Silk

Whenever I happen upon a dead body I always assume the person has been murdered. Does one usually drop dead out of sight and mind of others, waiting for me to come upon them? No. So when I was ambling through my favorite alley one day and came across a corpse that wasn't encrusted in filth and didn't have a knife embedded in the back I thought it somewhat strange. I started to nudge the body with my foot..."Were you poisoned? Yoo hoo? Were you poisoned?"

For some reason I was almost singing my query, and then I stopped and kind of laughed at myself, cause the person was dead and obviously couldn't hear my question. It was then I noticed that my gentle nudges had left a little blemish on the corpse's silk blouse. "My that will hurt the resale value," I thought. And as the rats twittered amidst the refuse surrounding us I let my mind wander back to that Japanese girl who said she would die if I did not return.

She loved me, but she loved her fried chicken more, and when I told her that after heading to KFC I was going straight to the racetrack she screamed, "No!"

There even seemed to be tears in her eyes when she yelled it. "You must come back!"

"But I'll miss some races that way."

"I want some fucking chicken so bad. And a biscuit." She clutched her belly through her silk shirt as though she was trying to prevent a parasite from burrowing through and escaping. "I feel like I'll die if you don't come back with some chicken for me."

I grimaced. "You won't really die though. Have some peanut butter."

She let forth such a horrible scream that I worried my parole officer would hear it, even though I had no idea if he was even in town. "I will fucking bludgeon you to death with this jar of Peter Pan if you don't come back. Please! Just tell me you'll return."

I looked at her. "That jar is plastic and its empty. You couldn't really bludgeon me with it. Feel how light it is."

She fingered the last remnants of the peanut butter and smeared it all over her lovely silk blouse. "You are doing this to me! You! My favorite silk blouse! You are making me do this!"

She was a wily one that Japanese chick. She knew how much I loved to lick peanut butter off of her nipples. "Hmm, maybe I'll come back. Don't ruin your blouse though, it's Christmas tomorrow and you have to wear that in the choir."

She knelt on the floor and clutched her breasts and nodded. "I'll take it off. I don't want no chicken grease on it either."

She was smart that Japanese chick.

I looked down at the body. I wondered if she had been smart too. Not smart enough to avoid dying in this alley I guess.

Good Times in Vegas!

I won a lot of money in Vegas one time...cock fights...seems I have a talent for spotting the cock with the most fire in its eye. Most people look at the belly or the claws, but I would go into the pens before the fight and take a deep look into the cock's eyes...wait until I saw that special glint that told me that that cock was a fucking killer. Then I would drug his opponent and bet a bundle on the killer cock to win.

So after one particularly bloody cock killing that netted me a small fortune I decided to spend it like a big shot, cause bouncing from buffet to buffet and shit ass strip club to low rent brothel just didn't carry the same thrill it once had. I guess all pleasure wears thin after awhile, like an oft used condom. I think Shakespeare said that, the faggot.

So as I lay in my suite's jacuzzi, my chest covered in Fluff, a whore passed out on the toilet, I thought it would be fun to engage in an act of deviance no one ever had before, not even well known reprobates like Nixon and Joan of Arc, the famous french sodomite.

So I woke up the whore by squirting Crest up her nose, (she got a big laugh out of that, good sense of humor on that broad), and I told her my plan. She was amenable once the finances were ironed out.

I gave her 1500 hundred bucks to marinate her hand in liquid heroin overnight, and at dawn, while I ate my cereal infused with Omega 3's, she promised to give me a vigorous handjob with her H imbued fist. Has anyone ever gotten a 1500 dollar handjob before? Maybe a world class fucking idiot or Kublai Khan, but I doubt it.

She was used to being strung out so she was keen to see how fucked up she could get dipping her fingers in heroin for 24 hours, and I was curious to see her choke my cock with a drug fueled fist. Should I have expected her to die?

