The Autobiography of Mark Dennison

The Curious Misadventures of M and R, Part II

2010-11-19T20:04:00.021-05:00

"Dude, what the fuck? This is it?"

Ripley smirked. "I didn't say we were a huge organization-"

"Jesus." Mark reached out and shook the hand of the only other member of FAG, a young, string-bean hippie of a man, who looked more suited for running The Burning Man festival than thwarting the demonic plans of the world's biggest racist organization, The Beliebers. "So you're a FAG-"

"Your mom!" said Dustin Schute.

"Hey! Don't talk about my mom-" Mark squeezed Dustin's hand till the latter was finally able to pull it away, shaking it out to his side.

"Dude, it's just a joke-"

"Not a very funny one-"

"Jokes are just jokes, man, nothing more-"

"True. But they're not all funny." Mark looked around the room, then at Ripley and sighed. "Dude, I'm really having some misgivings-"

Ripley looked at his wrist, which wasn't wrapped with a watch. "Now? Misgivings? It's a little late in the game-" He stepped a foot away from Mark, punched him in the shoulder with a laugh, then put his arm around him. "Look, true, mate, we're not that big of an org-"

"You're two fucking people!"

Ripley squeezed Mark's shoulders. "Three-" He smiled and cocked his head against Mark's. "Listen, fella, we've got all we need, believe me. Anything larger and they'd be onto us-"

"Anything larger and you may have decent info-"

"Oh, we've got info all right." He turned Mark around to look at Dustin, who was on the other side of the room running his hands over the flowery wallpaper. "This guy right here, mate? 'e used to be a Belieber. Now 'e's one of us, a FAG-"

"I heard that," said Dustin.

"Fucker's got great hearing, too." Ripley chuckled. "Though 'e's a FAG, 'e's not really a fag. Likes cougars, this one. Can't get 'im away from the oldies. The older, the better for 'im-"

"Ewww-"

"Tell me about it, bloke." Ripley shuddered. "Me, I prefer 'Its'."

"What-"

"You know, you can't tell what they are-"

"Oh-"

"But anyway, old Schute there, 'e used to be a Belieber. Actually played keyboards in the band a while. Till he realized what they were on about, mate-"

"I don't really care about the Jew part," said Dustin without turning from the wallpaper.

"Yeah, 'e don' care for the Jews much-"

"Or the blacks!"

"Or the blacks. But 'e does about everyone else, mate." Ripley nodded. "So before 'e left, 'e installed tracking devices, microphones, and cameras on all Biebz' hardware - guitars, drums, picks, drumsticks, keyboards, lip synch machine, microphones-"

"Why doesn't Biebz just get new ones-"

"Superstitious. That's how these Nazi racist-like blokes are."

"That doesn't make sense-"

"Of course not. Goes along with everything else that doesn't makes sense about 'em." Ripley let go of Mark's shoulders and pranced across the hotel room, his trench coat flopping around his knees. "So we've been privy, mate, to everything that little fucker's been up to these past three years-"

"And what's your stake in this? Why are you so concerned-"

Ripley looked straight up at the ceiling. He grinned so wide it seemed his skin would rip over his sharp cheekbones. With a quick curtsy, he rose up on one pointy-shoed toe and pirouetted. "Let's just say that someone had to teach ol' Biebz how to toss a salad the correct way-"

"No fucking way-"

"Yes fucking way, mate." Ripley looked to Mark, narrowed his black eyes at him. "And he dropped me like a bad habit once I'd given him the best salad tossing orgasm of his life. Because 'e knew it'd never happen again. Or 'e wasn't willing to let me have that control over 'im-"

Mark sat down on the lush sofa, his head in his hands. "Unbelievable."

"Believe it, mate. Ask me anything about that boy's body-"

Mark raised a flat palm to Ripley. "No, I believe you-" He leaned back and spread his lean, sinewy arms across the back of the couch. "So what's the plan?"

Ripley almost jumped out of his trench coat as he hopped onto the sofa next to Mark, flinging an arm around him. He giggled. "So me and the Professor over there" -Ripley nodded to Dustin, who, if Mark hadn't known better, seemed to be humping the wall- "that horny fuck, we're gonna go up through that air conditioning duct there, mate" -Ripley pointed to the ceiling just above them- "and make our way to Biebz' room. Okay, bloke-"

"Okay-"

"Then we'll poison all the food in his room that he's got set up for his little after-concert party. His rider, so to speak-"

"Fucking preposterous-"

"Oh, fucking no, it isn't, fella. Dustin's got this whole fucking hotel mapped out, mate. Innit right, mate?"

Dustin peeled himself from the wall long enough to grunt a yes, then fell back to it, his hairless cheeks and voluptuous bottom lip lapping at the paint. Ripley leaned back and raised an eyebrow at Mark. Mark laughed. "Jesus-"

"No, Ripley at your service-"

"Your mom at your service!" shouted Dustin from across the room.

"Fuck both of you." Mark ran the fingers of his free hand through the spikey spikey-ness of his hair. And sighed. "Well-"

"No well's about it, mate. We've got it all figured out. You just go to your concert and make googly eyes at that little son of a bitch. We'll take care of the rest." Ripley stood up, put his hands on his hips. "You think we could order room service before you go, mate. For fuck's sake, I'm hungry as a whore in a nursing home. I need me some brussel sprouts, fella-"

*******************************************************************************

Justin didn't smile once as he lip-synched his way through "U Smile." And he never looked lonelier than when he mimed "One Less Lonely Girl." Worse, he never once looked at Mark, who was in the front row, nudged between several fan club members in identical brown outfits, as he stumbled poker-faced through "Never Say Never," "Baby," and "Somebody to Love." Even when he came after a long, wet 69 with Mark backstage after the concert, his sweaty balls drying in Mark's sucking mouth, Justin didn't say a word or move a muscle in his face.

No, it wasn't until he, Mark, and Kenny entered his hotel room that he finally became animated and spoke: "What the fuck is that stench?" he screamed.

Mark's eyes fell immediately to the leather sofa, on which sat Ripley and Dustin, the two men's eyebrows shrugging at Mark without moving. They were surrounded by several heavily muscled white men in matching brown uniforms and carrying identical M-16s. Mark let out a sigh. "Yeah, what the fuck?" he said.

A loud laugh came from the back of the room. Mark watched as a man who could be no one but Usher himself came walking through the pack of armed guards, two towels in his hands. He threw one to Kenny, and they both began wiping their faces, the brown of their skin turning Caucasoid with each stroke. Before he could say anything, Mark was pushed onto the couch, between his accomplices.

"That stench," began Usher, whose face was now almost completely white, "is how we caught these two." He nodded to the couch. "I mean, three-"

Mark looked at Ripley, who shrugged. "Sorry, mate," said Ripley. "It was the sprouts. I was sooo hungry. I ate too many, for fuck's sake. When I got in that duct, I couldn't stop farting. Guess they could smell it in here-"

"Try crawling behind it," said Dustin. "I almost passed out-"

"That's exactly how we got 'em, boss," said Usher. "And we traced their path back to Dennison's room. He's in on it-"

Justin glared at Mark, shaking his head. "Just say it isn't so-"

"No worries, boss, the other two have confessed to the whole plot. We caught 'em red-handed. Er, I guess I should say, brown-assed-"

"Jesus, you didn't shit yourself, did you?" said Mark.

"Oh, no, mate-"

"You sure?" asked Dustin. "I can still fucking taste it-"

"I don't think so," said Ripley. "Me arse feels dry, fella-"

"It won't be dry for long, asshole!" yelled Justin. He clicked his heels together with so much force that his bangs flew up, revealing a blur of etched numbers. "You know that you shit yourself when you die, don't you? Especially if it's a particularly violent death." He laughed. Then looked to Usher, who was deftly removing the last piece of his prosthetic nose. In short bursts of German, they spoke back and forth to each other and to Kenny, all the while glancing at the three on the sofa. Finally, Usher and Kenny clicked their heels together, saluted, and made their way to the bedroom. Justin looked at Mark. "So you think you're so fucking smart, do you?"

Mark shrugged. But didn't take his eyes from Justin's. "What the fuck, man?"

Justin shook his head. "Mark, I liked you. I really liked you. But you had to go and fuck it up. With those two" -he pointed at Ripley and Dustin- "vile creatures. And to think, you could've been part of it-"

"Of what?"

"My Master Plan. We could've ruled the world together-"

"What would I have had to pretend to be-"

"What? Nothing. What do you mean? There's not pretending-"

"But Usher-"

"Usher's a soldier. My most loyal-"

"He's not even black-"

"How else am I going to get the niggers' money?"

"Dude-"

"Dude you!" Justin sighed. "I get the whites' money and the fags' money-"

"But-"

"Don't interrupt me!" Justin adjusted his baggy shirt and pulled on his crotch. "You could've been part of it, and you wouldn't have had to change a thing or pretend to be anything. But no, you had to go fuck it up by associating with these fuckers." Justin spit on the ground. "This one, this limey bastard, you know how many people he's raped? And him, yeah, he's a great pianist all right, but he can't keep his fucking penis in his pants-"

"Your mom!"

"What did I tell you about talking about my mom, Dustin, you fucking traitor?" Justin stepped forward and punched Dustin in the chest, his fist instantly recoiling into his other hand. "Fuck!"

Dustin patted his shirt pocket. "My bowl." He giggled.

"Okay, that's it." Justin looked to his armed guards. "I'll be back. Get the rope, the gags, and the saws. We've got work to do." All clicked their heels, and Justin walked around the sofa and entered the bedroom where Usher and Kenny had scurried.

As the guards went about gathering items from various chests around the room, Ripley leaned over and whispered to Dustin. "You got that?"

"Yep." Dustin patted his belt buckle.

Mark looked at Ripley with raised eyebrows.

"Video. The poison didn't get him, but the video will, mate-" Ripley looked around the room. He bent forward a bit, his face contorting. He leaned back and turned his head to Mark. "How long can you hold your breath?"

"I don't know. Why?"

"I got one more in me. An SBD-"

"Oh, fuck," said Dustin.

"SBD?" said Mark.

"Silent but deadly-"

"Oh-"

"When you see me lean forward again, hold your breath and don't let go till we're across the room. Just follow me lead, matey-"

At which Ripley leaned forward, hoisted an ass cheek, and held his own breath. Mark and Dustin followed suit. The guards began gagging uncontrollably, their weapons slipping from their shoulders to their wrists and onto the floor, alongside the various supplies they'd already recovered from the chests. Ripley jumped to his feet, his trench coat fluttering like a cape, and knocked two of the men to the floor. Mark and Dustin each shouldered two more into the walls. As the bedroom door opened and Justin, Usher, and Kenny filed out coughing, Ripley snapped up a rifle, pointed it at the men, and pulled the trigger. Nothing.

He looked to Mark, then to Dustin, all three mens' cheeks filled with held breath. They shrugged at one another as Ripley shook and fiddled with the the gun but couldn't get it to fire. With a shrug, Ripley held the gun behind far behind his head, then hurled it into the nearest window, which shattered on impact. One hop and he was on the windowsill, beckoning to Mark and Dustin. Mark looked over at Justin, who was bent over with tears in his eyes, and thought of the boy's cock. Fuck, he would miss it. He looked back to Ripley. And jumped up onto the windowsill next to him. Dustin followed, and the three wrapped their arms around one another, their boners pressing together through their jeans.

"This is it?" Mark gasped.

They looked from one to the other. "This is it," all three finally said at the same time. And jumped.

Ten feet later, they were on the ground and running across the hotel's parking lot, German gibberish wailing at their laughing backs.

The End

The Curious Misadventures of M and R, Part I

2010-11-17T07:55:00.011-05:00

Mark was halfway through his fish and chips from room service when Kenny knocked. He set the tray of food to the side on the immense king-sized bed of the "Princess Suite," then hopped up and opened the door. The gigantic, black security guard was lathered in sweat and breathing heavily. He rolled Mark's suitcase to the middle of the room, kicked it to the foot of the bed, and pulled out a handkerchief. He wiped his glistening forehead. "Jesus, dawg, what the fuck you got in there, a dead body?"

Mark laughed. "Thanks Kenny." His knuckles met Kenny's halfway. "I wish that fucking Greyson Chance's corpse was in there-"

Kenny laughed. "You right about that, yo. The Biebz would love that. He hates that little bitch." He looked around the room, his breathing steadying. "Anything else you need, M-Dawg?"

"Nah, it's all good, K. Thanks for your help, man. You're the best." Mark shut the door behind Kenny and locked all three locks, checking them twice. Standing over the suitcase, he giggled. Then bent down, quickly unzipped it, and pulled the lead-lined cover over-

Ripley popped out, his joints echoing as they cracked. He jumped up and down as he skidded back and forth across the room, his hands firmly on his crotch. "Ooooh, ooooh, oooooh," he moaned as he fell onto the bed, the rest of Mark's fish and chips tumbling out of the basket onto the down comforter.

"Dude! Calm the fuck down. You all right?"

"Ooooh, oooh, ooooh," Ripley coughed. His belt hit the floor, his pants slapped down to his ankles, and his collared feet rose up in the air. "Oooh, oooh, oooh-"

"What is it, cramping?"

"No, boil-"

"What?"

"Boil-"

"Where?"

"Perineum!"

"Where-"

"Me taint, mate-"

"Taint?"

"Yar, fella, me taint!" Ripley pulled up his ball sack and pointed to the area just below with his other hand.

Mark would've gagged if he hadn't been so turned on. His tiny, hard cock oozed pre-cum into the denim of his jeans as he narrowed his eyes and bent down, his face half a foot from Ripley's crotch. Staring back at him was a bright red, purplish monstrosity of swollen flesh, each curly hair on its surface finely pinpointed like seeds on a strawberry. "How the fuck-"

"It was so hot in that cargo hold-"

"Hot? I thought it was cold in those-"

"Not when you're stuck in the middle of a pile of hundreds of bags of clothes, mate!"

"Oh-"

"I must've had bacteria there and the heat just fermented the shit-"

"Yikes-"

"Yikes is right. Oh, fuck, it hurts-"

"You want me to call-"

"No, you can't call anyone. They'll know me." Ripley perched his head up from the bed and looked into Mark's eyes, tears flowing from his own. "Mark, I need you to pop it, fella-"

"Whoa-"

"That's the only way-"

"I don't have anything-"

"Use whatever, I don't care. Just pop the fucker before I die from the pain, mate-"

Mark looked around the room, gently rubbing his glans through his jeans. As he looked back to Ripley's crotch, the man let go of his balls and they slid back down over the boil, revealing Ripley's hard 4-incher of warts and scabs just above. Mark pushed his pants and briefs to his ankles and plopped onto his knees. Ripley's balls smelled and tasted of piss and shit. Mark lapped at them with his tongue until the sack shriveled, the balls tensing up into the man's pelvis. At which Mark eyed the boil. Then pinned his tongue to it. It was hot and tasted of iron. He worked his tongue until Ripley's moans turned into sighs. Then with a sigh of his own, he canyoned his mouth over the boil. And bit down.

Ripley muffled his scream with both of his hands, as the creamy, bloody pus jetted down Mark's throat. Bitter with infection - but not as bitter as Ripley's cum - it went down smooth as Mark sucked and gulped until he could no longer feel any of the thick, meaty discharge sliding over the tip of his tongue. With one last swallow, he pulled back and saw that the boil was gone, now just a cavity between Ripley's balls and ass about an inch in diameter.

Then he giggled: one last glop fell from the hole, half white, half red, a perfect combination of his favorite condiments. He grabbed a chip and eased it into the divot. Once it was soaked, he popped it in his mouth and chewed slowly, savoring Ripley's blood and infection. As he swallowed with a burp, Ripley's head raised back up.

"Thanks, mate. It's okay now. But I have one more favor-"

"Sure-"

"Fuck it. Real good."

London Callin'

2010-11-10T18:02:00.012-05:00

Justin locked Mark's bedroom door behind him, giggling.

"What?"

Justin flicked his cap onto Mark's bed and shook his head, his bowl of hair falling into place like an Army drill team. "Your mom's a trip-"

Mark laughed. "Why do you say that?"

"She was singing 'Somebody to Love' all the way up here-"

"Backwards?"

Justin cocked his head. And one eyebrow. His grin cemented between his cheeks. "No. Why do you say that? What do you mean?"

Mark looked back at Justin, unblinking. He shrugged. "No reason. She does that a lot. Sings songs backwards. You're right, she is a trip." Mark winked.

Justin looked away. Then fell back onto Mark's bed, kicked his shoes off, and slinked his socks over his feet. He stood up. First, the baggy T-shirt was on the floor, and then, with a pop of one button, his skinny jeans. His cock was semi-hard and hung thick between his legs, almost dwarfing both; the copious veins shone like scales as they criss-crossed his shaft. He sat back on the bed, his low-slung balls flush against Mark's New York Giants comforter and providing an adequate prop for his coiling cock, the head of which rested several inches in front of them on the bed. Justin sighed. "Speaking of trips, I leave for Europe next week, you know," he said.

Mark pulled off his shorts and boxer-briefs in one motion, his tiny cock springing forward, the hole slick with pre-cum. He sat next to Justin on the bed and grabbed the teenager's hand, weaving their fingers through each other. He squeezed. "Ah, Europe. I've never been overseas. I've always wanted to go to London. I'm an Anglophile and a half-"

"That's my first concert date of the 13-"

"You lucky bastard-" Mark returned Justin's grin. Then jumped. "Do not fucking tell me that you've got a date in Germany. That's my favorite country EVER-"

Justin nodded.

"No!"

"Yes. It's the last date. Berlin."

"Oh, my God, you lucky-"

"What's the big deal? It's just a quick little tour, just to put feelers out-"

"But Germany! Have you ever studied Germany's history? It's the richest of any country in the history of the world. The richest-" Mark lowered his head and looked up at Justin from under his raised eyebrows, a wide grin chalking his face. "I'm of German descent, you know-"

Justin pulled Mark's hand into his lap, Mark's knuckles scraping his full-fledged hard-on. He dipped his head too and looked back up at Mark from under the steady sheen of his bangs, his eyes fixed on Mark's for what may have been five minutes - or hours or seconds. Finally, one eyebrow cocked, and he sighed inaudibly. But before he could say anything, Mark's free hand reached for the curtain of hair covering his forehead, and he reared back.

"What?" said Mark, laughing.

"Nothing-"

"You have the most beautiful hair. I've never really touched it-"

"It's not you. It's the hair. And me. I've got this weird thing about my hair-"

Mark cocked his head. And an eyebrow. He laughed. "Okay, no problem-"

"You know, a lot of people hate my hair-"

"I hate them-"

Justin's voice was whisper: "So do I-"

Mark pulled Justin close to him, their bony chests snaking together, and whispered into the boy's ear: "I hate everyone who's not you. Or me."

Justin bit Mark's neck lightly, then pulled back. He freed his hand and cradled Mark's face in his fingers. "So do I-"

Mark giggled and looked down at Justin's cock, which had temporarily stained the boy's thigh with a blur of pre-cum. He giggled some more.

Justin let go of Mark's face and leaned back on his hands. "Come with me-"

"Huh?"

"To Europe-"

"Really?"

Justin nodded furiously, the brown of his eyes blacker than ever.

"Hmm-" Mark looked away. "Nah, I couldn't-"

"Why not?"

"That'd be taking advant-"

"You're my fucking boyfriend. Take advantage of me-"

"But the store-"

"Fuck the store. You're renovating-"

"I don't have the money right now-"

"I'm the fucking Biebz! I have the money. My plane. My hotel. Just bring yourself."

Mark's chin fell to his hand, and he stared at Justin's immobile, stony gaze. He definitely wasn't in love with him. And definitely wanted to taste the venom running through the boy's veins. He sighed. "You sure-"

"Dude, the Biebz is always sure-"

At which Mark reached behind himself, leaning over the bottom of the bed, and tugged up a grocery bag from the floor. He pulled out a bag of pre-packaged salad and a bottle of ranch salad dressing, both of which he promptly deposited in Justin's lap. "Now toss my salad, Biebz-"

Justin sank his teeth into the corner of the bag. "You know, you and me could make a good team, Mark-"

Lo(o)se(r)

2010-10-27T23:51:00.016-04:00

"I'm gonna fucking cum, mate!"

Mark stood up, the neon blue dildo that had been pummeling his asshole for the past hour through the gloryhole slicking from his ass with an audible, echoing plop. He turned and watched as the dildo was replaced by a penis no longer than his own but much fatter. As he knelt down and swallowed the cock into his mouth, he suddenly realized that the penis itself was really no wider or thicker than his own: rather, it was the copious amount of warts, scabs, and dried pus and cum caking its surface that gave it its impressive girth. His own cock hardened and he gulped the diseased member into his mouth until his petite, turned up nose was enmeshed in the stinkiest bush of pubes he'd ever encountered.

The cum was several thick strings of slime bulleted against his throat and tasted of chlorine infected with shit. He almost gagged. But didn't. Instead, he flicked his fingers over his four-incher twice and came against the wall in front of him. As he swallowed the last of the bitter cum, he watched as a fistful of British pound notes and coins spilled through the gloryhole, emphasized by a hybrid Brit-Aussie-accented "For fuck's sake!"

Scrambling the bills and change into his pocket, Mark jumped to his feet, zipped and buckled his pants, and took off, the ghosty form of Detective Jorge T. Vinos flitting by him oblivious as he stepped out into the black hallway leading to the store's front. He centered himself behind the counter lazily, his elbows on the formica, his chin in his hands.

The door creaked open. And out stepped a strip of a man smeared inside a black trench coat, a beaten brown leather satchel strapped over his shoulder and across his chest. His cheekbones were sharp as ice, as if the slick, porous skin had just been poured over his skull and gelled. The man's hair was oily and thick strands swooped over his protruding brow. Mark's ears boiled with his blood as his eyes narrowed in focus. "Jesus Christ," he said, "I can't believe I just sucked your dick-"

"I can't either, to be quite frank," said Rapin' Ripley. "It's quite the nasty thing, innit?"

Before Ripley could reach inside his trench coat, Mark was over the counter, snatching the pistol from the man's hand with one fist as the knuckles of his other fist landed square on his rival's mouth. Ripley's ass stomped the floor of the Dennis Cooper Reading Room for Youngsters with a crack. He put his hand to his mouth and shook his head as he wiped blood from his teeth. Mark cocked the pistol, jamming the barrel flush against Ripley's bony forehead.

"For fuck's sake, mate, don't kill me," said Ripley.

"Give me one reason not to-"

"There's another bloke in the back-"

"I'll kill him too-"

Ripley moaned, the blood gushing from both his lips. He bit down on both, then sighed. "Okay, okay, listen." Wiping the blood on his sleeve, he looked up the gun's barrel at Mark. "For fuck's sake, man, I need you-"

"What?"

"I need you-"

"For what?"

"To stop him-"

"Who? Detective-"

"No. Him-" Ripley's thin eyebrows met his bangs.

"Dude, what the fuck?"

"Bieber-"

"What about Justin?"

"I need you to help me stop him-"

Mark edged the gun another fraction of an inch into thin skin covering the bridge of the man's nose.

"Listen. Hear me out, fella. Just give me a couple minutes. Then, if you don't agree with what you hear, kill me. I don't care. All I can do is try-" Ripley slowly reached for the bag at his waist. "My computer. I'll show you."

Ripley extracted the smallest computer Mark had ever seen from the satchel, opened it, typed furiously with two fingers, then handed the tiny machine up to him. Mark balanced it in his free hand, his eyes widening:

A large auditorium, crammed with hundreds - thousands? - of cheering men, women, and children, all dressed in the same garb: brown uniforms - tight jackets, pants that billowed outwards at the thighs, knee-high black boots. The camera focuses, then zooms in to the podium, upon which stands...Justin Bieber. Similarly clad, Bieber speaks loudly into the microphone in fluent German. As the crowd quiets, Bieber raises his arms. Then when there is total silence, he's off, his voice deep and barking, arms swinging, fingers pointing. At the end of every paragraph, he pauses and the crowd rises, their right arms flung straight into the air before them. They sit, and he launches again-

"Yeah?" said Mark, looking back to Ripley and uncocking the gun.

"He's fucking evil-"

"There's no such thing as evil. Or good-"

"Yes, there fucking is. And that's it right there. There's right, mate, and there's wrong-"

"There's no such thing as right or wrong, either-"

"Really?"

Mark nodded.

"Your parents still alive, mate?"

"My mother, yes. My father died in the war-"

"Sorry about that." Ripley dipped his head. Then just as quickly regained Mark's eyes. "Well, take your mom, for instance. You walk in your house one day, there's five guys brutally raping her-"

"Hey!"

"Let me finish, fella." Ripley shook his head as Mark pulled the gun from between his eyes. "So you walk in on this horror. Do you just go on walking by or leave, just throw your hands up in the air and say, 'Oh, there's no right or wrong, there's no good or evil?'"

Mark shook his head. And stared into Ripley's eyes, which were almost as black as Justin's. "What's this?" He nodded to the computer, which still displayed the screaming brown suits and his boyfriend. "What's evil about this?"

"Mark, can I call you Mark? Okay. Mark, this is evil incarnate. Justin Bieber, your boyfriend-"

"How do you know he's my boyfriend?"

"My organization knows everything about Bieber-"

"Your organization?"

"Yes. Fighters Against Genocide-"

"FAG? How nice-"

"Just a coincidence, that. Besides, we're Brits, and we're all smokers. Though not of the cock variety necessarily-"

Mark's eyes rolled, and he shoved the pistol into the front of his jeans as he made his way back behind the counter, setting the computer down next to the cash register. Ripley got up slowly, adjusted the big blue strap-on in his satchel, tapped at the dried blood on his lips a few times, and skipped - Mark almost laughed at this - over to the counter. He leaned against the glass case that supported the counter and which held the store's most expensive items - stainless steel anal retractors and cadaver skin covered fists - and looked at Mark. "We need you, Mark," he said.

"For what?"

Ripley spun the computer around, whipping his fingers around the keyboard and mousepad so fast that his hands were a blur. "Listen," he said.

A few pops and cracks, then Justin's voice over and over, interspersed between cacophonous whistles, shrieks, and burnouts:

I AM LORD I AM YOUR GOD KILL ALL NIGGERS, FAGS, AND JEWS

"What the fuck?"

"Play any Justin Bieber song backwards and that's what you get." Ripley leaned in. "Eeeeeeeviiiiiiiillll-"

Mark's brain captured clearly and in full view the moment he'd been trying to extinguish from his mind but couldn't since he'd met Justin: the boy's correcting his diction in regards to the word "niggas." Getting the shit-streaked pieces of lettuce out of his teeth had been easier than trying to get Justin's words that night out of his head. "So he's a racist?" Mark looked at Ripley. "But you're a rapist, who are you-"

"Don't believe everything you read in the paper, fella-"

"So you didn't commit all those rapes and murders-"

"Oh, I did. But I didn't discriminate. Black, white, Asian, retard, handicap, legless, it didn't matter to me." Ripley tapped the computer. "This bloke, however, is fucking evil. He's the leader of the largest-"

"Neo-Nazi?"

"Worse. The largest racist organization on the planet. They hate everybody. Even whites. They only love one thing-"

"Power?"

"No." Ripley looked around, then leaned into Mark and whispered: "Bieber-"

"Huh?"

"Why do you think all the marketing, mate? Music, videos, books, movies, interviews, internet, iPhone apps, blogs. He hates everyone who is not him. Which is why he's over-saturating the global culture with everything Bieber. He wants everyone to be like him. Or as he says, 'in his image.' Just watch, politics will be next-"

"This is fucking insane. You've got all these Muslims running around bombing-"

"Oh, they're on the radar. But with them, at least you know what you're dealing with. This Bieber is a smart fella, his organization is very insidious. They're extremely subtle blokes and cunts, mate. They won't be running up to you with a bomb. No, they have other means-"

"Mind control-"

Ripley snapped his fingers. "We have proof that 90% of all murders worldwide, whether isolated incidents or as part of war, can be traced back to Bieber's organization-"

Mark shook his head. "Dude, this is crazy-"

"What's crazy is that no one will do anything about it. Not the US, the UN, the EU, China, Russia, no one-"

Mark stared at the image on the computer, Justin standing behind the podium, his arms stretched out straight in front of him, his eyes singing black with evil intent. "Okay, let's say you're correct-"

"I am, mate-"

"How does a kid like him get so much power?"

Ripley flicked his bangs with his dirty fingers.

"His hair? Who is he, Samson?"

"It's what's under the bangs. It's what he's hiding. There's a mark-"

"Jesus Christ, you are insane-"

"It's not me who's insane, mate. It's your boyfriend. I've shown you the evidence, fella. And I've got tons more where that came from-" Ripley stopped short and looked into Mark's eyes. His own eyes widened and he shook his head. "Do not, for fuck's sake, tell me you've tossed his salad-"

"How do you know-"

"We know-"

"Oh-" Mark giggled. "Well-"

"Hmm." Ripley bent over the counter, put his face up to Mark's, an inch away. Mark could smell Ripley's cock on his own breath as it bounced off the sharp angles of Ripley's bony face and back up his nostrils. Before he could inhale another deep draught of the musky, pungent odor, which was hardening his little dick, Ripley pulled away. "Okay, you seem all right, bloke. Probably no need for de-programming. That's one of the ways he gets you: salad tossing-"

Mark didn't know whether to laugh or pull out the pistol and shoot the man between the eyes. So he just stood there and they eyed each other for what felt like hours but must've been only a few seconds until Ripley cleared his throat again while dabbing at his bruised mouth with the tattered cuff of his trench coat. "So can I depend on you, Mark?"

"What do you need from me?"

"Access. Nobody can get near him. The few we've tried have been killed-"

"Great. What if I get killed-"

"Mark, you don't fool me." Ripley laughed. "Lift up your sleeve on your left shoulder." Mark did as requested. "You don't even have a scar. Or a scratch. That bullet practically bounced off you into that poor wanker next to you. I knew right then you were special-" Ripley giggled. "You know, me and you could make a good team, mate-"

Before Mark could respond, the door to the video rooms opened. Mark and Ripley turned. Detective Jorge T. Vinos stood on the threshold, his hard cock in his left hand. Upon seeing Ripley, he yelped and reached for his shoulder holster with his free hand. But his hand didn't make it: another yelp and he grabbed his chest. His lifeless body fell flat on the floor and rolled over onto its back, the man's face a portrait of screaming horror, his hand in a death grip around his oozing cock.

Ripley turned to Mark. "Can I get one set of anal retractors?"

Tossed Salad Days

2010-10-11T03:42:00.010-04:00

Mark's asshole throbbed with the memory of the ten or fifteen times Justin Bieber had fucked him earlier that day as they'd ridden around Washington, D.C. in the back of Justin's armored, tinted Escalade for hours as part of Mark's prize for "winning" the Cedarville 10K since the unfortunate but timely demise of actual winner Harry Papp. Problem was, Mark wanted to fuck again. The good thing, though, is that Justin had shown an insatiable appetite for fucking him that in no way could be diminished by one of the worst concerts Mark had ever witnessed and a tidying shower afterwards.

The door to the bathroom opened and out of the flooding steam Justin appeared, a towel wrapped around his naked body at the waist, his hair, though wet, neatly in place. "Ta dah!" He threw his arms out wide and grinned, his slight chipmunk-cheeked smirk nothing less than venomous as he eyed Mark from under his bangs.

Mark laughed. His eyes unconsciously flitted to the prominent bulge - was he actually still hard?! - under the towel, then back up to Justin's black eyes. "And there he is-"

"And there he is!" said Justin, releasing the towel from his waist. His cock, which snaked semi-hard halfway down his thigh, audibly sprung up as it was released from its cotton prison, then hung, bouncing, between his slight legs. "Dinner time-"

"What's for dinner?"

Justin walked to the small refrigerator in the corner of the ritziest hotel room of the ritziest hotel - a Clarion Inn - in all of Cedarville, Maryland. He bent over, his hairless ass smiling vertically at Mark, as he rummaged through the bins at the bottom of the fridge. In one motion, he stood up, kicked the door shut, and held up two items: a bag of salad and a bottle of ranch dressing. "What say we have a salad?"

Mark looked around the room quickly. "Um, okay?"

"Hey! When Justin Bieber gets his salad tossed, he gets his salad TOSSED! Literally." And again, another sly, dimpled grin. Then a leap over the loveseat on which Mark was splayed and Justin slithered his smooth body over the cushions until his ass was flush with the edge of the sofa. He handed the items to Mark. "Take off your clothes," he hissed.

Mark's clothes were off in his seconds, his tiny dick zigzagging, pre-cum streaming from its tiny hole. "Now what?" He smiled.

"Knees-"

Mark complied. Then cocked his head interrogatively.

"First, the lube-" Justin handed the dressing to Mark "-then this-" He handed Mark the bagged salad "-then this-" He squirmed up quickly and stuck a finger in Mark's mouth. He raised his eyebrows, the onyx of his irises glinting.

Mark bit through the plastic bag and unscrewed the cap. Slowly, he lathered the tiniest, reddest asshole he'd ever seen with dollops of the dressing-

"No, put it in-"

At which Mark put the top of the bottle to Justin's hole, pressed forward as the boy moaned, and squeezed until he couldn't squeeze any more-

"That's good. Now the salad-"

Reaching a dripping hand into the bag, Mark pulled out a couple leaves of chopped lettuce-

"No, a handful-"

Mark cupped a veritable garden into his hand, then began massaging the vegetables against Justin's ass-

"Inside-"

Mark shuttlecocked his hand and fingered the whole handful into Justin's rectum several pieces at a time, his eyes growing wide as Justin's cock engorged, standing up on its own. If he'd touched his own cock, he would've cum. Instead, at Justin's urging, he grabbed handful after handful and inserted it into the boy's ass until the bag was empty. Finished, he reached up to Justin's cock-

"No, don't touch my cock. Or yours. Just...eat-"

He watched, suppressing an urge to laugh - and an urge to cum - as the salad slowly reappeared from the slight, hot-pink hole in small lurches, slathered with dressing and rectal mucous-

"Eat it-"

Mark buried his face between the perfect mounds of Justin's ass. And gulped. And gulped some more. And still more. Justin's large ball sack hit against the top of his face as he pushed his mouth tighter against Justin's asshole while the boy worked his cock. Until he was almost gagging and his cock screamed for relief-

"I'm gonna cum-"

He swallowed the last bits of salad - and what could only have been a small turd; it tasted of nothing but bitter dirt and was grittier than a crushed egg shell - and looked up just in time to catch the last three strings of Justin's cum in his mouth. Jerking his own cock twice, he came on the floor, his body a shuddering mass of flesh that he threw up next to his new boyfriend. Justin looked over at him and smiled. "Now, that's how you toss a salad," said Justin and threw a quick, thin tongue into Mark's mouth. "That's how you end a day-" He laughed.

"Yeah," said Mark. "Tell me about it-"

"Don't worry. I'll fuck you again before we go to sleep-"

"So I'm staying?"

"Of course, you are. You're my boyfriend, aren't you?"

Mark grinned.

"I'll drop you off in the morning. Then it's off to Philly-"

"Another concert?"

"Yep. Gotta give the niggers what they want-"

Mark froze. He turned his head and looked into the boy's eyes, unsure if he should laugh or not. "Oh, the niggas?"

"No, man, the niggers. They're black-" Justin grinned, his plump cheeks squinting his eyes. He raised his eyebrows up and down three times.

