[THE HYACINTH] Chap­ter IV: Cheat Cre­ation Myths / Scene XVI: Dirty Vegans

“FUCK­ING CUNT WHORE BITCH­ES MOTH­ER­FUCK­ERS” Chuck­ass Feltch­er growls under his own heavy breaths as he walks into the plain shoe­box apart­ment he’d rent­ed in Dal­las for the next twelve weeks. Turn­ing the key and push­ing the trick door open had proven to be more trou­ble than he’d bar­gained for. Chuck­ass had just got back from a two-day con­ven­tion in Tam­pa where he’d also bought new clothes at an out­let mall in Naples, that he’d heard a lot about―from dif­fer­ent peo­ple. When he was wait­ing for his flight at the air­port, he picked up a few old bach­e­lor essen­tials from the duty free store: dis­pos­able razors, odor­less deodor­ant, a bot­tle of Jack Daniels, three ham and cheese sand­wich­es pack­aged in trans­par­ent biki­ni sand­wich-shaped thick poly­eth­yl­ene con­tain­ers with a peel off wrap­per on the hypothenuse. Chuck­ass would have to dri­ve his rental car over to a phar­ma­cy on the way in, or go some­where near the hotel to pick up his pack of blood sug­ar test­ing strips.

“Rat fuck­er, moth­er­fuck­er” he gnarls again. Chuck­ass hired Buck McGuire in Yacatl­it­lan, (a young Afghanistan vet­er­an turned pho­to journalist/blogger) to help him write a semi-bio­graph­i­cal mem­oir of his most impor­tant life’s expe­ri­ences and per­son­al achieve­ments while serv­ing over­seas. He also want­ed a to cre­ate a mul­ti­cul­tur­al forum where all his future read­ers can par­take in an impor­tant dia­logue with a strong focus on enter­tain­ing his most out­landish ide­o­log­i­cal beliefs. The man who was now called Chuck­ass Feltch­er had defined him­self as a lib­er­tar­i­an anar­chist to any­one will­ing to hear him out on the top­ic. His expe­ri­ence had informed him that he saw eye to eye with the Repub­li­can Tea Par­ty and could per­haps even be the right man to speak to the younger demo­graph­ic as an influ­encer and per­haps even have an impact on an elec­toral lev­el or at least have enough rel­e­vance to appear on TV as a pun­dit and earn mon­ey in book sales.

Buck sent him some notes on a chap­ter he’d tran­scribed with record­ings Feltch­er had sent. In which he explored his per­son­al dis­re­gard for the law in extend­ed coke-fueled ram­blings that he spat into his phone’s record­ing app. Chuck­ass want­ed to talk about the impor­tance that the legal sys­tem has as an instru­ment to con­trol the poor, but it didn’t come out right because it sound­ed like he was shit­ting on the struc­tural­ly dis­en­fran­chised and blam­ing them for the exis­tence of pover­ty. A few evenings before he’d received a col­lec­tion of audio files that togeth­er were about an hour long and he thought that he have some­one do some­thing more artis­tic with the mate­r­i­al on Adobe CS, get Buck to write a fic­ti­tious account about the Green­wood Academy’s head­mas­ter Dix­ie Nor­mous hav­ing an affair with US Ambass­dor Feli­cia Tribb, his female boss who he despised main­ly because she was a Demo­c­rat, but also because she was a lesbian―the sto­ry he want­ed Buck to jot down was one of his favorite record­ings of one of his wild rants.

For the past year he’d kept a twit­ter pro­file called Veg­as­Tribb (NSFW). It was the twit­ter hub piece of an extor­tion ring he that rogue embassy ele­ments sus­tained against Yacatl­it­lan­ian busi­ness­es and all the oth­er kinds of polit­i­cal actors. The fake iden­ti­ty account was also used to deploy mal­ware from the social net­work to users and allowed third par­ties to hijack vul­ner­a­ble account iden­ti­ties, deceive more legit­i­mate users and then hack their sys­tems too. He sat on a cor­ner of his rent­ed bed and gazed at a plas­tic enve­lope open­er that looked like it was made of gold on his rent­ed desk. He fan­ta­sized that he could prob­a­bly stab a spic baby’s fuck­ing kid­ney with it and leave before the abom­i­na­tion from hell could fin­ish bleed­ing to death like a rat.

That’s when he decid­ed to check on the Vil­la hate Fan Page they kept in Face­book, to see new doo­dles Bai­ley-Jo signed as her brand and to see what else was up with their pub­lic pris­on­er who was banned from see­ing the page. Morales (who by now was known to be Nor­mous’ male pros­ti­tute in school vox pop­uli and on twit­ter) hacked into Villa’s free­lance ser­vices web­site, and locked him out of the admin login―again. The were doing that all the time in those times. This was the sec­ond time he had used a new vari­a­tion of the effec­tive­ly annoy­ing attack tech­nique. The first time the fresh lit­tle trick was test­ed was two days before, but Vil­la was quick­ly able to restore his set­tings with a back-up copy of the site that was stored on his host­ing account panel.

On this occa­sion, they had made sure to erase all the site back­ups from his host­ing account and to hijack their cus­tomer ser­vice applet so they could fuck with him if he trou­bleshot. On the pre­vi­ous attack they had already made it impos­si­ble to fix the user logins from the MySQL tables with a mali­cious script they down­loaded from a mil­i­tary deep web site. The attack script was hid­den among the almost one mil­lion lines of php source code on the whole site. The mal­ware was designed to scram­ble all the data­base table val­ues and make them illeg­i­ble and impos­si­ble to fix with cell edit­ing. Vil­la wast­ed hours of that day try­ing to fix the bug him­self because after the cus­tomer ser­vice applet had been hacked and hijacked―Bailey-Jo and Byron Lomona­co were on the oth­er end, giv­ing the most tox­ic advice they could think of and speak­ing exclu­sive­ly in insult-laced sub­text when he tried chat­ting with her and she was work­ing on crack.