What do I look like a doctor? Her limp fingers did eventually stiffen but I must conclude her handjob sure wasn't worth 1500 bucks. I rolled her into the tub and flushed, abandoning dreams of a post wack job blumpkin, and headed for the strip, hoping to catch the last act at Circus Circus before the swarms of white trash made that shithole a nightmare too horrific to enter.

Indian Love Song

I joined the lacrosse team cause deep down I'd always admired the Indian. Not the pacifist, bean-eating, cow worshiper, but the feather-wearing, face painted, tomahawk throwing, killer Indian. Who hasn't dreamed of taking a tomahawk to their enemy's head? Hurling it and watching it whistle through the forest til it strikes the exposed back of the trapper who dares to tread in your wood. Your squaw raping days are over white man!

During games reveries such as these made me somewhat of an ineffectual player, but I cared not. I would sometimes flip up my helmet mid game in order to expose my war painted face, daring an opponent to challenge me, so that I could destroy him.

I was relegated to the bench for much of the season, but a rash of injuries in the final game led to my insertion. The clouds were black and a downpour rendered the field sodden, but still we played. It was a big moment, but how was I to concentrate when the cheerleaders too were sodden, and their jumpers were drenched, and they were so spry. So very spry and sopping wet. I got so hungry on the field sometimes.

It was the dark haired one who inspired me. Her legs were spattered with mud under her skirt, though raindrops ran down her thighs. I imagined she was a maiden who would await for me after battle in our tee pee, hoping I would bring her home a fresh white man's scalp to garnish her meal of roast fox. Could she cook a fox well I wondered?

Perhaps my visions helped me to ignore the weather and wet ground. While the other players were slipping and struggling to move about in the slop, I was impervious to it. It helped too perhaps that I chose to find a quiet corner of the field to wait and think. Standing still and looking at the cheerleaders. They got so wet out there! I wondered if they were very cold.

They made me want to win more than the other boys I think. I bet the other boys regarded the contest as simply a game, and not the death struggle with a continent at stake as I did. I convinced myself that were our side to lose we would all be slaughtered and our women raped. Such thoughts made me play harder than the other boys.

Did I want to be disemboweled on the field and left to rot, my bleached bones eventually being carved into lacrosse sticks by those crafty white men who had murdered me? Did I want our pom pom wielding cheering squaws raped?

With but seconds remaining and the scored tied I finally took action, leaving my quiet spot and, with the driving rain impairing the vision of the officials, I speared an opponent in his groin with my stick unseen. His cowardly collapse allowed me to break free and score the winning tally. Heroism always did come naturally to me.

Later, in the warm confines of the locker room, the editor of the school paper approached to congratulate me. I cut off her putrid praise.

"Don't talk, your thoughts aren't worth listening to. I want you to note in your little paper that Jesus had nothing to do with my victory. That fucker is the god of the white man who oppresses my people. This war does not end with this victory. Not until i jam my lacrosse stick up Jesus' dainty ass and scalp his hippie fucking head will I truly consider myself a champion!"

Before she could respond with what would have been an undoubtedly insipid follow up question I began a war whoop, "Death to the white man and his oppressive god!"

She looked at me, seemingly puzzled. "Aren't you white?"

I nodded, but then called her a racist.

She slapped me.

I held my cheek with one hand and handed her a note with the other. "Another thing. I've written a little sonnet, like Hiawatha's song, to that cheerleader...you know the one...dark haired and mud on her thighs...I want you to put it in your little paper. Front page maybe. So she'll know I like her."

She took the note, crumpled it, and threw it in my face.

"That's pretty rude." I said.

Showbiz magic big time

I was a child actor, child porn actor...not film mind you, more of a stage show, which was tougher of course...hard to keep it up in front of a live audience...and you only got one take...even if you were bleeding...

My stage name was Wee Willie Fucker...which was kind of a misnomer, cause technically I didn't do any fucking, I was just sort of tossed on stage and fucked. My manager didn't like the sound of Wee Willie Fuckee though...said it made me sound Chinese or something.