Mark continued looking at him until the boy sighed. Finally, he shook his head and laughed. Justin laughed too. Then sat up, his ass smearing the couch with salad, dressing, cum, and a slight streak of shit.

"Let's get a shower. I'm ready to fuck again-"

Mark was in the shower within three seconds.

Lo(o)se

2010-09-14T17:07:00.017-04:00

"Rapin' Ripley" Escapes, Has the Last Laugh

Unpopular Undecorated Officer Dies in Related Unrelated Tragedy

By Dustin Ruxefjord
Evening Gazette Staff Writer

Cedarville - Alleged notorious, deviant criminal Saul Wuffleman, also known as "Rapin' Ripley," escaped Saturday from Cedarville State Prison. Wuffleman, a British citizen, had been incarcerated since his alleged assassination attempt of international singing sensation Justin Bieber at the awards ceremony for the Cedarville 10K almost two months ago. An All Points Bulletin was issued for the capture of Wuffleman minutes after he escaped. He is considered armed and extremely dangerous.

Wuffleman received the nickname "Rapin' Ripley" after his alleged involvement in over 200 rapes, murders, and possible mungings over the span of the last five years in the United Kingdom. Though there is no evidence that Wuffleman was involved in any of the crimes, Scotland Yard said that it is obvious that he is guilty. When reached for direct comment, Scotland Yard had no comment.

Wuffleman's alleged attack on Bieber came as a surprise to many. The beloved singer, whose fans range all ages, genders, sexual orientations, and religions, was believed to have no enemies. Questions still surround the motive for Wuffleman's alleged assassination attempt, which, had it been successful, would have gone down in history as probably the most devious assassination of all time, just ahead of those of Presidents Lincoln and Kennedy and that of DJ Jam Master Jay. The motive may never be known until Wuffleman is recaptured. But that will be a difficult task, according to Detective Jerry Wead. "He's a very slippery character, a chameleon, very much like a video game character who can shed identities and weapons willy-nilly. We'll be lucky just to get a glimpse of him," said Detective Wead.

This is the first escape from Cedarville State Prison in its 20-year history. And it is the first major incident since the several unsolved murders that took place there a few years ago. According to Detective Wead, Wuffleman will be charged with those murders as well, since, as he said, "It's obvious he's involved, even if we don't have any evidence."

In an unrelated yet related tragedy, Detective Jorge T. Vinos died of an apparent heart attack at a local book store Saturday while investigating a series of missing persons cases. The unpopular detective, who is the only officer never to receive any sort of award or commendation from the Cedarville Police Department, was more known to criminals and the community at large for his flashy pens and annoying barking than his actual police work. However, Detective Vinos was the arresting officer in the case of Wuffleman, providing the department with a rare double-arrest when he also took in the notorious exhibitionist Mike Tennyson, who allegedly exposed his incredibly tiny micro penis to the crowd at the Cedarville 10K awards ceremony, on the same day. Tennyson was released on personal recognizance and a hearing for his alleged criminal conduct is still pending.

Detective Vinos died at Mark's Books, Videos, and Toys, a popular book store frequented regularly by the city's teenagers and children, where the detective had stopped in to inquire about several missing persons. "We were having a nice chat," said Mark Dennison, the store's owner and a local hero who is credited with saving the life of Bieber. "Then all of a sudden, the detective barked out loud, screamed, 'I'll ask the questions!,' grabbed his chest, and fell over." By the time paramedics arrived, Detective Vinos was already dead.

Detective Wead, the partner of Detective Vinos had this to say about his fallen comrade: "Um, who?" he laughed. "Oh, yeah, Jorge. Well, um, yeah, he was an interesting guy. Could never get a word in edgewise with the fellow. Especially if you asked him a question. But he was happy to have finally made an arrest when he manhandled that deviant Tennyson and slapped the cuffs on him. It's possible he may have gotten a compliment from the Captain for that."

There will be no service for Detective Vinos, per his request and because the city does not have funds to provide one. Donations can be sent to The Tourette's Association of America in his name.

Pamela Pohanka contributed to this report.

Mike(ro)

2010-08-30T04:29:00.004-04:00

Mark looked around the empty store -his store- and fingered the check in his pocket: that wall would be devoted solely to the videos of Dana Callahan and Jane Sheckleton; this one would be all gay videos, right at the front, since they sold second best; behind the counter would remain the toy section; three of the walls would be the rest of the videos, arranged by subject - straight, lesbian, bisexual, tranny, scat, BDSM, barely legal, midget, cleft palates, handicapped, mentally retarded, animal, and foodstuffs videos; classic literature and the latest porn mags would decorate the remaining space; and in the corner, cordoned off from the rest, would be the new Dennis Cooper Reading Room for Youngsters, in which he'd hold weekly meetings with the area's youth to discuss his favorite author. But first, business had to be done.

He opened the door to the back, where the video booths would remain, and slipped into the darkness. Down the hall to his right, in the light from one of the booths, he could see Mike's uncovered legs and crotch - and that horrendously tiny penis - sticking out from the same booth. He coughed, watching Mike's legs jump, the man's incher bobbing amongst the much-longer pubes. "Mike, I'm here-"

"Um, okay," Mike growled, "just a sec."

Mark made his way back to the front of the store, which was still empty, and waited until Mike appeared, the man's auburn goatee, which was much too long and shabby, flecked with splinters of wood and dried flakes of cum. Pulling the check out of his pocket, Mark handed it to Mike with one hand while he shook hands with the other.

"All here?" asked Mike.

"Yeppers-"

Mike held the check up to the fluorescent lights overhead and eyed the check for a minute before folding it and shoving it into his back pocket. He brushed past Mark and stepped behind the counter, his head disappearing under it. A large ledger plopped onto the counter, then Mike reappeared, shuffling quickly through the pages inside the dusty binder. With a pen he marked several X's on several pages, then turned the ledger around to Mark. "Sign on the X's and it's done-"

Mark grabbed the pen and quickly found all the X's. When he was done with his last signature, he closed the large leather book and placed the pen on top. "So it's done," he said and looked into Mike's eyes, which were glistening. "Aw, I'm sorry, Mike-"

Mike shook his head and rubbed his belly, half of which hung out of his T-shirt, which was two sizes too small for him. "Nah, don't worry about it, man." He looked around the store and sighed. Then wiped his eyes. "I had a lot of woo hoo! good times! here," he said. "Huzzah!" His finger automatically pointed straight up in the air, as usual, when he said this last. "I just have no choice, Mark. The legal bills-"

"Yeah, it's fucked up, dude-"

Mike shook his head, his eyes fixed on the ledger. "It's like a dream. I still can't believe it. One minute, I'm standing there, watching that Bieber onstage; the next, that crazy man's pantsed me and that crazy detective's choking the life out of me." He popped his elbows and his neck with three loud cracks. "I'm facing 12 years for indecent exposure!" He slammed a limp fist on the ledger.

"Dude, it totally sucks. And that detective, he totally sucks. He's a real cunt-"

Mike winced as he looked to the door to the back room, which had just opened as Mark's last word had jumped to life from his mouth. Mark looked too: Detective Jorge T. Vinos stood in its frame, the darkness behind him reverse-silhouetting his huge frame. "Oh, Mister Dennison-"

"What are you-"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" barked the detective. He looked to Mike. "Mike, how long you gonna be?"

"Just a minute," said Mike, his face reddening. The detective nodded to the air and retreated back into the video room. Mike looked at Mark and shrugged. "One more time for old times' sake?"

Mark laughed. "Sure." As he watched Mike drag himself back through the door to the video booths, he rounded the counter and leaned his elbows onto it, his head propped in his hands. And surveyed the small empire that was now Mark's Books, Videos, and Toys.

Win? Lose? Tie?

2010-08-21T06:58:00.005-04:00

Mark sucked the last driblets of cum from Justin Bieber's urethra, then met the boy's lips with his own, their tongues twirling with fury until all that was left in their mouths was saliva and the sweet taste of each other's cocks. Justin finally pulled back and took a deep breath that wasn't a sigh. "Next weekend, Mark," he said.

Mark sat up and smiled. "Until next weekend then-" He opened the door to the tinted Escalade and jumped out, his eyes never leaving Justin's. One more peck on the lips and he shut the door to, the last image in the back of his mind's eye Justin's chipmunk smile. He waved as the SUV spun off, then skipped up to the door in the light of the morning sun, his cock deflating under his waistband.

Sarah was sitting on the couch, her legs curled up under her. She flicked off the TV as Mark waded into the living room and patted the cushion next to her, the smile on her face growing wider as she met Mark's grin. "So?"

"So what?"

"How was it?"

"What?"

"Mark!" Sarah put a hand on his leg and began rubbing up and down the inside of his thigh as soon as he sat down. "The concert?"

"Oh, it was good-"

"Just good?"

"Great!"

"And everything else?"

"What do you mean?"

"Jesus Christ, Mark, you just spent the night with Justin Bieber! What the fuck happened?"

Mark smiled, his tiny, razor-sharp teeth glinting in the light from the lamp on the end table. He lay back, stretching out his legs, and Sarah's hand moved to his crotch, where it began methodically massaging his genitals. "It was...good-"

"You don't seem too happy, hon-"

"No, no, I am-"

"Then what is it?"

Mark shook his head.

"Oh, he's not gay?"

"Oh, no, he's definitely gay. Uber-gay-"

"Then what's the matter-"

"Nothing-"

"Come on," said Sarah, squeezing Mark's balls tightly, "you know you can tell me anything-"

Mark looked to the ceiling, then to Sarah, then straight ahead. "I don't know, it's weird-"

"How so?"

Mark ran his fingers through his spiky hair. "Hmm, you know how you see a movie with great special effects, then you see, like, a 'Making of' movie about that movie and it kinda-"

"That's what happens when you put someone on a pedestal-"

"Um, no, it's not that. No, J's great-"

Sarah squealed. "J!"

"Mom-"

"Yeah?"

"Don't-"

Sarah fake-pouted as her hand slowly gained speed. "Okay, sorry-"

"Nah, it's all right. It's just weird. I mean, the entertainment aspect of it."

"Yeah-"

"And there's something else-"

"Yeah-"

Mark shook his head. He ground his crotch forward into Sarah's hand, then let out a trilling sigh. "I don't know-"

"Does he have a little dick?"

"Oh, no, not at all. For somebody his height and everything, he has an amazingly large cock-"

"As big as Dick's?"

"My God, no-"

"You don't believe in God-"

"It's an expression, goddamnit-" Mark laughed. "No, he's got a really nice, big cock on him, and he knows how to use it. But no, he's no Dick Cox-"

Sarah's other hand inched up her nightie, where she circled her clit slowly with her middle finger, in time with her other hand, which could feel the small wet drop of pre-cum soaking Mark's khaki shorts. "So what's the problem?"

"I don't know, nothing really. I mean, I know he had to be joking when he said this one thing. A joke's a joke, right?"

"Definitely. Unless it isn't a joke. What did he say?"

Mark rifled his hair spikes once more with his lean fingers and pushed his crotch forward again. "Nah, it's nothing. Don't worry about it."

"Okay-"

"But you know what?"

"What?"

"He's one kinky fucker-"

"Yeah-"

"Talk about tossing a salad-"

"Mark, you've been rimmed before-"

"Not like that. When I say tossing a salad, I mean tossing a salad." Mark flitted his tongue around the contours of his teeth and looked into Sarah's eyes, which were blurring with her masturbation. "I think I've still got some lettuce stuck in my teeth-"

"Oh, my God!"

"You don't believe in God-"

"It's an expression, goddamnit." Sarah laughed. "So are you gonna see him again?"

"Yep. Next weekend." Mark raised his eyebrows and smirked. "We're boyfriends-"

"Yay!" Sarah squealed and her hands became more taut as she worked her and her son's genitals even more deftly, with more speed and force.

"Um, mom-"

"Yeah-"

"I'm about to cum-"

At which Sarah removed her fingers from her clit and stuck them in Mark's mouth. Then unzipped his pants and fell face-first into his crotch, inhaling his cock and balls into her mouth in one gulp.

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

2010-07-14T04:56:00.012-04:00

Mark stared at his knees, which were still stinging since he'd fallen on them after crossing the finish line. Slight criss-crosses of quickly coagulated blood looked back up at him, mocking his every thought, whether it was Harry Papp's address, which he'd memorized weeks ago, or the semi-hardon he still sported as he caught whiffs of Justin Bieber's cologne as the boy walked onto the far side of the podium. A loud cheer exploded as Justin grabbed the microphone, a small, fake-gold trophy in his other hand.

"What's up, my Cedarville peeps?!" the singer yelled. Another cheer deafened the pops of Pamela Pohanka's out-dated camera as she snapped photos for The Cedarville Gazette and Dustin Rexford's mumbled questions as the reporter stood next to Harry Papp for a brief interview. "All right, yo, I gots to say, that was one def race yo. Let's hear it for these boyeeeeesss!" Justin waved the trophy towards the race's winners, Harry Papp for the overall title, Rad Eichenbocken for the mentally-handicapped title, and Mark and Bo Digglio, the respective runners-up. All bowed and clapped, except for Mark, who was still too ashamed even to glance at the boy he'd been wanting to get raped by for the past several months.

But he no longer had any choice, for Justin was suddenly standing in front of him, his chipmunk cheeks pushed up by his toothy smile. He patted Mark on the shoulder, then gently raised Mark's chin with his free hand, his dark-brown eyes glinting into Mark's. "Hey, man, chin up," said the singer. "You'll get 'em next time." He winked.

Mark's 4 inches of trouble strained against his waistband, wanting so badly to be 4 and 1/2 inches that he thought he might pass out from lack of blood to his brain as it all puddled into his crotch. He shook his head violently, finally regaining his composure. But he was too late: Biebz had already moved on to congratulate Harry Papp. However, while the tiny pop singer's mouth paid lip service to Harry, his eyes were resting on the man next to him-

A shout went up from the crowd - actually, it was more of a bark - and everyone on the podium looked out to the middle of the mass of people where two men were locked arms in arms, a circle instantly forming around their struggle. Detective Jorge T. Vinos quickly spun Mark's boss, Mike, who was naked from the waist down, around and applied a rigorous choke hold under his chin. "I'll ask the questions!" screamed the detective as a collective gasp at Mike's micro-penis flailed up from the crowd, hovering in the air just above it-

But before anyone could make sense of what was transpiring, the sirens of the ambulance at the back of the congregation screeched into full blazing, blinding, strobing, red-and-white lights as it took off with the one runner who had succumbed to a devastating Achilles tendon injury. All heads turned towards the ambulance as it kicked up rocks into the faces of those just behind, several of whom fell to their knees, their hands wiping their bloodied eyes-

And through all the ruckus, Mark heard the hammer click back, felt the wind of the arm as it raised the gun up, and saw the trench-coated man's finger confidently pull the trigger. Without thinking, Mark jumped on Justin, his heartbeat in his ears and the searing flesh of his shoulder drowning out the pop of the .45 that sent a bullet off Mark's deltoid and into Harry Papp's chest just behind him.

Mark looked down into Justin Bieber's eyes as he lay on top of him, the heavy breathing of the two of them the only sound they could hear. Finally, Justin smiled. "Is that a bullet in your pocket or are you happy that you just saved my life?" he said. Then winked.

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

2010-07-06T15:48:00.016-04:00

Mark glided up alongside the table and grabbed a plastic cup of water on the edge. As he began to drink, the woman coughed. "This water's for participants in the Cedarville 10K only."

"I'm in the Cedarville 10K-" Mark finished the water and set the cup back on the table.

The woman looked at her watch - a Racemaster 3000 just like Mark's - and huffed. She crossed her arms, tipped the bun of red hair on her head to one side. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah-"

"Where'd you start, just around the bend there? Because there ain't no way-"

"I started at the starting line with everyone else-"

"Then you must've drove-"

"Do you see a car?"

"Rode-"

"Do you see a bike?"

"Or cut-"

"You saw where I was coming from." Mark held up the number pinned to his tank top: 666. "I'm in the race-"

"You're barely sweat-"

"I don't sweat much-"

"Well, then, where's my husband?"

"Your husband?"

"Harry!"

"Harry?"

"Harry Papp! He wins this cotton pickin' race every year! And he's gonna win it this year and we're gonna meet Mr. Bieber!"

Mark pointed over his shoulder with his thumb. "He's back there somewhere. Haven't seen him for miles-"

"Okay, Mister, you've gone far enough." Mrs. Papp's face was as red as her hair, as if a bucket of menstrual blood had been dropped on her head. "I'm just gonna make a call-" She reached for the walkie-talkie behind her.

"Can I use the Port-a-Potty?" Mark asked. He nodded to large rectangular shit-holder.

Mrs. Papp turned around and glared at him. "That's what it's there for, cheater!"

Mark opened the spring-loaded door and let it flop back with a smack. Jesus Christ, the woman had actually put a damper on his boner. "There's a dead animal in there," he yelled.

The chubby woman jerked the walkie-talkie to her hip before she could speak in it. "It's a cotton pickin' Port-a-Potty, for crying out loud! What do you expect it to smell like?"

Mark shook his head with emphasis. "No, ma'am, I mean there's a real dead animal in there. A possum or something."

"The runners!" The woman jumped in place, threw the walkie-talkie to the ground, and hopped over to the Port-a-Potty, her triceps flapping like the wings of a condor. As she opened the door, Mark eased up behind her, his cock stiffening, and threaded his fingers quickly through her tight, auburn curls. He held her small, fat face in the bottom of the toilet until her limbs ceased jerking and her back no longer heaved for air. At which he pushed her fully into the Port-a-Potty, clicked the lever to "Occupied," pushed the door to, and snagged another drink of water.

As he pulled up to the second -and last- water station, he looked at his Racemaster 3000. Way ahead of time. The station was empty but for about a hundred plastic cups of warm water. As he grabbed one, his eardrum grabbed a slight rustling from inside the lone Port-a-Potty. He gulped the water, then grabbed the door to the john. Which pushed out as he pulled, revealing a boy of no more than 14, a rolled magazine in his other hand, the head of his cock peeping above his waistband just as Mark's was.

The boy looked down and giggled. Then rolled his eyes. "Just taking a break. Are you with the Club?" he said.

"I'm in the race-"

The boy looked at his own Racemaster 3000. "No fucking way, dude-"

"Yes, fucking way, dude-"

The boy grabbed Mark's wrist and flipped it over. A few clicks of his thumb and he studied the distance clocked. He pulled back. And looked around. "How-"

"I'm kinda fast-" Mark grinned back at the boy. Then pulled up his fanny pack just high enough to expose his cummy cock. The boy looked, then turned his head, his blonde bangs beating against his squinting eyes. "Here," he said and handed Mark the magazine. "You can use this-"

Mark unfurled the magazine and his grin burst into an ass-eating smile: Justin Bieber - and only Justin Bieber - adorned the latest issue of TeenBeat. He laid the magazine on the table and pointed at the boy's waistband. "Can't I use that?" he said and watched as the boy's cock pulsed upwards against the elastic.

"Fuck yeah-"

Mark bent over toilet seat as best he could in the small square they were afforded by the closed Port-a-Potty and dropped his running shorts, underneath which was nothing but his shaved balls, ass, and cock. The boy spit in his hand, lubed Mark's ass and his own dick, which wasn't much bigger than Mark's, and thrust forward. After a few more stabs, the boy pulled out and sighed. "Either my dick's as tiny as I think it is, or your asshole's huge," said the boy.

"Thanks, fuckhead-"

The boy laughed. "Nah, man, I just came. I don't think it's gonna work-"

"Then use your fingers-"

"What, all of 'em?"

"If you have to, you prick-"

Mark listened as the boy laughed again, then spit several times. Plop. Plop. Plop. Plop. PLUP! And Mark lurched forward as his asshole collapsed around the boy's wrist. Which then began turning in half-circles, his knuckles spiraling against Mark's prostate, an inverted cement truck grinding semen into his urethra.

"How's my asshole feel now?" said Mark.

"It fits my hand like a glove," gasped the boy. "Like an, an, an...Isotoner-"

Mark's head reared back, and he finally touched his cock, the cum dribbling at first, then pulsing out in strokes that shook his whole body. As he caught his breath, the boy's fist slid out of his asshole in a whisper. Mark grabbed some toilet paper and wiped himself - clean! - and watched the boy take off his shirt, wipe his cock of his cum, then his hand. He stuck the Yellow Cedarville 10K shirt in his back pocket and sighed, a smile spreading across his face in the semi-dark of the Port-a-Potty much as Mark's asshole had spread across his hand. Mark jumped. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"It's them-"

The boy peeked out the door. "Just one-"

"Papp?"

"No, some young guy. I can see Papp's still far off-"

Mark looked at his Racemaster 3000. "No fucking way-"

"You can catch him-"

"Yeah, but I didn't want it to be like this-"

"Just fucking catch him and pass him, dude-"

"Yeah-"

They popped out of the john. The boy picked up his magazine and put it in his other back pocket. Mark gulped down a hot water and adjusted his fanny pack. Before he took off, the boy grabbed his arm. "Make sure you go the right way at the fork. They've changed it."

"Which way?"

"I don't know. I was just told they had to re-route it."

"Fuck, that's the first I've heard of it-"

"It shouldn't be." The boy looked over his shoulder at the mass of runners, led by Harry Papp, rounding the corner of the road. "Go. Just follow that one dude."

"Oh, I will-" And Mark was gone.

Up ahead, he could see the back of the ghost he'd seen earlier in the day. He took a deep breath and increased his strides, tripling his speed. At the fork in the road, he was feet behind the man, who veered to his right. Within seconds, Mark was at the guy's side, his head turned to get a better look at the fellow. He shivered as the guy turned to him - if it wasn't Danny Raleigh, then he wasn't Mark Dennison. Finally, he said, "Hey."

"Hey."

"Haven't seen you around-"

The guy shook his head.

"You got a name?"

The guy took a deep breath, then spoke slowly in short, choppy bursts: "Dude...I'm trying to...run and win a race...I don't really...have time for...chit...chat."

Mark turned from the man, unable to feel his legs from both shock and anger - the guy sounded just like Danny except for the cadence of his sentences. But then he pulled up. And looked around. He yelled out to the guy, "Fuckface!" The fellow stopped and turned. And looked around too.

They were standing in the middle of an undeveloped cul-de-sac, skeletons of houses that would soon be occupied by families of all sorts standing at silent attention all around them, leering at them, as if about to break into laughter. All Mark could hear was the blood rushing through his swelling face - and the feet of the other runners who had been so far behind but who were now obviously way ahead of them. "You fucking dick, you went the wrong way," he said.

The guy wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "Um...yeah, I guess...so."

"You guess so? What the fuck, dude?"

"I wasn't sure...which way to go...so since I'm right-...handed...I just went right."

"Fuck!" Mark screamed. And pushed the guy in front of him. As he took off, he pulled his right leg back until his heel touched his ass, then let loose with a kick that landed square on the back of the fellow's ankle. Not even the audible pop of the man's Achilles tendon could soothe Mark as he flew on, only the balls of his feet barely scraping the ground.

At the fork, he circled right - and right in front of Detective Jorge T. Vinos - who yelped something at him - and his boss, Mike - who yelled what sounded like, "Woo hoo! Good Times!" But he didn't have time for anything except vanquishing Harry Papp and meeting Biebz. He bulleted past several more runners, who were grinding out their finishes, until he saw just ahead of him the lone figure of Harry Papp - crossing the finish line.

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

2010-06-30T03:37:00.008-04:00

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

2010-06-14T02:52:00.008-04:00

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.

Sports Briefs

2010-05-23T23:18:00.004-04:00

Bieber to Officiate Cedarville 10K

By Dustin Ruxefjord
Evening Gazette Staff Writer

Cedarville - Critically-acclaimed international pop star Justin Bieber will officiate this year's Annual Cedarville 10K in downtown Cedarville, Maryland, The Evening Gazette has just confirmed. Bieber, 15, will fire the starting gun of the yearly event and hand out trophies to the winners of all age- and gender-related competitions, including the Open 10K, which is open to all competitors, except those who race professionally.

"This is quite a coup for the Cedarville 10K," said Harry Papp, the race's organizer, as well as one of its most feared competitors. "To have someone of Justin's - nay, Mr. Bieber's - stature and talent officiating our little race is...wow, I just can't put it into words."

But the events' combatants are not the only ones excited by Bieber's appearance - the ultra-talented singer is a major sex symbol to pre-teen girls, desperate homosexuals of both sexes, and pedophiles the world over. The turnout for this year's event is expected to exceed those of the race's entire 215-year history combined. Especially as there will be a special incentive for those who show up to compete, according to Bieber himself.

Reached by telephone this week, Bieber had this to say: "Yo! What up, Cedarville! East side! Thank you for having me and thank you to all the fans. And just to up the ante, the top 5 finishers in each category will receive free front-row tickets to my concert the following night, with the winner of the Open Category receiving the privilege of hanging for the day with yours truly. Peace out, my Cedarville homies!"

The Annual Cedarville 10K will be held on June 19th, weather permitting. The starting gun will go off at 8:03 a.m. after a performance of "One Less Lonely Girl" by Bieber. Competitors and spectators may sign up for the event at the Cedarville Community Center; fees are $25 for runners and $15 for spectators. Good luck to all who participate.

Pamela Pohanka contributed to this report.

Event(ful(l))

2010-05-12T05:33:00.010-04:00

Mike walked quickly back from the door, cracking his neck left and right so hard that Mark thought the gigantic, beige mole on the side of his nose was going to fall off. "They're lined up around the corner! Woo hoo! Good times!" he squealed. He glanced over at the basket full of hundreds of ebony dildoes. "Though I'm not so sure about those-"

"Relax," said Mark. "You're going to sell more of those black mambas today than you will your beloved comics in the next ten years-"

Mike sniggered. "We'll see. And we need to get this place back in order-"

"For crying out loud, Mike, relax! It'll all be taken care of." Mark looked around the store, which was empty but for the table towards the back, the basket full of dildoes, two chairs, and two small stepladders. The store's inventory and shelves were neatly stacked and pressed against the walls. "Ladies!" Mark called. "Are you ready?"

"Just another minute-" a voice sirened from behind the door that led to the booths.

"Let 'em in," said Mark.

At which Mike went back to the front door, his elbows and wrists popping all the way, and turned the lock. He stood by and collected and inspected all 70 tickets from Cedarville's most perverted men, all regular customers and known either by name or face or both to both Mike and Mark. As the last customer made his way into the throng breathing heavily into what little space was left, Mike locked the front door, pulled the shade, and reclaimed his spot by Mark. He looked at the table. "I sure hope that thing doesn't break," he whispered.

"It's tested for a metric ton, there won't be any problem." Mark jumped down from the register stand and stuck his head through the door leading to the booths. He shut the door and turned to face 70 smiles of all ages, races, orientations, widths, and varying stages of toothlessness. He'd never seen so many debauched men in his life and was suddenly thankful that he didn't have to look at their faces as he sucked them off through the gloryhole of Booth 3.

He cleared his throat. "Gentleman, BJ's would like to thank you for coming today. In just a minute, you will be treated to a live performance by Miss Jane Sheckleton and Mrs. Dana Callahan of their now-famous double-headed double dildo mutual masturbation scene from their acclaimed production, Nasty, Dirty Anal Cunt Sluts, Volume 18. And as I can see from the bulges in your pants-" a collective laugh went up from the group of jostling men - "you're more than ready. Well, so are they. Without further ado, I present to you Miss Jane Sheckleton and Mrs. Dana Callahan."

The back door opened and out squeezed the two morbidly obese porn stars, who didn't look so morbidly obese squeezed into two of the largest teddies - or were they slender tents? - known to man. A sonic holler and whoop rose to the ceiling, shaking BJ's very foundations. The women bowed and asked for silence.

"Thank you," said Dana. "Before we begin, we'd like to introduce our assistant, Miss Katleen Werner. Miss Werner is the newest addition to the roster of DoubleStuff Productions and will be making her debut this fall in Ginger Clit-Lickers from Mars, the Planet Almost as Red as a Ginger Girl's Period. Miss Katleen Werner!"

A hush settled over the crowd of men, their mouths agape as a petite, auburn-haired girl, who couldn't have been more than nineteen years old, stepped stark naked from the behind the back door. After another minute of cross-eyed ogling, erecting boners, and crotch self-massages, the men cheered. Katleen bowed and laughed, her enormous breasts, which almost hid the rest of her body, jiggling up and down like two mini-planets hit by comets simultaneously.

"Are those real?" a man yelled.

"100%!" said Mark. And he wouldn't have believed it himself if Katleen hadn't let him put his taut 4 inches between them until he'd come in her mouth earlier that morning, just before Mike arrived. They were almost as squishy as the fat rolls on Jane and Dana's backs, which he'd also fucked several hours earlier. "And no touching!"

The men laughed and hee'd and haw'd until their boners were almost extinct. As they quieted down, Dana removed her glasses and gave them to Katleen, who held them in her left hand, as her right hand was already occupied - by a small knife. Dana looked to Jane and nodded. Then both ladies removed their high heels, took to the step ladders, and after several grunting attempts, stepped onto the large padded table.

Slowly, they removed their teddies one button at a time, their bodies grinding the air around them, the waffled, stretch-marked flesh underneath springing out with audible sighs. They threw their teddies into the crowd of jumping men, then turned and bent over, revealing two of the largest combination dildo-butt plugs in the history of mankind. Each half measured at least eight inches in diameter, from what Mark could tell; his asshole ached with jealousy as the women moaned in unison and poop-queefed the sex toys out onto the table beneath, their holes momentarily black, breathing, inviting tunnels.

They rose up and embraced. Their tongues found each other in a messy kiss of over-applied lipstick that smeared their faces as they ground their humongous rolls of belly fat together. They made their way down into a simultaneous squat, the table creaking as they sat back on their asses facing one another, their legs spread, the soles of their feet glued one to the other. Katleen suddenly appeared, four 24-inch, ebony, double-headed dildoes in her polite, little hands. But before inserting them, she hunched over the table and went to work on each lady's clit, snarling and growling as she attacked each, biting, sucking, and clawing with her tongue.

When Jane and Dana's cunts and assholes were sopping wet with Kathleen's spittle, the young girl took her time and smilingly inserted two dildoes into each of the women's holes. The shiny black mambas were defenseless and quickly devoured by the stunningly muscled orifices of the two porn queens, who slid back and forth on the dildoes, their crotches kissing briefly, until they picked up so much speed that their cunts were never untouching for more than a half-second.

The men were silenced with awe. The only sound to escape from them were muffled grunts - actually, this came from only one man, way in the back - and the scratching of hands against jeans and khakis. Until someone finally called out, "Can we jerk off?"

Mark looked to the crowd and met 140 eyes pleading with him. He looked to the man grunting in the back. "Detective Vinos!"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos! Do you think it'd be-"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!"

Mark looked at Mike, who looked back at him and mouthed, "What the fuck?" Mark grinned. Then looked back to the detective. "Well, we're all consenting adults here and no one can see us-" Detective Vinos was nodding approval "-so yeah, go ahead."

"Where do we come? On the floor?"

"Hmm-"

Jane and Dana stopped abruptly, their thick cunts mashed together and hiding the stuffed, suffocated dildoes. Dana whispered something to Katleen, who bounced over to Mark and whispered in his ear. "No problem," said Mark. He ran through the back door and reappeared moments later with a bucket. He handed it to the man who had asked if they could jerk off. "Use this bucket. Just pass it around as you need it. And when you're done-" he nodded to the table "-give it to Katleen. The ladies have a surprise for you-"

"Oh, fuck!"

"Oh, shit!"

"Hell, yeah!"

"Cum on dem bitches-"

"Bucket, please!" And it was passed back to the fellow who'd come in with Detective Vinos, a rather short, stocky man in a baggy plaid shirt and khakis. He made the first deposit and passed it to the next hand to be raised.

Dana and Jane began where they left off. Their sweaty rolls squeaked louder than the table with every lightning-quick thrust that seemed it would be the death of them - or the table. Mark thought he could smell burnt latex wafting from the friction between their cunts and assholes. And could've sworn that the two gigantic black mambas were smoking. But before he could confirm either sensation, he was distracted by a sight he wished he could unsee: Mike had dropped his shorts to the floor and was furiously working the smallest cock Mark had ever seen between two slender, red, cracking fingers, a cock so tiny that it re-defined micro-penis and buoyed Mark with the confidence of a multi-million dollar porn star.

The bucket began to change hands quicker and quicker, a plastic crowd-surfer, as the porn queens picked up steam - yes! that was a slight stream of smoke emanating from the burning mambas - and Katleen dropped the knife and glasses and joined in, her hands working her clit, her mouth working each woman's cunt in turn. Until the whole store was thrown into a mist of sweat, cum, cunt juice, ass juice, and a cacophony of moans and grunts that ended only when Jane and Dana let out two orgasmic howls that sent the last drops of semen - from Mike! - into the bucket. The men hollered and yelped and jumped up and down and pushed each other, briefly creating a miniature porn mosh pit that quickly subsided into ooh's and aah's as the bucket passed finally to Mark, who'd been giggling too much to get hard and shoot yet another load that day.

Katleen grabbed the bucket and ran over to the ladies. Gently, she turned the bucket over and spread its contents on the heaving bellies of her leading ladies, rubbing it between the flabs of skin until it was dry and they had regained their breaths. Katleen picked up the knife and carefully sliced the four dildoes in half, the four now eight and all lodged tightly in their respective holes. The ladies rolled over and pulled the chairs up to the table. They sat down and accepted ice-cold bottles of water from Mark. They placed the towels Katleen had retrieved around their necks and opened the markers supplied to them by Mike.

Mark stepped to the front of the table. "Well, how'd you like that?" The men applauded and yelled out obscenities that made the ladies blush with gratitude. "Now, Miss Sheckleton and Mrs. Callahan have been kind enough to agree to sign autographs on these here-" Mark pointed to the large basket full of hundreds of black, double-headed dildoes, each neatly wrapped in cellophane "-the price for each is forty dollars-"

Some of the men booed. "Why so steep?" yelled one.

"I'm glad you asked." Mark smiled. He picked up one of the dildoes and held it out in front of him. "Each dildo here has been used personally by Miss Sheckleton AND Mrs. Callahan. And the forty dollar price includes the signing fee-"

"Bullshit!"

Dana pushed her glasses onto her face and stood up, grabbing the dildo from Mark. "It's not bullshit. Every single one of these dildoes has been in both of our cunts and assholes. Both ends. We got here early this morning and fucked each and every one of them. I guarantee it." She sat down and handed the dildo back to Mark.

"Gentleman, this is a collector's item. No one else in the world except you men can say that they own an authentic double-headed dildo used by both Jane Sheckleton and Dana Callahan. And when you get your hands on one - or when you get it home and look over it closely - you'll see for yourself that each one is lovingly layered in these fine ladies' cunt and ass juices." Mark squeezed the dildo in his hand and it almost slipped out onto the floor.

The men rumbled, but this time their grumbling was accompanied by energetic shrugs and nods. Hands suddenly went up in the air, requesting 70 dildoes. "Now, listen," said Mark, "I'd suggest you buy two or three at this great price. Keep one as a collectible and the others you can use in the bedroom on your wife or your girlfriend or-"

"Or ourselves!"

The room grew so quiet one could've heard another butt plug drop. All the men turned to the man who had shouted: Detective Jorge T. Vinos!