In addi­tion to the need of repair­ing the sus­te­nance infra­struc­ture that bare­ly ever made him a nick­el. He had also fall­en behind on post­ing his col­lect­ed screen­shots of iden­ti­ty theft inci­dences in a tum­blr blog he was keep­ing to track a good sam­ple of the cyber­war­fare attacks to which he and his fam­i­ly were con­stant­ly being sub­ject­ed. Each post was auto­mat­i­cal­ly tweet­ed to US Ambas­sador in Tecuane­ga Feli­cia Tribb, Sec­re­tary of State John F. Ker­ry, all the FBI field offices that had twit­ter accounts as well as sev­er­al Amer­i­can and Yacatl­it­lan­ian news media out­lets that where up-to-date on the ongo­ing cri­sis but real­ly did not give a shit about it, sold out, or are afraid to chal­lenge the US government.

The fol­low­ing day after the infor­ma­tion was out, Rob Ford had his friend with ben­e­fits and her defac­to staff plant a dou­ble-wham­my about him get­ting fired right after find­ing out that he was dying of can­cer. The cul­tur­al cen­ter’s social media man­ag­er post­ed an open call for act­ing audi­tions, the sign had sev­er­al images that resem­bled Vil­la’s evi­dence screen­shots pos­si­bly as a par­o­dy in ridicu­lous micro-nar­ra­tive for­mats that implied emp­ty-head­ed cri­tiques in the ser­vice of pan­der­ing oppor­tunists. There was also a lit­tle clap­board with a check mark on it in the design, and the time codes and meta­da­ta lights were off.

Chuck­ass Feltch­er sat down at his small hotel room-style desk and began to look at a lit­tle flash fic­tion piece he’d start­ed, as a lone­ly whiskey on the rocks and cocaine-fueled rant on his phone’s recorder. Five, six, or maybe sev­en thou­sand words give or take. Dix­ie had told him about her sum­mer vaca­tion in Las Vegas with US Ambas­sador Tribb at a din­ner par­ty she host­ed, the sep­tu­a­ge­nar­i­an had described the affair as hot and heavy when she was on her hap­py chardon­nay and coke bombast.

Chuck­ass had intro­duced the pair of boomer white women dur­ing the first few weeks after the new Ambas­sador’s arrival to Tecuane­ga. Pri­vate school head­mas­ter Dix­ie was con­cerned that the whole beef she was hav­ing with Vil­la on the Inter­net would blow up in her face and she fig­ured that she real­ly need­ed to be proac­tive and cozy up to the incom­ing mis­sion head. Dix­ie had man­aged to get the pre­de­ces­sor to go along with her under­ground media cir­cus and get­ting dirty for her even after she fired Vil­la from the school and there was noth­ing she could use as a legal-sound­ing bull­shit excuse to stalk him.

When Nor­mous was told that her husband’s favorite Irish drink­ing bud­dy would be replaced with one of Oba­ma’s peo­ple, she hired a detec­tive to dig every­thing up about Tribb espe­cial­ly the dirt and pri­vate secrets. She also need­ed to know if they had any pos­si­ble friends in com­mon, her habits, likes… the most inter­est­ing tid­bit she was briefed on was that the incom­ing US Ambas­sador was a very kinky bisex­u­al who ran in S&M and bondage cir­cles in Thailand.

Feli­cia Tribb walked into Dixie’s suite at the Pal­la­gio a few steps behind her after the key card final­ly worked. They had already spent two days in Vegas watch­ing live shows play­ing black­jack, devot­ed a few hours to feed­ing coins into slot the machines, and played some Texas Hold’em on rail while they con­tin­ued to drink way too many open bar cock­tails. When Dix­ie Nor­mous turns her head to see her trav­el companion’s face, Feli­cia kiss­es her old brit­tle lips lick­ing them with her tongue like an ine­bri­at­ed pup­py. “I’m going to go fresh­en up” the horny grand­moth­er says excit­ed “and I’ll see you―in a minute!” The K‑12 school head walks into the vestibule’s wash­room, to remove her depends adult dia­per and wash any dripped feces off her crotch with a hot show­er. She gazes at the remote con­trol for the TV that was embed­ded in the bath­room mir­ror and briefly reflect­ed on how much things have changed since was young in the 1960’s. Dix­ie fin­ished wash­ing up and Feli­cia was wait­ing for her―spread across a chaise in a white hotel robe.

“Hel­lo there lit­tle lady, you about ready for me?” she said lin­ger­ing on the last vowel.

“I have a lit­tle some­thing for tonight.” Said Feli­cia cov­er­ing her mouth with her point­ed index fin­ger and then makes loud shush­ing sounds while she tries not to laugh.

She took a 2”x1” ziplock dime bag out of her robe pock­et, there were a six small postage stamp-style tabs with mul­ti-col­ored pop-art head­shots of Bea Arthur sten­ciled over a tie-dye background.

“It’s acid”, she says, “Paul got it for me.” (it was actu­al­ly Dix­ie who had the acid and Chuck­ass the one with the deep web kink and can­dy hookups).