I always found it funny when some of my fans would come backstage and find out my first name wasn't really Willie...I mean come on. You gotta be pretty fucking stupid to think that.

My part called for me to get tossed on stage...like a midget I guess...but I wasn't a midget I was just a little kid...I never really thought if I was violating child labor laws, and now that I think about it was probably rape...I mean I certainly wasn't willing...though I was paid...I guess that made me a whore in a way. I guess that was part of the appeal to me. There was also always a lot of candy backstage and that was pretty cool.

Looking back I'm not real proud of it...cause it wasn't a very good show...after the initial shock of throwing me onstage the lead actor, Franz Frankenfucker, (talk about a stupid fucking name...he wasn't even German), would just come out and say, "HERE COMES THE SHOW!" real fucking loud, and by show he meant his cock.

I thought it was a pretty arrogant move, but the audience always seemed to respond to it.

He would then just pull down my little shorts and fuck my ass...that's it..just would fuck me til he came...no jokes, no musical numbers, no real imagination of any kind. Simply put it lacked drama or intrigue.

Don't get me wrong i was dynamite...I mean I'm not gonna look back and get all modest. I was pretty fucking awesome in the role, not that it called for much except for being kind of a rag doll hole.

Still I'd say it was a lot tougher than what most child actors get praised for...like Shirley Temple...I think dancing around in a little sailor suit is a helluva lot easier than taking a cock in your ass on stage 6 nights a week and twice on Sunday.

I don't think she ever did anything like that...did she? If she did I'd probably be interested in seeing it.

If I could go back and do it all over again I probably wouldn't, or at least I would demand better candy backstage...and lube.

Always a Bright Side

Sometimes the sun does not shine and I make the mistake of venturing outdoors without the warm glow protecting me from the grey world and the cretins who inhabit it. Instead of palm trees bathed with golden rays I am forced to set my eyes upon people who who are not brown and beautiful, but pale and dingy and worn.

It especially revolts me to see homeless women wearing make up. What could be more ridiculous? Such views make my pancreas heave in revolt and the veins in my wrist bulge as if longing to be severed so as to end the ordeal that is life among such wretched refuse.

Did the Statue of Liberty really have any idea what she was asking for? I bet if she could see the teeming shit that washes up on the shores of my vision she would take her torch to it and set it alight.

It puzzles me to see the homeless on the bus. Is there a better box waiting for you at some distant stop? And just why are you wearing nail polish? Instead of putting make up on your body would your time not have been better served by taking your own life? Is there a Miss Homeless Pageant being held under a rotting bridge somewhere? I suspect you wouldn't win it anyway. Being homeless is no excuse for split ends madame.

I rarely make friends on the bus. It is no wonder I suppose. Sometimes I affect an Icelandic accent and throw peanuts at my fellow passengers, when not castigating them that is. Actually I'm not even sure if half the people I accost are homeless, or just have poor fashion sense.

Surely though a greater peril exists when I eschew the bus and choose to walk under grey skies, and allow urchins to steal my phone with the cunning ruse of a lost dog to lower my guard. They must have known I would ignore requests for assistance if only their well being were at stake. Could they somehow sense I cared not a bit for humanity?

However at mention of their dog being lost I was impelled to help, and moments after I lent the rogue my phone I watched them peel away, knowing I would never see or speak into that device again. It made my heart cry, and I was wistful, for the last call I had received on it was from my favorite prostitute, berating me for inquiring about her health, as if that was any of my fucking business.

My phone is gone and stolen, but I exist still, sound of mind and body, driven with longing but capable of enjoying sweetness when it comes to me again.

I think of my dog, and how I miss him so. He died of Aids, not HIV mind you, but full blown Aids. The vet never could explain to me how he even contracted the disease, but dared not insinuate that my whippet was a homosexual. He equivocated whenever I pressed him for answers, and to this day I do not know if they even make dog condoms.