"Faggot!" shouted someone. And the men howled, their laughing vibrating the hardwood floors of BJ's. Mark watched Detective Vinos shrink back in horror, his grunts audible amongst the jovial laughter. He shook his head.

"Fellas! Fellas!" Jane Sheckleton stood up. When all were quiet, she continued: "For an extra ten dollars, you can crawl under the table and get a lick or two of our cunts and assholes, including Miss Werner's." The men cheered at this, looking at each other in giddy amazement. "But you have to buy at least two dildoes. And please, when you're eating our cunts and asses, do not bite or nibble on the dildoes inside us. Or you'll get a golden -and brown!- shower that you'll never forget."

Within minutes, the basket was empty, each man holding several dildoes. Mark's pocket was full of bills, and he and Mike looked on as the first two men in line made their way under the table. Katleen sat on the floor at the end of the table, her legs spread and wrapped around the table legs, the knife coyly dangling in her fingers. "Well," said Mike, "you did it-"

"You certainly did, Mister Dennison-"

Mike and Mark looked up. Detective Jorge T. Vinos stood next to them, his pants stained with cum, at least five dildoes in the crook of his arm. Next to him was his companion who'd accompanied him, his pants also stained with cum. And ketchup. "Mr. Vin-"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" Mark yelled. "Do you know Mike?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" Detective Vinos switched the dildoes noisily to his other arm. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I know the proprietor of this establishment."

"And who is this, your boyfriend?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison! I'm not a homosexual!" Detective Vinos looked to his companion, who was giggling, his cheeks flushed. "I'd like to introduce you to my partner, Detective Jerry Wead! He's been assigned to the missing persons cases, along with yours truly, of your friends, Dick Cox and Dill Doublepound-"

"Are those really their names?" whispered Mike.

"Oh, yeah, I tried calling Dick's cell phone the other night, but I got nothing-"

"Oh, did you, Mister Dennison? That's very suspicious behavior, Mister Dennison, calling missing persons-"

"Why is it suspicious that I tried my friend's phone because I want him found just as badly as you do?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" The detective looked to his partner, just catching a roll of the man's eyes and a shake of his head in his peripheral vision, and let out a series of almost completely uninhibited grunts and barks. He shifted the dildoes to his other arm and leaned in towards Mark. He looked around sheepishly. And whispered, "How much for those butt plug-dildo thingies on the floor?"

Biebz

2010-05-03T03:54:00.003-04:00

"Mark." Sarah stood at his bedroom door, her arms folded under her bra. "What the fuck?" She nodded to the hundreds of posters and cut-out magazine pages on his walls.

"What?"

"You like Justin Bieber or what?"

"Not his music." Mark grinned over the top of his blanket as he lay in bed. "But since he's gonna be my husband someday-"

"Yeah, right-" Sarah shook her head. And laughed.

"You'll see-" Mark giggled. Then slipped his hand under the elastic of his boxer briefs, his hand encasing his hard-on. He closed eyes, two little slits over the wide slit of his shit-eating grin.

The concert's over. Mark's finagled a backstage pass from security - by deepthroating the fat guy's short, half-limp cock in one of the 20 stalls in the bathroom just outside his section of the arena. He watches all the girls as they take turns posing for pics with Justin, sitting on his lap, their little cunts wet in their skinny jeans and panty-less mini-skirts. And as he's staring at the boy without blinking, he gets hard as the boy stares back at him without blinking the whole time.

The last girl gets her autograph on the back of her concert shirt, her ass plumped into Justin's face, which he totally ignores because he's only looking at one thing, one person, in the room. As she leaves, passing Mark giggling like a schoolgirl who's come for the first time - and she probably did because she's wobbly and because Mark's almost come himself just watching Justin watching him - the room's finally empty.

Just the two of them. Staring at each other. And smiling with a well-known secret. Justin finally sighs and lays back on the couch, stretching out his legs in his skinny jeans, his inflated cock a rumple next to his zipper. He looks down at it. Then back up at Mark, who's standing over him. He puts out a hand and pulls Mark onto him.

Straddling his new boyfriend, Mark pulls back, removes the boy's cocked hat, slowly rifles his fingers through his messy mop. He caresses one smooth cheek - as soft and hairless as his own - then falls forward, buries his tongue into the boy's mouth and is met halfway by a tongue even more urgent than his own.

Clothes rip, flying to the floor. Justin's on his knees over the back of the couch, Mark's face ensconced in his ass, which smells of soap and sweat. Mark reaches down, grabs his cock, which is now no less than a good foot of thick rope, and puts the tip to Justin's hole. He enters as he hunches forward, chest to back, his arms wrapped around the boy's slight, moaning frame, their mouths entwined in hurried exchanges of lips, tongue, and spit.

Mark pushes in until he's flush with the boy's ass. And feels it tear, top and bottom. He pulls back, pumps, and watches as it splits in half, soaking his pelvis in blood. And all he hears is the boy begging for more.

With one last thrust, he shoots three gallons of semen into Justin Bieber's guts, and they collapse, one upon the other upon the couch. And continue kissing, between giggles just like those of the girl who came earlier.

Sarah coughed. Mark opened his eyes. Then pulled his hand out of his underwear and wiped his cum on his New York Giants blanket, on the same spot hardened by months of ejaculate. He looked at his mom and shrugged, grinning.

"You're a mess," she said and shook her head.

"I know-" Mark giggled.

Plying

2010-04-25T04:34:00.006-04:00

Mark had sucked and fucked more cock in the last week than he'd sucked and fucked in his entire life. So much so that his throat and cock throbbed with delicious hunger when he thought about it. And craved even more. That was the thing with cock, though: the more you got, the more you wanted.

And he'd made more money in the last week than any time in his life, even when he'd been selling weed with Donte and Delonte - oh, fuck, he'd like their huge cocks about right now - and none of it was even in his paycheck. That was the thing with money, though: the more you got, the more you wanted.

He blinked in the dark cubbyhole that was partitioned off from the now-famous booth 3 in the back of BJ's Videos N Toys as the video screen in the booth blasted on, shooting a laser of dusty blue light through the glory hole. Another minute and an average, familiar cock peeped through the hole, a garden snake sniffing out its surroundings as it bobbed back and forth, up and down. With all the strength in his forearm, Mark tightly curled his middle finger, then flicked the jerky cock under its head. At which it retracted immediately, accompanied by a muffled "Oof" from the other side of the wall.

Mark put his mouth to the hole. "Fifty-" A pair of odd-shaped yet not unfamiliar lips met his in the center of the hole and he recoiled, spitting and wiping his mouth. "Dude-"

"Sorry," said the pair of lips poking through the hole; in the dark, they resembled nothing more than a chicken's asshole. After a pause, in which a tongue darted out and licked the lips and a number of grunts issued forth through the hole, the lips opened again: "What do you mean?"

"Dude, you know the deal. Fifty bucks for a suck."

"Oh, I thought that was just for the first time-"

"You mean, for the first ten times?"

"I'll ask the questions!"

"Because this is, like, the tenth day in a row you've been here. The second time today actually-"

"I've never been here before-"

"Then why did you say-"

"I'll ask the questions!"

Mark sighed. "Dude if you want your dick sucked, it's gonna be fifty bucks. If you want me to ride it, then it's a hundred and fifty."

"Eww. Anal is nasty."

"Whatever floats your boat."

The lips disappeared, and after what seemed like years, a number of bills appeared through the hole. Mark counted it: two twenties, a five, and two ones. "You're three short-"

"I know, I know. Hold on-"

Several more minutes, during which Mark heard about forty grunts and about two hundred coins rap the floor, and he finally cupped his hand under the hole as three hundred pennies were deposited in his hand one at a time. He stashed it in his pocket with the crumbled bills, then swallowed the cock that appeared once more through the hole. Five or ten - or was it one? - full-length strokes down the shaft and three drops of cum dribbled onto his tongue. The cock deflated like a balloon animal in his hand and slowly withdrew. Before he could hear a zip and any more grunts, Mark dashed out the back door of the cubbyhole, along the narrow passageway that led to all the cubbies, and took up his position behind the counter, where he began dusting the new stock of 36-inch dildos that had come in that morning.

He turned around upon hearing the first grunt. The detective was in the 'Chicks with Extremely Tiny Dicks' section, leafing through one after another of the magazines. When the man turned, his hands full of magazines, Mark saw that the ketchup stain on his rumpled tie was almost as big as the cum - or spit or piss or whatever the fuck it was - stain on his pants. Mark smiled as the man laid the magazines on the counter without looking at him and fumbled in all his pockets for his wallet. "Mr. Vinos!" said Mark.

Detective Vinos looked up, a grunt so loud escaping from his throat that it seemed it came directly through his trachea and not through his closed mouth. Mark almost jumped; instead, he laughed, grabbed the magazines, and started ringing them up. "Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" said the man.

"My bad. Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" Mark yelled. "Will this be it?"

"Yes." The detective's affirmation was a mumbled growl.

"You know, if you buy two more today, you can get any of the items on the wall behind me at fifty-percent off." Mark pointed to the rubber pocket pussy that was actually a rubber pocket mouth. "I think this'd be right up your alley."

"No thank you. I'm getting these for, um...the vice squad. They're in the middle of a very important investigation-"

"Really?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!"

"Then go ahead, shoot-"

The detective leaned over the counter and looked side to side before finally targeting Mark with his narrowed eyes, the caterpillars of his eyebrows about to fight one another they were squeezed together so tightly. "Where were you five minutes ago, Mister Dennison?"

"Right here-"

"You're lying. No one was here when I came in five minutes ago-"

"Sorry, I was right here-"

"I can take you in for lying to an officer of the law-"

"Wait a minute. You asked me where I was, and I told you. What's the problem?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!"

Mark sighed. "Okay-"

The detective looked around the store quickly, his neck turning like an owl's left and right. "Listen, Mister Dennison, I know what goes on here. I'll have this place shut down-"

"I know what goes on here, too. We have security cameras everywhere. I mean everywhere." Mark's eyes narrowed as he leaned, smiling, towards the detective. "I can send them to the vice squad, if you'd like me to, Mr. Vinos-"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" Mark drew back from the counter. "I can send them the originals or what's backed up permanently on the server-" Mark slipped his hand into his pocket and jangled the three hundred pennies stretching it to his knee.

The detective straightened up and began a search of his pockets again, finally alighting on his wallet in his front right pocket. After a series of tugs accompanied by slight grunts and barks, he handed over his credit card. Mark completed the transaction and bagged the magazines, which he handed to the detective. "Let me ask you something," said Mark.

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison-"

"Okay, let me posit something then. I bet that if somebody sucked somebody's dick and that somebody came in that other somebody's mouth and that other somebody didn't swallow but spit it out and saved it, I bet that other somebody could give that to the state forensics lab and they'd be able to tell whether the semen was that somebody's or that other somebody's-"

"Good day, Mister Dennison-" The detective barked, slipped his wallet into the bag with the magazines, put his head down, and made for the door. "We shall meet again, I assure you."

Mark grabbed the rubber pocket mouth, and as the detective opened the door, yelled after him: "You sure you don't want one of these?"

Non Sequitur

2010-04-17T04:16:00.003-04:00

On Mark's desk (side by side): rusty, trusty straight razor; coil of fishing line; surgical sewing needle swiped from the medical supply trash bin outside the local clinic; super glue; a serrated butcher knife from the kitchen; tin-snips.

On Mark's bed (on top of one another): the Dennisons' newly-installed next-door neighbor, not much older than Mark himself, a blonde with a tiny waist and fat-less curves over the rest of her body, who, an hour or so earlier, had stopped by with her infant daughter to introduce herself and was perfunctorily invited in by Mark for tea and a swatch of chloroform, and now lay on her back naked and sleeping, her head propped against the headboard, her hands tied to the headboard, and her legs tied together and spread open by a taut length of rope slipped under the bed and attached to each ankle; said infant daughter, also naked and sleeping on her mother's smooth belly.

Standing by the bed: Mark, fully naked, 4-inch penis so hard that it might actually measure 4 1/8 inches now, the head dripping pre-cum like a stone drain, as he fiddles with the video camera he just bought with the money from the first 10 or 20 cocks he sucked the other day through the glory holes in the back-room video booths at BJ's.

Mark pressed RECORD, then grabbed the butcher knife from the desk and prodded the woman's neck with it. As soon as her eyes popped open, she glanced from Mark to the knife to her daughter and let out a scream that would curdle anyone's blood but didn't curdle Mark's. At this, the infant also awoke and screamed at the top of its little lungs.

"Jesus, shut the fuck up." Mark laid the knife back on his desk. "You're really annoying. You've woken the baby up." He picked up the baby by its neck with one hand and looked into its eyes as its - and its mother's - screams abated into hushed sobs. "It's hungry." Mark looked at the woman. Then her cunt.

"No!"

"Baby's gotta eat." Mark shrugged. Then shoved the infant's face into its mother's cunt, moving its head until its mouth was firmly over the clit and suckling quietly.

The woman writhed, kicking her hips side to side, the baby's head slapping back and forth against her inner thighs. But to no avail - the baby sucked harder, refusing to let go of its new nipple.

"Jesus, woman, you're cruel."

"You're a sick bastard! Let us go. Leave my baby alone!"

Mark watched the baby suckle at its mother's clit and stroked his cock with its pre-cum lube. As his chode tightened a bit, he let go of his cock and slid his wet fingers between the baby's legs. His middle finger slipped inside its tiny vagina, and the baby released the clit from its mouth and howled. Another finger in and the baby screamed as its hymen broke, the blood pooling under it on the plastic sheet covering the bed.

"No!" The woman's wet eyes glared at Mark. "No!"

He slipped his fingers out of the baby, grabbed it, and laid it across the woman's belly. He spread its legs and glared at the woman as he positioned the tip of his cock against the baby's bloody vagina. The woman closed her eyes.

"You need to watch this," said Mark. The woman closed her eyes tighter, creating two wrinkly slits under her fair eyebrows. Mark stepped away from the baby and grabbed the straight razor and the super glue. "Which one's it gonna be? Either I use 'em on you. Or it." The woman's eyes opened wide and she shook her head. And barely struggled as Mark squeezed a thin strip of super glue over each top eyelid, pressing them up with his thumbs until he was sure the woman couldn't blink.

He chucked the glue back onto the table and regained his position behind the baby as it lay whimpering on its mother's stomach. Pushing its legs farther apart where its ass met its thighs, he forced his way into it with several brutal pelvic thrusts until his pubes were flush with its flesh. And continued pumping as he watched the woman watch him fuck her screaming daughter.

"Only a baby could feel that tiny cock," said the woman.

"Oh, she's feeling it all right," said Mark.

"You sick-"

Mark laughed and rabbit-pumped into the child several - hundred? thousand? - times until the baby's screams were the calm exhalations of an unconscious person fucked silly. And almost to death. As the vagina slackened, his dick swelled and pumped what seemed like a gallon of cum into the baby's cunt. He pulled out, grabbed the tip of his dick, and squeezed the rest of the cum onto the baby's ass, where he tried his best to inscribe his initials with the tip of his cock and his cum.

"Just kill her," said the woman. "And me." She sighed, her face dry from crying so much and being unable to blink. "Just kill us."

"Okay-"

Mark grabbed the tin-snips, held up the baby's right hand - "No!" screamed its mother - and quickly clipped off each finger and the thumb. After finishing the left hand, he gathered all ten digits and slowly crammed them into the woman's cunt. He grabbed the super glue once more and traced her labia with thick lines of it. Then held them shut until they could open no more.

He dropped the tin-snips on to the bed and reached behind him for the butcher knife. Turning the infant over, he lined the blade up with the lone line on its neck - "No!" screamed its mother - and drew a perfect parabola from ear to ear. He flipped the the knife over and sawed the baby's vertebrae with the serrated edge until its cold, hardening head fell off into his hand. He wiped the blade on the woman's left breast, pressing it hard enough so that it described a slit through her nipple, then set the baby's ahead atop her head, her hair soaking through with its blood.

He reached behind him, grabbed his straight razor, and very carefully cut a circle of flesh from the woman's shaking shoulder. He threaded the fishing line through the surgical needle, then squashed the baby's head onto the open wound on the woman's shoulder as he straddled her, his asshole resting softly and open against the baby's body under him. With the diligence and dexterity of a brain surgeon - or a cat burglar - he slowly attached the baby's head to its mother, sitting back to admire his craftsmanship when he was finished.

As the woman passed into unconsciousness, Mark grabbed the knife again and set to vivisecting the infant, quartering and dressing it like a wobbly chicken. After much tedious work that used up every millimeter of the fishing line and cramped his fingers at times, he finally tied off the last stitch and jumped up behind the camera, from where he gazed upon his modern-day, Frankensteinian creation, which was really nothing more than a splendid piece of art, in his humble opinion: the dead woman - was it a heart attack or a stroke or just nervous exhaustion? he wondered though he couldn't care less - decorated like a war hero - the infant's head on her shoulders, a double-headed, incestuous marionette; and its limbs scattered about her body, arms jutting from her knees, the tiny, hairless legs protruding from her armpits, its torso rising faintly from her stomach, a beautiful re-birthing no mother could resist, and all rinsed in a thick of coat of blood that was drying black.

He reached for the camera, his finger hovering over the STOP button. And his eyes fell on the 2 1/2 inch screen: PAUSE blinked in the corner. "Well, fuck me running," he laughed.

Start

2010-03-24T00:16:00.008-04:00

"Huzzah! There he is!"

Mark spread his arms out to his side and smiled, cocking his head a bit to his left so that the owner of BJ's Videos and Toys got a good look at his deeper right dimple.

"I'm Mike." The man extended his right hand with a pop of his elbow. As he released Mark's hand from his sweaty, fishy palm, he vacuumed what must have been a quart or a gallon of snot into the back of his throat, which Mark watched fall down his throat in a lumping Adam's apple. "Let me show you around." He giggled as he said the last word, so that his voice reached a pitch so high that only Mark and dogs could hear it.

Mark took in the man's form as he passed: spiky blonde-gray hair, slender but with an obnoxious paunch, elbows and a skinny giraffe neck that seemed to click and pop with every step, an ass flatter than plywood. Jesus Christ, thought Mark, if I don't do something with my life, I'll end up like this sad sack of shit someday...

"Over here is our second biggest area of business-"

Mark looked to a wall filled with DVD cases exhibiting every form of every sex part and act imaginable: cocks, cunts, asses, mouths, balls, fists, elbows, ears, nostrils, vaginal, anal, oral, gay, straight, bi, tri, tranny, fisting, golden showers, roman candles, scat, squirting, cumming, swallowing, spitting, horses, dogs, cats, parrots, elves, gnomes, reindeer, squirrels, incest, brothers, sisters, rape, gangbang, black on white, midget...

"This section contains every type-"

"I see-"

Mike giggled. "You have to keep a very keen eye on this section because this where the most loss occurs-"

"But you have cameras all over the place-"

Mike leaned in close, so close that Mark could smell his breath, which contained a hint of cock. "They don't work-"

"What?"

"They don't work. I haven't been able to figure out the wiring-"

"Hire somebody-"

"Cost, my boy, cost."

"Oh." Mark stretched. "Well, I could probably figure it out-"

"Ah, don't worry about it. Just keep an eye on the section and that should be enough-"

Mark nodded. And watched as the man cracked his neck with a sharp jolt of his neck, the mole on the side of his turned-up, red nose shaking as if it were about to mutiny from the ship of his vein-streaked face. He bit his bottom lip.

"Now back here-" Mike pulled back a curtain "-this is my baby, my area." He smiled and led Mark through the doorless entrance.

As Mark looked for more cocks and ass and tits and cunts, his eyebrows raised themselves automatically as he espied nothing but comic books, regular hardcover and paperback books, and mainstream DVDs. "Wow," he said unintentionally.

"Wow is right. When I took over Gay Books so many eons ago and had to change the format of the store just to stay in business, I thought I'd keep a section like this in homage to that now-defunct heaven on earth. In here is where we sell the best comics and classics."

Mark picked up a few of the paperbacks. The Da Vinci Code. Along Came a Spider. Tuesdays with Morrie. He replaced the books on the shelf and looked at Mike, quickly envisioning replacing his bowels with the books and a couple gallons of gasoline. "Nice," he said.

Mike nodded. Then sucked another couple gallons of snot, which seemed to increase the size of his rotund belly as he swallowed.

"And great name-"

"What's that?"

"Of the store. After you converted it over. Great name. BJ's."

"I named it after a puppy I had as a boy-"

"Oh. Did it die?"

"No. It ran away."

Mark bit his lip. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks." Mike sighed. He looked at his feet. Or at least looked down - Mark was sure he couldn't see his feet beyond his belly. He probably hadn't seen his dick since his puppy ran away. "I'll never forget that day. I'd only had him a couple months. He was my best friend. My dad took him for a walk one day. And came back with just the leash. I'll never forget what he told me: 'Your goddamn mutt, which shits all over this goddamn, fucking house and which I hate to high heaven, got loose and ran away!'"

Mark bit his bottom lip again and looked away as Mike's teary, bloodshot eyes met his. "I'm sorry."

"Thanks."

Mike sighed another cumbucket of snot into his stomach. "Okay, now for the money maker," he said. And took off through the curtain, leading Mark through a creaky door into a dark chamber lit by one low-watt light bulb. As Mark's eyes adjusted, he saw that he was in the center of a narrow hallway, down each side of which was another hallway pockmarked with 5 doors on each side. "These are the video booths. This is what keeps us afloat. And what keeps my Malibu on the road."

"How much you make on these?"

"Believe it or not, about twenty grand a month."

"Wow!"

"Yeah, wow is right. It is magnifique!" -Mike's accent was on the last syllable of this last word - "Without these, I'd be in the poorhouse. Thank Allah there are lots of horny peeps in Cedarville. Woo hoo. Good times." Mike's voice flailed up into another piercing screech.

"Oh, are you Muslim?"

"No. I just hate Christians. I don't give them any quarter."

"Oh-"

They exited back into the fluorescent light of the front area of the store. And were met by an angry woman with a shock of short bleached hair and bags like beaten luggage under her eyes. "Mike!"

Mike jumped. "Um, Mark, this is Carol Howl. She has a one percent stake in BJ's and is our resident exquisite designer-"

Carol rolled her eyes. "Cut the crap, Mike. Sheesh, no wonder you can never get a girl. Because you are such a girl-"

Mike giggled. "Oh, Carol-" He reached out and took the posterboard from her hands, turning it over so that he and Mark could both look at it. "Magnifique!" he said.

Carol's eyes rolled again. "Whatever. Just put it up."

Mark recognized the two naked ladies adorning the display ad, their legs spread to expose their chunky, crimson, hairless labia. "Dana Callahan and Jane Sheckleton!"

"You know their work?"

"I've seen a video or two of theirs-"

"I thought you were homosexual-"

"I'm bi-"

"Oh. Sorry." Mike's hands shook a bit. "Well, these ladies bring us a lot of revenue. They're favorites of our customers-"

"Really?"

"Yeah. Why do you look so surprised?"

Mark examined the numerous folds of belly fat of the women and their cavernous vaginas for a second, his four-incher retracting to one inch. "Oh, not surprised at all. They're mighty fine. Love the thin mustaches-"

"Ah, you're a connoisseur. You're gonna do well at BJ's, my boy."

Mark sighed silently. "Well, thank you, boss-"

"Huzzah! That's what I like to hear." Mike handed the posterboard back to Carol. "Now come around the counter and I'll introduce you to Mister Cash Register-"

Mark followed the man, exchanging a smirking eye roll with Carol as Mike stepped behind the cash register, opened the drawer with a ding of a button and exclaimed, "Woo hoo! Good times!"

Detective Jorge T. Vinos On The Case

2010-02-22T10:07:00.007-05:00

Mark plopped his cock from Sarah's sticky cunt at the knock on the front door and jumped out of bed. Wrapping himself in one of his mother's blankets, he sauntered down the stairs and opened the door. On the stoop was a tall, old man - 40 maybe? - in a shapeless suit that did nothing to hide his protruding paunch. Beyond the man, parked at the curb, was an unmarked police car conspicuously marked with what seemed like 500 antennas and a series of obvious lights in the front and back windows.

"Mark Dennison?" said the man, the salt-and-pepper stubble of his unshaven face doing nothing to hide his two chins.

"Yeah-"

With a flourish, the man pulled out a badge - tugging several times on his hidden suit pocket to dislodge it - and shoved it in Mark's face. "Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

Mark stepped back, a calm falling over him and softening once and for all his spermy cock. "Yeah?"

The detective placed his badge in his back pocket after several malign attempts to replace it in his interior jacket pocket and cocked an eyebrow. "I'm investigating the disappearances of one Mister Dick Cox and one Miss Dill Doublepound. Do those names ring a bell, Mister Dennison?"

"Um, yeah, they're my friends. I didn't know-"

"May I come in, Mister Dennison? I have a few questions for you-"

"Sure-"

Mark turned and plopped on the couch, crossing his legs under the bundled blanket, fully covered so that all the detective could see of him was his blonde, spiky head. He nodded to the armchair on the other side of the coffee table and watched as the detective took his seat and brought from his interior jacket pocket - after several pulls and a few minutes' huffing - a small notebook and a purple gel pen.

"Yeah," said Mark. "I didn't even know they were missing. When were they-"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison, if you don't mind," said the detective, holding up a hand of short, stubby fingers.

Mark looked back at the man, into the man's runny brown eyes that were shaded by two of the most enormous, black eyebrows he'd ever seen on a person. He half-expected them to come to life, jump off the man's face, and attack him. He looked away to prevent himself from laughing in the man's face. "All right. Whatever."

Before the slovenly detective could ask his first question, the stairs creeked with a stomping running and Sarah was seated on the couch next to Mark, wrapped in her own blanket. "Mark, who is this?" she asked.

"This is Jorge-"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" said the detective.

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!" said Mark. "By the way, what are you, Mexican?"

"What?"

"Your heritage. Are you Mexican? Spanish?"

"Neither. I'm American. Why do you ask?"

"Well, your name - it's Spanish-"

"No, it's not-"

"Yes, it is. Jorge is Spanish for-"

"Nope-"

"Yes-"

"Uh uh-"

"Uh huh-"

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Sarah broke in.

"Wait a minute, ma'am, there's no need for foul language. I could take you in for disorderly-"

"Shut the fuck up. You're in my house, asshole. And I could take you in for raping me-"

Mark giggled as he watched the detective look down into his bulge-less crotch and shudder. "Mom, he's here to ask about Dick and Dill. They're supposedly missing-"

"They're not missing-"

"Excuse me, ma'am, but they are indeed missing. We received two missing person reports last week from their respective families. My investigation into this serious matter has determined that they were in a relationship and that your son" -the detective pointed at Mark with his tiny notebook- "Mister Mark Dennison was a mutual acquaintance of both of these young people."

"And?" said Sarah.

"And I would like to ask him a few questions."

Sarah looked at Mark, who was grinning, then looked at the detective. "All right. But I'll have you know that I'm his counsel and will end this interview at any time I deem fit-"

"You're not a lawyer-"

"I don't have to be-"

The detective looked away and cleared his throat. Then opened his little notebook. He looked up at Mark quickly, his right eyebrow cocked once more. "Mister Dennison-"

"Yeah?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison!" The detective grunted slightly.

"What was that?"

"What was what?"

"That noise you made-"

"What noise? I didn't make any noise-"

"Yes, you did. It's, like, the tenth time you've done it-"

"I don't know what you're talking about-"

"Yes, you do-"

"Nope-"

Mark eyed the man for a few minutes, watching as the man twitched nervously in his seat, his throat gesticulating as if he had words that wanted to escape his lungs but that he was doing everything he could to hold back. "You've got Tourette's, don't you?"

"Nope-"

"Yes, you do-"

"I don't know what you're talking about-"

"Yes, you do-"

"Nope." The man looked back into Mark's eyes and held his stare - until he finally blinked. With a sigh, he sat up straight and cocked his eyebrow again. "Mister Dennison-"

"Yeah?"

"I'll ask the questions, Mister Dennison. When was the last time you saw Mister Dick Cox-"

"Oh, God, I don't know. A month or so ago, I guess-"

"A date, Mister Dennison. I need a date and a time-"

"God, how am I supposed to remember that?"

"Hmm." The detective scribbled in his notebook, his purple gel pen working so furiously that his belly jiggled.

"What are you writing?" said Sarah.

"Oh, nothing," sang the detective. "I just find it interesting that Mister Dennison knows what names are Spanish and what names aren't and that he knows what Tourette's is, but he can't, for the life of him, remember the date and the time he last saw Mister Dick Cox. Very interesting."

Sarah guffawed. "You're kidding, right?"

"I never kid, ma'am-" He turned back to Mark. "How long have you known that Mister Cox has been missing?"

"Um, you just told me, like, fifteen minutes ago-"

"Ah ha!" The detective accentuated his exclamation with a flick of his purple gel pen. "According to Mister and Missus Cox, Mister Dick Cox has not been seen for a month! Are you trying to tell me, Mister Dennison, that your friend has been missing for a month and you did not realize it? You seem very unconcerned about the whereabouts of your friend-"

"Dude-"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

"Detective Vinos-"

"Detective Jorge T. Vinos!"

Mark sighed. He looked at Sarah, who rolled her eyes. "Detective Jorge T. Vinos, Dick and I are friends, yeah. School friends. We go weeks without seeing or talking to each other. Especially now since it's winter break. We haven't been in school since mid-December-"

The detective snapped shut his notebook with a loud pop and placed it on the coffee table after several futile attempts to replace it in his interior jacket pocket. He re-capped his purple gel pen and slid it into his front pants pocket. He sighed. "Well, this is obviously going nowhere. You're stone-walling-"

"Hey," said Sarah. "Leave my son alone. I don't take well to you coming in here and casting aspersions on my boy. Mark's a good boy. He goes to college full-time, gets excellent grades, and he works full-time-"

"And he was in prison on a felony drug charge, as were you some time ago, ma'am-"

"Yeah, he was. Because somebody in his car had drugs on him and Mark took the fall because his friend was black and he knew his friend would get railroaded yet again by the racist justice system you work for-"

"Hold on, now-"

"No, you hold on. You came into my house with this bullshit. And now I expect you to leave with this bullshit before I call your superiors and have you removed."

The detective sat back in his chair, looking around the living room, his hands visibly shaking. A slight grunt slipped from his throat again. He looked quickly at Mark, then away. "Do you mind if I have a look around?" he said.

"Do you have a search warrant?" said Sarah.

"No-"

"Then you can't look around-"

The detective tapped his fingers several times on his chubby legs. He looked at Sarah. "May I have a drink of water?"

"No-"

"No?"

"No-"

"I can't even have a glass of water?"

"We don't have any water-"

"Yes, you do-"

"Nope-"

The detective sighed. "Well, can I use the bathroom?"

Sarah glared at the detective. "Number one or number two?"

"Number one-"

"Okay. It's right through that door. But you better be quick-"

As the detective shut the door behind him, Sarah grabbed his notebook off the coffee table and inched closer to Mark. They thumbed through all the pages quickly, surprised to find that the only markings on any page were purple stick figures with breasts and penises. Sarah threw the notebook back on the coffee table when she heard the bathroom doorknob twist, the tattered thing sliding off onto the floor where it lay open on a picture of two stick figures humping.

The detective bent over to pick up the notebook, closed it, and slipped it into his back pocket after several unsuccessful attempts at slipping it into his interior jacket pocket. He pulled out his wallet and handed Sarah and Mark each a business card with his name and number on it. "Remember, I am Detective Jorge T. Vinos, and I am on the case. You'll be hearing from me again."

The detective let himself out, grunting softly but furiously, and pulled the front door closed behind him. At which Sarah and Mark laughed uproariously. As they heard the marked unmarked police car pull off, its siren blaring for a brief second, then going silent permanently, they un-blanketed themselves and fell into a deep, giggling kiss.

App

2010-02-12T05:38:00.003-05:00

The Writer and the Fan

2010-01-26T10:51:00.005-05:00

Lining the plate-glass exterior of the bookstore were ten members of The Family, eleven counting the baby suckling at the youngest daughter's tit. At the end - and nearest the door - stood the pseudo-infamous patriarch, holding a large square of pink cardboard that contained some variation or other of the theme on all The Family's posters: GOD HATES FAG AUTHORS.

Mark recognized and locked eyes with the old man, taking in his simple, bloated form in his first glance: the small cloth baseball hat that just barely covered the over-large, liver-spotted head; the puffy eyes full of hate, anger, exasperation, and boredom; the ruddy, wrinkled jowls that hung as low as the pointed chin; the dirty, holed overalls; the muddy sneakers that strained to keep what must have been 10 of the biggest, grossest toes in check. He stopped at the door, his head turned over his shoulder, and adjusted his bookbag. One final roll of his eyes, accentuated with a flick of his spiky head, and he was in the store and in line to get his favorite books signed by his favorite author.

The writer looked up as Mark finally approached the table and removed a mess of plastic bags from his book bag, from which he removed four mint-condition hardcovers, laying them neatly stacked before him on the table.

"You've got a lot of fans outside," said Mark.

The writer shrugged.

"You should put them in your next book-"

"Oh, the things I would do them-"

"Tell me about it." Mark grinned. "You know, you're even cuter in person-"

The writer rolled his eyes, shaking his head, and smiled. He opened the book on top. Then looked back up, his white cheeks pink. He blinked his baby blue eyes a few times. "And to whom should I inscribe this fine piece of literature?"

Mark folded his arms. "Hmm." His grin developed into a wide, shit-eating smile that perfectly displayed his white, razor-sharp teeth. "Put, 'To my Number One Cutest Fan. Lovingly, The Maestro.'"

The writer blushed again. "Jesus Christ, man." He laughed.

"Or you can just put, 'To Mark Dennison-'"

The writer's eyebrows jumped to his hairline, and he stood up. "Come around here, man!"

Mark dropped his bookbag to the floor and made his way around the table, his hand outstretched.

"Fuck that," said that writer as he wrapped his arms around Mark. "Dude, so glad to finally meet you." As he let Mark go, he sat down and leaned back in his chair. "You are just like your letters-"

"Thanks?"

"No no, that's a compliment-"

"Thanks!"

The writer set to signing Mark's books, inscribing each with a doodle and some barely decipherable words. As he handed them back, he looked past Mark to the line behind him. "Can you stick around about half an hour?"

"Sure."

"I shouldn't be any longer than that. We can get coffee or whatever. You up for that?"

"Fuck yeah." Mark grabbed his books without looking inside them, his giddiness quickening his pulse. As he turned around, his eyes met those of the man from outside as the old fart entered the store. He continued glaring back at the man, following his trek to the back of the store. When the man disappeared through the bathroom door, Mark re-bagged his books and his plastic bags in separate compartments. Then took off for the bathroom.

He scanned the john as he entered. Once he was sure it was empty, he jammed the rubber stop under the door with his foot and made his way to the lone occupied stall. He shut and locked the door behind him, hung his bag on the hook, and turned the man around by the shoulder. Before the man could say anything, Mark's tongue was in his mouth, the old man's stench and rough whiskers no obstacle.

Mark pulled away and looked into the man's blurry eyes. He reached up and removed the man's hat, surprised that the man seemed to have even less hair without the hat, and tossed it onto the toilet's tank. He unsnapped the straps on the man's overalls, then unzipped his own jeans, both pieces of clothes falling to their ankles simultaneously. "Suck my dick," said Mark. To which the old man replied by sitting on the toilet seat and slurping all four inches of Mark's hard-on into his mouth in one motion.