“Take three, so we can have the same trip togeth­er!” Feli­cia spreads the stamps like tiny play­ing cards and took half of them and put one on her tongue to dis­solve quick­er than the three at once after pass­ing the oth­er three to her sum­mer lover.

“I haven’t done this in years,” Dix­ie answers earnest­ly and fol­lowed the Ambas­sador’s instruc­tions with her trade­mark shy­ness and for some rea­son remem­ber­ing when she’d dis­cuss Go Ask Alice with teenage stu­dents in her gram­mar school teach­ing days.

Maybe I should put Dix­ie back in her clothes and take her off the chaise, but I real­ly like that see­ing that word and also how it sounds: chaise. But in real­i­ty she was in the hotel suite Jacuzzi doing coke lines and drink­ing champagne.

US Ambas­sador to Tecuane­ga Feli­cia Tribb began to kiss Dix­ie with an ine­bri­ety-induced vio­lence that even made her expe­ri­ence pain―but not dis­com­fort. As the kiss­es became deep­er and more intense, Dix­ie’s mouth mor­phed into a rain­bow ribbed cave with a gen­tle psy­che­del­ic stream that flows in and out of her at the same time.

The two women went down onto the beige floor-to-floor rug that had become a col­or­ful kalei­do­scope of thick flow­ing shag fur. The diplo­mat pro­ceed­ed to stuff her drip­ping cel­lulite ass cheeks with Dix­ie’s huge lift­ed face. She felt her body and mind under­go­ing a phys­i­cal trans­for­ma­tion until at the very end she became a pur­ple drag­on that breathes shim­mer­ing gaso­line pud­dle bows.

“Ha! This shit is gold!” Chuck­ass says, as he reads the punched-up tran­script of his drunk­en ramblings.

The lumi­nous riv­er in Dixie’s rever­ies, trans­forms into a hor­i­zon­tal typhoon as the slurps on Feli­ci­a’s bit­ter cream pied sphinc­ter. The legate falls into the moist shad­ows of a thick prism sauce sick­led in a for­ma­tion that grew out of her two extremes in an inter­rupt­ed stretch of mat­ter gen­er­a­tion elapsed in a hyper­loop. She loved it.

Back in the eight­ies, she was a still a man called Fred­er­ick who repaired X‑ray and EMR machines in hos­pi­tals near and around the greater Sara­so­ta area. The penis she was born with and that she missed at times, was back but dif­fer­ent. It was fire hydrant now, shoot­ing a super­no­va of infrared galax­ies that shim­mer in Fred’s slow cap­ture of lumi­nes­cent speeds.

Dix­ie gave in to the fear of death and she was now the night sky, there was an invis­i­ble whirl­wind of drain­ing anti­mat­ter over her mind, it fed into an incon­spic­u­ous DQ on a back road in the New Mex­i­can desert, in the mid­dle of nowhere, the ninth-dimen­sion­al black hole leads to a van­ish­ing point light years away before a deep pur­ple and star­ry night that can only lead into a cold dark­ness and refus­es to go on for­ev­er. The fir­ma­ment can bare­ly be seen past the begin­ning of the start neb­u­la in the dis­tance, but she could see every­thing. Her low­er body is still on this world in a sense, and she sucks on the plas­tic ice-cream cone that’s bolt­ed to the build­ing’s rooftop with her aroused vagina.

An unfath­omable array of inter-stel­lar cos­mic sys­tems burst from her dot matrix as she con­sumes the sym­bol end­less­ly, in every space of its phys­i­cal absence it as if remak­ing all the mor­pho-seman­tic repli­ca­tions of every­thing that can be mea­sured, expe­ri­enced or known about.

Fred was wide awake dur­ing this bizarre revis­it of his phys­i­cal gen­der redes­ig­na­tion surgery. This time, it was being per­formed on a Mayan pyra­mid altar by a Shaman. He tried to remem­ber how it went the first time around and this was the only way he could remem­ber it hap­pen­ing no mat­ter how much he tried to remem­ber the 20th Cen­tu­ry hos­pi­tal oper­at­ing room. For some rea­son, though, she was unable to believe her­self. It felt as if she picked on the fake mem­o­ry like a scab, the real one would reveal itself.

The pre-Columbian high priest was wear­ing a liv­ing head dress, it was the head of an inter­galac­tic alien chimera with squared off fea­tures and a ser­pen­tine cylin­dri­cal tongue with a grad­ual diam­e­ter that end­ed in a zero tip on its pos­te­ri­or-most end, like a bald tail. His cuirass was also alive but belonged to anoth­er slain mon­ster that despite it’s death was also very ani­mate whilst host­ing the Aj K’in in its dis­mem­bered body and his mag­nif­i­cent Xibal­ba pow­ers. Where the length of the sen­tient pea­cock feath­ers end­ed, a lumi­nes­cent auro­ra burst into the cos­mic expanse that sur­round­ed them in a Bore­alis fog of teal, pur­ple, orange, fuch­sia and dirty gold.

Fred’s rein­stat­ed ves­tigiu­os penis had also tak­en a life of its own and had become Guku­matz, he knew that it was the sacred day in which he would be sep­a­rat­ed from Fred’s body and that the ful­filled prophe­cy would allow her to begin a new life cycle as Feli­cia, the bound­less babe that was no longer trapped inside Fred’s elapsed form of presence.

