt goes in the penis.” Harold answers, the room goes quiet, space crickets begin to hum.

“Hey everyone, I’ve got some news that might lift the groups spirits.” Gloria stands and places two hands around her belly, cradling it, “I’m pregnant!” As if from a 1950’s cartoon everyone’s jaw flops distended onto the table, sans Wesley, he stands, placing a veiny, white hand on her belly and a kiss on her cheek.

“Gloria…are you pregnant with Wesley’s child?” Whitney asks, tightly gripping a steak knife.

“Yes and we’re deeply in love.” Gloria was proud to take his virginity for the fifth time.

“She’s the kind of woman I need in my life, one who ties me down and punches my balls with her sweaty fists.” Wesley’s pubes curl just thinking of it, he tightens his thighs around his crotch like a kid who has to pee.

“and Wesley is the kind of man I need, soft on the outside and so eager to be pegged.” They smooch again, the climax of which is stunted by handfuls of mashed potato tossed from the furious crew.

“Don’t you both know what the embassy said about pregnancy?! Or falling in love?” Patrick asks.

“Yes but we couldn’t help ourselves. You just don’t know what it's like to fall in love,” Wesley punctuates his sentence with a gulp of spit that collects in the palate expander he forgot to get removed before leaving Earth.

“The love of my life got crushed under a shit-covered tricycle in Atlantic City.” Peggy puffs a stressed cigarette.

Scene Three

After much fiery and erotic conference about the fate of Gloria and Wesley’s child, the group reaches a consensus.

“At home abortion?” asks Harold.

“At home abortion.” The 6 others say in unison. Harold slams a gavel ribbed for her pleasure.

Months later the group is enjoying a potluck of baby back ribs dressed with placenta sauce, baby carrots with a discharge flavored ranch, and some baby blue frosted cupcakes Peggy baked in her lovin’ oven. Trent mingles with Gloria.

“So how are you and Wesley? Heard he’s back up for sale.” Trent winks.

“The only market he’s gonna be on is the black one. That carrot top looking mother-fucker broke my finger when I stuck it up his ass. We were quietly reading in bed, how was I not supposed to take the hint?” Trent nods with Gloria as they both sip from party punch poured in red solo cups.

“So Peggy, I hear you’ve started knitting lately, if you ever need a model for a sweater, hat, or cock-sock I’m your guy.” Patrick sensually winks at the menopausal sweat ridden Peggy.

“It’s so funny you ask, I was just thinking of adding cock-socks to my Etsy store.” She leans into his handsome face. “I have this perfect one for you to try on, its pink, wet, and mostly free of HPV.” They begin aggressively making out, falling onto the couch behind them. Patrick takes off Peggy’s leopard print vest, exposing rock-hard nipples, nearly piercing the fabric of her purple sweater.

Harold nears the two engrossed in a passionate embrace, placing a chair in front of the couch, and sitting on it backwards. “I’m just gonna watch for a minute.” He touches his growing firmness.

Months later at a group dinner Peggy stands in announcement, “You guys, I’m pregnant!” She jumps and claps with glee. The table readies handfuls of mashed potatoes. Her eyes dart side to side, “and Trent didn’t fill up the ice tray again! Fuck Trent!” He is assaulted by a devastation of mashed potatoes.

End of Episode One

(08/15/2022)

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