Spine Wrenched

The gelatinous bulk stealthily disconnected himself from the wet frosty dampness of urban Strasbourg and entered 'The Citadel'. 'The Citadel' - a strong euphemism for the underbelly of the painfully horny bunch of french goths who deem it absolutely imperative that they vent the midday restraint they uphold upon their turbo charged itchy pants lifestyle. Dimitry - our man of infinitesimal quantities of cellulite tissue hanging grotesquely from every expansive portion of his structure - now makes his way forward through the thug crowd head banging to Anthrax.
"DIMITRY!!!" screamed a voice in the near distance.
Dimitry turned around in search of the source of the outcry. If it was ever a wonder how he heard someone calling out to him amidst all that audio violence, the fact that he made his way through the crowd all this way was quite incredulous in itself.
There was Chavo, flailing his arms about recklessly trying to grab Dimitry's attention.
A wave of acknowledgement responded back and the abdominus gluttonamous moved faster through the sea of long hair, black lipsticks - black as hell, cocaine, codeine, ginseng, extacy, kava, and finally made it past the floor, upon the altar, through the frosted glass cell to the lounge sofa that played divan to an uninhibited raunchy scene consisting of Chavo and 4 other buxom chéris locked together in a uncomprehensible kind of amour.
"Why am I here?"
Chavo looked up at Dimitry slowly and produced a grin that led Dimitry to realise that he wasn't going to get his answer anytime in the near future.
"Your life is the sum of a remainder of an unbalanced equation inherent to the programming of the matrix. You are the eventuality of an anomaly, which despite my sincerest efforts I have been unable to eliminate from what is otherwise a harmony of mathematical precision. While it remains a burden assiduously avoided, it is not unexpected, and thus not beyond a measure of control. Which has led you, inexorably, here" retorted Chavo straight faced.
"Fuck you, you nut"
A chuckle escaped Chavo's mouth. "Where's your sense of humor?"
"In your jacket pocket you stupid bumblefuck", hissed Dimitry. "Its what you used to buy all these cock dumpsters all the booze that they're downing like skimmed milk."
"Come now, don't talk like that to Carolina. She's a darling, aren't you, bell...ll...ll...lla?"
The women giggled loudly and then started chattering amongst themselves while Chavo reached out with his free hand to pick up his packet of snort powder.
Dimitry scowled in irritation and collapsed on the rugged chaise longue that served as the respository of handbags, scarves and coats.
The dance floor thundered and the music exploded into a higher decibel detonation while the scene all over the netherealm got more suggestive and lewd.
As soon as Chavo was done with his line, he whispered something into the ear of one of his disciples upon which she got up from the couch and came towards Dimitry.
"May I suck on thy hyssop stick?" cooed the slut.
"Bah!!!" gruffed Dimitry.
The lady did a frolic dance around Dimitry, tushie bouncing and the nylons making it clear to see one's face in them.
Dimitry sat her on his lap and she proceeded to pop open each one of his shirt buttons.
Dimitry shuffled in his seat uncomfortably.
"Take it easy pappilein, I'm not going to bite."
The last of the buttons came undone, skin burst forth, fat immortalised in the gut.
The strumpet discontinued strutting her coy demeanour when she, all of a sudden, felt a strange feeling of disgust, awe, and fear all fused together.
She let out a scream which was drowned out by the pumping music but was heard by the group within the room.
She jumped off Dimitry and all the women in the room affixed their gazes on his chest.
There in the center of his chest was the diabolical and demonic figure embossed into the flesh.
Chavo chuckled and said aloud, "Oh ladies, pardon me for not mentioning it earlier but I invited Dimitry over for some brain-damage."

Dr. Lecter, may I introduce...

May I Suck You???

May I suck you???

'That Superfine Powder' and other chapters

I finally managed to interpolate my 3 month recess from any kind of book-reading. And to say I started it off well would be quite unsavoury to the conscience. "The Best Thing That Can Happen to a Croissant" was the best thing that could happen to me after such a long stint.
There's no better story that appeals to me more than spliff smoking fat men who spend the better part of their day at their local bar and get piss drunk on cheap vodka.
Pablo Miralles is one such faineant waste who is the black sheep of an immodestly wealthy household with a penchant for philosophy and prostitutes. While his brother, the Magnificent First takes care of the emminently flourishing family business, Pablo squanders his share of the company on cheap alcohol, cheap narcotics and wanton night outs with a sexually deprived woman whose negligent husband leads her to spend her evenings with a fat slob gallivanting around town.
Pablo's otiose lifestyle is given a violent shove into overdrive one day when he gets news that his impeccable brother Highness is missing. His mysterious sister-in-law assigns him the duty to investigate into the case. As the story uncoils out, we along with Pablo, begin to learn some eerie secrets and make some queer discoveries in the lives of the people that surround Pablo's deplorable lifestyle and give it the well rewarded zest it so rightfully deserves.
Give me a night out with myself and I'd emulate this fellow's life to a T. The comedy is killer. I never laugh when reading a book, even if its a MAD comic but this one takes the cake. I was on the floor with this one waiting for someone to revive the human back in me.