Once the feath­ered viper was returned to the Aj K’in under­world he was to appear before the intem­per­ate deities who had sum­moned it through Feli­ci­a’s long-await­ed emer­gence in the shared body’s con­flict­ed spir­i­tu­al form. The son of Quet­za­coatl was to be then released by a swift strike of the turquoise axe and fly up into Uranus before re-pen­e­trat­ing as a major deity into the Mayan under­world upon it’s return.

Dix­ie had trav­eled mil­lions of light years into the future and was ready to return the mul­ti­di­men­sion­al wis­dom con­tained in the fiber­glass ice-cream cone’s deep­est tran­scen­dence, to the heart of the frozen earth. Her breath was a long flux of light that would envel­op the crisp dunes of the surface’s posthu­mous glaciers.

The far off beach­es in Dix­ie’s all-encom­pass­ing enti­ty had grown child­ish­ly impa­tient with the all-encom­pass­ing peace on the des­o­late earth she wants to expe­ri­ence again with a naivete that is no longer pos­si­ble for her. Where was once all the con­flict and heartache that was lit­tle more than footage and data to her, and that sad­dened her deeply. She decid­ed on impulse to pro­voke a col­li­sion of frozen stone in her infi­nite moth­er­verse. The ice-cream cone became a mas­sive extinc­tion meteor―minuscule in the real­i­ty of things―the stone flew mil­lions of light years per hour to the place where it had once been dur­ing that infin­i­tes­i­mal moment that life form micro-cos­mol­o­gists called the exis­tence of Woman.

This new rede­fined Dix­ie had become a mul­ti­verse of hand-pierced lay­ers that tun­neled between long-for­got­ten plan­et sys­tems and oth­er extrac­tion sites that had also begun new cycles of cos­mic and geo­log­i­cal eons of life and empti­ness. Because what else is there? She took the great­est of plea­sures in feel­ing how the new­ly lib­er­at­ed vol­ca­noes give way to the pres­sure of shoot­ing mag­ma into the atmos­phere and spawn­ing a host of storms and cat­a­clysms that in the grand scheme of things are com­plete­ly futile and mean­ing­less. She was so angry at how old her world had become, and even with the pow­er to go back and return to dif­fer­ent present times, only to real­ize how peace­ful and per­fect it could all be with­out her and her bullshit.

Gary real­ized that his inspi­ra­tional writ­ing was start­ing to ram­ble or maybe he should just let go and allow his wor­ship and fideli­ty to Forneus, his sin­is­ter dark mas­ter, to help him along the revi­sion and in every­thing, in the same man­ner he had already guid­ed him through so many altered states of con­scious­ness and through gru­el­ing tri­als in demon­ic rit­u­als before.

Now let’s get back to that piece of shit she-male cunt again, Chuck­ass resolved.

Feli­cia was instruct­ed by the Mayan Shaman’s chant to con­join with a vir­gin offered by Ixchel as a trib­ute to the Guku­matz’ lib­er­a­tion. The tran­si­tion­ing diplo­mat felt vagi­nal liba­tions for the first time in her life, as the pair of sep­tu­a­ge­nar­i­ans scis­sored over the sac­ri­fi­cial vol­cano stone altar. The Indi­ans from the low­est slave casts dance at the base of the Mayan pyra­mid on the blood-drenched grass as the trans­sex­u­al’s new snatch kissed the sac­ri­fi­cial maid­en’s flower with the hunger of a sleep­ing drag­on that had final­ly wok­en up to feast. She could see her lover watch­ing the fourth of July fire­crack­ers that were shoot­ing out of her ass, she felt like at last she was get­ting to those hard to reach plea­sure places that her dick and balls would always obstruct. The two-dimen­sion­al rain­bow fly­ing out of her vir­gin vagi­nal cav­i­ty diverts it’s lin­ear course as the two twats, hers and the maid­en’s, squish and squash against each oth­er drool­ing in delight. She dis­cov­ered that the ema­na­tions had become a lumi­nous liquid―at the begin­ning she had intu­it­ed that the serv­ings were strict­ly made of light.

Dix­ie felt a trans-dimen­sion­al crunch press against her dark and prim­i­tive Goldie­locks zone sea of plan­ets and moons lost in one of her heav­ens and on an over­lap­ping ori­gin of dif­fer­ing starts. Her sub­tle body expand­ed with cos­mic explo­sion after cos­mic explo­sion, red stars, black holes, the whole fab­ric of space-time col­laps­ing around her as the big crunch con­tracts every con­ceiv­able form of mat­ter that exists and revers­es the laws of entropy while she grew even more into noth­ing­ness as a reverse reac­tion, a per­son­al choice. Every nat­ur­al and record­ed his­to­ry and exis­tence flies back­wards before her very eyes. Dix­ie re-wit­ness­es every­thing as if it was the sum­ma­ry of her own life. She remem­bers all the expe­ri­ences that each indi­vid­ual per­son had lived, hos­pi­tal vis­its, births and dreams. The most eccen­tric and beau­ti­ful men­tal devi­a­tions ever pon­dered in the most inti­mate silences, the most reclu­sive and close­ly-held secrets in the hard­est worlds to under­stand, in the most alien of intel­li­gences, expe­ri­enced like her own short-term mem­o­ries, as vivid and nat­ur­al as her least cog­nizant sense of self.

