Friday, June 26, 2015

Fury Road (Bushwhacker)

My name is N. 
My world is fire and blood. 
I am a man reduced to a single instinct. 
To fuck.

You ravaged my world, my little Furiosa, as you passed me in that intersection so I had to give chase. Yea, I ran a cyclist off the road. Right smack dab into a group of small children gathered in some sort of huddle. Maybe it was a prayer circle - but who gives a fuck.

I weaved in and out of traffic, jumped curbs and medians, cut off a truck who then had to slam on his brakes. . .a lovely day really. You know, I'm glad several cars behind him all fender bender-ed into his ass. Unlike me, he was a road raging narcissist! 

My road to redemption however detoured through your love tunnel. After several blocks of going through alleys, up one ways the wrong way and cutting through abandoned lots, I became lost. Basically my sex life writ large.

But then I saw you make a turn and I gunned it through the red light and over those pesky, orange drums. What purpose, other than cluttering up my rear axel do those god damn things serve anyway?

We never did actually make eye contact, which, of course only heightens your desire. I know you felt me. I mean I drafted you like a Nascar veteran on a Mexican speed ball. Witness me for I ride eternal, shiny, and chrome! 

I admit, when our bumpers rubbed briefly, I jizzed. A lot. So hard, in fact, that my cock ring popped off and so I sullied my new plaid boxers.

Sadly, the construction sign that I was dragging finally took its toll on the Honda interceptor. The cones wedged in the wheel well certainly didn't help. And I have no idea how a 10 speed got wrapped around my rear differential. I mean, those selfish fuckers have bike lanes. Long story short, I missed our connection. 

I know that you or someone like you is just waiting for me to jump from a moving car, onto your hood and straight into your, more than statistically probable: bald, bang-me-hole. 

Where must we go, we who wonder this wasteland in search of the better, the untrimmed, the untamed, the wild, the 1970's porn bushy, hairy V-JJ? Seriously. Shave your pits, shave your legs, hell, shave your head; its all sexy. Just leave that moist, poon-tang paradise a jungle for once in your pathetic, meaningless, ankle tattooed, sleep aided, banal array of a bourgeoisie philistine life. 

And when I find that overgrown, forested clam gash. . . it will be a lovely day. Oh what a lovely day!

N.

Wednesday, June 24, 2015

The Vulva Cherry Receptacle (POV)

 

Every morning you first stop at your employer's mailbox. Both boxes, your hot one and the mail are in the direct line of sight from my work.

Do you see me a mere 300 yards away? Pressed up to the glass, drooling? Do you notice my jean's zipper stressing from the pressure of my viagra intensified, bulging girth of man excitement?
Of course you do, how could you not?

I never tire of these rendezvous. I've come to need them actually. The way you gracefully navigate the short distance, from your vehicle to the package receiver, and then back. Radio blaring, cell phone pressed to your face, hands pulling at a just-too-short skirt. A multi-tasking love goddess. I feel like I've known you my whole life.

Speeding away to your designated parking takes you out of my view. And so even though alarms are sounding in my production area, and the ruling economic order's hooligans are yelling at me, I walk outside and pretend to get something from the Honda. I stare as you effortlessly carry in purse, bags, folders, coffee, fruit, yogurt, makeup, mace, iPad, charger, mirror, and what looks like a curling iron and a World War II era mine clearing device. All with that short-stepped, crouched, high heel walk that I have come to adore and memorialize in several intense jerk sessions while standing at the urinal.

Yes! I am the guy several hundred feet away now, with a wet spot next to my zipper. I know you sense me, especially when I trip over that one pothole in the middle of the lot. Every. God. Damn. Time. Do you see my reflection in the glass doors as you enter, or maybe in that giant phone still pressed to your face?

I know you long for me. One day I will muster the courage to leave a long, stiff note in that humid, dented box of yours. The one you fondle with every morning because the flap is loose and won't stay closed like it used to. It's ok. As I know how to work an exhausted, burnt out, cock locker of a delivery snatch back into a spurt-sauce gushing, proud pudendal slit bunker once more.
But now the coke machine vending lady is pulling up and I am over you. . . distracted.

N.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Aphrodite's Spell (Desoto Annex)


[Names have been changed to protect the *guilty*. To ensure there fate rests solely in my hands.]