As Mark got close to coming, he pulled back and looked down at the man, who looked back up at him, his lips puckered and gesticulating, asking for more cock without saying a word. "Stand up, turn around, and bend over, you faggot," said Mark. To which the old man replied by standing up, turning around, and bending over.

Mark spit-lubed his dick. Then spit-lubed the man's asshole, weeding the jagged nail of his middle finger through two rolls of fat that were the man's buttocks and a matted jungle of white, black, and gray dingle-berried hairs that probably hadn't been washed in weeks. As Mark pushed his dick into the man's ass, the man let out a sigh and pushed back into Mark's hips with enough force to knock a weaker man down.

He reached around and grabbed the man's half-hard cock - which wasn't so bad, by the way - and stroked him in rhythm with his angry thrusts. When the man told him that he was about to come, Mark let go, reached into his pocket, and slipped out his trusty, rusty razor. He pulled the man back into him, all four of his inches lodged inside the man's rectum. Then leaned over and reached under the man's chin, circumscribing a neat, perfect arc with the razor from ear to ear, the freshly sharpened metal slicing through neck, esophagus, and trachea just a little easier than its effortless pull through the vertebrae and muscle at the back of his neck. Mark pushed the top of the man's torso into the open toilet and held the head above it until it was fully bled, pumping his ass until he finally came inside the corpse.

He rested the man's head on his cooling, hardening back and pulled his pants back on. Then carefully wrapped the man's head in the plastic bags, and zipped it up in his bookbag. After capping the man's neck with his baseball cap, he slipped the bag underneath the stall door and climbed under after it. Pausing at the bathroom door, he took a few breaths to keep from laughing, then opened the door slightly, the stop barely out of the way, and jerked out into bookstore sideways, his bookbag dangling from his right hand.

As he approached the signing table, the writer looked up from his conversation with the store's manager and nodded to him. Mark winked. Another minute and he and his favorite author were outside. As the writer lit a Camel Light Wide, Mark shouldered his bookbag. "Coffee?" he said.

"Fuck yeah," said the writer, with a glance at the nine members of The Family ranged along the bookstore's front, ten counting the baby suckling at the youngest daughter's tit. "Let's get the fuck out of here."

Razor-wire and Sausage

2010-01-03T06:09:00.004-05:00

"I'm gonna fuck the fuck out of your cock until it falls off-"

Dick laughed, his body tensing, the cuffs binding him to the bars of the headboard tightening further around his wrists. "That's hot," he said.

Mark got up, his lean body shiny with a thin layer of sweat, and opened the top drawer of his desk. He closed it and jumped back on the bed, straddling Dick's abdomen.

"What you got?"

"Something-"

"Something what?" Dick grinned. "Ouch!" he said, as Mark reached behind himself and slipped the hoop of wire around Dick's cock and balls, tugging on it just enough to swell Dick's erection even further.

"Something to make you cum better-"

"It hurts-"

"Dick!"

"What?"

Mark lowered his face over Dick's and leered into his widened eyes. "There's no pleasure without pain," he whispered. Then slid his lubed asshole over every inch of Dick's massive cock until he could feel the cold wire and the warm trickles of blood against his buttocks.

Dick moaned loudly, his face a menagerie of furrowed brow, gasping mouth, and flailing tongue. He pumped his hips up with every downward squat of Mark's pelvis, unaware that the most pleasurable fuck of his life was also the most painful; that the muck running down his sack and pooling in his ass crack wasn't lube or his pre-cum or Mark's shit but his own blood; or that the light tickling on his Adam's apple wasn't a draft of air or a spider but the thumbnail Mark had sharpened earlier that morning into a thick arrow.

As Mark pushed his thumb through Dick's throat, his nail digging into the back of his esophagus, he reached back with his other hand and grabbed the wire once more, giving it a sharp jerk as Dick came for the last time in his life, the hoop closing on itself until it was no longer a hoop but another length of the wire, releasing Dick's cock and balls from his body in a millisecond. Mark clenched his anus and stood up on the bed. Then slowly shit Dick's penis out of his ass onto the man's stomach as he watched Dick's contorting, gurgling face ask him questions he'd never hear and didn't have to answer. With one final breath and a shudder of his whole body, Dick's eyes glazed and his head fell to the side.

nyr

2010-01-01T04:08:00.002-05:00

1. get a job
2. learn photography
3. learn film
4. buy a car
5. get a bf/gf who won't cheat on me
6. save money
7. all a's both semesters again
8. dominate a 20" dildo
9. work out more
10. see a giants game in person
11. summer trip to paris
12. write more
13. self-publish a poetry chapbook
14. read at least one book a week
15. don't get mom pregnant again this year
16. do more drugs
17. buy a penis pump
18. try new foods
19. stop being so racist towards towel-heads and jew bastards
20. kill lots of people
21. mung at least two people
22. kill lots of people (oops - a dupe)

Spaghetti and Sausage

2009-12-30T07:34:00.004-05:00

Mark stretched Dick's cock across the cutting board and traced a fine incision down the middle of the urethra with the sharpest knife from his mom's Home Shopping Network Cutlery Collection. Ten chops an inch apart from the base to the head and he scooped the 20 pieces up, sliding them off the knife and into the pan. Where they sizzled in the hot grease of the hundred or so pieces of Italian sausage already searing.

He swiveled the bill of his red throwback Giants cap to the back of his head, then washed his hands thoroughly under the hottest water he could stand, flicking them dry and rubbing them on his matching red throwback Giants jersey, which displayed the number of his all-time favorite New York Giant, Rodney Hampton. He snapped his fists out to pop his elbows and cricked his neck side to side, both cracks echoing in tune to the Joy Division playing on the kitchen radio:

"Don't walk away in silence
Don't walk away"

Grabbing the tongs, he flicked the frying pieces of meat over ten at a time, lightly pressing each onto its opposite side. He swirled on his heel, grabbed the olive oil, and swirled back, raining another cup over the sausages. Five minutes of inhaling the steaming smoke wafting from the pan under his nose and he dumped the pan's contents into the large pot of bubbling tomato sauce. He turned as Sarah walked in behind him.

"It smells great in here," she said. "Are you sure you're not Italian?"

"Only if you are-"

"No. Thank God."

Mark laughed, then turned and set to boiling the angel hair pasta: a pot of water, a dollop of olive oil, a carton of the skinniest noodles he could find, and a flick of the knob to HI. He shut off the radio, held up a finger to his mom, then ran out of the room. Before she could say anything through the door, he was back in the kitchen, his hands behind his back. "I got you something-"

"Mark-"

"I mean, you bought it, it was your money, but I picked it out-" He held the gift out.

Sarah grabbed it and unwrapped it. Then fell back in the chair laughing. "Jesus Christ, boy-"

Mark's smile cut his face in half. "What?"

Sarah shook her head. "You know your momma-" She laid the box containing the 12" X 10" extra-thick-veined dildo on the table and jumped up and hugged Mark.

"Ooh, my noodles!" Mark ran to the stove, and in what seemed one motion, turned it off, strained the noodles, prepared two heaping plates of spaghetti, and slid them under his and Sarah's noses.

They ate in grinning silence - except for the occasional elbow snap, neck crack, or snort of snot - until Mark watched his mom swallow her last bite. "You like?"

"It was fucking delicious, Mark. Really, you should be a chef-"

Mark smiled. "How'd you like the sausage?"

"It's what made it-"

"I used two kinds, Italian and a really rare German sausage that's hard to find. But I got a good deal on it-"

"You're the best-"

Mark sighed. "Yeah-" He giggled.

"Asshole-"

"Moi?"

Sarah leaned back in her chair and unsnapped the top button of her jeans. "I'm full-"

"Good-"

She looked around, her eyes finally settling on Mark's plate as he forked up the last bits of his meal. "So where's Dick?"

"Dick?"

"Yeah, your boyfriend-"

Mark pushed his plate forward as he swallowed the last piece of Dick's cock. "I don't know. I like to think Dick's like God, that he's in all of us-"

"But you don't believe in God-"

"No, no I fucking don't-"

Mark collected both plates, set them in the sink and turned around. He shared another smile with his mom, then unsnapped the top button of his jeans, which fell to his ankles without a sound.

Ham and Sausage

2009-12-13T00:45:00.005-05:00

The aroma that makes his tongue tickle. A slit of light through the door. Voices. Closer. A peek. Just a peek. Him. Sitting. Her. Standing. Her eyes on his cock through his pants. His hard cock through his pants.

-Mark's favorite is ham?

-Yeah. He says he likes anything that'll make the Jews and the Muslims hate him even more.

Laughter.

-That's Mark.

-Yeah. A sigh.

-You know Mark and I are boyfriends, right?

-So you're gay too?

-No, I'm bi. Like Mark.

-Mark's not bi.

-He fucks girls.

-So?

Laughter.

-I fuck girls.

-I know.

-You do?

-Mark tells me everything. And I tell him everything. We're best friends.

-Oh, what else has he told you?

-That you have the biggest dick he's ever had in his throat. Or ass.

Blushing. Giggles. Sighs. Averted gazes. Then contact. Eye contact.

-And you know, Mark and I share everything.

-Oh?

-Everything.

Another look to the crotch. Panties caress the floor. The skirt hitches. Effortlessly. A quick, deft pirouette. The oven door hits the floor. The screech of the bottom rack. Warmth and the scent of an almost-burnt dinner waft through the ever-widening slice of the open door.

Baggy jeans baggier around ankles. Cock dripping pre-cum like he's never seen before. A moan as he enters from behind, her legs straddling the oven door. And the meat. Pump. Pump. Pump. Moans. Increasing. In volume and frequency. A small yelp as he lunges all the way in. And grinds.

Her head turned over her shoulder. -You can come in me. It's okay. I can't have kids anymore. You better come in me. You faggot.

Ten or fifteen or twenty more full-length thrusts, his hands wound through her hair so that he can't tell if he's pushing in or pulling her back on it. Until his ass shakes and he falls on her back, reaching for her tits.

A plop. A slap against the leg. A snap and a zip. The squeak of the chair. Two fingers on her clit, two more on her tit. Rubbing. Scratching. Circles. Pistoning.

A loud moan. A squat. A steady stream of come. Male and female. A further squat. A smack of cunt against pig. Sliding. Back and forth.

Metal jarring metal. The warmth recedes. Panties disappear. Sponge meets cunt. Then sink.

Khakis wet. The shirt stretched down. A hand against the door. Push.

-Mark!

-Hey!

-What's going on, guys?

The Writer and the Box

2009-11-28T07:24:00.011-05:00

The box was heavy. Much heavier than it looked, considering its size. At least 10 lbs. He looked at the returned address and recognized the name and address instantly. Ah, the little devil. He said a quick "Merci" to the man behind the counter and made his way up the three flights of stairs and down the endless hallway till he came to his door. Sacking the box and the other 50 or so rubber-banded letters from family, friends, and fans under one arm, he teethed out a key from the several on his keychain and keyed the door. Unsucessful, he tried another. Then another. Until he was in the living area 3 feet away.

He piled the letters on the corner of his desk. Then inspected the box once more, ignoring the "Fragile" warning on the side as he turned it over several times and shook it. He laid it on the desk and grabbed his letter opener. The one with the devil's head on the end he'd been given by another fan so long ago. He stopped. Nah, he couldn't open it just yet. Had to wait for the boyfriend to get home because there was usually something in there for him too. They liked to be surprised together. Or at least his boyfriend did.

He pushed the box to the back of the desk and looked at his computer. FUCK! He'd forgotten to publish his blog post. It had been hours since he'd finished it, the masses would be wailing. He laughed at the thought because he knew that he was the only one who'd be wailing about its lateness. He clicked the mouse and signed out, then made his way over to the window, which he opened on the brisk Paris afternoon. The wind wasn't blowing in, so he got out a cigarette and inched closer to the window, his head half out as he smoked.

He heard the kids playing soccer down the lane, so he moved a little bit closer and stuck his head out a little farther. He wanted to play soccer. He wished he was 10 again so he could go out and play with them. Fuck, he'd do it at his age, but all the people who didn't already think he was a perv would think he was and those who were sure he was a perv would just find it to be further confirmation that he was. Fuck people, he thought. He just wanted to play soccer. Or at least kick something really hard. Like Mussolini's head. How much fun must that have been kicking that old fucker's head around...

He threw the cigarette butt out the window and closed it. He sniffed around to ensure he wouldn't get caught by his boyfriend later. Taking off his old olive-green coat, he tussled the white hair on his head and sat down at the desk. Wiggled the mouse. Hit a bookmark for his one of his favorite porn sites. Then looked at the box across from him. Fuck it, he could re-tape it.

He stood up, pulled the box to him and grabbed his letter opener. A letter lay on top of whatever was balled up underneath. It contained just a few words:

"Glad we could meet in DC."

Laughing, he fingered the tissue paper apart. And jumped back two steps. "Jesus Christ!" When his panting ceased, he tiptoed to the desk and peered over the side of the box. He shivered. Jesus, no way. Just no way. He pulled the tissue paper farther apart, shoving it down the sides of the thing inside the box. And stared at it. He put a finger to his lips, his eyes looking into his brain for a similar image. Fuck, no way.

He sat down at his computer and did a quick search. Jesus Christ, it was him. But was it real? He knew the answer already because he'd seen too many dead people in his life. With a sigh, he pulled the box onto his lap, then dislodged the man's head from it. He turned it over and over, as if it were a priceless egg, studying its details, the gray hair, the swollen eye-bags, the protruding bottom lip, the glassy eyes - he even thought he could see the anger still residing in the landscape of the man's wrinkled skin.

He sat it on the desk. Moved it around. To where the light would hit it best, most provocatively. There was an incinerator in the basement. But no, he'd decided against that as soon he'd searched the man on the internet. His boyfriend would shit his pants, though. Then again, his boyfriend was always working. By the time he saw it, it'd be just another piece of furniture he'd grown accustomed to. And he'd tell him it was fake, a piece of art from a fan. Or his artist friend down the hall.

He grabbed a sheet of paper and leaned back in his chair, tearing the paper into little bits, which he then balled up and flicked with his middle finger at the face staring at him from God knew where. He laughed and shook his head as a tiny ball of paper lodged itself in one of the man's veiny nostrils. "Goooaaaaaaaaallllllllll!" he whispered.

Bette Meets Her Match

2009-11-12T03:55:00.018-05:00

Bette sat upon the little, wooden shelf against the far end of the shack and looked the place over. "Did you build this yourself?"

"No," said Mark. He laughed. "It's been here forever. I used to come here and play by myself as a little boy."

"Weren't you scared?"

Mark shook his head. "I'm not scared of anything." He walked the fifteen or so feet to the door of the shack and dropped the duffel bag that hung from his shoulder onto the floor against the wall. "Though I guess I'm still a little boy. Or at least hung like one." He looked at Bette.

She rolled her eyes and smiled. "Stop it! Right now! You're an adult male. And I told you that doesn't matter at all. It's how you use it."

"Really? Do you really believe that?"

Bette looked away, her color changing from a slight beige to a slighter crimson. "Yes, of course, I believe that. Ask any woman."

"I'm asking you-"

Before Bette could get up, Mark jumped over to her, put his arms around her and squeezed. "I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?"

He let go and leaned against the waist-high table lining the wall. "Did you bring The Sluts?"

"Yep-"

"How do you like it so far?"

Bette's eyes rolled up into her eyelids, searching her brain.

"Huh?"

"Oh, it's good." She nodded, without looking at Mark. "The writing's really good. But it's..."

"What?"

"A bit extreme. I'll just be honest. It's a fine book, but I've had to put it down a few times."

"Does it lack literary merit, do you think?"

"Oh, no, not at all. It's very good."

Mark smiled. Then made his way back to the duffel bag. He stood over it, staring down at its zipper.

"You gonna get out the sleeping bags?" asked Bette, as she lowered her book bag to the floor.

"Actually," said Mark, "I have something for you."

"Oh, Mark-"

"No, no-"

"No, no to you. You didn't have to-"

"Yes, I did." And he picked up the bag once more and set it in Bette's lap. "Go ahead, look inside."

Bette unzipped the bag and spread it open, her long, chestnut hair catching in the zipper for a second. She giggled, then reached inside and pulled out a giant ball of tissue wrapping paper. "Wow, it's heavy."

"Go on, open it-"

With all the care in her tiny fingers, Bette leafed apart the thin folds and pulled them back, finally unmasking her nephew's face. The rotting, scent-less head dropped onto the floor without a bounce, as she let out a scream so loud that no one could hear it but Mark and Dick, who walked up behind Mark, a gallon of gas in one hand, his other hand falling lightly on Mark's shoulder. As Bette's wailing turned into shaking sobs, Mark turned and pecked Dick on the lips. "Perfect timing," he said.

"You told me to come in when she screamed-"

Mark turned and backhanded Dick across the shoulder. "Shut the fuck up, you dumbass-"

"Oh-"

They turned to Bette, who pushed the duffel bag and the rest of her dead nephew onto the floor beneath her. Mark kicked it to the side, then grabbed her book bag and rifled through it until he found the book he'd given her. He thumbed its pages. "You haven't even read a page of this, have you?" he said. When he got no response from the blubbering woman, he snapped a quick punch to her throat, her head whiplashing into the wall behind. "Have you?"

Bette shook her head, swallowing hard. As she regained breath, her body ceased to shake, her limbs steeled themselves, veins rising on her forearms. She shook her hair out of her wet eyes, which she steadied on Mark. "That book fucking sucks, you little-dicked moron," she gasped. "It's not literature, it's not Art, you fucking little twerp. You little kid."

"Life is Art. And everything in it's Art," said Mark. He shook his head, grinning. "Why couldn't you just be honest with me?"

"Fuck you-"

"And why did you make your classes read those shitty books? I mean, really, fucking young adult novels about black kids written by some fucking foreign white guy? Really?"

"I make-"

"Made. Past tense, Bette. You know, you really are a shitty English teacher." Mark giggled. "And not a very good fuck."

"You can't fuck a needle-"

A couple seconds and Mark had the rope in his pocket around Bette's neck, twisting it from behind. His dick hardened as he listened to her moist yelps and felt the force of her kicking legs reverberate through the knotting rope. He slackened his grip when she fell limp and wrapped the rope several times around the large nail in the wall behind her.

"Is she dead?" said Dick. "Because I ain't fucking no dead chick-"

"They're the best, though," said Mark. He laughed at Dick's wide eyes. "No, she's not fucking dead. Jesus Christ, give me some credit."

Dick laughed. Then put down the gas can and jumped out of his clothes as Mark stripped himself and Bette. His semi-hard penis slapped against against his knee, wetting it with pre-cum, as he walked towards Bette's vagina - and Mark, who straddled her stomach and held her legs up and apart.

"You're gonna need to get harder than that," said Mark. At which he hopped down, Bette's feet slamming the ground, and got to his knees. A few deep-throats and what seemed to be a gallon of pre-cum later and Dick was inside Bette up to the hilt, her ankles chafing at his collarbone. As he pumped harder and harder, Bette's eyes slowly opened, then quickly widened. Her mouth opened, the jaws pistoning, but nothing escaped save for a tiny spurt of rasps and a few drops of white spit that pooled on her lips.

Mark walked up from behind Dick and stood beside Bette's rocking body, his rusty razor in one hand, his other grasping the corroded face and scalp of her nephew. "Is that big enough?" he said. He watched Dick's slimy cock go in and out a few more times as he stroked his cock with the fleshy mask. As his chode tightened, he raised up on his tip toes and released his wad across Bette's red, swollen, tear-streaked face. "You know," he said, "you always said you and your nephew looked alike. Well, you're really going to look like each other now." And he stretched the skin of the little boy's head over his aunt's face until he was sure it wouldn't slip off, a chunk tearing off in his hand. He licked the square of leathery flesh, then reached down and fingered it between Bette's clit and Dick's jackhammering cock until it disappeared inside her for good.

As Dick grunted and finally came inside Bette, Mark went through her bag once more, pulling out a copy of Gangbangaz. He sucked out the last of Dick's semen after the latter pulled out, then soaked the book in gasoline, reaching up and wiping the excess that smeared his hand onto Bette's thick cunt, which throbbed open and shut and spit out Dick's come in short bursts. Standing up, he opened the book and ripped out the pages one by one, crumpling then inserting them into Bette's vagina until he couldn't fit any more, at which he laid the book on her belly.

Dick finished pouring the gasoline around the rest of the shack, then he and Mark dressed quickly. Mark stood between Bette's legs, which were turning blue and varicose as they hung off the shelf. "Matches," he said.

"Oh, I got a lighter-"

"Jesus Christ, dude, I said matches! What the fuck? I don't want to catch myself on fire. Duh. Plus, we could've played darts with them-"

"Sorry-"

Mark flicked the lighter and held it at arm's length. As the pages hanging out Bette's cunt caught fire and her legs jutted into the air, her body twisting almost silently on the little shelf, Mark grabbed his copy of The Sluts and headed out the door, Dick on his heels. He squatted at the entrance and put the lighter to the gasoline on the threshold, throwing the lighter into the inferno as he and Dick walked away.

"Here," said Mark. He handed the book to Dick. "An anniversary present for you. I think it's been about two months."

"Thanks, man." Dick turned the book over, trying to read its back cover in the fading light of the setting sun through the trees. "So are you my boyfriend?"

"I better be-"

Dick sighed. "Do you think we'll get caught?"

"We better not-" And Mark slapped his boyfriend upside his head.

Jerkin'

2009-10-27T02:31:00.020-04:00

Mark unscrewed the shower head from the extension and snuck the end of the rubber tube an inch up his ass, the warm water pouring slowly into his intestines until he could no longer stand the pressure against his bladder. He flipped off the water, popped the tube out of his asshole and stepped out wet and cold onto the bathroom rug. Then sat on the toilet, his ass cheeks spread so far apart he thought he was going to rip in half, and forced, through an amazing act of willed peristalsis, the contents of his guts into the toilet.

Several wipes and two flushes and he tiptoed naked across the hall to his bedroom, locking the door behind him. He grabbed the Astroglide, squirted too much into his hand, then thoroughly lubed the 12 X 8-inch dildo suctioned onto his wooden chair, as well as his puckering hole. Turning around, he grabbed the slippery dildo behind him and backed up until it was snugly between his cheeks. With a deep breath, he impaled himself an inch at a time, only stopping because the chair wouldn't let him go any farther. He rocked back and forth, alternating this with wide circles of his hips, as he watched the pre-cum drip from his tiny cock in waves. He grabbed it and began to stroke, his head thrown back as his brain pulsed images to his tight, leathery chode

and he splattered 9 or 10 - or was it 20? - thick ropes of semen across his small room, the first 3 kissing his New York Giants curtain. Then fell forward off the dildo with a echoing plop. He lay there soaking in his cum, panting and giggling, ready for another go at the dildo whose slick, lubed surface reflected the light of his desk lamp into his eyes, either mocking or challenging him.

Really? No, wait...Really?!

2009-10-17T05:11:00.004-04:00

newhazeleyedWOMAN
I'm an open-minded, free spirit looking for a STRONG but sensitive man

Active within 24 hours

* 29-year-old woman
* Cedarville, Maryland
* seeking men 30-50
* within 100 miles of Cedarville, Maryland, United States

Relationships: Never Married
Have kids: No
Want kids: Definitely
Ethnicity:

* White / Caucasian

Body type: Svelte
Height: 5'2" (157cms)
Religion: Christian / Other
Smoke: No
Drink: No Answer

About my life and what I'm looking for

I'm looking for someone with similar interests. I’m a college professor who enjoys the good things in life – good books, movies, art, the outdoors, quiet nights at home, expensive dinners, cute pets, etc. I want a man who can keep up with me and provide a strongly independent woman like myself with the life that I deserve. I think my man should be strong and unafraid of getting his hands dirty. But at the same time, he should know how to hold me without crushing me. And not to be mean or come off as rude, but anyone under 30, take a hike! I’ve found that men that young are just way too immature and juvenile. Really, I can’t stand them. And one other thing: shorties – in every respect, if you know what I mean, hehe – need not apply. I like BIG men – in more ways than one, if you catch my drift.

I love quirky comedies like Two and a Half Men and The Wedding Singer. I like wine and beer and cornbread. I have a great sense of humor (some friends think I should do stand-up!), and I like others who are not afraid to be funny. But funny in a wholesome way. Scatological jokes are not funny. Jokes about rape and incest and murder are not funny, either. Dogs are cute.

I participate in the Louis Armstrong OutLoud Challenge 5K run every month to support fundraising for those with damaged vocal chords. This cause is very personal, as my mother damaged her voice box years ago in a terrible kitchen accident and hasn’t sounded right since.

I'm a Washington Redskins fan (sorry Giants fans! (you losers!)) since I grew up in MD. I'm not into watching sports, but I don’t mind watching them if you’re into them, as long as you don’t mind a great movie like Armageddon later in the evening. I love watching movies, but I stay away from the scary stuff. I almost died and couldn’t sleep in the dark for months after watching The Dentist.

About me

Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Hazel
Sports and exercise:

* Dancing
* Running
* Swimming
* Walking / Hiking
* Yoga

Exercise habits: Exercise 6-7 times per week
Interests:

* Camping
* Coffee and conversation
* Cooking
* Dining out
* Exploring new areas
* Kayaking
* Movies/Videos
* Museums and art
* Music and concerts
* Nightclubs/Dancing
* Performing arts
* Travel/Sightseeing
* Volunteering
* Wine tasting

Education: PhD
Occupation: Teaching
Income: $30,001 to $49,000
Languages:

* English

Politics: Very Liberal
Sign: Sagittarius
Pets I have:

* None

Pets I like:

* Dogs

About my date

Hair: Dark (Brown or Black)
Eyes: Dark
Height: 6'0" (183cms) to 7'0" (213cms)
Body type:

* Stocky

Languages:

* English

Ethnicity: No Answer
Faith:

* Christian / Other

Education:

* College Graduate

Job: Yes
Income: $150,001 to $10,000,000
Smoke: No Way!
Drink: Social Drinker
Relationships:

* No Answer

Have kids:

* No Answer

Want kids:

* Definitely

In my own words

for fun:

I enjoy kayaking, reading, watching movies, fancy dinners, cute doggies, and walks on the beach…

my education:

I went to Cedarville Community College in MD and got my BA, Masters, and PhD in English.

favorite hot spots:

I love the beach, especially Ocean City, MD. I also enjoy going into the city to tour museums, restaurants, clothes stores, and my favorite store, Spencer’s. But I’d much prefer to be at home with my honey, spending some ‘special time’ together with some items from Spencer’s, if you know what I mean.

favorite things:

I mostly listen to soft rock. The only music I don't really like is heavy metal, rap, emo, goth, new wave, ‘80s, Britpop, grunge, classic rock, and hard rock. I don't watch much TV, but Two and a Half Men is my favorite; it’s so deep. Some movies I love are The Wedding Singer, Armageddon, Beethoven and Beethoven II, and the Ernest movies. As you can tell, I love comedies with an ‘edge.’

last read:

Reading is something I’m very passionate about. I was an English major in college, so I've read a wide variety of genres. My favorites are the classics, especially the modern classics, like Gangbangaz, Niggaz and Wiggaz, and Crack Pipez for Homey. And let me state this here for all to see: PORNOGRAPHY IS NOT LITERATURE! Graphic sex and violence don’t make a book ‘literary.’ It is sickening and disgusting and does nothing more than harm minorities, children, and women. People who like books like that are sick, small-minded, and have lots of screws loose. I know because I’m an English professor!

my pets:

Spiders, frogs, and dogs are my favorite animals. A funny story: I used to have two frogs and 8 spiders, but since I didn’t know much about keeping them at first, the frogs ate all the spiders, then turned on each other. I ended up with only one frog – he was so cute, I used to pick him up and kiss him every day, hoping he’d turn into my Prince – who died eventually from all the toxins he’d swallowed from eating all the spiders and the other frog. Who knew? So never again. I’ll just look at pictures of them. But I do want a dog. They’re cute and furry and yap a lot.

****************************************

Mark looked down to Dick's gigantic, clown-sized feet, then up into his eyes. They smirked at each other. "So tell me," said Mark, "why the fuck do you have a profile on there too?"

The Willing Unwilling (or How to Mung Friends and Influence People)

2009-09-27T04:47:00.017-04:00

Mark cocked his bored, spikey head and looked from Dick to Dill, sighing through his turned-up nose.

"I'm keeping it," she said.

Dick's eyes remained on the ground, and as he spoke, his head wobbled from side to side. "I'm not ready to be a father-"

"You should've thought of that when you fucked me without a rubber-"

"You should've thought of that when you told me you were on the pill-"

"I was!"

"Yeah, right-"

"It's only ninety-nine percent effective-"

"You sucking my chode is only ninety-nine percent effective-"

"Oh, you son of a bitch-"

"Fucking boogit-"

Dill sat down on the bed and let out a short yelp. "You are so fucking frustrating-"

"Moi?"

"Yes, yoi. And why the fuck do you say boogit all the time?"

"Because it's fucking awesome, that's why-"

Dill looked over to Mark.

Mark nodded. "It is pretty awesome-"

"You fucking guys are all alike-"

Dick finally looked up. And looked Dill in the eyes. "I can give you the money to take care of it-"

"You damn will give me the money to take care of it. Every fucking week-"

"No, to take care of it now-"

"Fuck that-"

"No, fuck that-"

Dill sighed. "Look, I've always wanted a baby. And I want this one. I'm keeping it."

Dick looked over at Mark. "I don't know what to do-"

"Mung," said Mark.

"What?"

"What?"

Mark laughed. "Nothing." And he laughed some more, crossing his arms and rubbing his hands over his taut triceps. "Anybody want a drink? Dill?"

"Yeah, a Coke. I can't drink alcohol while I'm pregnant-"

"Nick?"

"Dude, it's Dick, for the last time-"

Mark giggled. "Sorry. I just like calling people by other names. Shit, I call myself Mike half the time. What do you want?"

"A Coke too-"

Mark winked at Dick and rose. The plastic covering the floor creaked under his bare feet as he made his way to the bedroom door. In the kitchen, he poured Coke into three glasses, slipping two tiny, white pills into the third. After it dissolved completely, he stirred it with a spoon and took the stairs two at a time, the three glasses tight in his two hands. He opened the bedroom door and almost dropped the drinks as he walked into the middle of a deep kiss between Dill and Dick. "You fucking sluts," he said, giggling. "Isn't this how all this started?"

As they separated, Dill leaning back onto the bed and Dick sitting back into Mark's desk chair, Mark handed them their drinks. Dick gulped his and sat it on the desk, next to Mark's keyboard; Dill finished hers in a swig and placed the empty glass on the windowsill next to Mark's. Mark climbed up in the bed next to Dill, their legs pressing together. He looked to Dick and raised his eyebrows. Then leaned over and grabbed Dill's mouth with his own, his tongue barreling between her teeth.

As he came up for air, Mark looked back at Dick, who was already naked and hard, then turned back to Dill, his hands working fast at her clothes and his own. Completely disrobed, they rolled onto the plastic-covered floor, panting and moaning like zombies out of a B-movie, Dill on her back, Dick at her obese pussy, and Mark straddling her face, his pinprick of an asshole staring Dick in the eye familiarly.

Mark rubbed his shaved sack against Dill's lips, his cockhole dripping pre-cum onto her nose, until he saw her eyes flutter then roll back into her head. He put a hand over her mouth and nose to make sure she wasn't breathing anymore. Then stood up, turned around, and leaned against the wall. With two steps, he jumped as high as he could, his knees hitting his chest, and stomped his heels into the top of Dill's stomach at a 45 degree-angle with all the power of his legs, his feet tearing through the flesh and fat to the womb below.

Dick fell back against the opposite wall with a loud bang that the empty house couldn't hear, choking and smeared in blood, shit, and amniotic fluid. He picked furiously at his face, pulling from between his lips a small, slimy boomerang of rubber that was his son or daughter. He threw it onto Dill's concave stomach - the skinniest she'd ever been, no doubt - and it bounced onto Mark's left foot. He looked up to Mark, one hand still clawing at his slick face and wide eyes, the other shaking uncontrollably on his side. "Dude, what the fuck?"

"You said you weren't ready to be a father-"

Art for Bette's Sake

2009-09-16T05:38:00.008-04:00

"What? I'm just looking at it-"

"I know it's small-"

"No, it's not small. It's...cute-"

"Whatever. I don't care. I just make do with what God gave me-"

"So you believe in God?"

"No-"

"But then why-"

"It's just a phrase, a figure of speech-"

"What do you believe in?"

"Nothing-"

"Nothing?"

Mark craned his head and looked at his wrinkled inch or two of penis in Bette's hand. "Hmm. I believe in me. In you. In Art."

"Really? That's it?"

"Yep." Mark sat up on his elbows. "I don't care if it's the smallest thing you've ever seen-"

"It isn't the smallest thing I've ever seen-"

Mark's eyes opened wide. "Really?"

"Really-"

"What about Jacob-"

"Oh-"

"I'm sorry. Touchy subject-"

"No, no, it isn't. Not about that. But to be honest, he was really big-"

"Seriously?"

"Yeah-"

"How big?"

"I don't know, 8 or 9-"

"Wow. Lucky bastard." He flipped his legs over the side of his bed, his cock from Bette's hand. Christ, violence just wasn't any fun without sex and vice versa. "Speaking of Art," he said, "I've got something for you." He walked to his desk, deftly wiping the pre-cum oozing from his cock hole with a quick flick of his finger, which he jabbed in and out of his mouth so rapidly Bette never saw it. "It's just a sort of late birthday present-"

"Awww-"

He returned to the bed holding out a book to Bette. She grabbed it and analyzed its cover without blinking. She frowned. "The Sluts?" she said.

"Yeah, it's a favorite of mine. I thought you might like to try something different. Or maybe have something for your contemporary lit class-"

She turned the book over and her eyes jigsawed back and forth over the blurbs and book summary. She took in a deep breath. "I don't know, Mark, this book sounds pretty intense. A little too...racy? for a class-"

Mark flopped next to her on the bed. "What? For adults? Are you insane? This book is excellent for exploring the themes of identity in the internet age and the whole concept of perception versus reality-"

She leaned over him and slipped the book into her bag. "I don't know. I'll give it a chance. We'll see." She put an arm over him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you for my gift-"

The Beach Boys' "Wouldn't It Be Nice" blared from her bag. She leaned back over him and grabbed her cell phone, looking at the display with a wrinkled brow. "Hello?" she answered. After a minute, during which her eyes widened so much that it seemed they may fall off the sides of her head, she finally spoke: "Jesus Christ! Yes, yes, I'll be right over!" She jumped over Mark's semi, her tits bouncing, and grabbed her clothes off the floor. She jammed her bra and panties into her bag, then took all of 5 seconds to throw on her blouse, jeans, and flip flops. As she slid her feet into the latter, she looked up at Mark, tears slipping down her cheeks.

"What?!"

Between chokes, she said: "My nephew. He's been missing since last night. Nobody's seen him. Not my sister. Or his friends. Or his friends' parents. I've gotta go over to Jenny's right now. She's about to die."

Mark stood up naked and faced her. "Oh, my God, Bette. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No, no, you stay here. I'll call you when I get there." Quickly, she hugged him and threw another peck on his cheek. She grabbed her bag and glided out the door like a ghost.