Flu­ent in absolute­ly every­thing to the point that the medi­a­tion of lan­guage is no longer a neces­si­ty for her, she deci­phers every pos­si­ble sym­bol­ic val­ue ever writ­ten in any sen­so­ry and psy­chic medi­um and traces its his­to­ry through every con­ven­tion­al­ized cause and effect rela­tion from the begin­ning to the end of civ­i­liza­tion, every secret­most thought and the entire cog­ni­tive process that built up to it as well as every­thing else that it spawned in it’s con­tin­ued artic­u­la­tion, and walk­ing past every lagoon that was miss­ing all along much after it was to late to change any­thing. She gath­ers her atten­tion and gen­er­ates a colos­sal cyclone of omi­nous end-of-days destruc­tion so she can sur­ren­der whats left of her iden­ti­fi­able self to it, to con­sol­i­date eter­nal oneness.

Dix­ie Nor­mous or what­ev­er the fuck she was now, knows that even­tu­al­ly even if it takes tril­lions of years it will feel like lit­tle more than a slum­ber to her, soon enough there will be anoth­er life ener­gy to ful­fill, but she knows not who the new form will be. Nor­mous was afraid of going any fur­ther into time­less­ness she did not care if the cos­mos would be ruined for every­thing. It’s her life, damn it!!! And she is a woman. If every­thing else that isn’t her was­n’t going to help her along on her jour­ney, then what’s the point of there being an every­thing else? She’d been the oth­er and the self and all she could say was fuck the star sys­tems, the gov­ern­ing prin­ci­ples of the moth­er­verse, all pos­si­ble forms of ratio­nal­i­ty and all the sense­less shit that had ever hap­pened and will hap­pen with­out her. Because what’s the point of any­thing? So she was a uni­verse, who gives a shit?

She want­ed a younger man―a pool boy―with a hard dick to want her drip­ping ripe pussy, an unlim­it­ed black card, nev­er-end­ing whiskey sours, enough cocaine to kill sperm whale, a buck­et of extra crispy KFC with the Colonels’ secret recipe, Moëtt cham­pagne, week­ends in Mary­land, vaca­tion cruis­es… What is the point of being a woman or being the fuck­ing uni­verse if you have to watch your­self fade away and turn into a dis­in­te­grat­ed nothing.Supreme uni­ver­sal aware­ness isn’t all it was cracked up to be. Infi­nite wis­dom is high­ly over­rat­ed. Yes, she was com­plete­ly exposed to every­thing imag­in­able for a moment there and it’s bull­shit, there’s no cocaine-fueled mul­ti­ple orgasms nor exces­sive taste buds stim­u­la­tion in it. All she was left with was want­i­ng a fuck­ing 20” penis deform­ing her ass­hole when she expe­ri­enced the sum of all that is knowable―at the same time! She’s a sim­ple gal with sim­ple tastes! She wants earth-bound bil­lion­aire mon­ey, the most hedo­nis­tic kind of human pow­er, drugs―and what the fuck is this no repet­i­tive vagi­nal pen­e­tra­tion that makes her queef like a race mare and spew pip­ing-hot clam chow­der all over the place?

She remem­bers the day that she knew for real that she was old. There were two young peo­ple sit­ting on a park bench in the 80’s, and they annoyed her because they looked like chil­dren but they weren’t kids. Anoth­er par­tic­u­lar­ly unpleas­ant seg­way into her win­ter sea­son was when she start­ed ask­ing peo­ple to call her by her first name, and even the peo­ple she didn’t employ felt weird say­ing her deranged sound­ing name that no one ever got used to―to an old lady. A few years lat­er as a recent­ly deceased spir­it she would make her­self for­get all that, take pills, seek revenge. She would always go back to her mem­o­ries of posts, tweets, sur­veil­lance media, the first drafts of the Dol­ly Lla­ma. Yacatl­it­lan­ian police and Comey’s FBI, fuck­ing smug piece of shit spic, he’s the fuck­ing dinosaur! It’s not fair! She had a hot ass when she was twen­ty years old and now the dis­grace­ful cursed ride hangs like a half-dead cel­lulite pork rind. Her ass cheeks drape like old semi-truck mud flaps with a cou­ple of 50’s pin­up silhouettes.

There’s anoth­er sto­ry about her not being able to get any more face lifts because all those wussy plas­tic sur­geons say she would end up look­ing real­ly weird, like one of those mon­sters in Escape from L.A. and now even her lit­tle gigo­lo, her IT Depart­ment direc­tor that was killed imme­di­ate­ly when the first riots broke out in 2018.He! had man­aged to weasel out of the plea­sure oblig­a­tions that had made his earn­ings so extra when she was around. He had all her com­put­ers hacked and had enough dirt on her to be set for life (accord­ing to his cal­cu­la­tions). Dix­ie had record­ed that gold-dig­ger telling her that she was beyond beau­ti­ful and that he pro­found­ly enjoyed fuck­ing her despite liv­ing in the way of the Lord and sav­ior Jesus Christ, the son of God.

Ambas­sador Feli­cia was on all fours grind­ing up against her pal’s face and trip­ping like a lunatic on her bull­shit. Her mind had con­vinced her that she was on a trans-galat­ic desert under a vio­let heav­en as she sat passed out against a large floor to ceil­ing sol­id glass win­dow in the Pal­la­gio pent­house suite floor, nude and with puke, vagi­nal lube and ass san­to­rum all over her face and neck. Feli­cia Tribb was hap­pi­er than a goat in the sum­mer. In fact, she was a bovine crea­ture from an off-dis­tant plan­et mil­lions of light years ago. She resem­bled some­thing dis­tant­ly evoca­tive of a Lla­ma, but much larg­er, enough to be a rid­ing ani­mal in a des­o­late alien ranch­ing facil­i­ty. The intel­li­gent species in charge were either humanoid or chep­halopoid she couldn’t tell because of an elec­tro­mag­net­ic fre­quen­cy they use to blur their form out for anonymi­ty. In this world they were called Xebo­phya. This inde­pen­dent stock grow­ing oper­a­tion belonged to the Kam­m­dal; a short, translu­cent, humanoid drone sub­species with col­or­ful and lumi­nous inter­nal organs that resem­bled that of Earth’s bio­lu­minis­cent deep-sea marine life. They lived in a neigh­bor­ing plan­et with more favor­able con­di­tions for their mas­ter species.

