Biebz in Da Haus (Or, Aesop's a Fucking Bitch!), Part I

Thanks to a week-long, intensive diet of fibrous carbs and bloody protein, Mark deposited the largest turd in the history of mankind into the bottom of the lone Port-a-Potty servicing the Cedarville 10K's starting line. On top of which he added ten silky squiggles of cum like a horny pastry chef, his shit-log a double-chocolate eclair accented with his second hardy load in as many hours. He wiped himself five times, four of which were superfluous thanks to the plywood consistency of his constitutional, then popped out of the john. And would've shit his pants if his intestines had anything inside them, as he gazed upon what could only have been a ghost.

The boy was the same height as Danny. The same build. The same hair color but cropped short. He even looked around skittishly like Danny used to and wiped his brow nervously with the back of his hand the same way. Mark walked - no, glided without moving his legs - over to the boy. But before he could say a word - could he say a word? - a collective scream went up from the thousands of runners and spectators. He looked to the stage set up to the side, right next to the Port-a-Potty. And watched Justin Bieber moonwalk across it, the singer's eyes fixed on his feet as he made his way to the microphone. Instant boner.

Mark looked back to the doppelganger, but the boy was gone - Mike, his boss, was in his place, his pasty, orange-haired legs dangling from his well-worn black shorts. Mike waved. Mark shook his head. Then nodded. And readjusted his cock in his running shorts so that it was vertical and lay behind his fanny pack. He quickly swiveled his head once more at the sound of a bark behind him. But it was just Detective Jorge T. Vinos, who quickly ducked his head behind his short, fat hand.

"Yo yo yo, what up Cedarville?" Justin yelled, his perfect bowl of hair unmoving in the slight breeze that pushed the heat through the crowd. "Now, boyeeee, I was supposed to sing The Star-Spangled Banner" - the crowd booed - "but I gots somethin' better for yous playas" -the crowd cheered- "Hit it, Scrappy!" And he broke into an acoustic version, played on the electric keyboard by his right-hand thug, Scrappy, of "One Less Lonely Girl," which, of course, for all the world reverberated through Mark's ears as "One Less Lonely Mark."

The men, women, boys, and girls jumped up and down, bobbing their heads, the pavement growing slick with their joyous pubescent and elderly tears. Mark jumped along with them, every hop higher and higher, his eyes fixed for Danny Raleigh's reincarnation. But to no avail. So as Justin hit the last run-on chorus, he slid his way between this fat girl and that old guy here and there until he was at the front of the mass of runners. Feet from Justin, he froze and watched as the singer hit his final note, then bowed to the roar of the audience...and threw a wink his way? Mark pushed his fanny pack against the head of his tiny cock, wetting his waistline.

"Yo yo yo, Cedarville in da house!" yelled Bieber, who then gave the microphone to Harry Papp, the Cedarville Runners Club Chairman.

As the man gave his thank-yous to various organization, individuals, and parasites, Mark watched Justin in the background as the singer got a drink, punched Scrappy in the arm a few times, laughed with his mom, adjusted his baggy jeans several times...and threw him another wink?, all without his hair moving one iota. Until a girl next to him read his mind: "He's so hot!" she screamed. "Yeah," yelled Mark, "I'd eat the corn out of his shit!"

He watched as those nearest him recoiled, their faces scrunched up, mumbled "Ewwww's" escaping their throats. Before he could say anything else, Harry Papp was at his side, jumping up and down. The tiny old man pushed his taped glasses up his nose and laughed. "See you guys at the concert," he said. "Oh, wait, no I won't - I'll be in the front row!"

"Dick!"

"Fucker!"

"Arrogant prick!"

Harry nudged Mark. "Like any of you have a chance." He laughed.

But Mark said nothing. Instead, he watched Justin Bieber tip-toe to the front edge of the stage, hold aloft the starting gun, pull the trigger...and throw him yet another a wink? "See ya," he said and took off, his cock harder than it had been all morning.

A Good Run Munged

Mark's nosehairs vibrated with the scent of the limping animal half a mile away, its odor wild with blood as it foraged on the forest ground, unable to climb. He looked down at the Racemaster 3000 on his wrist, then kicked his jog into the next gear with one powerful stride. In seconds, he hovered over the squirrel, his eyes steady as he watched it stumble to and fro over last year's dead leaves. With a whip of his right arm, he seized the creature, brought it up to eye level, and punctured its swollen belly with his razored fingernails. The thing squirmed, then shuddered, then calcified into death as its entrails poured from its abdomen.

Mark licked the length of the squirrel's hanging intestines before throwing it deep into the woods; its insides tasted not much unlike those of a blue crab. He wished he hadn't been so hasty in getting rid of it as he returned to the trail vivisecting Cedarville Park and his stomach grumbled with hunger. But he grinned - he could see lunch up ahead.

The woman was alone but for her walker. Dressed in a worn housecoat and slippers, she ambled along slowly, as if re-living her eighty-five years one tiny step at a time. Mark overtook her in a matter of seconds, shouldering her into the woods with a bump of his lean hips. He grabbed the walker and threw it in behind her, then descended upon the silent, wide-eyed woman as she lay unmoving fifteen feet from the trail and behind a flurry of dented bushes.

He pulled his razor from the fanny pack that sagged just above his hard-on, dropped to one knee, and ripped open the housecoat, exposing the woman's naked, dilapidated body. As he sliced off her left tit, he felt her heart stop with a noiseless stammer under the right one. With a laugh, he mashed the bloody breast, which hardly bled, into the woman's face, then proceeded to do the same with the other breast.

Mark re-fannypacked his razor, then positioned himself at her blank head, his feet on each side of her thinned, blood-smacked, gray hair. He fell forward and caught himself on his hands beside her hips, burying his face into her cunt, which smelled of urine and leather. Opening his mouth wide, he placed it over her pussy, then slowly raised himself up into a handstand. With all the force his hips could muster, he slammed the soles of his Adidas running shoes into the woman's swelling belly. And in one gulp swallowed everything that flooded from her cunt in a single swoosh of mung.

He stood up, the blood falling from his head into the rest of his body. And burped. He almost gagged, which surprised him for a second. Until his belly was warmed, almost full. Almost. He looked to his Racemaster 3000, estimated the remaining distance to time in his head, wiped his mouth, and took off in a flash, his hard-on bouncing wet and slimy with pre-cum in his thin running shorts.