The world is so ugly sometimes. When there is not sun and I am repulsed by the grotesque spectacle that is so much of life I long for a refuge. Not some ridiculous fanciful paradise where 72 most likely fat and ugly virgins await. There must be a reason why they are virgins no? And of course once you break them in they would get all clingy, and what kind of paradise is that?

Does heaven provide a sanctuary for a seeker such as me? A quiet hallowed place when one can escape the tumult and trouble of the surface life? A safe haven one can always turn to in troubled times, where one can find a secret, dark corner, imbibe an amber drink, and watch with a sly grin as your girl whirls and gyrates to drunken grunts amidst the murmured hum of the sports on the flickering screen and the drone of the DJ. I cast a furtive glance about my den and suck on the bottle. I close my eyes and see her now and all is well.

Your Destiny is Death

I was the valedictorian of my high school. Of course.

It was early in my existence that I learned the value of a well placed bribe. Do you think the high school nurse used rectal thermometers on all her students?

When my days there were dwindling I felt it my duty to impart some of my wisdom on the lesser lights I had the misfortune of sharing the halls with lo those many years. (Subsequently I would come to the conclusion that such wisdom was wasted on chattel destined for ignominious death, but I was a naive youth in many ways.) In the spirit of generosity I endeavored to become the valedictorian, so as to be able to deliver the farewell address to the cretins who so stained my formative years. It was most magnanimous of me, though I did selfishly take pleasure in knowing that I was depriving the long winded girl who, by study and hard work, had achieved grades that rightfully would have given her the honor. Lesson learned babycakes, effort is largely wasted, and cash conquers all.

I strode to the podium somewhat erect, not my posture mind you, but my penis, as my favored organ had a habit of spontaneously arousing in those days, as I was wont to spend idle moments dreaming of girls tawny and loose. How little has changed come to think of it.

Luckily my robes concealed what would have been a distraction from my words, and after casting a withering and dismissive glance at the "educator" who introduced me, I spat a hello to the assembled and began my address:

"Though I know that the majority of those present today are ignorant slobs, looking forward to nothing more than this evenings repast of fried food and shit on TV, I shall deign to attempt to enlighten you, with the hopes that perhaps one or two of my fellow graduates here today will take a word or two of what I say, and with it, glean some measure of happiness in the years of torment and futility that are sure to follow this humble ceremony.

This grotesque assembly of "teachers" sitting behind me spent four years inculcating your mind with crap and rote nonsense, whereas I, in one sentence, will deliver more insight than they have been able to give you in ten thousand. I quote Sophocles,

"O ye deathward going tribes of men! What do your lives mean except that they go to nothingness?"

Clap your slobbering jaws up for a moment to ponder that! You may thank me with your words later, and for some of your more attractive ladies you may thank me with your bodies, but for now truly grasp what I have told you. Did I waste your time with platitudes about the beauty of existence? With drivel about seizing the day and being all you can be? You cannot! Do you think you are special? Engaging in this pathetic ceremony as so many have before you, destined to live a little life and die one day, largely forgotten, your only impact to squeeze out another wretched person who will emulate you and too waste their days with petty struggles.

Oh there is no doubt that one or two of you are thinking you are special. You condemn your fellow classmates to obscurity but believe that you are destined for greatness. And perhaps you are! Perhaps a future Napoleon or Beethoven sits here before us. And so what? Do not worms crawl over their bones now? Any praise you have for them now brings them no joy, for they cannot hear it.

I urge you to abandon any idea of going to college. It is a waste of time. Think not of religion. Dear god I cannot believe in this day there exist people who still cling to such a ridiculous charade. If you wish to seize something let it be the juicy morsel of fruit nearest you, whether it be a succulent pineapple slice, or the heaving bosom of the girl in your math class who would not favor you with a glance all these years, though you let her copy your homework that time...

It was then that the microphone was seized from me, in a act of wanton rudeness. I was ushered from the stage with force, despite my protestations as valedictorian, and I launched my square graduation hat in protest, and achieved a measure of satisfaction when I saw its point strike an especially odious administrator in the groin.