In this dimen­sion, her home plan­et had two red satel­lite moons and the region she inhab­it­ed was made up of vast exten­sions of col­or­ful feed plan­ta­tions over flat lands, that are even­tu­al­ly met by very deep canyons that in turn are icy cold in their cav­ernous bot­toms thou­sands of meters below. The rest of the atmos­phere and plant life shifts inter­mit­tent­ly into extrav­a­gant col­or pat­terns as they rocked in the wind. There was rough pas­sion­ate sex on this world, even for the insti­tu­tion­al­ized meat pro­duc­tion ani­mals like her. Because as she reck­oned, what she was doing to Dix­ie’s (anoth­er meat beast’s) face could not be called mat­ing. She was fuck­ing one of her arms, this Xebo­phya belonged to a sex called mota, they were bio­log­i­cal­ly equipped to breed off­spring but were born with no desire to repro­duce with their sex­u­al part­ners. She remem­bered for­mer lovers that would swing their gigan­tic tongues from side to side over her throb­bing nick­le in repet­i­tive move­ments that would spread vis­i­ble rip­ples imprint­ed in the atmos­phere. These gen­er­at­ed inscrip­tions emu­lat­ed her decep­tive cor­po­re­al solid­i­ty as devi­a­tions that twist and turn in front of her, regard­less of where she fixed her gaze as she kept on fuck­ing Dix­ie’s semi-con­scious face eons before when her sag­ging sock tits col­lect­ed lint from the hotel suite floor-to-floor.

Dix­ie was not com­plete­ly out but just knocked down. She feels slight­ly cheat­ed out of all the things she wants to cling to but are slip­ping away for­ev­er. Her moth­er had nev­er told her she was pret­ty when she was grow­ing up and despite being from an upper mid­dle class back­ground she was raised to envy the oth­er kids, there were Rock­e­fellers, Van­der­builts and Rothchilds in the pri­vate school she attend­ed on a GI bill. Her infe­ri­or­i­ty com­plex nev­er made her shy and actu­al­ly pro­pelled her to get the rich­est cocks in the school down her throat, turn­ing their balls into sil­ly put­ty in her hands and Tea-bag­ging them bet­ter than a male prison wife. This was prob­a­bly the last time she was ever going to have her leg­endary pow­ers of seduc­tion over an author­i­ty fig­ure again in her life.

“This dis­grace­ful horny-ass giraffe can fuck a corpse and bare­ly notice the absence of life at the end of her end, so long as she gets off.What a piece of fuck­ing work.” An unreach­able lev­el of her sub­con­scious said to itself unable to open her body’s mouth from the bot­tom of the ocean in her ridicu­lous­ly aver­age mind.

Why does life have to be so unfair? Her chil­dren would send an email every six months and on some ran­dom oblig­a­tory hol­i­day or a birth­day that they hap­pened to remem­ber and that coin­cid­ed with the need for mon­ey and “that’s as good as it gets,” she’d always say.

The three of them are noth­ing but ingrates, pieces of shit, self-right­eous yup­pie puri­tan hyp­ocrites. She would still remem­ber their teen drink­ing and drug-use stunts―the first-born even had an abor­tion in her sopho­more year of high school. Now they’re liv­ing in prime real estate―after fuck­ing up bet­ter than she ever could―with their lit­tle bitch-ass tod­dlers whose names only her assis­tant could remem­ber think­ing that the desire to real­ly live won’t be com­ing back when they get fed up of bor­ing them­selves to death with their gourmet lattes and hands-on child rear­ing. She rel­ished on them feel­ing the void of want­i­ng to feel want­ed and the need to exper­i­ment again. I’ve seen how they look at me when I play with whomever’s chil­dren were there on a Christmas―like I’m going to fuck­ing rape them. How dare those fuck­ing hip­ster losers! Like they did­n’t fuck­ing have it good their whole lives, going to the finest schools and buy­ing all the high-end crap they want­ed and that are too good for now.

Feli­cia picks Dix­ie’s body up from the floor and flings her over her dement­ed man shoul­der. The diplo­mat paced fran­ti­cal­ly around the Suit­e’s sev­en main spaces, that to her were a mind-expand­ing rain for­est. The envi­ron­ment glim­mered in bril­liant col­or com­pos­ites that ran through the sand under her feet. There was a trans­par­ent lay­er between her phys­i­cal pres­ence and the pools of col­or that sur­round her: the observ­er. It was a pla­cen­ta more than a force field. She feels lost again and changes who is anoth­er time, flee­ing from the wild beasts that hunt and stalk her at every turn. The pur­suit con­tin­ues until she’s decid­ed to look for one of the beds, a sal­va­tion. She feels lucky to expe­ri­ence and know this real­iza­tion from before, because she did not want to full-heart­ed­ly believe that the bed was just a psy­che­del­ic hippopotamus.