When Mark heard the front door shut, he bent over and pulled up the bed skirt, exposing his duffel bag. "You aren't missing, are you?"

The Nephew

2009-09-02T03:22:00.007-04:00

The little boy who was helping him find his dog lay chloroformed on the thick plastic that covered the New York Giants bed-sheet and half of the tiny bedroom, his knees tied tightly to his elbows with thick rope, his lips sealed together with the duct-tape that circled his head in several clean loops. Mark checked the lock on his door again, threw the half-empty enema bottle in the trash can, then dropped his boxers to his feet. Side-stepping one of the several stacks of books on the floor - textbooks, novels, chapbooks of poetry, comic books, graphic novels, porno mags - he slid onto the bed on his knees, his hard, little dick hovering above the boy's tiny, wrinkled sack of balls.

He put a jagged fingernail to the boy's anus and scratched up and down. He watched the boy's face for a reaction but received none. It was amazing how much he looked like her even though he was just a nephew - same hair color, wide eyes, turned up nose, and mousey lips. Leaning forward, he kissed the boy on the lips as he dug harder at his asshole. Then bit a hole through the boy's left cheek. At which the child's eyes stammered open and a vague scream tried to escape through the several layers of duct tape, as if the kid was yelling to his mother from the depths of a black hole.

Mark grinned and spit the flesh onto the boy's smooth chest, right between his nipples, which seemed much too close to each other, and licked the blood that tasted like everyone else's blood from his lips. He thought about removing the duct tape, but no, Sarah would definitely be at the door after the next howl. So he squeezed the boy's nostrils together until his body stopped squirming, his eyes began to shine with stillness, his unsuccessful yelps abated - at which he let go and watched, grinning and bug-eyed, as the boy regained consciousness and began to cry once again, the tears from his left eye running over his temple and diluting the blood that pooled under his ear.

He dipped his finger into the hole in the boy's cheek and lubed his diminutive dick, which may have been bigger and harder than it had ever been, with it and the pre-cum that had smeared the boy's genitals. Scooting closer, he touched the glans to the boy's asshole for a second, then fell forward with a pump of his hips until he was all the way inside. Five pumps and he delivered a load of semen into the boy's rectum, his eyes fluttering, his ass tensed as the boy's head swiveled from side to side.

Without pulling out, he grabbed the scalpel he'd stolen from the medical supply store from his nightstand and sat up, thinking briefly of Irwin Cook and the man's pathetic screams. His dick hardened again - Jesus Christ, was it even harder than a minute ago? - as he put the scalpel to the boy's sternum and drew an invisible line to the base of the boy's floppy inch of cock - a line - no, a piece of art! - that took a minute to open with all the force of the boy's pulsating innards and spewing blood.

He watched the boy's eyes and nostrils, the former blinking rapidly, the latter swelled so large that he could have fucked them and not felt a thing. Then began to pump the tightest asshole he'd ever had around his dick again, slithering his fingers into the crevice of the boy's abdomen until he thought he could feel his spine. He dug down and through the slimy coils of intestines, towards the movement of his pistoning cock, until at last his slender fingers were around it and he could feel it throbbing through the boy's colon.

He squeezed hard and pumped harder, sure that his cock would explode if he didn't come soon. He watched what had been 5 or 6 years of life expire in the boy's light-brown eyes, at which he finally came - he swore he could feel the cum hit the palm of his hand - and removed his cock and his hand at the same time. His cock looked as it always did and his hand looked as it had so many times in the past. He wiped the latter clean on the boy's legs, then cut the rope around the boy's knees and elbows with the scalpel, which he lay in the boy's open abdomen, unsurprised when the legs and arms didn't fall onto bed but just remained crooked in the air.

Mark jerked off once more to the images he'd just witnessed - nay, created - ate the cum in his hand, then sat on the edge of the bed. He laughed as his breathing resumed normalcy. And thought of Bette and all the things he wanted to do to her. And of Dill and the thing he wanted to do to her. And of Nick and the things he wanted him to do with him.

After a final kiss, he carefully wrapped the boy's beautiful corpse in the plastic, securing it with the last of the duct tape. Then shoved it into the duffel bag he'd bought at the Army-Navy surplus store a month earlier. He pushed it under his bed and looked around his room. He took quick piss in the bathroom across the hall, pulled his boxers back on, grabbed a comic book from one of his stacks, jumped into bed, and began thumbing through the latest adventures of that pussy Superman.

Take Scat!

2009-08-20T07:46:00.004-04:00

Every spike of his spiky hair was spiked to spiky perfection, held in place by the strongest mousse he could find, each strand ready to impale anything that may come near it. His poppy elbows were popped, needing only another 10 or 100 pops the rest of the day before he'd be confident they were all popped out. A dull Rodney Hampton jersey - his favorite player and the only fan Rodney Hampton probably ever had - hung off his bony shoulders and almost reached his knees. The lobster ravioli was thawed and sitting in the microwave, awaiting a nuking. Lettuce; tomato, cucumber, purple onion slices; and a quart of blue cheese dressing lounged in a large, wooden bowl, restless to be scarfed down.

Mark glanced around the kitchen once more, then turned his attention to the bowl in front of him, into which he hocked a slimeball of fresh snot. He giggled, then gloved his hands with the latex gloves he'd bought for the occasion. Slowly, he kneaded the dingleberries against the bottom of the bowl, churning them with his knuckles into a thick, brown paste. He dumped the gloves into the trash can and read the instructions on the box. Once the ingredients were pulverized together with a couple hundred thrusts of the handheld mixer, he spooned and smoothed them into the greased, glass baking pan, then set them in the pre-heated oven, dipping his finger deep into the mix once to taste his creation.

He stood up straight and stretched, swirling the cake mix against the roof of his mouth. He wanted to run upstairs and jerk off to relieve his aching boner but instead quickly put it under his waist band as the doorbell rang. When he opened the door, Bette smiled, her nostrils flaring. "Something smells great!" she said.

"Oh, I've got a little treat for you," said Mark. Then he leaned forward and stuck his smeared tongue in her mouth, at which she giggled and wrapped her arms around his lean waist to tighten their kiss.

Tête-à-Bette

2009-08-05T09:57:00.005-04:00

"You really do make the best coffee. Seriously, you should open a coffee shop-"

Mark grinned and stretched back in his metal chair, the tip of his dick still wet with cum and smearing his boxers. His nose itched. "Excuse me," he said. Then sat up, retrieved his never-washed handkerchief from his jeans pocket, filled it with a tablespoon of snot and boogers, and re-pocketed it scrunched up in a ball. "My allergies are killing me-"

"Do you want to go inside?"

"Nah, it won't make a difference-"

"Oh." Bette dropped her eyes from Mark and rested them on her half-filled cup of coffee. "I want to tell you something-"

"Shoot-"

"I've never told anybody this. And I probably shouldn't tell you-"

"Why not?"

"Because there are lines teachers shouldn't cross with their students-"

"Bull-"

"But," Bette held up a tiny palm, "I feel so comfortable around you, and you're one of the best, most genuine people I know, and I...trust you, and I...have to get this off my chest-"

"Go ahead, I promise I won't say a word-"

Bette sighed. "It's about Jacob-"

"Oh-" Mark leaned forward, lightly plopping his elbows on the stone table, his chin in his hands.

"Yeah-"

"Well, whatever it is, I won't say a-"

"I know." Bette sighed. Then swirled her coffee with her plastic swirl stick. "Mark-"

"Yeah, I'm here-"

"I don't miss him-"

"What?"

"I don't miss him. Not one bit." Bette shivered in the 90-degree heat that couldn't bring sweat to either of their foreheads. "I'm even-"

"You're even-"

"glad he's gone. Does that make me a terrible person?"

"No." Mark watched Bette as her eyes rose back to his, their mud-brown the deepest brown he'd ever seen, almost black. "But why do you think that is?"

"He wasn't a very nice person-"

"Abusive?"

She continued looking into Mark's eyes, every now and again glancing around to ensure no one was eavesdropping, and nodded. "Not physically. But emotionally, mentally-"

"I kind of figured-"

"You did-"

"He was a cop. No offense, but cops are dicks-"

"And he was. A dick, that is. Very possessive. Jealous. Controlling. Everything was his way or no way at all."

"That's horrible. And no, that doesn't make you a bad person. You don't want him back. Big deal. It's not like you wanted him dead-"

Bette's eyebrows raised.

"Oh." Mark laughed. "Well, that still doesn't make you a bad person. I completely understand."

"I knew you would." Bette shook her head.

"What?"

"I mean, I do want someone in my life. Someone who is sweet and kind and respects me. And has the same interests: books, music, movies, art, the outdoors, snuggling, cuddling-" Bette laughed as Mark pointed to his chest. "Oh, you-"

"What?" He giggled.

"And you're my student-"

"Ah, labels, that's right-"

"And you're 18-"

"Oh, and I'm 18, an adult, I can get fucked up in a war and elect a shitty president, but I can't be a good boyfriend or husband or lover or whatever it's called -labeled- these days. Hmm, makes perfect sense-"

"Oh, Mark, that's not what I mean-"

Mark reached across the table and grasped Bette's free hand. "What do you mean?"

She sighed. And grinned. Then squeezed his hand back.

Dick's Cock

2009-07-27T10:10:00.006-04:00

"What's on your brain?"

Mark looked up from the photo album on his lap, over which he'd been hunched all morning, rocking back and forth as he flipped the pages over and over.

"You know:"

"Aww."

Mark looked into Dick's green eyes, which were kaleidoscoped with flecks of brown and yellow, then to his stuck-out bottom lip and shrugged. He closed the photo album and set it on his desk, then reached out and stroked the bulge in Dick's khakis. "Really, you gotta let me measure it-"

Dick rolled his eyes and laughed. "Nah, it's better to keep you wondering-"

At which Mark unzipped him and took his flaccid cock - which was at least twice as long and thick as Mark's erect dick - fully into his mouth, instantly popping a boner as it began to swell against his tongue. Several hardening strokes and Mark stood up, disrobed, and lay across his twin bed, his head hanging off the side, his mouth agape. He vacuumed Dick's cock into his esophagus until his chin was covered in a beard of pubes.

Dick leaned over and took everything Mark had to offer in his mouth and continued pumping his hips. Until his perineum tightened. He stood up and with one last thrust, sent 7 or 8 silvery strings of cum into Mark, pulling out slowly and with a plop as Mark finished himself on his stomach. Dick lowered himself to his knees and rested his head on Mark's chest. After several minutes, Mark said, "What's on your brain?"

"You know:"

"It ain't mine. I double-wrap my shit when I'm with that bitch-"

"I know-"

"So what are you gonna do?"

Dick shook his head against Mark's chest. "I don't know. I guess it's not really my decision-"

Mark reached up and stroked Dick's brown bangs. "I've got an idea-"

"What?"

"Pump another gallon of cum in me and I'll tell you-"

Dill the (Un)Thrill

2009-07-20T02:44:00.005-04:00

Dill Doublepound's thick, over-painted lips slid off Mark's genitals, and the woman flipped over onto her elbows and knees, throwing 50 pounds of ass - one-fifth of her total weight - up into Mark's face. He slipped a finger through her shit-encrusted thong, pulled it back as far as he could, then let go, the smack-snap of the rubbery cotton against Dill's lone hemorrhoid forcing her to look over her shoulder with a forced grin. "Eat me," she said.

Mark pulled the thong off her huge buttocks, kneading the dimpled flesh with his knuckles. He leaned forward, his head between her legs, and looked up at the still-unshaven, gigantic bush that had almost choked him to death the first time he'd attempted to eat her pussy. "What the fuck?" he said.

"It burns too much when I shave it-"

"How about trimming it?"

"Grow up!"

Mark shook his head and jumped up, his little boner bouncing, his elbows and neck snapping all in one motion.

"Where are you going?"

"Rubbers-"

"Fucker-"

Mark stuck his head out the bedroom door. When he was sure Sarah still hadn't come home, he tiptoed to the bathroom and shut the door behind him, locking it. He looked around a bit until his eyes fell on the tub. He giggled. Then got on his knees, leaned over the tub, and dug out all the hair and whatever else was lodged in the drain, rolling it into a slick ball between thumb and forefinger. He grabbed the XSmall pack of condoms and tiptoed back to Dill, who was still elbowing and kneeing it on his New York Giants comforter, a cow ready to give birth. Or eat another day's worth of feed in an hour.

He got behind her and slapped her jiggly ass on both cheeks, at which she laughed and begged him to do it again. So he smacked her again, two hands at once, the red finger-welts rising almost immediately against the cracked alabaster that was her skin. Mark slipped on the first condom, then the second - a request of Dill's, so that she could feel him on the walls of her cavernous cooter as he fucked her good and hard for a minute or two.

Positioning his double-rubbered cock at Dill's vagina, he quickly slipped the ball of greasy hair at its tip and lunged in. To his pubes. Grinding and grinding until he was sure the hairball wouldn't dislodge as he pulled out and stuck his slippery dick into Dill's ass for a few pumps...then in her cunt...then in her ass...alternating every 10 or so strokes, just the way she liked it.

As he was about to cum, he pulled both condoms off, grabbed her long, black hair, and forced her face to his glans, two thick strands of cum pumping up into her over-sized, bovine nostrils. When she finished blowing her nose on her thong, she lay down next to him. "Whew! That was good," she said.

"Yeah-"

"But-"

"But what?"

"But I'm still mad you didn't eat me-"

Mark laughed. "You'll get eaten soon enough-"

Return

2009-07-13T04:05:00.013-04:00

She walked in silently, her skirt's hem tight around her knees, her bag over her shoulder and jingling down her back. She didn't raise her head until she was behind her desk, at which point she found herself bagged eye to eye with Mark. He put her arms around her and squeezed, his grip tightening as she squeezed back. "I'm glad you're back," he whispered into the brown silk that was her hair.

"Me too."

Mark returned to his seat without looking at any of the other students. As Professor Eden turned to the blackboard and began to write the title of their latest book for study and analysis in grimy, yellow chalk - Department Head Schiztomeur's latest foray into the wild world of urban young adult publishing, Niggaz and Wiggaz - the slender, manicured fingers of Dick Cox flipped a small square of folded paper under Mark's nose and onto his desk without a sound. Mark quickly opened it:

To which he scribbled and tossed back:

Mark didn't have time to gauge Dick's reaction, as the chubby, clit-calloused fingers of the neighbor to his right, Dill Doublepound, were dropping him a second note:

And right back at her fat, smelly ass, which she probably hadn't washed since he last came in it:

Mark didn't have time to gauge Dill's reaction, as Bette had turned from the blackboard and was looking right into his eyes. "Does anyone have any questions?" she asked the class.

Without raising his hand, Mark spoke: "Yeah. Um, no offense, but are we going to read anything but Dr. Schiztomeur's young adult novels in this class?"

**************************************************************************************

The rest of the class rose and filed out the door. But Mark stayed behind, his eyes fixed on Bette. As she put the last of her papers in her bag and slung it back over her shoulder, her eyes fell on Mark without a start. She smiled. Then sighed, blowing her bangs up to the top of her head, where they balanced for a couple seconds before falling back just above her eyes.

"Want to get some coffee?" said Mark.

"Yes. Please."

"I'll go upstairs and get our favorite out of the machine and meet you in the Commons in about fifteen?"

"Excellent, Mark." She bit her bottom lip and briefly closed her eyes. "That'd be great."

Mark popped his bag onto his shoulders and escorted Bette into the hallway, his hand brushing hers as he turned towards the stairs - and saw Dick and Dill inches from one another, her arm tugging at his sleeve as they both giggled like schoolgirls discussing their first periods. He swallowed so hard he couldn't feel it and walked past the two without looking at them or hearing a word they said, confident that neither saw the 4-inch hard-on poking at his zipper.

The Assassinator - Part II

2009-04-28T23:28:00.006-04:00

Craakckckcakck.

Snapbjapdbljapfsfda.

Crucnncchcchchncncncncnc.

And Mark stepped out from behind the tree into the dawn's cold, smoky light. Detective McKay stood 10 yards from him, jerking his single-barreled shotgun to his shaking shoulder, his beak of a nose resting under the gun's sight.

"I expected you," said McKay.

"No, you didn't, you stupid fuck."

"How's that?"

"You wouldn't be by yourself. And I wouldn't have startled you. And you wouldn't be shaking like-"

"Put your hands in the air."

"No."

"I'll shoot you right here-"

"No, you won't. I haven't done anything." Mark shrugged. "Plus, you're a pussy-"

"Put your fucking hands in the air!" shouted McKay. "And turn around. You're under arrest for the murder of Phil Wii."

Mark sighed and turned around, pushing his hands into the air, his elbows snapping. Then behind him: one, two, three, four steps, and the sound of handcuffs knocking against each other. Then one, two, three, four steps...and a shot fired over his head, at which he didn't flinch the slightest, and a simultaneous crash and whimper. He turned around and giggled as his eyes fell upon McKay, sitting stiff in the hole, his upper body frozen but for his arms, which reached for the gun that lay too far in front of him, and his eyes, which bled tears. He picked up McKay's gun.

"You dumb fuck. I thought Bette said you were in the Marines."

A muted howl.

"Though really, I think she'd much prefer a college boy."

Eyes tightened into slits, a bloody grimace, and a groan.

"Like when she gets over you, which'll be quick, and I'm fucking the shit out of her, I'll pretend like I'm a Marine or something. Is that cool?"

Rasping breaths, fists pounding the ground around him against the searing pain in his guts, and a gurgling fountain of blood running down his neck from his mouth.

"Okay, look, I'm an honest guy. Anybody else on to me?" McKay didn't respond. So Mark grabbed the handcuffs off the forest floor and rapped him in the head. "Answer me. Your truthfulness will save Bette's life."

McKay shook his head, at which he heaved forth a trail of vomit that ran down his stomach. "I wasn't even on to you until you said that the other day at that meeting," he blurted between soaked breaths.

"Did you say anything to anyone else?"

"No."

Mark rapped him on the head again.

"No!" shouted McKay as he fell into a fit of warbling coughing. "Don't hurt Bette, whatever you do."

"Oh, I will. But I'll take my time."

McKay's wet eyes grew wide and he reached one last time for Mark's foot, which met the bridge of his over-sized nose first, the resultant crack echoing through the forest. The detective's head wobbled for a second, then fell backwards, where it rested against his upper back, as his throat gesticulated with short, reckless breaths. At this, Mark squatted, slid his arms under McKay's and heaved him up onto his shoulder in one motion. He flopped the detective against the tree and removed the stake from his ass, replacing it firmly with McKay's shotgun up to the trigger, the man's body accommodating it without the slightest resistance.

Quickly, Mark threw the shovel, the stake, his book bag, the mosquito netting, and the handcuffs into the hole and filled and covered it by hand with the excised dirt and leaves. As he walked past McKay one last time, he bent over, and using the detective's own thumb, pushed down on the shotgun's trigger. Then skipped away from the most horrible hunting accident Cedarville had ever seen.

Blue Book

2009-04-15T00:54:00.005-04:00

Why James Joyce's Ulysses Sucks

by

Mark Dennison

Because I said so. Okay, no, not really, not because I said so. Let me first say that James Joyce was probably one of the smartest men who ever lived, with a genius and vocabulary that rivaled William Shakespeare's. And he wrote what was probably the greatest novel of the twentieth century, if not of all time, Ulysses. His influence is felt palpably in all of English literature, especially in regards to prose, since it appeared in the early part of the twentieth century, and I doubt very much that it will ever abate.

However, Ulysses is an unoriginal, pretentious, boring novel. Yes, the merits I list in the above paragraph are true - if you are a writer or an academic. It is perfect masturbatory material for serious writers and academicians who write for each other and only read those things written for them. But for the average layperson, who is looking to put his hands around, and his eyes in front of, a good story to enrich his life and pass some quality time, Ulysses is nothing but a waste of a few good twigs.

Ulysses is structured on the template of Homer's Odyssey. Well, that's very original. I suppose that its taking place over a 24 hour period rather than 24 sections of an epic poem is somewhat original. If you are 5 years old. The Odyssey was written over 2,000 years ago and is still enjoyed today by millions of readers. Note to Joyce: we do not need a re-hashed Odyssey. We need a story that originates from your imagination, from that great brain that rests inside your myopic skull! Hey, I have an idea: I will write a novel based on Hamlet and sell that to people. Oh, wait a minute, nobody wants to read Hamlet again, even if it is one of the best tragedies of the Western World. We already have it, no need for anybody to steal it and make it worse.

But Ulysses is great because of its word-play, its use of stream-of-consciousness, its inventive dialogue, its allusions to past great works of literature, its use of symbols as based on The Odyssey, Mark. Not really. All of this is unnecessary window-dressing on an otherwise boring - no, wait, BORING! - story. A writer doesn't need word-play, stream-of-consciousness, inventive dialogue, allusions, and symbols to write a great story. No, what he needs is an enthralling beginning, middle, and ending; complex characters; conflicts and crises; and the ability to choose words that tell his story and no one else's. Anything else is overcompensation for a story so thin that skeletons call it anorexic.

Ulysses is boring. I alluded - ha, look, I'm James Joyce, I made an allusion! - earlier to this aspect of Ulysses' total failure as a novel, which is probably the hardest point to show and justify. But then again, it's Ulysses - no, it's not hard. It takes place over the course of one day in Dublin. A guy goes to a funeral, jerks off on a beach, gets drunk, goes to a brothel, meets up with a young guy he doesn't even hit on, pisses in the yard with said guy, then goes to bed, only to have his story taken over by his shrill, sorry, cuckolded wife. And it takes over 700 pages for all this to happen. Wow. Great stuff, huh? Maybe if you are a corpse. But like Judge Woolsey famously said of Ulysses in the obscenity trial regarding it, "...it must always be remembered that his locale was Celtic and his season Spring." Well, thank God (who doesn't exist, by the way; I have looked for Him and found only his Husk, which I kicked to ashes and blew into the wind), that I'm not Irish - I would have died from boredom upon being born (or hatched, as my dear mother would say).

In conclusion, Ulysses is the greatest novel ever written. I sincerely believe that. But I would suggest that no one worth his salt read it so that it remains so.

Parents' Day (And Grandmas Are Invited Too!)

2009-03-20T00:01:00.005-04:00

Across the wide expanse of the gymnasium decorated with hanging banners and spotted with the heads of several hundred of his fellow students, Mark spotted her. And him. With a nose out of The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and a round, knotted, bald pate that shone as if it was waxed, Professor Eden's boyfriend, whose fingers were tightly knitted through hers, looked as if he'd just come back from the dead. Mark smiled at the thought. "There she is," he said and pulled his mother through the crowd of pretentious sweaters, ponytails, and retching colognes.

"Mark!"

"Bette!"

"This is my boyfriend, Detective Jacob McKay-"

"The Assassinator!" Mark grabbed the man's hand and pinched it in his grip until he saw the detective pull away with a well-concealed grimace. "So nice to meet you. Bette brags on you all the time."

Detective McKay nodded and smiled.

"If I hear one more time how you're gonna catch that serial killer-"

"Mark!"

"Okay, I'm sorry." Mark's put his hands up in surrender. "Have you met my mom?"

Sarah exchanged pleasantries with Bette and Detective McKay, her smile opening just far enough so that they couldn't see her missing teeth. "You know you're Mark's favorite professor. He can't stop talking about you. Bette this, Bette that."

Bette lightly slapped Mark on the shoulder - and her boyfriend grimaced again. "Mark, you're so silly-"

"Well, you are the best!"

"Thank you, Mark."

Sarah moved closer to Mark and grabbed his hand, threading her fingers through his. She laid her head on his shoulder. "I wish I'd gone to college-"

"It's never too late, Mrs. Dennison-" Bette looked from Sarah's cocked head to Mark and back.

"Ah, it's past my time, dear-"

"I'm telling you, it's never too late. We have 80 year-old students here at Cedarville CC-"

"Hmm. Really?"

"Mom, do not enroll here-"

Sarah pulled away. "Why not?"

Mark shook his head and laughed. Then put his arm around his mother's shoulders and pulled her into him, her hand sliding into his back pocket. Bette looked down, then up, then crooked her neck to listen to what her boyfriend was leaning down to whisper in her ear. "Mark," she said, "are you thirsty? I think we should get a drink-"

"I'll get it. What do you want?"

"Um, a Coke'll be fine. And one for Jacob, too. No lemonade." She looked at Jacob. "The lemonade here is awful. It tastes like toilet water-"

"But the coffee-"

"Yeah, the coffee from the machine on the 3rd floor is pretty great. Especially if you put the right amount of cream in it. Which Mark always does-"

"You want a Coke mom?"

Sarah pulled per hand out of Mark's pocket. "Sure."

And Mark was gone. And back in 10 minutes. With four plastic cups of Coke. He handed them around. Then watched as his mother and Bette wandered off in the direction of Professor Gaelan Schiztomeur, the head of Cedarville Community College's English Department, who had gained fame as a recent immigrant for his young adult novels about the inner city lives of black youths living on the edge. Currently, Mark's English class was reading his latest cliche-riddled tome, Gangbangaz. Mark sidled up to Jacob. "So are you gonna catch him or what?"

Jacob's chin rose in the air as he grimaced once more. He took a swig of his Coke. "Depends-"

"On what?"

"If he lets us catch him-"

"Oh." Mark's eyes drifted from Jacob's plastic cup to his crotch, then back up to his turned away head. "But I thought you guys' job was-"

"Not with serial killers-"

"There's more than one?"

Jacob laughed. "No, no, there's only one. That's obvious. But he's clever. With these guys, you just have to wait for them to slip up."

"What if he doesn't?"

"Well-" Jacob finished his Coke in one gulp. Then winced. He seemed to be searching his teeth with his tongue.

"You gotta catch him. I don't wanna be all cut up with tin-snips-"

Jacob's mouth fell to a stop. He looked down at Mark. "How do you know tin-snips were used?"

"What?"

"How do you know tin-snips were used?"

"I don't know what you're talking about man. I didn't say anything about tin-snips-"

"Yes, you did." Jacob glared at Mark. And Mark stared back into the detective's steely blue eyeballs, behind which there seemed to rest no soul. Or brain. He burst out laughing. "Dude, it was in the paper-"

"Oh." Jacob fished his tongue around in his mouth once more, then stuck his fingers deep between his lips. As he removed them, he said, "Fuck!" On the tip of his index finger hung a curly, stiff hair, which he threw to the ground and mashed with his foot.

Creative Writing

2009-03-02T02:21:00.006-05:00

Valentine’s Day

6:17 pm

The little girl appeared again. Under him, Adrienne’s body shrunk; her legs around his waist shortened; the heels pressing into his buttocks softened; he thickened as she tightened; and the hair fell from her, creating a desired friction. He closed his eyes and her hair turned from chocolate to vanilla, her mascara smeared across her face like indiscriminate bruises. Several propulsive thrusts—as if this were the last time they’d ever do it—and he was finished, letting loose on her stomach. Crawling up beside her, his panting ceased. He ran his fingers through his semen and dabbed them inside her playfully, surprised and disappointed that he hadn’t made her bleed too.

11:13 am

He couldn’t stop tapping on the table, keeping rhythm with the pounding blood in his ears. He checked his watch again. Looking around, he stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked to the door of the play area and scanned the McDonald’s entrance. He let out a sigh and was about to return to his impromptu drumming—until he heard his name called. Swinging around, he saw her in person for the first time and almost cried.

They embraced, her blonde head just under his sternum, until he thought they might crush each other. She smelled like raspberries. He didn’t look at her again until they were seated across from each other at the table he’d occupied all morning, right across from the ball pit.

“You’re even more beautiful in person.”

“So are you.” She giggled. “I mean, you’re even hotter than on the computer.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Are you hungry?”

“I’m starving.” She looked away from his staring eyes with a wide grin and a laugh. “Is a sundae okay?”

As he watched her put each spoonful of strawberries and ice cream between her barely parted lips, his erection throbbed. He looked around. “So who knows you’re here?”

“Nobody.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“You know, I could get into a lot of trouble—”

“Not if nobody knows,” she sang and held out her last spoonful of ice cream. He put his mouth around it and swore he could taste her saliva.

5:32 pm

Adrienne was standing in the bedroom’s doorway like a ghost who’d been haunting him all day. He jumped.

“What are you doing home?”

“I got off early today.”

“You never get off early.”

He nodded.

“You tore up the garden.”

“I did work on it a little bit.”

Her eyes narrowed at his waist. “What’s behind your back?”

His head dropped. For a moment, he thought he heard the tiniest of fairies buzzing around his ears. He looked up. And sighed. “Okay, you caught me.” He shook his head. “I was trying to do something nice for Valentine’s Day.” He looked into his wife’s eyes. “I got off early because I wanted to fix up the garden for you, but it took a lot longer than I thought it would. And here.” He brought out from behind his back a pair of pink underwear, blue bows at the hips, and held them out in both hands. “I stopped by the lingerie store.”

“I’ll never fit into those.”

“They stretch. See?”

“But they look so…juvenile.”

“You always said you wanted to role play. So I found the closest—”

Adrienne shook her head and looked away, staring at her antique doll collection. After a few moments, in which he heard his heart stop several times, deafening him, his wife looked back at him with a wide grin. “You are so bad.”

Laughing, they threw their arms around each other and settled into a deep kiss. She grabbed the panties from him, then took off for the bathroom, dropping her briefcase and purse on the floor by the bed. As she walked into the bathroom, she stopped, the panties out before her in her hands. “They look like they’ve been through the mill.”

“They’re brand new, believe me.”

She looked over her shoulder, her dimples as deep as ever. “Okay, daddy, your little girl’ll be back in a minute.”

12:02 pm

“So what are you gonna get me for my birthday?”

“What do you want?”

Her chin plopped against her collarbone and she looked down at her chest, where a nice set of boobies would hang someday if she got her wish. She looked up. “Have you ever heard of Polly Fashion?”

“I’ve seen the commercials.”

“That’s what I want.”

“Which one?”

“It doesn’t matter. Just get me a set though, not an individual doll. I always need replacement outfits.”

“All right, you got it.”

“And a necklace.”

“A necklace?”

“Yeah. A promise necklace.”

“What’s a promise necklace?”

“You give it to somebody you’re going with. It means you promise to be theirs forever—”

He leaned down over the kitchen counter, and their lips met. He pushed his tongue in her mouth. She recoiled with a giggle, then pulled herself closer to him and stuck her tongue in his mouth, swirling it around his as if she were eating a lollipop. Out of breath, she pulled away, his fingers sliding from her hair, and pointed down at his crotch. “What’s that?”

“You know what it is.”

“Let me see it.”

“Are you sure you want to?”

She nodded without taking her eyes off his zipper, which he slowly pulled down. It sprung from his fly like a diving board and she put her hand around it, her eyes growing as wide as her smile. It’d never looked so big before.

6:34 pm

“No!”

“Why not?”

“Why? Why would I want to bleach my fucking hair blonde and look like every other bimbo in the world? Besides, I like my hair the way it is.”

“I was just saying—”

“You can say all you want, I don’t have to dye my hair any color.”

“No, no, no, you don’t have to.”

“I know I don’t.”

“I was just saying—” He sighed. “What I meant was, that if you ever decided to color your hair, I think you’d look awesome with blonde hair.”

“Thanks, I guess.”

“As for the other thing—”

“No way. I’m not shaving down there. I keep it trimmed, that’s good enough.”

“I just thinking for role play—”

“Eww. It’d be too much like fucking a little girl. Is that what you want?” Adrienne looked at her husband, who looked away quickly. She slapped him across his shaved chest. “And after that little girl down the street went missing this morning, you fucking pervert?” She got up, slipped on her new pink panties, and made her way past her antique doll collection to the bathroom.

12:12 pm

He guided her hand over the head, smearing both with pre-ejaculate, the most he’d ever produced in his life. Pulling away from another long kiss, he secured his hand in the back of hair and pushed her head into his crotch. Until he felt resistance. He sat up. “What?”

Her head remained on his navel. “I don’t want to do that.”

“Or you don’t know how? I’ll show you.”

She shook her head.

“It’s just like when we were kissing, just put your mouth over it and wiggle your tongue around it. It’s just like eating a popsicle.”

She shook her head again.

He was shocked to find that his heart could beat faster than it had been the previous moment. He was dizzy, his eyes seemed to be floating in his face without control. So he shook his head too. “Well, there are other things we can do.”

“I don’t want to do anything else. I want to go home.”

“What? This was your idea.”

“I just want to go home.” She looked up at him, her eyes swelling. “Please take me home.”

“Fuck it,” he roared and jumped out of his bed, his erection flopping drops of pre-ejaculate onto the floor. He paced back and forth frantically, his hands ripping at his hair. He looked at Adrienne’s doll collection and wanted to smash every one to bits. Instead, he turned on the girl. And pulled his fist back as far as he could. “You little bitch!”

7:13 pm

He could hear her talking on the other side of the bathroom door. “Who are you talking to, Adrienne?” he yelled.

The door crept open a couple inches. “Shut the fuck up, you pervert!” And the pink panties flew through the air and landed on his cock before she slammed the door again and locked it.

He lay there for several minutes, crushing the panties into his face as he masturbated, until he heard a loud thumping and several voices downstairs. He opened his eyes and slid out of bed, crawling to the window, his cock losing all its blood as his heart pumped harder and louder than he could remember. He cracked the blinds and stared out, his body suddenly bloodless, as he watched the blue and red lights circle overhead.

The Assassinator - Part I

2009-02-21T02:32:00.002-05:00

Dressed head to toe in black, Mark trudged through the 3am woods, his immaculate hearing and keen eyesight warning him of every tree, every branch, every thorn in his way. The bag of wooden stakes, thrown delicately over his shoulder, was light and bobbed against his ass as he walked. He could smell the frost in the air and inhaled it deeply, filling his lungs with its bitterness and invigorating himself as he thought of the morning ahead.

Passing the little, broken shack, where Bertha Shears still rested miserably, he snorted a clod of snot into his throat and wondered if Eli Manning would be ready for the Giants' next game. A quarter of visualized football later, he crossed over the spot where he'd left Phil Wii's remains; the area was empty but for the retarded boy's final echoing cries, which only he could hear and enjoy. He walked on, snapping his elbows out in front of him - ah, there was nothing like the feeling of loosening those joints of his, as if he'd been reborn, his bones re-formed and stronger than ever, locking out of, then back into place so he could snap them out again five minutes later.

When he arrived at the giant tree, he dropped his sack and pulled a small shovel from it. Ten paces away, he cleared the leaves to one side and began to dig, his well-adjusted eyes measuring the hole's circumference and depth with each shovelful of hard dirt. Finally hitting the perfect depth - the hole covered the entire lower half of his body - he made his way back to the foot of the tree and grabbed his bag. One by one, he extracted the stakes and hammered them into the hole's bottom with his shovel until the points were just under the hole's rim. He grabbed the fine mosquito netting from the sack, laid it across the top of the whole, then covered the net with the leaves he'd earlier discarded.

Finished, he swung the bag over his shoulder again and sat on the other side of the tree. And waited.

Oh, Really?

2009-02-10T00:54:00.007-05:00

Mark, his book bag slung over both his shoulders, walked into the classroom, stopping at Professor Eden's desk. He surveyed the other students - 3 fat girls, a black dude who was half-asleep, and a white guy with a lazy eye - and stretched his arms out wide. "Where is everybody?"