Pan gave Echo something I never could. Children. Not her own of course but children none the less. It also pains me greatly to say that they shared a deep love and respect for music. They always did. Pan and I worked together over the years and I was clueless to the lust he held for my Echo.
By worked for - I hope you perceive of the less than legal sort. Being wrapped up in myself, as usual, I missed the connection.

What she could not know was that I was a pawn in Pan's elaborate scheme. I was taking the fall for his crime thinking at the time that he was helping me. So to make a long story short, he got the loot, the girl, and my downfall.
But he also got my full attention.

Echo, feeling betrayed by my seemingly less than zealous commitment to leave the criminal life behind found solace in all the wrong, ironic and ultimately deadliest of places. If you ask me he also put her in a trance. Truth is the trance was mine alone. Always in my own head, the object of my desire never took a material form, never properly "existed", instead she seems always to "insist". The realization brings no comfort. It is the abyss that stares back.

But before I could get to him, I had to survive my time inside. Kentucky thought it best to keep me alive by sending me to Arcadia in the Everglades. But Pan's people are everywhere and so it should come as no surprise to you that he helped orchestrate that move as well. Even running away means playing into his hand.
And so the only road to redemption is back through the way you came. That meant taking down two brothers. Pan's men inside. Henchmen of the finer sort. A handful.

Paniskoi (nicknamed Little Pan) and Faunus (nicknamed The Oracle).

'Cleaning' them and escaping Arcadia is what ultimately unleashed Nemesis. But that story is for another day. Who is Nemesis you ask?
Allow me to quote Bricktop, who said it best. "A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent." Personified in this case by one horrible cunt. Nemesis.

N.

Sunday, June 21, 2015

My Love is all Gonorrhea (Flaring up, Again)


I'd love to start this by saying I missed you but, we all know thats just not true. I rarely think of others. Thinking about me is a full time job, no, make that career. Even when I do include you in my thoughts its only to determine how I am being perceived by someone like you.
I traffic in types.

An exhausting profession if there ever was one. Controlling your image of me. Please appreciate the nuance here: What I actually do, if I for instance in my daily actions even match the image I cultivate so painstakingly, matters little. Whether I actually know Kung Fu is irrelevant you see. But that someone like you believes I know Kung Fu, well, thats the payday.

Sure, I'd love to sit around and whine that my Mothers extensive 'research' into the lucrative business of high end 'escorting' and/or my Fathers shady riverboat gambling racket predetermined who I am. But how can I then take credit if something is predetermined? No, I shall not share the limelight dear reader.

What is predestined however is the Nemesis. She is rather relentless. Missing her connection may prolong your life. The opposite of Echo. The one and only Echo.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Some formal introductions are in order.

My name is Narcissus. You can call me N. The State of Indiana released me to Kentucky once their sentence was complete. Overcrowding, while distasteful, worked in my favor. The State of Kentucky recommended parole be denied and so forces beyond your small comprehension adjusted that outcome to what better suited their needs. Real power, like real news, is something someone doesn't want you to know. Everything else is advertising.

Not my power or needs you understand. I was content to stay where I was. My arch-rival, we'll call him Pan, apparently has some use of me out here. 'Crossed Out' back into the courtyard. One is never really free. His fiendish schemes tend to unravel slowly so there is no sense in giving into fear. That will come later.

Permit me to make a few observations of your missed connections. 1.) Are you seriously going to elect a Bush or Clinton again? What in the entire fuck are you even still voting for anyway? Goddamn you all are some of the dumbest humans to piss and shit on this planet. 2.) I see your bloodlust for black males hasn't subsided. If you could comprehend what you read, you might see that Ole Frankie Wilkerson III has you crackers pegged. 3.) Yanis Varoufakis. The closest you n00bs will ever get to a living Marxist with balls. 4.) The walk bridge is a nice touch.

No, I'm being sincere. I'll be drunk and vomiting off it this weekend all while finger banging your daughter. You can pay for her therapy later. Or just give her some of the Klonopin your taking for the finger banging you want but won't let yourself have. Either way, we are all lying. Don't sweat it Barabbas, at least you can breath a sigh of relief tonight as you crucify yet another black male on TV. 
The ever present laugh track helps too.

It's not important that you admit to missing me. I already know it.

N.
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