She takes her grand phys­iog­no­my and uses it to plas­ter Dix­ie’s uncon­scious body over a third of the mat­tress like a neat­ly cut piece of a Her­shey choco­late over a flam­ing marsh­mal­low, the pri­vate school Head­mas­ter feels like she’s been shot from one end of a petrie dish’s micro­scop­ic uni­verse to the oth­er. She will spend her last wak­ing moment try­ing to cov­er-up this truth but a nurse will suf­fo­cate her with a pil­low before she can. Because of orders from her high­er ups―not the same that had saved her ass before, but new ones who now were pro­tect­ing their man.Dixie’s a uni­cel­lu­lar life form that lives in a posthu­mous world where she could edit her earth-bound genes. Her pet whales exhale out­ward round sound waves that gyrate refract­ed in crushed bot­tle glass.

Feli­cia props the uncon­scious lover up against a large thresh­old made of 4”x4” mahogany beam mold­ings, she com­fort­ably sets her­self on Dix­ie’s face and starts to ride it with her pussy taint and ass―on all fours. She looks up into a ceil­ing trans­formed into a whirl of streaks of force­ful chro­mat­ic streams that fly into or out of her mouth, nose and eyes―because it doesn’t seem like you’re sup­posed to know their true direc­tion. The myr­i­ad of mad­ness also flows in and/or out of through all her crotch ori­fices and gen­er­ate a Bod­hid­har­ma on the exact oth­er side of the world. Way over there―in Asia―Felicia is Agdites and she is med­i­tat­ing under a pome­gran­ate tree, and her kalei­do­scop­ic sur­round­ings shift­ed into dif­fer­ent forms of coral or cannabis bud frac­tals in in pre-deci­sion quan­tum splen­dor. Dix­ie is Nana and Feli­ci­a’s the tree she was gaz­ing into before. After feast­ing on the red fruit, The K‑12 head notices that she’s flood­ing Agdites with self-cas­trat­ing children―human traf­fick­ing vic­tims that are sold into pedophil­ia and fall like aster­oids. Each cas­trat­ed of their phal­li grows into a banana tree, some sacred but most of them of the most com­mon stocks from their cursed earth.

Feli­cia yearned to dis­in­te­grate in Dyon­i­sius’ bow­els with them, like a lime stat­ue that would eas­i­ly crum­ble. She could see from inside his eyes, just by clos­ing hers―like when she had people’s screens hacked but for real, with her inside the host entity’s liv­ing body. The clas­si­cal mon­ster’s stom­ach bile was a pool of an acidu­lous wine, that could only pre­sum­ably be defined as such. The form of post-mortem pres­ence she was tak­ing now was to a cer­tain point depriv­ing her of her sen­so­ry aware­ness. They were some­where else now―her and the beast―thousands of light years into the future. She want­ed to taste the zephyr on her tongue. Ambas­sador Feli­cia Tribb saw her tongue get longer like a cork screw slow­ly in the same pro­por­tion that the acid had melt­ed what she felt like had been days before. All the sol­id mat­ter encased the pro­gres­sive in-ward twist­ing fed into a bleak worm­hole of mys­te­ri­ous noth­ing­ness. She felt so far from her body, com­plete­ly removed from the present and effaced from all pos­si­ble cor­po­re­al existence.

Tribb could nonethe­less sense a pen­e­trat­ing gaze that sprung straight out from the pitch black void and that illu­mi­nat­ed a round patch over the world of the dead. The stim­uli and their effects were nev­er hers or any­body else’s to mea­sure or count on, they were an illu­sion. In the same way that being born with a penis was for her a phys­i­cal real­i­ty that had been com­plete­ly sep­a­rate from who she was and what life meant to her. Her penis / a penis / the penis regard­less how biol­o­gy made it hap­pen for her, Feli­cia knew that it went com­plete­ly against her true spir­i­tu­al essence to have it and live as a wrong­ful­ly assigned gender―she just knew it.

When Feli­cia returned to her phys­i­cal body she was in a very sober­ing trashed pent­house suite. This looks like tor­na­do fol­lowed an earth­quake. The US Ambas­sador to Tecuane­ga sud­den­ly felt very vul­ner­a­ble as she looks around in dis­may with her arms crossed and her gym sock breasts that fall inch­es beneath her elbows. She was ter­ri­fied that Dix­ie might have hurt her or sub­ject­ed her to unimag­in­able abuse and tor­ture. She took anoth­er hot-water rinse in the douche. Feli­cia Tribb then picked up a land line phone from the suit­e’s wreck­age and asked for a 6:00 PM wake up call to her suite on the fol­low­ing day, so she could make her 9:00 PM flight out of there. After get­ting set­tled in again and tak­ing a real show­er in her own suite, she did a cou­ple of lines of Boli­vian cocaine and hit the slot machines and pok­er tables. Dix­ie woke up mirac­u­lous­ly after almost chok­ing asleep on a ball of puked-up body flu­ids. The rest of her was crammed with vagi­na lube, ass san­to­rum, piss, crap and col­lect­ed lint and dirt from being dragged around all over the rug.

“Nasty dike whore bitch­es.” Feltch­er chuck­les to him­self as his out-of-the-can hair­less spam-look­ing head rocks side to side like a Sikh taxi driver’s in Bangladesh.

He logged into Feli­ci­a’s google account with the cre­den­tials he’d har­vest­ed record­ing her assistant’s key­strokes when she was loging into her Offi­cial US Ambas­sador blog­ger account and had made sure to make back­up copies of all her account data. He post­ed the tai­lor-made text that he con­sid­ered to be his side of the sto­ry, he also ran it on oth­er plat­forms that syn­di­cat­ed it all over social media. Chuck­ass feltch­er even had his friends at the cul­ture cen­ter send the sto­ry through MailChimp to his own mail­ing list with over 2,000,000 active contacts.