Bumbling Mutant or the Priapismic Philosopher?

A fried up morning, set in cold Valhalla. This is not a story but a comicography of one lean individual.

The slothful chauvinist philosopher has arranged himself into a cozy embrace with the sandman underneath the covers. A snarl, a grunt and a honk escape the olfactory organs of the sleeper. He's dreaming of tits!

I walk in and out of rooms eying my fellow mate at inconsistent intervals trying desperately to examine minor traces of study burn out - praying hopefully that he'll sometime somehow succumb to the weariness and eventually head off to the laxation site to discharge his fecal waste.

Each man spanning his designated territory within the accommodation does his best to focus on the literature he holds for immaculate knowledge, disappearing and again reappearing in and out of rooms like veritable dead anomalies.

No sooner have both of us crossed Rubicon, words of the enlightened cry out from underneath the comfort covers – “BehnChod*!!!”

Facial features twist – pupils dilate. We tread softly, approaching the philosopher, cautious, fearing another effusion. The sheets lay victim to a silent but severe rape treatment beneath it. The philosopher, mumbling a string of curse words, appears to awaken at a deadening pace.

The eyelids pop open and we are introduced to a revived monster. His face resembles the arsehole of a baby goat. Sitting upright in a yogic bearing, he gets ready to unlock his osseous tissue for another day of pronounced work grind. The philosopher starts off near the cranium where he wiggles his ears and a crack is heard at the back of his head. He then cricks his head from left to right and the painful snaps occur once again. This practise continues till he finally ends up twisting his toes in an attempt to let us wonder why we don’t spray synovial fluid for door hinges.

The philosopher stands up slowly revealing his enormous protuberance from beneath his jockeys. What was he trying to do? Create an allegory for ‘Yank my Crank'? This man has a definite visa for Bangkok. We give him enough room to pass through without causing us loathsome dread to have to come in contact with his stone shank.

I look at my companion in absolute horror while he stays fixated to the ‘blech’ sight walking in his boxers towards the dining table where another set of our mates lie seated in their chairs distorting their face in distaste. As the philosopher sits down, he slowly muffles a snuff and grunt again and reaches for the early morning gazette to engage himself for a few minutes. As he skims through the sheets, nodding disapprovingly at all the bigotry characterised by the several campaigns and summits, he proceeds to inform us all about the uncanny resemblance in the pugilistic mentality of our neighbouring Muslim territory and a certain Afghan terrorist organisation. He further goes on to rattle a string of curses in their name. Typical.

Our hero is one but a healthy being. His body consists of pores, revolting pores that stand home to a thousand lesions that have started a colony within them. The philosopher feels the need to scratch one of the wounds behind his neck and as he does so, the bruise is severed and the gross abrasion now spews out inflammatory fluid of varying colours – white, red and yellow. The pore tears itself open wider with the increasing pressure of bodily fluid. People sitting beside the philosopher are covered with a gooey substance that stinks of dead larvae.

Suddenly the table begins to rock – up, down, sideways and all over. A clear case of Sergeant NocWorst doing push-ups for the day under the table. A huge pandemonium erupts amongst the ones sitting down beside the philosopher. A barrage of complaints are headed the philosophers way. He replies with a crackling roar, ‘Sh…sh…sh…sh…shut up you f…f…f...f…ools. Do not k…k…k…create such ruck…k…k…k…k...us and get back to your books. Imbeciles!’

Then…it happens. She enters the accommodation. Her presence causing instant transfiguration. Ever watched ‘The Matrix – Reloaded’ in which Seraph, the divine carries golden code to form his construct? You could relate her to that. She’s the epitome of divinity. Her aural protuberances – the ‘Aupros’** glowed to render evidence of her purity. As she steps in, silence reigns supreme and everyone in the room looks on - coveting her, for she's an ethereal being who floats on gossamer wings. She floats towards the philosopher and plants a kiss on his cheek.

Like most aural protuberances, Lappu and Teelu...**

*BehnChod: Meaning - Hindustani slang vernacular for 'One who has intercourse with one's feminine sibling'.

**See article: "Lappu and Teelu: The Tale of Two Aural Protuberances" at www.purdypitchers.blogspot.com.