"This is it," said Professor Eden.

Mark nodded. "You must be tough."

Professor Eden giggled, her slight breasts shaking under her lilac blouse. Her cheeks reddened. "Yeah, right. Tell my department chair that."

"So where is everybody?"

"Honestly, our enrollment has dropped substantially since the murders began-"

"The murders?"

"Yes, the unsolved murders of the past 4 or 5 years-"

"Oh." Mark watched the other students shuffle in their seats, then turned back to Professor Eden. She was already looking in his eyes. "So what, do you think somebody's offing your students?"

"No," laughed the professor. Her voice became a whisper and Mark had to bend down to her to hear her. He could smell her breath - toothpaste and coffee - and could hear her plump ass adjusting itself against the plastic of her chair as she leaned up towards him. "Nobody wants to come to Cedarville CC anymore because they're afraid."

"Ah." Mark nodded again. "I'm afraid too." He smiled and raised his eyebrows, then looked into his teacher's cleavage before meeting her eyes again.

"You shouldn't be," she said, her cheeks filling with blood again. "My honey'll get him."

"Huh?"

"My boyfriend-"

"You have a boyfriend?"

"Yes-"

"Oh-" Mark stood up and dropped his book bag from his shoulders.

"He's on the Cedarville Task Force-"

"A cop?"

"Yep! He was on the SWAT team - the other members called him "The Assassinator" - but he just got promoted to the Criminal Investigations Department, Cold Case Division." Professor Eden's chocolate brown eyes reflected the light from the fluorescent light-bulbs overhead into Mark's eyes, slackening his semi. "He's actually the lead investigator on the unsolved murders-"

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. I have no doubt that he'll catch the guy-"

"So it's the same guy - and only one guy - that's done all these?"

"That's what my honey thinks. He says he's getting closer every day-"

Mark took in an unnoticeable deep breath through his small, turned-up nose and let it out just as imperceptibly through his teeth. He returned the professor's wide, shit-eating grin. "Well, that's great! I hope he gets caught then!" He plopped his book bag under an empty chair-desk in the front row, then returned to Professor Eden's desk as she was rising to begin class. "You want a coffee?"

"Huh?"

"Coffee. I'm going to get myself a coffee from the machine in the hallway real quick. Do you want one?"

"Sure." Professor Eden grabbed her purse and fished out several coins. "Just cream please. Thanks."

Mark grabbed another handful of coins from his jeans pocket and snapped his elbows with short, rapid punches as he made his way to the coffee machine. When the last drop of cream fell from the dispenser, he grabbed Professor Eden's coffee with his free hand, then made his way to the men's room, the head of his hard-on soaked in pre-cum and needing only a few quick jerks to deposit a full load of his semen into his favorite professor's second coffee of the morning.

Matriculatin'

2009-01-13T02:53:00.003-05:00

Mark knew she was the one as soon as their eyes met across the vast expanse of the community college's gym. Fifteen minutes early for their appointment, he walked over to the refreshment table and looked down at the freckled-face girl sitting behind the massive plate of finger sandwiches.

"Are these free?"

"Yep, everything."

Mark picked up a plastic cup of lemonade from the end of the table and made his way through the double-doors on the other side of the gym. A long hallway of squeaky-shoed walking and he was in the men's room, the door of the last stall locked behind him. He drank half the juice, then dipped all two inches of his tiny, flaccid penis into the cup, submerging the head and stirring vigorously. As his dick shriveled to an inch of length, he let loose a stream of urine until the cup was full again, then finished off his bladder in the toilet.

When he entered the gym once more, he grabbed another lemonade as he passed the table, then made his way to the cute girl who had recognized him as her next appointment, too. He laid both cups on the table in front of him, pushing the first he'd grabbed toward the girl, and sat down, slipping his book bag from both his shoulders.

"You looked thirsty-"

"Thanks." The girl swallowed the contents of her cup in one gulp. And grimaced. Then shivered. "Um, remind me not to get the lemonade when I go over there next."

Mark laughed. "That bad, huh?"

"Like drinking out of a toilet-"

Mark pushed his cup to the side. "Thanks for the warning-"

The girl wiped her mouth with a slight cough. She grabbed a bottle of water from under her chair and swigged it. "That's better. I'm Professor Eden-"

"I know-"

"Yes, how did you know?"

"Because your last name matches your appearance-"

The professor's face reddened with a smile that showed a perfect set of white teeth and scrunched up her eyes. She put her head down and shook it, the chocolate brown of her soft hair dancing on her pushed-up breasts. She looked up, unable to meet Mark's grinning stare. "And you're Mr. Dennison-"

"Mark-"

"Mark then-" She held out her hand and they shook. "Okay, Mark, since you're a freshman and this is your first semester, you're really limited as to what you can take course-wise-"

"That sucks-"

"Well, you've got to learn the fundamentals - reading, writing, arithmetic, etc.-"

"I know all that stuff already-"

"I'm sure you do, but it's a requirement of the state system. Of course, if you do exceptionally well in your introductory courses, your professors can recommend and approve your taking the more advanced courses we offer without having to sit through the intermediate courses. For example, in my course-"

"Your course? What do you teach? I want to take it-" Mark glared into her eyes, his top teeth biting into his bottom lip, until the professor's face turned red again and she looked away.

"I teach a number of courses but primarily 'Intro to Composition' and 'Intro to Western Literature'-"

"Can I take 'em?"

"Um, yes, actually, you can. I'm teaching both this semester-"

"Okay, that's two down-"

"Three to go-"

"Cool beans-"

"Did you just say 'cool beans,' Mark?"

"Yeah, why? Should I have said 'school beans?'"

Professor Eden giggled, her taut breasts stretching the fine linen of her blouse as they shook. She reached across the table with an index finger and tapped Mark on the side of his upturned nose. "You're too silly, you know that? You've got to be serious."

Mark sat up straight, like a soldier, and pulled himself under the table until it was cutting into his stomach, his hard-on pushing itself against the gum stuck on the bottom. "Yes, ma'am-"

"You can call me Bette-"

"I bet-"

"No, that's my name-"

"Oh, I thought it was a wager-"

"I'll wager you this: we've got 10 minutes left and if we don't get you three more classes, you'll be betting that you're not going to college this semester-"

"We don't want that-" Mark got up and pulled his chair around to Professor Eden's side. He plopped down next to her, pressing his jean-clad leg into her bare calf, which refused to move. He looked into her deep brown eyes. "Let's do it."

Recipe

2008-12-18T05:24:00.001-05:00

Ingredients:

1 Warden Pam Randall Love Handle
1 Assistant Warden Hectric Beering
1 Erin Randall, six months pregnant
5 overly large cucumbers
1 straight razor
1 pair of black gloves
1 big butcher's knife
3 rolls of duct tape
1 pair of tinsnips
3 dining room chairs
1 tube Super Glue
1 pan
2 cups olive oil
1 shaker of salt

Directions:

1. Put on your black gloves and hide in Warden Pam Randall Love Handle's home. Attack, strip, and duct-tape (wrists, ankles, mouth) to a chair each individual as he/she arrives. Place each against a wall so that they can't fall backwards. Position each at the front of their chair so that their genitals and anus are exposed.

2. Turn on the front burner of the stove to HIGH. Insert the largest butcher's knife you can find in Love Handle's kitchen into the rings of the reddening front burner. Leave for later.

3. Beginning with Love Handle, carefully remove her top and bottom eyelids with your straight razor and use the Super Glue as a coagulant. Repeat on Beering and Erin. This will prevent them from closing their eyes and missing out on the excitement.

4. Cut the inner thigh of Erin and use the blood as lube to rape her in front of her mother. When done, say something sweet like, "Can you feel my AIDS in your pussy?" Or "I think I just brain-fucked your fetus." Or something cute like that. You can also say racist things to her since she's half-white/half-Asian.

5. Beginning with Love Handle, center the first of the cucumbers in her vagina and strike with the palm of your other hand until it is completely lodged. Repeat on her anus. Grab the red-hot knife from the front burner of the stove and place on Love Handle's vagina and anus to solder the openings. Be sure to say something like, "I thought your cunt would've had cobwebs falling out of it." Or "That's the first thing that's been in there since that" and point to her raped daughter. Repeat on Beering and Erin.

6. Using your tinsnips, clip Beering's scrotum down the middle, dislodge his testicles from the sack, and snip them off. Remove the duct tape from Love Handle's mouth, shove one testicle in, and replace the duct tape. Repeat on Erin.

7. Using your straight razor, saw off Beering's retracted penis. Remove the duct tape from his mouth, shove the penis in, and replace the duct tape. Since he looks like a woman, you will make him a woman.

8. While Beering is squirming, puncture his belly with the butcher's knife under his sternum and drag the knife down to his pubic region. Push on the sides of his fat belly until his innards pour out onto the floor. Step on them as you walk past him into the kitchen.

9. Turn the front burner down to MEDIUM heat. Pour two cups of olive oil into a pan and set on the burner.

10. Using a combination of your straight razor and the butcher's knife, carve a perfect oval around the protruding belly of Erin Randall. Be sure to hack deeply and as close to the womb as possible. Do not worry about the fetus - it will be toast soon anyway. Once finished, remove the top portion of Erin's belly from her body, exposing the fetus, sort of like a medical examiner removes the top part of the skull during an autopsy in order to get at the brain. (If Erin should pass out during this, slap her several times to awaken her.) Dislodge the fetus, cut the umbilical cord, and hold it up for mother and grandmother to see.

11. Place the fetus in the olive oil. Simmer for 5-10 minutes on each side or at least until it stops writhing. Cut it into small pieces.

12. Place several small pieces into the mouths of Love Handle and Erin and replace the duct tape across their faces. Eat a couple pieces yourself. You can salt to taste.

13. Erin and Beering should be goners by now. Kick their faces to make sure. Then turn to Love Handle.

14. With the dexterity of an orangutan, remove her nipples and Super Glue them to her head to show her as the devil she is. Then quickly gut her as you did Beering earlier and place the rest of the cooked fetus into her abdominal cavity. Once she expires, turn all the burners on the stove to HIGH, wipe your gloves on your victims' faces, re-pocket your razor and tinsnips, and leave as if nothing has happened. Because really, after the house burns to ashes and there's no evidence, nothing really did, did it?

Pro-Choice Like White Elephants

2008-12-02T03:44:00.004-05:00

Hook left. Hook Right. Thrust, thrust, thrust. Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle. Circles, circles, circles. Hook left hook right thrust thrust thrust wiggle wiggle wiggle circles circles circles. Draaaaaaagggggggggggggg. Nothing.

"Nothing?"

"Nope, not a fucking thing-"

"Try it again-"

"Ah, mom-"

"No, we gotta get it out-"

He looked at the bent tip shining with mucous and blood. "Ah, this is so fucking cliche. Just go to the clinic-"

"I can't. I'm not allowed back there. They won't do more than four on the same person-"

"Well, a hospital then-"

"With what money? And how are we gonna get there?"

"Yeah." He looked down at her shaved cunt. "We could try the vacuum cleaner-"

"Fuck that. And suck my guts out-"

"No, I could rig a really thin tip with a straw and some tape-"

"Uh-uh. Ain't happening-"

"I could jump on your stomach-"

"No-"

"Or punch you-"

"You know how fucking hard you punch? Your fist'll go through my spine-"

He laughed. Then put his fingers to her clit and rubbed back and forth a few times before she squirmed her soaked folds away. "Why not just keep-"

"No-"

"I mean, don't you wonder-"

"I don't-"

"What it'll look like?"

"Nope-"

"A little me-"

"Nope-"

He lowered his head.

"What? Are you pussying out?"

"No, it's not that-"

"Then what?"

"I don't know, it's weird-"

"How?"

"Like killing myself almost-"

"Don't be stupid. Besides, a 2nd generation-"

His head shot up and he looked into her bleary eyes. "What?"

"Nothing-"

"My father-"

"Don't worry about it. Just stop being a pussy and do what you gotta do. Believe me, you don't want it anymore than I do-"

A huff. And tears that won't reach his eyelids. Then one finger, two, three, four, turn in the thumb. Deep breath. Punch. All the way through. Dig, dig, dig. Against her writhing and yelps, sliding around his forearm like a loose glove. And pull, pull, pull. Until his hand is free. And the clot of himself and her, a dead wad of snot and pus, lays between her legs. Free.

The Safe Way

2008-11-25T03:36:00.004-05:00

Mark's asshole throbbed as he picked out the five biggest cucumbers on the shelf, bagged them, and threw them delicately into his shopping basket. His semi-hardon only grew stronger as he thought of the night ahead: cucumbers were so much better than dildos because you didn't have to wash them off when you were done and could even eat them. Until he saw an unmistakable platinum bowl-cut peeping over the mountain of onions just beyond the rows of cucumbers in front of him. "Warden Randall," he yelled.

The short watermelon of a woman revealed herself fully, a plastic bag in one hand, a tie-twist in the other. She nodded. Then nodded again. "Mr. Dennison."

"There you go with that fucking nodding again. You got Tourette's or OCD or something?"

"No, I don't, Mr. Dennison. I think it's best that we don't speak-"

"Why not?"

Warden Randall's eyes narrowed behind the puffy fat of her eyelids. "Because I know what you did. You're a stone-cold killer-"

"What are you talking about?"

"I know you murdered Officer Lickies and Officer Swallow and Washington and Jackson." She nodded once, then stopped her head abruptly and stepped a foot closer to Mark. "And Licebringer too. I swear, if I didn't know for sure that Anderson escaped, I would know that you murdered him too-"

"Whoa, wait a minute. Are you accusing me of something here?"

"Yes, and you know damn well-"

"And what evidence do you have?"

Warden Randall shook her head and looked down to the bag and tie-twist in her hands, which she was continuously threading through her stubs of fingers. "That's just it. I know you did it. But what I don't know is how you did it without leaving anything behind. No hair, no fingerprints, no semen, no DNA at all. Sometimes, I think you're-"

"What?"

Randall shook her head, her wispy, evenly-cut hairs falling around her ears and forehead. "Nevermind. I tell you, though, if Assistant Warden Beering wasn't so convinced you didn't murder them, I would launch a full investigation-"

"How is old Hector, that fucking fruit?"

"His name is Hectric-"

"Yeah, whatever." Mark giggled. "How'd he get a name like that? Can you imagine how many times he got beat up growing up?"

Randall stymied a smile and began to nod. "It was nice seeing you, Mr. Dennison-"

"Fucking call me Mark already-"

"Okay, Mark." She placed the knotted bag and twist-tie in the child-seat of her shopping basket. "But let me warn you: never approach me again-"

"What the fuck, Pam?"

"Listen-"

"Ah, come on, can't we be friends?" Mark pointed to his basket. "I mean, let's have dinner tonight, me, you, and your daughter-"

"Leave my daughter out of it." Randall's face contained all the blood in her gelatinous body, a cherry on top of a ruined, sloppy, vanilla sundae. "I swear-"

"You swear a lot-"

"Mark, I'm telling you-"

"No, I'm telling you. I think we could make good friends. And we could even invite old Hector-"

"Hectric-"

"Whatever. We could even invite him over, too. Like a family, the four of us. Especially since it's obvious you two are-"

Randall's fists balled at her sides. She stomped one foot that made her grocery cart rattle. "I don't care what you know about me. But I tell you, I don't take kindly to threats-"

"Who's threatening anybody?" Mark grinned, his semi-hardon scraping against the zipper of jeans. "Just tell me one thing-"

"What?"

"Where do you live?"

Homecoming

2008-11-20T04:22:00.006-05:00

The sun's always brighter on the outside, the air's always cleaner, the water's always clearer. Mark squinted his eyes toward the cab that pulled in front of him and got in, his unlaundered jeans and T-shirt, which he hadn't worn in 18 months, crinkling fresher against the leather seats than any of his jail overalls ever would have. "Ferguson Court," he said.

"You gots it, brother-"

Mark shoved his right hand into his pocket and grabbed the $125 he'd made during his time in Cedarville State Prison as an upstanding citizen-inmate with no behavior infractions on his record. He laughed.

"Damn, you a young'un for that place-"

"Seventeen-"

"Damn!" The black man's yellowed eyes met Mark's in the rearview. "What the fuck you do-"

"Drugs-"

"Musta been a lot of drugs-"

"Yeah, they got me with a kingpin charge. Tried me as an adult when I was sixteen-"

"That's fucked up, man-"

"Yeah. Wasn't even my shit-"

"No way-"

"Way-"

"How much you get-"

"Twenty years-"

"Damn!"

"With all but two years suspended. Got out in eighteen on good behavior-"

"And just in time too. People gettin' whacked left and right in that motherfucker-"

"Yeah, it's scary-"

"You goin' back to school?"

"Nah, college. Got my GED in Cedarville-"

The man's eyes widened, then narrowed as he glanced down at the radio. "You like this?"

"Turn it up-"

The man laughed, the gray hairs on his head dancing with the black shiny ones. "You gots it-"

"They can't fuck with me now
Huh? Fuck with me now
No, they can't fuck with me now
Can't fuck with me now
Let's go"

As the yellow Crown Victoria slid around the corner into Ferguson Court, the cabbie turned down the radio. "Which one?"

"That one-" Mark pointed out the window.

"All right, man-" The cabbie looked out the passenger side window at the blonde woman standing on the porch of Mark's house. He turned to Mark with a giggle that flashed his platinum grille. "Smart, my man. Got that pussy all lined up-"

Mark looked out and laughed. "Yep, all lined up." He grabbed all the money from his pocket and gave it to the cabbie in a clump of green and gray. Then got out and hurried to the stoop, where he met Sarah, weaved one hand through her hair, pulled her head back, and slipped his tongue into her open, waiting mouth.

Countdown

2008-10-19T04:21:00.004-04:00

4

The platinum white knuckles of Mark's right fist met Officer Larry Lickies' chin so fast and with so much force that he didn't have time to react, to slip his gun from its holster, to blow his whistle, to scream into his radio, to recognize the last second he'd ever be conscious. And once his head hit the concrete floor of the empty laundry room, his skull shattering in veins of a fracture, his brain dreaming about his wife at home alone with the two boys and a bottle of Jack Daniels, he was no more aware of the gun Mark forced into his anus and fired four times than he was of the two shanks jettisoned through his eyes until they reached the bloody hair on the back of his head, imparting a lightning strike of eternal bliss and nothingness to his chilling body.

3, 2

Donte and Delonte couldn't figure out what hurt more: the jagged flesh of their wrists which were tied together above their heads with the biting wire from a package of pork loins; the meat hooks in their backs which held them erect but had refused to let them die; or the holes in their groins where their penises had been before Mark sliced them off, taped them together end to end, and placed the largest ebony, two-headed dildo - a veritable black mamba - he'd ever seen into the freezer for good keeping, the blood issuing from their pelvises in geysers of frothy crimson, a slow, drawn-out procession toward certain death for two of the stupidest motherfuckers Mark had ever met in his life.

1

Her holster was empty, but she was not - handcuffed over the pipe she'd used so many times to restrain Mark, he now slipped both hands comfortably into her pleasure holes, one over top the other, and nibbled away at her uterus and rectum with his razored fingernails until his hands met and pulled back with a rending grunt, one black-blood hole replacing the two and forcing little girl whimpers through the long brown hair that wrapped around her head twice, muzzling her swollen mouth. As he untangled her hair from her tear-soaked face, he kicked the gun from under his heel toward her dangling hands, which gnawed fruitlessly at the air inches above the Beretta as he strangled her with her own locks, her breaths dissipating with each squeeze until her determined hands and large-breasted body fell limp into the dark hole of Death, which Mark was sure he'd never know.

Love Handle

2008-09-29T02:45:00.006-04:00

A short woman as round as a medium-sized boulder and sporting a platinum-blonde, Dutch boy haircut too short for her fat face sat down behind the desk across from Mark and adjusted her glasses, which were too big for her quinty eyes. She traced one chubby finger across the top sheet of paper in front of her, then looked up at Officer Swallow, who stood guard behind Mark. She nodded once, twice and then turned her beady blue eyes to Mark. "Um," said Pam Randall, the warden of Cedarville State Prison, who was affectionately known to the inmates who hated her backstabbing personage as The Love Handle, "you have another 6 months before you are paroled, Mr. Dennison-"

"Please, call me Mark-"

"Okay, then, Mark, you have another 6 months before you are paroled, however-"

Mark leaned forward at his waist, which was chained to his hands, and flicked his head toward a picture on Randall's desk, which depicted a young mulatto-colored girl with slanted eyes. "That your daughter?"

Randall drew in a large volume of air. "Why do you ask that?"

"No reason. I just know a lot of guys in here who would love to tap that-"

"Mr. Dennison-"

"Mark, please-"

"Mark, if you're trying to get on my good side, it's not working." She nodded towards him once, twice, then continued: "Making threats against my daughter-"

"Whoa! Who's making threats? Do you think your daughter's pretty?"

Randall adjusted her mass, which hung from her bones like thawed meat from a hook, and straightened her tie. "Why, yes, I do. I think she is beautiful, the most beautiful girl in the world-"

"Well, then, wouldn't it make sense that men, even men here, would want to go out with her?"

Randall looked him in the eye as best she could through her two little, meaty slits of eyelashes. "I don't know what you're getting at, Mark, but it's not going to work-" She nodded once, twice-

"What's with all the nodding?"

"What do you mean?"

"After everything you say, you nod twice. As if you're playing a Jedi mind trick on somebody or something-"

"Oh, I didn't know I did that. Thank you for informing me of that...involuntary habit-"

"You're welcome-"

Randall leaned back in her chair, the creaking of which sounded like a baby being raped and murdered, and threw her hands softly behind her head. The stains on her arm pits were massive, stretching from her biceps to her ribs. She narrowed her eyes. "Okay, no more bullshit, Mark-"

"No more bullshit-"

"The state's attorney is willing to offer you early release for any information you may be able to give the state regarding its current investigation into the drug dealing of your friends Donte Washington and Delonte Jackson since they have been confined to Cedarville State Prison-"

"Donte and Delonte are drug dealers?"

"Come off it, Mark, you know damn well they are. And you also know that they're about to be implicated in the murder of Devin Licebringer-"

"What?" yelled Mark, his knuckles purpling as he grabbed the arms of the plastic chair that held him. "There's no way-"

"Yes, sir, their semen was found deep - very deep - inside Licebringer's rectum-"

"No way!"

"Yes-"

"I can't believe it. It must be a set up. Those two sweet guys would never do anything like that. And the drug dealing..." Mark shook his head. "I just don't believe it."

"Believe it." Randall put her elbows on the desk and leaned forward, her hot breath full of either garlic, rotten toes, or turd. "Assistant Warden Beering just demoted Officer Larry Lickies to the wash room this morning after we found that he too has been involved in drug dealing with Mr. Washington and Mr. Jackson. They've been pulling in thousands a week-"

"Thousands?" Mark could hear his heart in his throat.

"Yes."

"Well, why do you need me?"

"Officer Lickies is refusing to testify, and frankly, we've got nothing on him but our suspicions. Otherwise, we have nothing but flimsy circumstantial evidence-"

"But there must be others-"

"Yeah, and they're all pieces of shit, excuse my French. And the two main ones involved with them are gone: Licebringer's dead and Anderson's still on the run."

"But still. Me?"

"Yes, you. You're a model inmate. You've caused no trouble since you've been here, and you've got several credits for good behavior. If you agree to testify and help us convict these two, you'll be out next week."

Mark looked down into his lap. The veins in the backs of his hands thump thump thumped, small rivulets of anger pulsing against his knuckles. Donte. Delonte. Lickies. Licebringer. Anderson. He looked up at the obese warden. "I don't know anything about any drug dealing," he said.

Randall leaned back in her wobbly chair and glared at him. "You know, you're in here because of those two-"

"No, I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. I know your story. You took the fall for them so they wouldn't go to jail, then they ended up in here anyway." She began to nod but stopped. "What, are you afraid of them?"

It was Mark's turn to glare at her. "No," he laughed, "I'm not afraid of anyone. Can I go?" He nodded once, twice.

Barb'd

2008-09-22T03:16:00.000-04:00

Gray and black curlicues of smoke tripped skyward, the billows thinning and forming odd, familiar shapes overhead: ducks, a platypus, drops of sperm, Danny’s cock. Mark smiled. Then rose quickly to his feet as his shoulder was suddenly weighted down—with Devin Licebringer’s penis. He turned and faced Devin and the greasy man’s mute, red-faced accomplice, Moe Jury. “What the fuck, dude?”

Devin cackled, one hand holding his prick, which snaked out through his open fly, the other occupied with a half-eaten hamburger. He wiggled the former at Mark. “I oughtta make you suck it right now, you little bitch-“

Mark looked at the limp thing, its head beet-red and scabbed, and grinned. He narrowed his eyes into Devin’s. “You don’t have to make me. I’ll suck it. And bite it off.”

Devin bristled and looked back at Joe, who looked away and pushed the last bit of his hamburger into his fat jowls. He glared at Mark. “You little bitch, you ain’t never had nothing this big-“

“Well, if your baby daughter could handle it-“

“Shut the fuck up-“ Devin took a step toward Mark, then jumped back, the gaze of his wet, beady eyes lingering over Mark’s shoulder.

“Problem?” said Donte, walking up and slapping Mark’s back.

“No,” said Mark, laughing. “Just this dude thinks he’s got the biggest dick at Cedarville State-“

Delonte stepped forward, looked around quickly, then pulled out his cock, which spilled out of his knuckly fist, as if it might stretch to the ground.

“Now that’s a dick,” said Mark, as Delonte slapped it against his other hand before slinking it back into his trousers.

“Whatever,” said Devin. He stuffed his shrinking pecker back into his prison-issued khakis. “What do you expect with a nigger dick-“

“Dude,” said Mark, jumping forward, his nose an inch from Devin’s slick mustache and snorting furious breaths, “you just wrote your obituary-“

“Fuck you.” Devin stepped back and pointed his hamburger at Mark. “You’re fucking lucky Jack Anderson escaped or we’d be reading your obituary-“

“Yeah, Jack fucked the little kids and you beat ‘em-“

“Lickies!” Devin looked away, with a start..

“Problem, gentlemen?” said Officer Lickies as he stepped between the adversaries.

“No, sir,” said Devin. He took a bite of his hamburger. “Fuck, these things are good-“

“Well, why don’t you go get yourself another one?” said Lickies, shooing Devin and Moe toward the grill.

“Yeah,” Mark yelled after the retreating men to the giggling delight of his friends, “make your last meal your best.”

Hamburger

2008-08-31T03:40:00.005-04:00

Mark nodded to Officer Lickies as they passed each other and entered the freezer, snapping the door shut behind him. He looked to Donte, then to Delonte, then to the man they held naked and shivering between them. Two steps and he was over Jack's kneeling form, looking down into his watering eyes and chattering teeth.

"Vengeance is mine-"

"What did I do?"

"You lied to me-"

"About what?"

"About what you're in here for-"

"I told you the truth-"

Mark flicked his wrist to his left, then made his way to his right, to the cutlery rack, as Donte and Delonte heaved the fat man onto the stainless steel table. Selecting his favorite filet knife, which he had honed to an imperceptible razor sharpness the day before, he began to giggle as he approached the mottled body sprawled out before him on the same table on which he was used to cutting vegetables and fruits every afternoon. He placed the tip of the knife at the top of Jack's sternum-

"Okay, okay, I did it. I'm sorry. I fucked him, that little kid-"

"Too late, you fucking pig-" And Mark grabbed a frozen apple from the bin overhead, sliced it in two with a twist of his wrist, and shoved one half into Jack's resisting mouth until the man's choking subsided and it disappeared into his chubby cheeks. The other half he gave to Donte, who casually took a bite.

Without another thought, he traced a careful line from Jack's neck to his orange pubic hair with the knife, the subcutaneous fat no hindrance, his eyes widening as he watched the writhing torso open itself up in a smooth trail of congealing blood, a river freezing before it had a chance to flow. Then he re-traced the rivulet, pressing harder, Jack's muffled moans rhythmic and calming him further as he reached inside the man's belly and inched his fingers up to the man's driving heart, the incision around his wrist tight and hot like a virgin cunt around a swollen cock.

"I think I've got a boner," said Mark, as he squeezed the heart until his thumb and fingers met in a warm lake of goo, Jack's body rising for a brief second, then slamming lifeless onto the table, bits of apple spilling from between his lips with his last pants. "He's done."

Mark removed his hand and wiped it on Jack's hairy, bloated belly. Then set about taking him apart, piece by piece, sliver by sliver, with the assortment of knives, saws, and cleavers on the rack behind. As he removed each part, dictating his actions to his friends like a surgeon, he gave it to Donte, who put it through the industrial, motorized meat grinder over and over, bone, cartilage, tendon, muscle, and organ a mish mash of powdery, fleshy Play-doh.

As they finished up - wiping and disinfecting the table and tools, forming perfect circular patties with their uncovered palms - the freezer door popped open. Ned Bongo, the short, bald, humorless Italian who ran the kitchen - and was serving consecutive life sentences for eating his two children in church - entered and looked from Mark to the pan of meat patties with his bulging eyes.

"Very good," said Ed, nodding. "The barbecue tomorrow is going to be a runaway success!"

Typical

2008-08-24T03:26:00.004-04:00

7:30am - Wake Up

7:31am - Think about Danny

7:45am - Brush teeth, shit, wipe 100 times (or more)

8:00am - Breakfast (2 scrambled eggs, 1 slice scrapple, 1 pancake, 1 cup orange juice)

8:30am - Read, Write

10:00am - Kitchen duty (for lunch)

10:15am - Prepare trays of processed chicken, turkey, beef slices (remove from refrigerator and place in oven at 350 degrees Fahrenheit)

10:45am - Prepare fruit and vegetable cups (remove from freezer and place in refrigerator to thaw)

11:15am - Prepare dessert (remove from refrigerator and arrange in pans on buffet)

11:45am - Go to freezer and jerk off in fruit juice concentrate

12:00 Noon - Prepare fruit juice (from concentrate)

12:30pm - Serve first round of lunches

1:00pm - Serve second round of lunches

1:30pm - Serve third round of lunches

1:45pm - Go to freezer and jerk off into fruit and vegetable cups, set aside for Devin Licebringer and his friend Moe Jury on fourth round

2:00pm - Serve fourth round of lunches, eat lunch

2:30pm - Clean up (wash and dry trays, pans, cups, and put back in proper place)

3:00pm - Two hours in the yard (hang out with Donte and Delonte, sell and smoke drugs, threaten other inmates, make plans with Officer Lickies, who's always talking to Donte and Delonte, and Officer Swallow)

5:00pm - Showers (jerk off or get/give head or fuck somebody or get fucked by somebody, eat cum)

5:30pm - Nap

6:30pm - Dinner (2 slices processed chicken, 1 cup fruit and vegetables, 1 cup fruit juice)

7:00pm - Go to Janitor's Closet with Officer Swallow

7:30pm - Read, write

9:00pm - Lights out

9:01pm - Jerk off, eat the cum

9:29pm - Think about Danny

9:30pm - Sleep

Swallow

2008-08-18T02:07:00.003-04:00

"314!"

The steel door slides open crickety crack, and Officer Carol Swallow steps in, boots clickety clack. Uniform the same brown and yellow of all the other guards but narrow at the waist and wide at the hips. Cuffs biting on his slender, scarred wrists as she hooks them to a chain around his waist. Then down to one knee, incarcerating his ankles, her face at his crotch.

A tug and he follows her, hooting in his ears from his fellow inmates, all wrongly convicted, all right where they belong. Passes by Donte and Delonte and Officer Lickies outside, nods to his colleague and to her charge, his feet scraping along the gunmetal gray paint of the concrete floor. Then down another row of catcalls, then another. Through a door heavier than both of them. A right, then a left, encroaching darkness, a slim wooden door marked 'Janitor', inside a closet of dirt and chemicals.

His arms burn, his cock swells when another set of cuffs hooks him to a pipe overhead, rust sprinkling the spikes of his hair. Her hands at his waist, her face almost cute enough to be a boy's or a model's in his crotch, biting at his hard-on through the gray cotton, teeth raking zipper teeth. Until she frees it. And takes all of him, cock, balls, in a gulp, her mouth like an inside-out sweaty sock, smooth, soaked.

Her thick tongue around his taut veins, a sponge of blood, then a vacuum twirling stronger his balls sucked through his urethra, the sweat under his arms trailing trails down his torso, coagulating a diagonal in the triangle of soft hair squashed against her nose. His hips tighten, pump, he releases in squirts at the back of her throat. And might fall down the hole behind the last drops if she doesn't stop slurping-

Zipped up. Uncuffed. Dragged back. The steel rods re-form in front of him, panting, smiling on his back in his lonely bunk, her mother's form nothing but a trace of shadow. It was better than the last time.

"314!"

TEN

2008-08-10T08:47:00.001-04:00

It's Raining...Huh?

2008-08-03T04:15:00.003-04:00

Half the cock hung over his hand, stiffening as the dots of water darted it. "I should make you suck this big motherfucker now. You're lucky Lickies is over there, you little shit." Devin nodded to the guard standing at the entrance to the showers.

"Um, it isn't that big-"

"Bigger than that little mushroom cap of yours-"

"And Lickies doesn't have to be here-" Mark looked over his shoulder, the blazing shower pelting into his back like so many pins, and nodded at Officer Lickies. The guard nodded back and stepped out into the hallway. Mark turned back to Devin and nodded beyond the man's greasy head, "Now there're some dicks-"

Mark caught Devin's twisting body in his arms, the man's goateed jaw dislocated instantly from Donte's giant fist, and slammed him bleeding into the slimy, tiled floor. Scooting Devin's head against the wall with his left shin, he reared back with the other leg and cracked the heel of his right foot into side of the unconscious man's skull. Then kicked again. And again. And again. Until Donte and Delonte grabbed him.

"All right, man, you got him, don't kill him yet," said Delonte, as he grabbed Devin's ankles, twirled the man around onto his back, pushed his legs back until his knees were at his shoulders, then entered his soaped-up cock into the relaxed pink pucker of asshole. "Now, this is how it's done," he laughed, his coal-black buttocks clenching and unclenching as he plunged in and out several times until his body shuddered, his cock buried to the base.

As Delonte pulled out, his cock shrinking, dripping thick strings of cum, Donte fell to his knees, centered his cock between Devin's buttocks and lunged forward. At which Mark's knees hit the floor on each side of the man's head as he crooked his neck up and shoved his dick into the gaping, bloody mouth, pumping furiously, his scrotum stretched tight over the gasping nostrils. The stinging water drops shooting onto his shoulders lessened in their harshness and washed over him like a caress from Danny-

His perineum tightened and he thrusted harder. "I'm coming," he said.

"Me too," said Donte.

"Pump him full of AIDS-"

"You got AIDS?"

"I don't know," Mark shrugged. "I guess-"

Donte pulled out and rolled onto his side, laughing. Delonte jumped on top of him, slapping his back and matching him guffaw for guffaw. Slowly, Mark's snot-filled chortles grew into calm, steady breaths and a widening smile as he watched Devin's chest heave slower and slower until it stopped. He pulled his dick from his mouth and stood up. Then aimed the shower head directly at Devin's shrunken, useless cock and wound the hot water knob until steam filled the room and no one could see the pink water curling down the lone drain in the center of the floor.