“I hope they real­ly think that fuck­ing bean­er Vil­la sent this shit out.” He uttered laugh­ing at his own inge­nious­ness for clever wipe-out gags.

“Maybe it’ll even get Feli­cia to order a hit on him!” Chuck­ass incan­tat­ed while wish­ing it with all of his hope­ful lit­tle heart.

Vil­la had man­aged to take his com­put­er off the sur­veil­lance grid as he was start­ing to do every oth­er few days for hours at a time or a cou­ple of days at best―for which they decid­ed to hire round-the-clock preda­to­ry hack­ers to keep him at bay. The unbe­liev­ably inhu­man wages that they paid were the per­fect cov­er to embez­zle more funds and expand the black mar­ket indus­try they were cre­at­ing. Chuck­ass Feltch­er need­ed to get some more mon­ey into Byron Lomonaco’s hands so he could keep hack­ing away and mak­ing the inter­mit­tent equip­ment turn up again, but Ford and Bai­ly-Jo kept steal­ing the wire trans­fers and spend­ing it on crack “for everybody”.

Their tar­get, the Yacatl­it­lan­ian writer was well into his first nov­el man­u­scrip­t’s ear­ly drafts. It would even­tu­al­ly be titled The Dol­ly Lla­ma, a fic­tion­al­ized account of the arbi­trary shit fest he sud­den­ly had to endure for sev­er­al years―libel, insti­tu­tion­al­ized racism and a wide array of human rights abus­es. When even­tu­al­ly, Rod Ford, to nobody’s sur­prise, did not qual­i­fy for an over-the-table work con­tract renew­al in the cul­tur­al center―nobody in Tecuane­ga want­ed to rent space from him or even appear on his radar as a rec­og­niz­able acquaintance―more for being hacked than any­thing sim­i­lar to moral indig­na­tion. Vil­la kept catch­ing Ford and his crew car­ry­ing out crim­i­nal activ­i­ty con­sue­tu­di­nar­i­ly, on a web­site where Vil­la embed­ded what became a most fla­grant­ly noto­ri­ous iden­ti­ty theft-rich assort­ment of twit­ter lists.

Accord­ing to a few of those iden­ti­ty theft troll accounts, “Ford was diag­nosed with a pros­ti­tute can­cer that he got from his proteins.”

Press Offi­cer Chuck­ass Feltch­er called them on the phone after talk­ing to Byron and Morales sep­a­rate­ly. Bai­ley-Jo and Rod Ford were at Rod’s house where she’d moved in a few weeks pri­or after kick­ing Rod’s Yacatl­it­lan­ian wife out with shoves and punch­es in a drunk­en rage. At the time when Chuck­ass called, they were drink­ing rum and doing lines off an old AC/DC CD that was too scratched up to play songs on the stereo any­more. Hopped up and shak­ing all night long for sev­er­al weeks they were unable to have sex because Ford was com­plete­ly impo­tent and to make mat­ters worse all the speed they’d tak­en swal­lowed up his penis which left him pee­ing like a girl but much more slop­py, he also hadn’t pooped in a month. The inter-gen­er­a­tional cou­ple was too zip­py and into their dra­ma to notice if the world was end­ing or any­thing else. At their low­est drop points they hoped that all their mis­cal­cu­lat­ed risks would amount to an ear­ly release from their mis­ery, and the real con­se­quences of their madness.

Bai­ley Jo’s made it a goal to sac­ri­fice her soul and poi­son every­thing in God’s earth with the most pas­sive-aggres­sive bile she could col­lect from typ­ing into the twit­ter search box and use the inquiry results to defame, insult, intim­i­date and divide Vil­la from his fam­i­ly and any­one who’d go near him in espe­cial­ly all those smug elit­ists in the writer’s own work lists. Rep­e­ti­tion was a big part of their KKK/CIA psy­che destruc­tion techniques―saying the same shit over and over again like a word scram­bler that can only say the same five things but in dif­fer­ent word com­bi­na­tions, pro­duc­tions that the two GRE-lev­el aggres­sors could nev­er pro­duce on their own wits despite the banal­i­ty and mind­less­ness of their pla­gia­rism choices.

Even­tu­al Yacatl­it­lan­ian nov­el­ist Roger Vil­la had avoid­ed con­nect­ing to the web dur­ing the entire­ty of that week. When the young poet was fed up with wan­der­ing around his pitch black for­est of text he’d work on a graph­ic design vec­tor that he made out of a high res­o­lu­tion pho­to he found on Flickr. It was of the Rober­to Sosa mon­u­ment in Tecuane­ga that was just out­side the Avant Garde The­atre that bore the poet’s name. He would do any­thing to avoid the end­less argu­ments with Bai­ley-Jo’s squad of crack-addict­ed urchins that could do noth­ing more than regur­gi­tate the same revile­ment, and attacks. They’d clone web­sites, infest users with mal­ware, and hijack DNS servers to spoil the glo­ri­ous expe­ri­ence of read­ing up on con­tem­po­rary lit­er­a­ture, qual­i­ty twit­ter posts, pub­lish­ing news, con­test announce­ments, grants sub­mis­sions requests, free­lance gigs, lit crit, fun­ny spam, books, the news and oth­er writer’s thoughts and impressions.