Looking back I see that my words were wasted, and I would have been better served had I simply burned the building down, or skipped the ceremony entirely, and spent the day with someone brown and warm and soft.

Respect the bread

One time I was throwing pieces of bread at this Venezuelan chick's open mouth. It was night. The sea was illumined by the moon. All was right with the world for those few moments. What could intrude on such a little time of happiness?

If someone had answered a fat Turkish asshole I would have thought it a funny answer, but that actually was the right one. There she was laughing, soft rolled up pieces of bread bouncing off of her pretty face. She seemed kind of insane in that moment, truly crazy I mean. As if she had abandoned all hope of ever being satisfied and longed to forget about everything and just allow my bread to bounce off of her face as she stared at the ocean and giggled.

It was one of the more tender moments of my life.

I tossed the bread lightly into the air. Perhaps it was kissed by an ocean breeze before it descended and bounced off her cheek, or nose, or landed in her long dark hair. I never could put it in her mouth. She giggled weirdly each time it hit her face, but never more so than when a little bread ball caught her in the eye.

"Oww!" she said, in English. I wondered what she would have said had she spoken Spanish for that second. She was laughing as she said "Oww", and put her fingers to her face. I think she was truly happy in that moment, getting gently pelted with bread balls.

Suddenly the fat Turkish asshole appeared. I don't know about the lives of most people, or what situations one might find oneself in, but I don't think there exists a time or a place where a fat Turkish asshole's presence is a good thing. Maybe a buggerer's convention in Ankara. Do they have those?

He feigns being a gentleman and asks if the Latin chick is hurt. She giggles bizarrely in response and stares at the moon with a goofy smile, as if her mind was a thousand miles away. I wonder if she was dreaming of nutella. She liked sweet things that Venezuelan girl.

Next the fat Turk, who undoubtedly smelled, picked up a bread ball and hurled it at me. "Respect the bread!" he yelled.

I laughed. Not freakishly like the Venezuelan girl, but heartily, like some king who sees a peasant get crushed by a runaway cartload of pumpkins.

"What?" I was truly fucking incredulous.

"What are you doing? You have to respect the bread! You can't throw bread around."

I think it's rare when a person can pinpoint exactly, through all their years of life, and all the hundreds of thousands of words they've listened to, the absolute stupidest fucking thing they've ever heard uttered.

"That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard." I said.

It was.

"You can't throw bread!" Asshole was getting angrier.

"Wait a minute, you just threw it."

"No I didn't."

But of course he had. Asshole was stupid as well as fat. "Yes you did. You just picked up a piece and threw it at me."

The Venezuelan girl had a contented far away glaze in her eyes. Was she on heroin?

I wondered.

The Turkish asshole was contrite for a moment. "Oh. I shouldn't have done that. That was a mistake. But look what you were doing with the bread...you're an asshole."

I didn't think he had a future as a lawyer. "She was throwing the bread too. Are you calling her an asshole?"

Fatty demurred. "No...she's not." He strained himself to concoct an excuse for his hypocrisy but his fatness failed him, and he simply changed the subject. "You were not raised right. You don't know you're supposed to respect the bread...blah blah blah fat Turkish things."

I really don't remember much of what he said after that. He was so greasy and stupid. I decided to tell him so as I was growing bored and the Venezuelan girl was in a stupor.

"Listen, you're really stupid. Seriously. You're a stupid person. I mean that. So you shouldn't talk. You really should just keep your mouth shut cause you're not very bright. You're saying some of the stupidest fucking things I've ever heard. Really. Stupid people like you should not talk."

For some reason he got upset at that. He mentioned the bible in some context but I wasn't really listening anymore. The girl from Uzbekistan showed up and started talking about the bible too. Whenever someone brings up the bible I usually drift off and start thinking about pussy.

The Venezuelan girl was funny. She looked good under that night sky, a palm frond tickling her shoulder. The sea breeze was blowing hair across her face and she was staring vacantly at a bread ball on the ground. I think she wanted to eat it.