Smugg-a-lin' Baby

2008-07-27T05:12:00.005-04:00

Mark put out his hand.

"Um, there's a problem-"

Mark's shoulders slumped. "What?"

"The guard-"

"Yeah?"

"It wasn't Swallow-"

"It wasn't supposed to be. It was supposed to be Lickies-"

"Oh-"

"Oh nothing. Where is it?"

"I...I swallowed it-"

"What the fuck did you do that for, you little piece of shit?"

Jack's eyes welled, the tears glinting with the lone light of the cell overhead. He placed one chubby hand over his chest. "I'm sorry, Mark, I thought Swallow was supposed to be there, and when I saw Lickies, I panicked and just...swallowed all of it-"

Mark snorted a few heavy breaths through his nostrils. "Well, fucking throw it up then-"

"I, I can't-"

"Jesus Christ, dude, you're fucked-" Mark's breathing began to slow and he unzipped his pants, pushed them to his ankles, and sat on the toilet. With a grunt that was audible only to himself, he forced out the turd that had been tickling his rectum all morning.

"Do I still get to suck it?" said Jack.

Mark wiped quickly, then stood up and pulled up his pants. "No, bitch, you get to eat it-" And he braided his wiry fingers through the wet, matted hair on the back of Jack's head, and with more strength than he needed, slammed the man's face into the stainless steel oval that contained his sleek turd. "Fucking eat it, bitch. And throw my shit fucking up!"

He straddled Jack's massive back and pushed down with both hands until the toes of the man's scuffed shoes stopped tap-dancing behind him. He pulled Jack's head out of the toilet and looked at his wet, gasping, browned face. "You're fucking disgusting, dude. Now, where's my shit? Did you get it out?"

Jack barely shook his head. So Mark grabbed him around the waist as best he could and dragged him to the lower bunk, on which rested the man's upper body. With a forceful tug, he ripped Jack's pants from him, then tore them into pieces, which he stuffed in the man's whimpering mouth. He grabbed the shampoo bottle from the table and squeezed every last drop of it into the crack of Jack's red-haired, pimpled ass. "There's only one way to do this," he said as he coated his hand with a few dollops of the shampoo. "Send a fucking pedo to do a man's job and...shit happens."

And he plopped one bony finger into Jack's asshole. Then another. And another. And then the fourth. And twisted them until the knuckles of his hand were flush with Jack's anus. He slipped his thumb inside his palm. Then punched his fist into the man's rectum to his wrist, Jack's head rearing up, his screams muted by the cotton of his pants. Mark slapped him on the back of his head with his free hand, then pushed his face into the mattress as he clawed his hand through Jack's rectum, giving it small punches here and there to get past sticking points on his forearm, gobs of shit licking at his arm hairs, his fingers searching with all their dexterity for antyhing that didn't feel like a turd or tissue. Until finally his elbow slipped through Jack's anus and his middle finger detected a mass unlike anything else it had encountered. He grabbed at it quickly and pulled his hand back as fast as he could, a flood of feces, blood, shampoo, and what must have been rectum falling in a pool between Jack's knees, just under his gaping, murdered hole.

"Got it!" Mark giggled. He pulled Jack's head up and turned him over, wiping his hand and forearm on Jack's face. Then he made his way to the sink and washed up, soaping his arms to the shoulders, his semi-erection shrinking further. After he dried off, he made his way back over to the bunk and sat down, draping the towel over Jack's barely breathing face. "Clean yourself up, you sick fuck. You smell like shit."

In Da Yard

2008-07-20T03:46:00.003-04:00

They clasped hands, pulled each other closer, embraced, then stepped back, their hands in their pockets.

"Look at you, Marky, you been hittin' da iron?"

"A little. So what the fuck charge y'all catch man?"

"Same one-"

"Yeah?"

"Man, it all a set up. They just wanna lock two more niggers away, dat's all-"

"True dat-"

"So what they charge y'all with?"

"Assaultin' a po po-"

"Really?"

"And attempted murder of a po po-"

"Fuck-"

"Man, it ain't like dat at all-"

"Dat's da truth-"

"Remember dat cop lock you up?"

"Uh huh-"

"Dude was fuckin' harassin' me and Delonte, man. Followin' us all over da place. Pullin' us over for no reason, searchin' our shit. But he couldn't get nothin' on us-"

"True dat-"

"So we sittin' at my joint one night, just watchin' TV and shit and I see these eyes in da window. I get up and then I hear shit outside-"

"Fuck-"

"I thought it was somebody tryin' ta rob me and shit. We got our gats and went to da front door and there's dis muthafucka runnin' down da driveway-"

"No fucking way-"

"Well, he ain't runnin' no more-"

"Jesus-"

"One of us caught his spine. Right in da neck-"

"Wow. And they arrested y'all? They shoulda arrested him-"

"True dat, homes-"

"Fucker said he comin' by to question us 'bout a shootin' on da otha side a Cedaraville. You know me, I don't even go over there with dem whack niggers-"

"Yeah-"

"Anyway, dude said he there to ask us questions. At two in the fuckin' mornin'. Creepin' round my fuckin' yard, peepin' in my window. Man, I coulda been playin' wid ma dick or somethin'-"

"Ha-"

"They catch y'all with any shit?"

"Fuck no. Just dis bum charge-"

"Man, I'm so fucking sorry, dude. That's bullshit. I almost shit my pants when I saw y'all walk by my cell. But that fuckin' creep I'm in there with woulda liked it-"

"Dude, let me tell you 'bout dat muthafucka. He was here when I here last time. He been here foreva-"

"For inviting an 8 year-old to his house?"

"For molestin' a 8 year-old. He like da biggest fuckin' pedophile in da state-"

"Really?"

"Fuckin' guard told me he like molested hundreds of kids but dey could only get him on da one-"

"That's fucked up-"

"Yeah, I'm surprised he alive dis long. Every cell mate he ever have beat da shit outta him-"

"I'm surprised he ain't in solitary-"

"Well, there's a reason for dat-"

"Ah-"

"Yep-"

"Hmm. We need to do something about that dude-"

"Uh huh-"

"But we need some drugs. There some cool guards here?"

"Fuckin' bunch of 'em. Get anything you like-"

"All right. We'll be able to take care of two things at one time then-"

They clasped hands, pulled each other closer, embraced, then stepped back, their hands in their pockets.

Back

2008-07-13T02:35:00.004-04:00

A small, hairy, freckled hand crept over the side of his bunk and across his left hip, stopping at his crotch, where its fingers began tugging at his zipper. Mark blinked his eyes twice, then sat up, swung his legs over the bunk, and jumped to the floor all in one motion. His feet didn't stop moving till Jack Anderson's back was against the far cement-blocked wall, Mark's slight 5'9" frame towering over the diminutive, portly man. He glared down into Jack's eyes, which were wide with fear or lust - or both.

"What the fuck is your problem, dude?" said Mark.

"Um, I lost something, roomie-"

"Stop calling me roomie-"

"Okay-"

"You're so fucking stupid. I wasn't even asleep or anything. Dude, do you lack self-control that much?"

A buzzer sounded loudly through the prison, echoing in every cell. Jack blinked over at the tiny clock on the table. "The parade's starting," he said. And slipped out from under Mark and made his way to the barred door of their cell.

Mark followed, inching away from Jack as he took up his post next to him. Another line of black men carrying bed linens and toiletries made its way past, a conga line of the defeated and entrapped, like a scene from Roots. Mark watched, sighing, till his heart stopped beating with the sickening force of recognition as the last two black men approached. "Donte," he yelled, "Delonte."

Both men looked at him at the same time and grinned, throwing back their heads.

"What the fuck, dudes?"

"We get up witch you in the yard, a'ight?" Donte nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, man," said Mark. He looked to his shoe tops and could've sworn that his body was as empty as their soles.

"Who are those niggers?" came a voice from behind him.

Mark spun around, his eyes narrowing to where Jack had quietly backed up to pull out his cock - the head swollen and red - and masturbate, sweat coating his forehead. "Don't call my friends niggers again or I'll fucking gut you," said Mark. He pointed to Jack's short, fat cock in his short, fat fingers. "And if I see your dick one more time, I'm gonna cut it off. Got that?"

Jack nodded, popped his dick back in his pants without zipping them, and made his way to his bunk.

"Uh uh," said Mark, as he reached in front of Jack, tore the sheets, blanket, and pillow from the bottom bunk with both hands, and threw them to one of the dusty corners of the cell. "I got the bottom bunk now. You lost that privilege, bitch."

Simile

2008-07-05T21:48:00.005-04:00

Like a rotting kitten carcass under the bed? Or like a scabbed-over pussy? Or shit-filled entrails? A baggie of testicles, scrotum, penis, fingers, and eyeballs? A turkey-and-cabbage fart?

Mark's eyes opened from sleep, his nostrils twitching, and looked down at the odor assaulting his brain through his nose. Jack sat bare-chested on the toilet, his government-issued pants around his ankles, his short, fat cock like a dog's red rocket in his cum-covered hand. He looked up at Mark and smiled, the freckles on his face disappearing in a bevy of lines around his eyes and on his bloated cheeks.

"Good morning, roomie!"

"What the fuck, dude?" Mark sat up, letting his legs dangle over the side of his bunk. "You got fucking issues." He shook his head and laughed to keep from gagging. "Something crawled up in you and died-"

"What do you mean?"

"The smell-"

"Oh, this is mild compared to-"

"Compared to what? An Auschwitz oven?" Mark pointed to the man's crotch. "I don't need to be seeing that again-"

"Sorry." Jack's cock dropped from his hand, which he wiped on the side of his leg, and drooped, shrinking, between his gelatinous thighs. "I just come better when I'm shitting-"

"Whatever-"

"Who's Danny?"

"Huh?"

"Your sleep is very, um, boisterous-"

"Really? How do you mean?"

"You toss and turn all night-"

"What the fuck? Did you watch me sleep all fucking night?"

"No. You were right above me, you know." Jack shook his head with a laugh, then continued in his forced casual tone, as if he were discussing a new college course with a professor, his pinky held out from his teacup as he sipped his Earl Grey: "You kept saying the name Danny. And you pop your elbows - or maybe it's your knees - every five minutes or so. It's really very disturbing-"

"That's really very disturbing." Mark again pointed to the man's crotch. And was disturbed himself that he'd gotten so used to the smell of the man's bowel movement so quickly.

Jack stood up, pulled up his pants, and buttoned and zipped them.

"Aren't you gonna wipe?"

"Don't have to; I shit clean-"

"Yeah, right-"

"Ah, it doesn't matter, roomie, we shower every day any way-"

Mark yawned, then 1-2 snapped his fists forward, his elbows' crackling echoing in the cell. "What the fuck are you in here for anyway?"

Jack cleared his throat. Then looked Mark straight in the eyes without blinking, like a cat on patrol for a mouse. "I had the audacity to invite an 8 year-old boy to my house for lunch."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Mark narrowed his eyes and stared into Jack's widened eyes until the latter's slowly closed to a blink, like a coffin closing on a hated corpse. "Bullshit," he finally said. "There ain't no fucking way you got put in jail for inviting a kid to your house for lunch. What was he, a friend of your son's?"

"I don't have any children."

"A nephew-"

"No." Jack turned around to the small table in the corner and fingered the closed pages of one of the books lying there. "He was just a boy I met-"

"Where?"

"On the playground." Jack sighed. "He was a beautiful boy, who looked not much unlike yourself. A really sweet, innocent boy. I could tell right away that he needed someone older who could-"

"You were gonna fuck him, weren't you?"

"I don't fuck, roomie, I love, I guide, I teach, I instruct, I turn boys into the men the world needs. I make boys feel as special as every boy should feel-"

Mark looked at the toilet and espied the skinny black turd circling the bowl. If he looked long enough, it seemed to move, like a venomous, hungry snake raising its head to strike. He could smell its stench once more. "Dude," he said, "you're fucking sick-"

Jack turned around, smiling. "Roomie, you aren't so different from me."

"I ain't nothing like you-"

Jack shrugged. "We'll see."

1005-1977

2008-06-29T05:03:00.005-04:00

"Next group!"

Mark slid his feet along the wet tiles, the mold between the tiles squishing between his toes, until he was under a shower head. As the rest of the line behind him settled into place, water pounded onto his head, its cold turning hot and relaxing the goosebumps on his skin. He finally removed his hand from his tiny dick and balls and soaked them with soap.

"Close your eyes and don't open 'em till you rinse this shit completely off!"

And a chubby guard in a rain slick twisted his wrists over Mark's head, an ammonia syrup spilling out of the bucket and coating his lean physique with a false sense of cleanliness. He rubbed the last of the solution from his body and blinked his eyes open just in time to catch the towel thrown at him from another guard in a matching rain slick. Quickly, he dried off, knotting the towel around his waist, his semi-erection a normal-sized bulge through the stiff white cotton.

"This way!"

Mark and the 9 other inmates, all black and twice his size, followed another guard down a short hallway and through a thick, steel door into a small, bright room, the halogen lights overhead bouncing in erratic waves off the yellow, concrete walls. As the large door shut behind them, two heavily armed guards - helmets, kevlar vests, M-16s, 9mm's, tear gas canisters, several sets of handcuffs, night-stick - approached and took up posts at each end of the line. Behind the guards followed four men in lab coats shoving their hands into latex gloves and pulling out small flashlights.

"Drop your towel!"

"Open your mouth! Wide!"

"Lift up your scrotum!"

"Turn around and bend over! Spread your buttocks!"

"All clear!"

"Attention!"

Mark turned around, his hand over his stiff cock and shrunken balls, and watched as the first two in line were escorted naked by one of the machine-gunned guards over to the small table on the other side of the room, at which sat two more guards. On each side of the table were several stacks of garments and bedsheets and small plastic bags filled with an indeterminate amount of supplies that would cost ten cents apiece at a dollar store. After a series of muffled questions and nodded and shaken-headed answers, the two black dudes quickly clothed themselves, accepted their bedding and toiletries, and walked out the steel door on the other side of the room to two more waiting guards.

Mark followed the armed guard up to the table with the black guy on his left, his dick shriveling in his hand, and stopped in front of the white-haired guard on the right side of the table.

"Number?"

"One zero zero five dash one nine seven seven-"

"Dennison, Mark?"

Nod.

"Do you have any allergies?"

Head shake.

"Are you taking any medication?"

Head shake.

"Are you addicted to drugs and/or alcohol?"

Head shake.

"Do you have any medical condition that the state or Cedarville Prison should be aware of?"

Head shake.

"Do you plan to make use of Cedarville Prison's psychological counseling services?"

Head shake.

"What size are you?" Nod to the piles of clothes.

"Medium?"

"Yeah, that's about right." The guard looked Mark up and down, his bloodshot eyes lingering on his covered crotch. "Well, small for your underwear." And he nudged the guard on his right, the two of them giggling together as they watched Mark's hand tighten on his tiny dick.

Mark took in a deep, silent breath. "It's all in how you use it-"

"You won't be using that side in here, young'un-" And the guards laughed again.

"We'll see-"

"So we will." The guard reached down, grabbed a pile of clothes, and threw them at Mark. "Get dressed, boy."

He dressed so quickly he couldn't feel the rough cotton scratching his skin, the boxers creeping us his ass, or the zipper breaking on his pants. He collected his blanket, sheets, pillow, disposable razor, soap, shaving cream, and toothpaste, and stepped through the door to the guards and a short stroll of hoots and whistles until he was stopped abruptly in front of a cell not much smaller than his room at home.

Climpkt! Clampkt!

He laid his necessities on the bare top bunk, then sat with a slow plop onto the lower bunk, which was already covered with a scruffy blanket and flat, hard pillow. The toilet was stainless steel and rusted and sat inches from him; above it was a plastic mirror smeared with humidity and stains of soap. In the corner just beyond was a small, plywood table, on top of which sat a few dog-eared books, pictures of strange children, and two composition notebooks. The concrete walls were gray and dusty, the cement floor rougher and dustier. Mark laid back on the bed and closed his eyes, his breath soft in his ears under the clatter outside the cell. How would he be able to jerk off and not get caught?

Climpkt! Clampkt!

His eyes popped open and looked at the opening door, the bars goose-stepping across his line of sight and revealing a short, fat, red-haired man dressed exactly as he was.

"You're in my bunk, roomie," said the man, smiling.

Hail Mary

2008-06-08T23:41:00.000-04:00

"Dude, it just ain't fuckin' right. Fucker lucky he die, I woulda killed him good-"

"Excuse me-"

Donte looked up over his shoulder into the old woman's frowning face. He raised his eyebrows.

"Please mind your language, young man. There are others here who would not rather hear-"

"Are you fuckin' talkin' to me, you old bitch?"

"Listen, young man-"

"No, you listen-" Donte looked the woman's brown habit up and down in a glance and grinned. "You stop molestin' kids, I'll stop cussin'-"

"That's it-"

"Sister Mary-"

She turned around. "Father David, I have this under control-"

"You have what under control?" said Donte. "Listen, bitch. One of our friends just got murdered. We here to mourn-"

"At the mall?"

"At the fuckin' mall-"

The nun looked down, then back up at Donte. "I'm sorry about your friend, but using that kind of language is no way to mourn him-"

Donte stood up and approached the nun, towering over her as he spoke. "So now you tellin' me you know my friend better than I do?"

"No, I just-"

"You just nothin'." He looked back at Mark, Delonte, and the rest of the Cedarville Niggers circled around the two fake-wood tables they'd squeezed together. "If you know what best for you, you'll shut the fuck up right now before somebody get hurt-"

At this, a hand appeared from behind the woman and grabbed her arm. "That's enough, Sister Mary Grabber. Let's go." The priest turned the shaking nun around with both hands and led her to the EXIT.

Donte sat down. And a WHOOP! went up from his fellow gang members, echoing through the Food Court, along with several pats on the back and high-fives. He wiped a curtain of sweat from his brown forehead and looked at Mark, who had been scribbling on a napkin and giggling throughout the whole ordeal. "The bitch lucky I don't rape and kill her-"

Mark looked down at the upside-down 3-D cross he'd drawn, then looked back up at his friend. And raised his eyebrows.

Full of Grace

2008-05-07T21:23:00.000-04:00

Mark snapped his fist into her forehead with a quick jerk of his elbow and pounced on her back as she fell over the slight wooden chair at the foot of her bed, wrapping his palm around her mouth as he ripped her bonnet off with his free hand. "Nobody disrespects us, you hear?"

She nodded as best she could through the strength of his fingers, the one-inch gash between her eyes spilling rivulets of blood into each.

"Stigmata," said Mark. "Dudes, fucking hold her arms."

Donte and Delonte each grabbed one of her arms. Mark gripped the collar of her tunic, and with a one-handed tug, tore it from her 60 year-old body, the cotton's scream almost as loud as her moaning. Her spine showed through the translucent skin covering her back, which was spotted with overgrown moles, some of which sprouted stiff gray and black hairs.

Mark traced her bumpy, creaky spinal column with one extended forefinger. Until he got to her ass, where he separated her mushy, pocked buttocks at the crack and glared at a criss-crossed mishmash of tiny scabs from either wiping too hard or not at all. With the nail of his middle finger, he drew an upside down red star inside a slimy circle of darkening goo by clipping each shell of dried blood from around her browned hole, at which she began to wriggle and groan loudly, repeating through her struggling breaths, "I forgive you."

Mark peeled her knee-high stockings from her varicosed, flabby legs, balled them up and gave them to his friends. "Shut her up," he said. And they pushed the tight little spheres of satin deep into her drooling mouth. Using the tips of his fingers as tiny loofah sponges, Mark smeared her asshole slick with her own blood, then pushed his jeans and underwear down with one hand, his pre-cumming boner springing loose like a kangaroo from a boxing ring's corner, while he guided his taut 4 inches into her rectum with his other hand.

"I forgive you," her throat said through its tracheal membrane and sagging wattle.

"Forgive this," said Mark. And he came for the first time as close to her colonic sphincter as his genetics would allow. Quickly, he pulled out and put the head of his dick to her labia and lunged forward.

Snap!

"Fuck! She's dry as a bone! Fucking cunt almost broke it in half!" He spit twice into his hand and rubbed it into her vagina, then tried again. "Fuck, what does it take to get you wet, bitch?" Mark looked at Donte and Delonte, both of whom were trying with all their might to hold back their laughter. "Fucking turn her over," said Mark.

Once on her back, her legs splayed, the long, rigid white hairs covering her mons stared up at Mark, mocking him. He bent down and retrieved his razor from his pocket, and with a few quick flicks of his bony wrists, left her as bald as an infant, tiny crimson islands pooling in the creases of her groin. Mark leaned up and stuffed the hair he'd collected into her mouth, then buried his face between her legs with a deep breath. Two minutes of slurping and tonguing and he finally revealed her clit, drawing it deep into his mouth. Quickly, his sharp lower teeth met his sharper upper teeth through the wrinkled flesh and he swallowed it to the accompaninent of her loudest muffled "I forgive you" yet.

Mark, a red swath masking his dimples, rubbed his cock into the rivers of blood flowing in thick knots onto the floor below, then fell forward again, this time tearing her hymen with his weight and knuckly pelvis as he ground his hips against the back of her thighs and buttocks until he came a second time. At which he stood up and looked at Donte. "Give her your big stuff, dude."

And Donte obliged, going first to her anus, then her vagina, as they had agreed upon. Delonte followed, lasting longer than the other two put together, her breathing slowing and barely audible, save for a coughed, guttural "I forgive you" every now and then when Mark would slacken her rosary, which he'd chained around her neck. And tightened and loosened and tightened and loosened and tightened and loosened-

Delonte zipped up his jeans. Both her holes were torn top and bottom, undulating in and out, breathing on their own, gasping for air or more cock. Or offering forgiveness. Mark turned her over onto her stomach on the floor and unsheathed his razor. With herky-jerky curves of his hand, he traced a 3-dimensional cross on her back, its foot at the nape of her neck, its top gushing into her crack. He grabbed one of the ancient, unlit oil lamps from the nightstand, removed its glass, and poured its contents into the pumping crevices of his artwork.

He looked to Donte. "Dude. Matches."

When ____________ Collide...

2008-05-04T03:28:00.000-04:00

All Mark could hear was the whir of the DVD player through the images on the TV meeting his eyes, which couldn't blink if he'd used his fingers to pull them shut.

"What the fuck?"

He looked at Danny, the boy's cheeks soaked with tears, and opened his mouth, but his tongue - dry and shriveled with embarrassment - refused to do his bidding.

"I can't fucking do this with you," said Danny, and he walked to the door, stopping in front of Mark. "Why?"

"Why?"

"Yeah-"

"Why were you going through my stuff?"

"Your stuff? You said everything of yours was mine. And mine, yours. I was just trying to find a movie to watch. But I found-" Danny pointed to the TV, on the screen of which featured another in a long line of the Cedarville Niggers ramming his dick into Mark's hungry asshole. "And you fucking videotaped it?"

Mark lowered his head and thought he heard his heart regain a semblance of its former self through his chest. His ability to breathe returned as a squirt of saliva welled on his tongue. "I'm sorry," he said, "it won't happen again."

"Again?"

"That was so long ago-"

"It could've been last week for all I know." Danny sighed. So hard that Mark could smell the sweetness of his own cock on the boy's breath. "No wonder they fucking do everything you say-"

Danny took a step forward and was met by Mark's bony hand on his pointy shoulder. "Don't leave," said Mark. "I love you-"

"I can't do this." And Danny jerked his shoulder away and made for the stairs.

Mark watched a few more seconds of his finest day as the only white member of the Cedarville Niggers through puffing eyes that drained all the water and blood from the rest of his body, leaving it numb and useless. Until he heard the front door slam. At which he turned and bounded down the stairs in two oblivious leaps. As he opened the door, he pulled up at the sound of metal eating flesh and bone.

He ran to Danny's body just under the front bumper of the old Bronco, the knees of his jeans tearing on the stained pavement as he propped the boy's head in his lap. Putting his ear to Danny's mouth, he could feel its impending cold, could hear every word the boy had ever uttered, every word that he'd never get to say. Rocking back and forth, he looked into the stone face of the person he'd loved the most in his life, and deposited the first tear he could remember in months into the ceramic eyes that wouldn't blink no matter how hard he wished for them to do so.

Wait.

Don't go.

Wait.

Can I? Can I have another hour?

Can I? Can I have another minute?

Can I? Can I have another second?

Wait.

Come back.

Wait.

"Hey!"

Mark looked up, and through the spiderwebbed windshield could see his mother's ex-boyfriend.

Dan stuck his head out the driver's side window. "You two faggots get out of my way before I kick your asses-"

Mark laid Danny's swelling head on the pavement softly and got up, making straight for the driver's side of the Bronco. As Dan began to open the door, Mark slammed it shut with a kick of his bloody shoe, then reached into the cab of the truck, weaving his fingers through the thinned white hairs on the back of the old man's head. With a familiar calm that freed all the strength he could muster, he introduced Dan's forehead to the windshield a second time. Then a third. And a fourth. And a fifth. And countless more times, each thrust more powerful than the last, until he could no longer tell what was glass and what was Dan's face.

With a sigh that deflated his entire being and let loose a cacophony of tears that lapped at his chin, he returned to Danny's body, a hardening mass of bone, muscle, vein, and tendon, and fell in a sobbing heap to the asphalt beside him.

Busted!

2008-04-27T22:48:00.000-04:00

"Fuck-"

"Fuck..."

"Ah, fuck."

"Fuck!"

"Put it up your ass-"

"Put what up my ass?"

"In your crack-"

"What the-"

"They won't look for it there-"

"Fuck they won't-"

"Turn your fuckin' head around, man-"

"Sorry-"

"Two fuckin' gay ass white boys ridin' 'round with two niggas. We fucked, man!"

"Dudes! Shut the fuck up!" said Mark as he eased Donte's new CTS onto the shoulder, the police cruiser's disco ball of lights dancing in the rearview. "Listen to me. Put all your shit under my seat-"

"Mark-"

"No, seriously, dudes. Shove it all under there. And deny, deny, deny that any of it's yours-"

"Dude, that's a lot of shit-"

"How much back up you got, Donte?" Mark could see the outline of his friend's afro in the rearview, a black oval against the search light that turned night into day inside the car. He looked to Delonte's tight cornrows, neat bubbles covering his head. "Delonte? You?"

"Fuck, man, you don't-"

"Just shut the fuck up-"

A tap at his window. A gun in a holster, a hand on top, right at eye level. Mark rolled down his window, releasing a car-ful of pot smoke into the Cedarville dusk.

"You know why I pulled you over?"

"No, sir-"

"You were doing 52 in a 45-"

"Really?"

"Yes, sir. Can I see your driver's license and registration?"

"I don't have one-"

"Turn off the engine and give me the keys-" The cop pocketed them and Mark watched him walk back to his cruiser in the sideview.

Danny leaned over from the passenger side, his lips close to Mark's ear. "You don't have to do this-"

"He right, Mark. Dude, I can-"

"Will everybody just shut up? This is my decision. This is what's best."

"Fuckin' cops. I hate 'em. I wish I had my gat-"

"Okay, I need everybody out of the car." All four of them jumped at the sound of the cop's voice. "Keep your hands where I can see them and move real slow."

Mark looked back at the police cruiser as he stepped out of the car and saw that four more were behind it. A dog's furious barking met his ears through the blood swishing in and out of them. Fuck! Big time! He obeyed the cop and went to the front of the Cadillac with Danny while Donte and Delonte made their way to the back end. As they assumed their positions, the dog was let loose inside the car and began digging and yelping under the driver's seat.

The cop who'd pulled them over dropped three baggies and two pipes on the hood of the car and pointed at them. "Those yours?"

"Yep-"

"Really?"

"Yes, sir-"

"Nobody else's?"

"Nope. All mine. Nobody else even knew I had it in the car."

"Because those guys back there said it's all of y'all's-"

"No, they didn't-"

"Yes, they did-"

"Well, they're lying then-"

The cop narrowed his eyes into Mark's. "That's a lot of shit, boy-"

Mark shrugged.

"You're looking at a lot of time. Possession. With intent to distribute. At least 10 years-"

Mark looked away and sighed. "Yeah-"

"You know this car was reported stolen this morning-"

"Yes, I stole it-"

"Really, from where-"

"From wherever-"

The cop shook his head. "Stupid fucking white boy-"

Mark put his head down and nodded. Then looked back up at the cop and grinned. "You gonna arrest me or not?"

"Wait here." The cop walked back to Donte and Delonte and after a few gesticulations, sent them walking.

"Mark, you don't have to do this," said Danny.

"Listen. Yes, I do. They're my friends. Our friends. You know how much back up time they got? And being black? They'll never get out of jail. And for what? The same thing half these cops do in their spare time." He shook his head. "I'll be all right. We'll be all right. This'll be my first offense. I'll get probation or something. Sometimes, you just gotta do the right thing. And taking care of your friends is the right thing-"

"You can go," said the cop, pointing to Danny. "Start walking. And don't look back."

He turned Mark around, then frisked and cuffed him as roughly as a butterfly alighting on a flower petal. "I've got to get your info," he said, sliding Mark into the wide backseat of the police cruiser. He sat in the driver's seat and shook his head. "You know," he said, "half of us don't do the same shit in our spare time. And tell your friend Donte I wish he'd had his gat too-"

Relapse

2008-04-13T04:26:00.000-04:00

The house was warmer inside than the evening was outside. And it was darker. And quieter. Except for his bedroom, which peeked around the corner upstairs through the light from his New York Giants lamp and almost muted the squawking of the springs of his bed. Mark breathed in a familiar sweet, plastic aroma and jumped up the stairs three at a time.

Sarah's back was to him, her greasy blonde hair stretched in tangles to her waist. She shifted again, her head fallen forward, as he stopped in his bedroom doorway.

"Mom, you okay?"

"I will be in a minute." She held both her hands up over her head.

"Mom, you shouldn't-"

"You shouldn't, you little fucker-"

"Language-"

"Fuck language-"

Sarah put the pipe to her lips, then the flame to the end of the pipe. Smoke gathered in the glass tube, then disappeared into her lungs, reappearing a minute later half of what it used to be. She patted the bed next to her until Mark's bony ass was firmly set on it.

"Flash-"

"Fuck him-"

"Mom, really, your language-"

"Fuck language, Mark. It don't matter what you do. Be good, go to church, don't cuss, don't smoke, don't drink, don't do nothing, and still you get fucked over all the same-"

"But you get to go to heaven when you die and it'll be all right-"

"Fuck heaven. And hell. There ain't no such thing as either-"

Mark giggled. "So what happened? More fighting?"

"He's a fucking meth head. Always was. Always will be. Why do you think he was so fucking hyper all the time? Walking faster than people run? Overcompensating with all that religion bullshit-"

"Amen-"

"Shut the fuck up, Mark-"

Mark giggled. He pointed to the pipe in his mother's hand. "You two could've done that together-"

"That's the problem. We're recovering-"

"You are-"

Sarah shook her head. "Well, we were. Or I thought we were. At least, I was-"

"That sucks-"

"Tell me about it. I come home today and he's smoking the shit right in the kitchen-"

"Yikes-"

"Don't make fun-"

"I'm not-

"I know-" Sarah laid the pipe and lighter on the bed and put one arm around Mark. "I'm just not gonna let people, I don't care who they are, talk about you the way he did-"

"Really?"

"Uh huh-"

"What did he say?"

"Let's just say he wrote his one-way ticket out of here with one word-"

"Whoa-"

Sarah turned to face Mark, resting her veiny hands on his smooth cheeks, and aimed her dilated pupils straight at his eyes. "Nobody talks about my boy like that. You hear me? You're my son, and I love you, Mark. Don't ever let anybody tell you any different." Her eyes blinked and fell to his lips. "You hear me?"

Mark nodded and wrapped his arms around his mother's waist as she squeezed him close to her. Then pushed her away as her lips puckered on his neck, her tongue tracing a small circle.

"Mom, I can't-"

Sarah's chin plopped onto her chest and her arms limped up by her sides as Mark left the room.

"You fucking faggot," she said.

What Was Yours?

2008-04-06T05:31:00.000-04:00

Wait.

Don't go.

Wait.

Can I? Can I have another hour?

Do you remember? Remember when we first kissed? And you said you felt like you were home and I said I felt the same way? As if our tongues had been looking for places to rest and finally found their graves?

Can I? Can I have another minute?

Do you remember? Remember when I first touched your cock? And you said my fingers felt like the fur of a kitten and I said the skin of your cock felt like the surface of water? And then I sucked it and you said something about pretending God and Heaven exist but I didn't really hear you because you were in my throat and I was trying to force all of you into me? As if you would be my last meal before I stalked off to the chair?

Can I? Can I have another second?

Do you remember? Remember when we smiled at each other yesterday? And you said we would never die and I agreed and then you said that if we did it would be together just like in the movies? And how I thought about how you never betrayed me and how you were the only one who never betrayed me and the only one I think who ever loved me and how I never wanted to kill you and not even cut you and not even gloat when you writhed in pain from my teeth on your cock a little too tight? As if you were a gift I never wanted to open that would just sit on my lap and absorb my tears on the only Christmas I would ever have?

Wait.

Come back.

Wait.

Mark's eyes opened and he squeezed them shut to dry them. The voices of his mother and her boyfriend wafted to his ears through the drywall separating his bedroom from hers. He snaked his fingers under the waistband of his boxer briefs, grasped his hard-on with the tips of his skinny fingers, and began to stroke, pre-ejaculate smearing the glans.

It is Written

2008-03-30T19:31:00.000-04:00

"Donte called."

"Cool."

"And that boy Danny called."

"When?"

"A little while ago."

"How long ago?"

"I don't know. Fifteen minutes?"

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"You were sleeping."

"So?"

"Who is this boy?"

"A close friend of mine. Why?"

"I don't know, it's just seems odd-"

"What seems odd?"

"That you're so close to someone you just met-"

"We've got a lot in common-"

"Like what?"

"Like we like a lot of the same things, music, books, and movies and stuff. And we have the same sense of humor- Why?"

"I don't know, he's just kind of-"

"What?"

"I thought he was a girl-"

"He's not-"

"Does he like girls?"

"Jesus Christ, Mom-"

"Language-"

"Language!"

"Dan, what do you think?"

"Well, The Bible is pretty clear-"

"Fuck The Bible!"

"Mark!"

"Sarah!"

"What the fuck? Somebody writes something in a fucking book and you believe it hook, line, and fucking sinker because you're afraid to die?"

"It's the word of God, Mark-"

"It's the word of a bunch of fucking dudes who hate you and me and everybody else and want to control every fucking thing we do."

"Language, Mark-"

"Language, Sarah!"

Mark looks around hurriedly, then makes his way to the counter, pulls out a sheet of looseleaf and a pen, scribbles like a meth machine. Then grabs a knife, shovels it through the sheet perpendicular to its faded blue lines, holds it above his head and slams the shivering blade into the center of the table, between his mother and her boyfriend.

And he walks out of the kitchen shrugging, "Then fucking believe this":

Truth/Beauty

2008-03-23T01:32:00.000-04:00

Mark laid the stack of well-thumbed papers on his desk behind him, on top of The Day Doesn't Care, the latest book of poetry by his favorite poet, then turned to Danny, who sat opposite him on the bed. "I like your stories. I did notice that there're a couple different themes that seem to run through them-"

Danny sat up, pushing his face within inches of Mark's, his green eyes widening under his charcoal-black bangs.

"In all of your stories, you're the main character, and they all involve you saving the world while at the same time being on the run from somebody who wants your ass-"

Danny nodded, giggling, a hint of white teeth showing through his parting lips.

Mark laughed. "I mean, even in BE A MAN, BE A MONK!-"

Danny's nodding head increased its velocity.

"And you love alliteration-"

Danny's head steadied itself. "Well, you know, that represents the alliterativeness of the world. It mirrors Life's endless repetitiveness. If you notice, I really only use it-"

"In the parts where somebody's about to get your ass. Because everybody wants your ass, right?"

Danny smiled and stuck out his tongue.

Mark analyzed his mucous membranes for an unconscious second and realized they contained too much snot. So he sucked a handful down the back of his throat-

"Hold it!"

So Mark held it, resting the viscous, spinning mass on the back of his tongue. Until Danny's hand curved around the back of his neck, molded their lips together, and vacuumed it into his mouth. Danny leaned his head back and Mark watched Danny's Adam's apple undulate as he swallowed the biggest snotball Mark had mustered in months.

"It's almost as sweet as your cum-"

"Really?"

"Yeah, like the blood of Christ-"

"I'll give you the blood of Christ-"

Mark reached behind him without taking his eyes off Danny's, his little hard-on scratching his underwear, and reached into the top drawer of his desk. In one motion, he slithered off his T-shirt with his left hand as he clicked his straight razor open with his right. The blade slid mercilessly across his chest with a flick of his wrist, and he grabbed Danny's blackened hair in a fist, guiding the boy's quivering lips to his sliced nipple, where they slurped furiously. As the short, deep scar began to coagulate, he drew Danny's head back and tasted his own blood in his boyfriend's mouth.

"I want to taste all of you," gasped Danny.

"Well, you're not tasting my shit-"

"No, not that, that's not you, that's what you don't want as a part of you-"

Mark peeled Danny's shirt, pants, and underwear from his body and gulped his dick into his throat, the pre-ejaculate a welcome sting to his esophagus. A few minutes and Danny's hips began to jerk and he slinked up Danny's veiny body, smearing it with the remnants of his razor work, as Danny slid in the opposite direction, taking Mark's baggy jeans with him and grabbing his dick around its base.

"You're the only one who's never made fun of my dick-"

"Why would I?"

"Because it's so small-"

"But I love you and it's a part of you and if you really love somebody then you love every part of him-"

And Danny took Mark's cock and balls into his mouth in one swallow, as Mark's eyes welled for the first time in years.

Y.S.E. (You're So Emo)

2008-03-16T05:11:00.000-04:00

1.

Have you ever seen someone so beautiful
That you wanted to die?
I could look at you forever and find
Something new every minute
That I’ve loved all the time.

2.

I was going to write you
A love song,
But then I remembered
You don’t love me back,
So I threw the paper away
And typed this instead.

3.

You won't remember my kiss
because you were asleep,
dreaming
of someone else
and not me.
But that's okay-
I dream too,
though
I don't mind admitting
it's just about you.

4.

If I went away
you could play
much better.

But that's assuming
you even care
one way or the other.

Danny lay across Mark's bed, his extra-small, blank, white T-shirt halfway up his hairless belly, his tight, low-slung black jeans slung lower with making himself comfortable, a ruffle of green boxers edging out above his belt. Mark watched him as he read his work, his eyes slipping underneath the looseleaf pages and down the boy's fatless length to the knot on the left side of his zipper, which mirrored his own, if a bit larger.

"Wow, you really must have loved...her?"

"Her?" Mark grinned until he saw a smile spread across Danny's face. "Yes, I was very much in love. Still am."

"Aww, that's sweet-"

"It's hell-"

"Yeah." Danny laid the sheets of paper between them on the New York Giants-clad comforter, then turned on his side toward Mark, his shaggy head resting on his hand.

"Because when I fall for somebody, I fall quickly and I fall hard and it's difficult for me to get back up-" Mark turned onto his side to face his friend, his poetry crumpling under him. "Do you know what I mean?"

Danny nodded. Then looked to Mark's lips. Then his neck. And his black T-shirt and white jeans. And back up. "I like that choker." He put a finger to it, pressing it into Mark's collarbone. "Is that real bone?"

"It's human teeth-"

Danny laughed.

Mark grabbed the inverted cross that hung from Danny's gold necklace. "This is pretty cool-"

Danny laughed again, going quiet as his eyes locked onto Mark's glaring irises.

Mark tightened his grasp on the cross. "You look so much like him-"

"I'm not him-"

"Good-" And he pulled Danny's face to his, their hungry lips crashing softly together.

The New Kid

2008-03-10T00:58:00.000-04:00

"So you are from California?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Cedarville must be a bit of a culture shock for you then?"

"It's...different."

Mrs. Wright laughed. "Okay, today, we are working on our creative writing projects. I am going to need you to pair up with someone-"

"He can be my partner," said Mark, his hand raised.

A few giggles and a couple laughs came from the other 30 students in the room.

"What?" Mark looked around the room, grinning. "Just because I'll die for my art?" He shrugged.

"All right, Mark," sighed Mrs. Wright, laughing. She looked to her new student. "Mark is your partner. He will show you what we are doing. We just started this project a month ago and they are not due for another 8 and a half weeks, so you will have enough time. Especially with Mr. Dennison's guidance-"

The class' giggling was replaced by the scratching of desks and sneakers on the hardwood floor. Mark watched as the skinniest kid he'd ever seen approached him, 3 or 4 books gathered in one arm, his other hand brushing a thick swath of shaggy blackened hair out of eyes so green they looked as if someone had soaked them in a melted crayon. He put out his hand.

"I'm Danny."

"I'm Mark. Poet, provocateur, superstar-"

"I can tell." Danny laughed, flashing a set of perfect white teeth, the canines the same length as the rest, and a pair of dimples so deep they seemed to meet somewhere in the middle of his mouth. "Mrs. Wright seems nice-"

"She is. Very nice." Mark brought his voice down to a whisper and locked his eyes on to Danny's, whose didn't waver. "Be nice to her. Her son committed suicide-"

"Oh, shit-"

"Yeah, and what's worse is he killed his little brother first-"

"Holy fuck-"

"I know. And some people say he raped his dead body-"

"What the-"

"Shhh." Mark looked around. "Just be careful what you say around her. And me too. Maury was my best friend." Mark forced his eyes to swell with impending tears that would never come.

"Dude, I'm sorry-"

Mark shook his head. "It's okay. It's just that we never saw it coming, you know-"

"I understand-"

"Cool." Mark sucked in a gigantic portion of the room's air and let it out in a sigh. "So, we've got a project here-"

"Creative writing?"

"Well-" Mark stopped, staring into Danny's eyes for another 15 seconds. "You know what? You look so much like this friend of mine that I used to have, I feel like I'm talking to him from beyond the grave-"

"Maury?"

"No. Daniel. He was my best friend-"

"How'd he die?"

"He fell asleep smoking a cigarette, with his girlfriend beside him-"

"Wow-"

"Yeah, I know." Mark put up a hand. "Okay, enough morbidity. Here's the project: submit a rough draft of a short story or a novel in progress up to ten thousand words in length by the end of April. You can work on it as much as you want, of course, but we meet twice a week here in school to go over our work with each other to get feedback and criticism and whatnot. Mrs. Wright is going to submit the five best to agents and publishers in New York and see what happens. Also, she is putting together a literary mag for the school that will feature the 20 best entries in all her classes."

"That's cool. So what are you doing, a short story or a novel?"

"Neither. I'm working on a poetry collection-"

"Huh?"

"Dude," Mark grinned as he continued looking into Danny's eyes, which hadn't moved from his or blinked in the last 30 minutes, "I don't ever fucking do what I'm told."

Danny smiled, his dimples kissing his tongue. "I like you-"

"I like you too-"

Leader of the Pack

2008-03-02T03:40:00.000-05:00

Mark, his body white from lack of sun, lay back on the chilled metal table, his arms stretched out to his sides, his ankles crossed.

"Fuck me like Jesus Christ," he said.

A chorus that included several "Woo Hoo's" and one "Fuck the shit out of that white boy" went up from the 20 black guys, aged anywhere from 15 to 25, standing against the wall of the science lab, which they had easily slipped into with a key from one of the gang's fathers, Cedarville's best science teacher and winner of the county's "Teacher of the Year" award three years running.

Delonte, at the far end, stepped up to the table and grabbed Mark's ankles, sliding his lean, vascular body towards him until his ass was at the table's edge. He spread Mark's legs and pushed them back until Mark's knees pressed comfortably against his collarbone. "Hold your legs back, bitch," he commanded and Mark did as he was told with a giggle. Delonte grabbed an open 40oz from one of his crew and tipped it over Mark's genitals, the frothy beer soaking Mark's hard-on and tightened scrotum, then his asshole, which he puckered in and out to sip the warm brew.

Delonte pushed his baggy jeans down to his feet without unbuckling or unsnapping them, revealing the largest penis Mark had ever seen, a long, knotty, two-toned affair that looked like a branch broken from an old, burnt oak rather than a man's dick. The black man spit in his hand and stroked his cock until it was even more erect, his pre-ejaculate mixing with his saliva, the veins along his penis glistening and as thick as fingers-

"Fuck me with that little dick of yours," said Mark.

And Delonte obliged, stepping up and pushing his massive meat into Mark's waiting hole, burying it to the base in one stroke, Mark's anus ripping bloody to accept it, his unheld breath allowing him to experience the pleasure in the pain....

Then a bump bump bump the table's legs squealing Mark's body jolting with Delonte's cumming cock he exits with a plop another steps up smaller more forceful in out in out Delonte running around the side measuring up to Mark's lips for a cleaning stuffing it into his esophagus his shriveled balls cushioning into Mark's nose the scent of iron chlorine shit the taste of his ass like heaven a few ropes more of the extra-large cock's cum splashing his vocal chords before being withdrawn replaced by the dick that just showered his rectum replaced by a smaller dick and on and on until the break of dawn heart pummping rhythms to his ears breaths quick short through his nose passing the pipe hittin' the rock a cerebral orgasm Glock round chambered cocked piercing the hole then there were two Mark gets up his ass mashing slipping through the puddle of fuck blood a warm forty 18 Cedarville Niggers' after-cum saliva the last two lay on the table at opposite ends their legs intertwined their crotches mashed their 8 and a half inchers the smallest held together by a generous hand Mark jumps onto the table squats on both of them rocking back forth back forth massaging his prostate with 17 inches his four-incher hard with the cum about to shoot over his shoulder Donte steps up mashes lips with him their lips don't feel any bigger when you kiss them no matter what they look like the two are finished Mark rolls over pulls his legs back "Eat my ass so I can cum" Donte's knees hit the tiled floor tongue out meshing with Mark's asshole Mark jerking his little dick wet with pre-cum ejaculates his eyes closed torso stiff the sound of his cum hitting just under his ear tinny bip bip bip his hole opens the cum of 20 of Cedarville's finest niggers smothering Donte's face "Woo Hoo, good times" "Huzzah!" "Look at dat shit" "Donte's a white boy" Hahahahahahahahahahaha

Mark grabbed a towel and put it to his asshole, soaking up the damage wrought by his fellow gang members. He wiped the sweat from his brow with his other hand and watched as they put on their clothes. Donte came over to him, his face finally clean, and slipped his baseball cap onto Mark's head.

"Get dressed, you crazy son of a bitch," he said.

Mark laughed as the rest of the guys turned around to look at him. He put his hands in the air and shrugged.

"Is that all you niggers got?" he said.

Prelude (in the Key of Ghetto Major)

2008-02-24T00:31:00.000-05:00

Yo yo yo this is how it went down
20 funky niggas and one spikey-haired clown
Cedarville all up against da wall
Lined up biggest ta small
One at a time equals two later
Ain't no room in this room for DL haters

Watch out for Dennison
When he roll up he be menacin'
Gonn' whip out his lil' white dick
Too small even for a tiny tick

What you gonn' do
When you got genitals in yo hands?
Throw 'em up, throw 'em up!
Like a muthafuckin' trophy!

You know when it come to suckin' D
Ain't none better than Marky D
He taken more than a few
Make a nigga say "Woo Hoo!"
Munchin' on cocks
Like they is Doritos
Suckin' harder than a swarm
Of AIDS-infected mosquitoes

Elbow poppin', snot gaggin'
Cock slurpin', asshole saggin'
His throat be full and quiet
But his big white booty do all the talkin'
He open his man-pussy lips
And da niggas stick they Glock in

The pipe burn hollow
Marky D in da lead
Niggas they follow
Ready fo' da Double-D
Jimmy's are fo' losers
Spit 'n blood's fo' winners
They see dat red-pink asshole
Bust all they nuts in 'im

(Everybody say)
What you gonn' do
When you got genitals in yo hands?
Throw 'em up, throw 'em up!
Like a muthafuckin' trophy!
A muthafuckin' trophy!
A muthafuckin' trophy!
A muthafuckin' trophy!

(Written by G-Dub and The Durrr
Performed by Miguel "Bottoms Ups" Francisco
Courtesy of D-Ra(i)l'd Productions, Inc.
Copyright February 2008)

Brothers

2008-02-17T05:16:00.000-05:00

Mark slipped the blade of his straight razor between the gun cabinet's doors, crowbarred it open, and with one gloved hand, brought down the shotgun from the top rung. He pulled two shells from the unlocked drawer below and slid them into the barrels, snapping the gun shut with a flick of his wrist. "Woo hoo, good times," he said, repocketing his blade, and took off for the second floor.

Ned Jr. was on his knees in his room, placing blocks one on top of another and knocking them down with a swipe of his skinny arm and a jabbering howl from his pursed lips that shook the bangs of his bowl cut. Mark tapped on the door with the butt of the gun, sliding it behind his back as Ned Jr. looked up.

"What's up, little man?"

"Hi-"

"Whatcha doing?"

"Playing King Kong." Ned Jr. looked down at Mark's hand. "Why are you wearing that glove?"

"My hand's cold-"

"Oh-"

"Is Maury taking good care of you?"

"I hate it when they leave me with him. He's boring-"

Mark laughed. "Tell me about it-" And he closed Ned Jr.'s bedroom door as the boy resumed being an ape. Four steps and he was inside Maury's room, the butt of the shotgun in his armpit, the open ends of the barrels on the boy's forehead. "Hi."

"What the fuck, dude?"

"You didn't say I couldn't come back-"

Maury grabbed the waistband of his jeans. "You can suck my dick, dude-"

Mark jabbed the barrels forward, two perfect red circles swelling instantly over Maury's expressionless face. "Shut the fuck up-"

"Ouch, man, that shit hurts." Maury put a hand to his forehead. "Why are you doing this?"

"You did it-"

"I didn't do nothing, man-"

"Sit there and get some paper and a pen." Mark pointed to Maury's desk with the gun. "You've got to write a letter to your stupid fucking parents, telling them why you killed yourself-"

"I won't fucking do that-"

"And Ned Jr.-"

Maury got up and sat down at his desk, pulling a pack of looseleaf paper and a pen from the top drawer. "Don't hurt my little brother-"

"Are you gonna do it or not?"

"Fuck you-"

"Dude, it doesn't have to be Shakespeare-"

"Don't hurt my little brother is all I ask-"

"Okay." Mark snorted a meatball of snot down his throat. "I'll dictate, you write. Since you're about as bright as that little retard in there-"

"You're lucky you have that fucking gun-"

"Dear Mom and Dad-"

Maury picked up the pen with a shaking hand and began writing, the first letters smearing with a tear that dropped from his eye. After he signed his name, he turned to Mark, who placed the barrels of the gun back above his nose. "Please don't-"

And Mark pulled the trigger, watching as the top of the boy's head detached itself from the rest of his body, the fragile bone dragging along with it hair, blood, brain, neurons, synapses, capillaries, and everything else that once resided just above and behind his best friend's face. The remaining parts of Maury fell sideways onto the floor, and Mark gave the ass one last good kick, then turned slowly at the noise behind him. He took a step forward and put a gloved hand over Ned Jr.'s mouth. "Have you ever been raped and murdered?" he whispered.

Black Holes

2008-02-10T05:13:00.000-05:00

"What the fuck is this place, dude?" Bertha Shears' body looked as if God had fucked up royally and put mismatched halves of two different women together and plopped Bertha's head on top. From the waist up, she was straight up, the only things perverting those perfect lines two cupcake-sized breasts, half-moons stuck in orbit in front of the tiny Pluto that was her torso. Below her belt, her hips billowed out, straining against a pair of size 20 generic jeans from Lane Bryant that saw scarred meat flowing over their waistband like lava out of a volcano on Mars. "I've lived here fifteen years and never knew it was back here."

Mark put his hands on his hips and looked at Bertha, whose silhouette in the shack's doorway blocked out the sun behind. With a swivel of his neck, he took in the knotted, cracked boards, the hole in the wall behind him, the webs of hiding spiders in the corners, and the mound of dirt off to one side, a shovel firmly planted in its middle, and grinned. "It's my home away from home." He shrugged. "Actually, it's a tree house that isn't in a tree anymore."

"I thought it was your spaceship-"

"That too-"

He reached out and grabbed Bertha's wrist, pulling her to him and pushing his tongue into her mouth in one motion. Before she could kiss him back, he placed a hand on top of her head and dragged her down along the front of his body until her face was at his zipper. Another second and his pants were around his knees, his tiny erection bobbing at her lips.

Bertha reared back. "Wow, you got a small dick-"

"Shut the fuck up-"

"No, it's cute. I love it-" And she swallowed it - and his balls - in one gulp. Then spit them out, gagging. "Dude, your fuckin' pubes stink-"

"Oh, I haven't showered for a couple weeks-"

Bertha choke-gagged and spit a voluminous ball of saliva from deep in her throat between Mark's legs.

"And I gotta shit-"

She shook her head. "I don't think-" She coughed. "This floor isn't very stable-"

"You know you fucking want it-" Mark stepped out of his jeans and underwear, then locked his hands around her head and shoved his wet little dick into her open mouth, pumping her face until she was sucking him of her own volition. "Going boldy-" Before he could untangle his hands from her straight, shaggy hair, his perineum tightened, shriveling his testicles close to his pelvis and jolting his hips, then his cock, as he blasted three warm tethers of cum into Bertha's mouth.

Mark fell to his knees and fastened his mouth to Bertha's, drinking his cum from her tongue, which he swallowed for the third time that day. He pushed her onto her back and pulled on the waist of her jeans until they slid over her gelatinous hips, the zipper tearing, the button flying into his eye. "Fuck!" Blinking the sting out of his eye with fury, he grabbed her ankles and rammed her legs forward until she was on her shoulders and elbows, the folds of her chubby vagina staring up at him wide-eyed through an alien jungle of slick, matted curly springs of hair.

He rocketed to his feet, squatted over her, and licked her sticky clit with the head of his needle dick. Then loped forward, spreading his ass cheeks with his hands, until he felt her labia kissing his anus, at which he lowered himself further, hermetically sealing them together. With a forceful undulation of his abdomen, he pushed a 2 day-old turd out of his rectum-

"What the fuck?" Bertha twisted away from under him and scooted on her ass into the nearest corner, where she initiated an exploration of her brown, packed vagina. "What's your problem, dude? Why'd you do some sick shit like that?"

"Was that a pun?" Mark laughed. He ran his middle finger deep through his ass crack and flicked the results of his excavation at the crying girl in front of him.

"Jesus Christ!"

"I told you we were gonna space dock-"

"You fucking pervert." Bertha dug the last of Mark's turd from her cunt. "And with that little fucking toothpick-" She pointed. "Ha, I wouldn't've felt it anyway-"

Mark disengaged the shovel from the mound of dirt and held it high above his head, bringing it down with such force that as Bertha's skull split into uneven halves, the rest of his turd propelled from his ass and crashed into the wall behind him. He dislodged the shovel from Bertha's mouth, nose, and brain, then carefully wedged its bloody tip between two floorboards behind him, flipping one up to expose the hole he'd dug the day before. Two more boards and he dragged Bertha's cooling mass across the shack, depositing it into the shallow abyss.

Aight

2008-02-01T22:35:00.000-05:00

"Yo, what up nigger?"

"Did you just call me nigger?"

"Hey, hey, man, you can't say nigger-"

"Why not? You just called me a nigger-"

"Cause you white, you ain't no nigger-"

"What the fuck? I was just repeating what you said-"

"You can say cracker-"

"So can you-"

"Yeah, but my peeps been in slavery for 600 years-"

"I ain't enslaving nobody. As a matter of fact, I support my black brothers-" Mark clasped hands with Donte, exchanging a tight wad of five twenties for a sliver of alumimum foil folded flat several times over, which he slowly slipped into the front pocket of jeans. "So take that motherfucker. Besides, y'all like being called that-"

"Fuck you say-"

"What's the name of your gang?"

"The Cedarville Niggers-"

"All right then-"

"Man, we takin' ownership of that shit-"

"Whatever. I'm fuckin' white as a ghost and I don't like bein' called nigger-"

"Damn, motherfucker, there you go again-" Donte glanced his knuckles off the side of Mark's ribs through his leather jacket and laughed. "You a crazy motherfuckin' white boy-"

"Cracker. Get that shit right-"

Donte laughed again and ran his hand lightly over his cornrows as he looked around. He nodded towards a security guard walking their way. "You wanna smoke-"

"Sure-"

"Let's get the fuck outta here-"

Donte put a key in the door of an old burgundy Cadillac that sparkled in the twilight. "Here's my lady-" He locked the doors after Mark got in, pushed the gas pedal three times, then turned the ignition. "Purrin' like a fuckin' kitten-"

Mark laughed, watching the mall grow smaller through his tinted window as Donte pulled onto the highway. He reached into the glove box and grabbed a small box. Flipping the lid, he pulled out a plastic baggie filled with weed and rolling papers and set to crafting two of the skinniest joints ever known to mankind.

Donte jerked the car into Mark's neighborhood, sped past 20 or 30 cloned single-family homes and softly alighted onto a narrow blacktop that stretched around the back of the community's electrical power boxes. Out of sight, he jerked the key backwards and turned down the radio. "Gimme some of that shit-"

Mark handed one of the toothpicks to Donte and watched as the only 21 year-old Cedarville High lit and sucked down half of his perfectly cylindrical creation. Donte handed Mark the joint as he began choking, waving the smoke pouring from his chest out of his face. "Smoke the rest of that white boy's dick, will you?"

Mark grinned and obliged his friend, burning his lungs and fingertips with the rest of the twig. He stubbed the remaining millimeter in the ashtray and exhaled, the veins in his forehead straining with the force of his gagging. He picked up the other string of a joint and handed it to Donte. "Here-"

Another two drags between them and several thousand coughs and they lay back against their leather headrests. "Is is it true what they say about you," said Donte.

"What's that?"

"That you're a faggot?"

"Who says that?"

"People-"

"That's funny. They say you're on the DL-"

Donte laughed. He punched Mark's knee. "Man, I got nothin' 'gainst faggots." He coughed. "You know Larry-"

"Yeah-"

"I let him suck my dick before-"

"Really? Why?"

"Motherfucker owed me three hundred dollars. But he only had two hundred. So I said, 'Suck my dick and you ain't gotta worry 'bout the other hundred.' I was just kiddin'. Next thing I know, nigger on his knees with my dick in his mouth-"

Mark laughed. "What the fuck?"

"Best head I ever got-" Donte turned his bloodshot eyes to Mark and shifted in his seat.

"Ha-" Mark closed his eyes, giggling.

And Donte's lips brushed against his, the man's large knotty hand guiding Mark's to his crotch-

Chubby Double-Dildo Double-Penetrated Anal Lassies

2008-01-27T23:15:00.000-05:00

"Dude, pop it in-"

Mark pushed the DVD tray shut and jumped on Maury's bed, next to his best friend. "It was in Flash's stash-"

After an FBI warning, four throbbing vaginas appeared on the TV screen, with the words "Play Movie," "Scene Selection," "Extras," and "Contact factwhores.com" next to them. Maury chose the second, then chose scene 7, "Dana Callahan and Jane Sheckleton." A pause and a flicker and two naked ladies with a healthy dose of belly rolls and stretch marks came on the screen with every intention of coming.

"Is your door locked?"

"Yep-"

Maury's eyes didn't move from the television as both sandy-haired ladies spread their legs across from one another, each's feet braced against the other's, and wiggled their clits wtih their chubby fingers, a stray digit or four slipping into their vaginas and anuses every few strokes.

"Dude, can we get some volume?"

Maury pressed a button on the remote and captured Jane's last erotic gasp as four long, fat pieces of rubber, each with penis heads on both ends, materialized between the women's drooling hairless vaginas.

"Black mambas-" Mark grinned and looked over at Maury, whose face, as always, showed as much emotion as the four double-headed dildos Dana and Jane were pushing two at a time into their cunts and assholes. He glanced down and espied a lump in Mark's jeans, brushing a hand over his own erection.

Dana and Jane slid down on the dildos until their vaginas met, then pulled apart, their labia strung together with clear ropes of each other's juices. Then back together and apart again, then again and again, their strokes quicker and more forceful, the younger Jane holding her own with the masterly Dana, the camera so close on their artificial copulation that Mark thought he could feel the heat of their friction, inhale the odor of their drowned nether regions.

"I need to jerk off-" And Maury pulled his hard-on out through his unzipped jeans, spit in his right hand, swabbed his penis quickly, then commenced scraping his hand up and down around it.

"Me too-" And Mark pulled his 4-incher out, smeared it with his pre-ejaculate and began to masturbate.

He looked to Maury's cock and found it to be as unremarkable as the rest of the boy, even though the muscle between his balls and asshole tightened with the desire to sit on it. He looked up at Maury's face and met the boy's eyes, which immediately dropped to his handiwork. Mark quickly reached over and grasped Maury's pale, veiny monument to obese women-

"Dude, what the fuck?" Maury stood up, pushing his dick back through his zipper. "I'm not a fag-"

"Me neither-" Mark let go of his deflated dick. "I just thought-"

"You thought wrong-"

"I mean," Mark swallowed a big slice of air, "I mean, the way you looked at me, I just thought-"

"What?"

"I was just being a friend. I thought you wanted me to do that. I didn't want to hurt your feelings-"

Maury shook his head and a slight line appeared in his forehead. "Just leave-"

Mark took another breath, sure that his eyes were spinning in their sockets, his brain shrinking and swelling in his skull. He let the blood beat against his eardrums a few more times, then jumped up, replaced his dick, and removed his DVD. "Dude, promise you won't tell anybody-"

Maury nodded.

"Promise me. I'm sorry." He laid a hand on Maury's shoulder, which didn't move. "I'm really sorry, Maury. You're my best friend. Please promise me."

Maury nodded. "I promise. Please leave now."

Mark heard the door shut softly behind him as he made his way down the stairs, past Maude-Lyn and Little Ned, and out the front door without making a sound.

From Bertha, With Love

2008-01-20T07:21:00.000-05:00

Din-Din

2008-01-13T04:36:00.000-05:00

Cast of Characters

Mark Dennison - hero, antihero, ubermensch, prophet, savior

Maury Wright - catatonic, pony-tailed, five-o'clock-shadowed underachiever and Mark's current best friend

Maude-Lyn Wright - Maury's mother and Cedarville High School's clinical, robotic English teacher whose appearance gives one the impression that she was half a chromosome away from being born with Down's Syndrome

Ned Wright, Jr. - Maury's precocious 5 year-old brother, who inspires pity from all he meets because of his haircut, which is the obvious result of Maude-Lyn placing a bowl atop his head and going to town with a pair of dull scissors

Ned Wright, Sr. - Maury's elderly father and Cedarville High School's music teacher and band leader, who is deaf in one ear and hard of hearing in the other and will never be caught dead out of his plaid shirt, oversized jeans, and suspenders

A 12-gauge shotgun - so Anton won't get mad

Act One (and only)

Scene One (and only)

(The Wrights' dining room. A rectangular table, covered in a plastic tablecloth with little flowers on it, sits in the center of the room. Four bowls are in its center: one contains macaroni and cheese; the second, Vienna sausages; the third, large rubbery meatballs; and the fourth, the thickest pasta Mark's ever seen. Maude-Lyn sits at one end of the table, Ned Sr. sits at the other end. Mark and Maury sit on one side, Little Ned on the other.)

MAUDE-LYN: How is everything, Mark?

MARK: Good. Especially the mac-n-cheese. It's magnifique (pronounced 'mag-neee-feek').

MAUDE-LYN: Well, thank you. This is Little Ned's favorite meal. We have it a few times a week. I thought you would like it.

MARK: I'll tell everyone in class tomorrow how good it was.

MAUDE-LYN: Thank you, Mark, but you do not have to do that. (She shakes her head.) I do not know how Bertha Shears maintains an A in my class.

MARK: Why is that?

MAUDE-LYN: Because she spends all of her time looking at you.

(Mark looks down to his plate and laughs.)

MAUDE-LYN: So you have noticed too?

MARK: She's pretty obvious-

MAUDE-LYN: Do her attentions bother you? It does not make for an unpleasant schooling environment for you, does it?

MARK: Oh, no, it doesn't bother me. She's never said anything to me. Other than hi every now and then. I guess it's kind of flattering-

MAUDE-LYN: I am sure Maury would be flattered. That is, if a girl ever looked at him. (She laughs.)

NED SR.: Huh? Maury's getting fatter?

MAUDE-LYN: (pointing to her ear) Turn up your hearing aid, Ned. I said, Maury wishes a girl would give him some attention-

NED SR.: Yeah, even the wrong kind.

MAURY: Thanks.

MAUDE-LYN: Learn to take a joke, son. If you could laugh at yourself, you would be a lot happier.

NED SR.: Yeah, you'd have a lot to laugh at-

NED JR.: (pointing at his plate) Look! Mommy, look at my art!

(Everyone looks at Ned Jr.'s plate. His pasta borders his plate in a semi-circle; in the middle, two meatballs rest above a horizontal Vienna sausage.)

NED JR.: It's Daddy!

MAUDE-LYN: That is very good, Little Ned.

(Ned Jr. looks at his mother. His bottom lip pops out and his eyes well up. He takes a deep breath, then lets out a wail that shakes everyone's eardrums but Ned Sr.'s.)

MAUDE-LYN: (reaching over and stroking Little Ned's arm) Little Ned, it is great. Just great. It is a fantastic piece of work. It looks just like Daddy. It is....perfect!

NED JR.: I can't eat.

MAUDE-LYN: Yes, you can. You need to eat so you can grow up and be even smarter and make even greater art.

NED JR.: No, I can't. I can't eat Daddy. (He puts his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands and continues to sob silently, the jagged edges of his bowl cut shivering with his breaths.)

MAUDE-LYN: (looking to Mark) Those are the travails of having a talented and gifted child. It is very challenging. You have got to give the appropriate level of praise or all bets are off.

MARK: I can see that. Wow. Amazing. And that cool little haircut of his-

NED SR: Huh? Who's talking smut?

MAUDE-LYN: (pointing to her ear) Turn up your hearing aid, Ned. Mark just said that he thinks Little Ned is very gifted.

MARK: You know, Maury's bright too-

MAUDE-LYN: You would never know it. He does not apply himself.

MARK: He did make the honor roll last quarter-

NED SR.: By the skin of his teeth. And that's after a good brushing.

MAUDE-LYN: (laughing) Oh, Ned-

MARK: Yes, but the honor roll's still good. Of course, everyone can do better-

MAUDE-LYN: What did you get on your report card, Mark?

MARK: (looking down and almost whispering) All A's.

MAUDE-LYN: See right there. And it is because you work your behind off and overachieve-

MARK: Actually, I-

MAUDE-LYN: All Maury does is lock himself up in his room with his video games and DVDs.

NED SR.: I think maybe if we take the TV out of his room-

MAURY: Dad-

MAUDE-LYN: I do not think that is the answer. Maury, you are just going to have to be more like Mark and Little Ned and your father-

NED SR.: Huh? Wed your father?

MAUDE-LYN: (pointing to her ear) Turn up your hearing aid, Ned.

(Mark and Maury exchange a sideways glance and roll their eyes at one another. A few more bites off their plates and they are finished eating. Mark sits back from the table and places his napkin on his plate. He looks over at the top of Ned Jr.'s bent shaking head and wonders what his little brain tastes like.)

MAUDE-LYN: So Mark, are your parents still together?

MARK: No, ma'am, my mother and father split up when I was three. I haven't seen or heard from my father since. I do know, though, that he died in Iraq during the initial invasion.

MAUDE-LYN: Oh, really? That is horrible. I am very sorry to hear that. His blood is on President Bush's hands.

NED SR.: Huh? Bush is still a band?

MAUDE-LYN: (pointing to her ear) Turn up your hearing aid, Ned. Mark lost his father in Iraq, at the hands of George Bush.

NED SR.: I'm sorry to hear that, Mark. Damn George Bush! (He slams his fist on the table.) I lost my father in the second world war. In '45. Thanks to Truman, that war-mongering son of a bitch. We never should have entered that war either. I can't wait until this country collapses. It's been nothing but war, war, war since its inception. Killing nothing but innocents. Like my father. And yours. There's never any reason to go to war. Once this country is toppled, there will be peace on earth for a million years. (He slams both fists on the table.)

(Mark, Maury, Maude-Lyn, and Ned Jr. stare at flushed-face Ned Sr. for several minutes. Then Ned Jr. begins to cry loudly once more.)

MAUDE-LYN: It is okay, Neddie. Daddy is not mad at you. He is mad at the criminal President Bush and President Truman. You go on up to your room now and work on your spelling. I will be up a little later. Remember, we are still working on one- and two-letter words.

NED JR.: (getting up and walking out of the room.) I can't eat Daddy, I can't eat Daddy, I can't eat Daddy, I....

MAUDE-LYN: (whispering) We are a very anti-war, anti-violence family. We believe in peace at all costs. Especially Big Ned. He gets a little emotional sometimes.

NED SR.: How did your father die, Mark? Was it friendly fire?

MARK: No, sir. His squad was ambushed. He was the only one who was killed.

NED SR.: Figures-

MARK: His commanding officer said that he was responsible for saving the lives of his fellow soldiers and actually helping them to defeat the insurgents who attacked them. He was given a Purple Heart.

NED SR.: What a shame. What a shame. And I bet you don't have anything to remember him by, do you?

MARK: No, sir.

NED SR.: Do you like to hunt, Mark?

MARK: Huh?

NED SR.: I didn't stutter. Geez, you sound like Maury. When he opens his mouth every blue moon. I said, do you like to hunt?

MARK: I've never been hunting-

(Ned Sr. gets up and exits the room in a hurry.)

MAURY: Thanks, Mark-

MAUDE-LYN: Maury Wright!

(Ned Sr. enters the room carrying a large double-barreled shotgun.)

NED SR.: This was my father's. I've been hunting since I was child. My grandfather used to take me out hunting until I was old enough to go with my buddies. I wish I'd been able to go with my dad.

MARK: Me, too-

NED SR.: I keep it in my gun case in the living room with my rifles and ammo. But it goes on the top rung. I don't know what I'd do without it. Every time I shoot it, I can feel my father looking down on me.

MARK: That's great-

NED SR.: You know, Mark, if you ever want to go hunting, I can arrange it. I've never been able to get Maury out there with me. I'll even let you use my father's gun here.

MARK: Sir, I look forward to shooting your father's gun someday.

Exeunt.