M O L E S T U A L

She slowly lifts her glazed blue eyes and mumbles that it’s late.

Her breath is stale,

It reeks of vodka and cheap malt.

She stands out of my grasp and sways like a lame

Giraffe. I catch her by the small

Of her back and feel her subtle frame melt

Beside me into an inebriant puddle. I have to stall –

So I say she’s right, it’s much too late.

If she braves the night alone, Some-

One, some male–

Drawn in and driven by alluring lust

Would snatch her purse and keys at the very least;

Defile the gentle plumage of her innocence, steal

Her purity, suck it out of her like an abhorrent louse…

I pluck off her gloves and shoes and molt

My jacket like a slippery leather skin. Behind her I stand tall.

The bedroom door swings shut with a slam;

Tomorrow, I’ll tell all my friends she’s a slut.

Philosophy Story

Chapter II: Prototype of Tiny Pipes

             As soon as we were sucked into the device, I wished that he had actually waved his hand or snapped in warning – he could have at least counted down from three before he pushed the button. The sensation was much like being tumbled down the length of a dryer stretched depth-wise to infinity, if that’s at all imaginable.

            When we finally stopped being twirled around, I waited to regain my composure before opening my eyes to the scene in front me. I took a breath and made sure my feet were solidly planted (the ground was much firmer than before, and an uncomfortable scent crept into my nostrils). It smelled like sewer rats dipped in tobacco, the hospital’s formaldehyde smell would have been very welcome at the moment. When my vision and stomach settled and my head stopped whirring, I was confronted with a scene that looked a lot like pictures of 18^th century England. Spired buildings gasped for air above a crowded city that was crawling with merchants and ugly prostitutes.

A familiar-sounding screech reminded me of the bumbling midget that was my guide, and I turned to my left to see him spinning uncontrollably in circles.

“Oh dear, make it stop! This is always so uncomfortable.” He spun around in wavering circles, wobbling back and forth until he tripped near the edge of the road and fell into a ditch. Before I could help him out of his predicament, he had hopped up with an embarrassed look, brushed himself off, and snorted loudly.

“Well this doesn’t seem like the right place, now, does it,” he said, sweeping his eyes over the grimy city. “I must have taken us to the wrong place, that’s the problem with these new devices.” He saw my look of confusion and quickly went into an explanation: “Oh you see, they take you to whatever destination you have in mind, but you must hold that place in the forefront of your thoughts or you will go awry. We seem to have made it to one of many of God’s prototypes of earth.”

Before I could ask, he jumped into another explanation, this time with an even higher voice than normal, “You see, people have taken all of this far too literally. When an immortal being says he takes 7 days and 7 nights to make an entire planet, it’s not literally 7 days and 7 nights. I won’t even try to explain the length of it because I don’t know if you would understand.” He paused to wipe his nose with a handkerchief (a welcome change from all the sniffling). “The nerve! It took a lot of hard work to make the world how it is, all of the kinks had to be worked out perfectly. Look around, you’ll see that things are not quite right yet, although this is one of the later models.”

Taking his advice, I looked more closely at the hazy metropolis. I saw the same bustling city, pointed peaks of stony towers, and infection-stuffed prostitutes that I did before. Obviously I’d never been in 18^th century England before, but from what I knew about the place and time, everything seemed to be in order. I looked over at the guide for assistance and found the same confused look that I felt.

“Ah! I’ve got it! Oh you’ll like this one, this prototype had a minor social issue, not too much really. I’ve been reading about this recently in the history books! Look closely at the citizens and you’ll see.”

I walked up behind a crowd of rabble-rousing merchants to get a better look. Primly dressed, boisterous, aggressive people – exactly what I expected. As I got nearby I realized that they were all smoking from very, very small pipes. Each pipe was the length of my pinky finger at best, with some getting down to an inch. Each one was intricately carved, with copious miniscule designs dancing gently across the wood. The peculiar group stood in a circle, constantly packing tobacco and striking matches because their pipes held next to nothing. On top of that, each time they held their match up to light the tobacco, the flame would curl up and lick the tips of their noses, making them twitch and jump in surprise (the tough ones did well to stand their ground).

“Yes, yes, quite funny, isn’t it? These particular people have taken some odd liking to hand-crafted, ridiculously small pipes. They pay loads of money for them, it has become a status symbol. The smallest pipes must have been crafted by the youngest and most skilled children, and therefore are the most powerful and are only intended for the elite… You know how it is. Aside from child labor issues that result, these men are forced to stand and smoke for extended periods of time because their tiny pipes don’t hold enough tobacco, which makes them very unproductive. Not to mention, they’re always burning their noses, and we can’t have our beautiful people looking like clowns.”

Chuckling slightly to myself, I decided to ask one of the partakers about his pipe in hopes of getting a closer look at it (and the substantial red callous he had built up on his nose). Tapping him on the shoulder, I opened my mouth to speak –

He twirled around much more quickly than I expected and blurted out in a southern drawl, “Howdy y’all, aren’t you two strange looking folks in these here parts.” He looked at me blankly with a silly grin that went perfectly with his red nose and ridiculous accent, and it took most of my self-control to resist breaking into laughter. My guide, on the other hand, seemed to have very little self-control. He doubled over, giggling and clutching at my arm to pull me away from the anachronistic fools.

Wiping his eyes on his robes he looked at me and said, “I apologize, the southern accent is something we like to throw in as a joke sometimes. It makes light of some of the most serious situations, and this was a particular frustrating time in the creation of earth. Have you ever been to the south? What a sad place it would be without tractors and country music.”

We had gotten away from the crowds of people and were now alone again. Twangs and drawls could be heard belting out the words to some atrocious tune accompanied by the awkward plucking of a banjo.

“Well I believe that is enough of this place, it’s time we get back to where we belong. Come along then, let’s go.” He took the black object out of the folds of his robes, and muttering under his breath about dizziness and inconvenience, he punched the center button firmly with his thumb.

Philosophy Story

Chapter I: The Gilded Gate

It was while I rapidly approached death and my cancer-ridden body deflated into a wrinkled hide, that I had what I believe was my most significant moment of intellectual clarity. This epiphany came to me in a vision of sorts, a lapse of consciousness that crept upon me like a daydream. In an instant, I was whisked away from the sterile stench and piercing light of my hospital room. Like most dreams, there was no definitive beginning to the episode. However, the lucidity of this particular fantasy allows me to tell my tale from the moment I remember fading into the ethereal world – I stood alone, sponginess beneath my feet and a soft, inviting light caressing my eyes from a distance.

__     __     __

            As I gazed out in front of me I realized that I was standing. Not only was I standing, but it was on a pair of legs more sturdy than I could ever remember having. And the brittle arms and angular hands that used to be stroked gently by loved ones had been replaced by full, strong flesh… My fear of losing life dissipated with my newfound strength, only to be replaced by the uneasiness of eternity.

Strolling effortlessly across a field of white fluff, I quickly approached the glowing light (I assumed it must be the gate kept by Saint Peter, and I was eagerly awaiting my fair share of juicy grapes and virgins). When I got close, the light became much harsher and whiter. It lost the comforting yellow glow that had drawn me to it. This new light reminded me much more of my hospital, or a school, or a meth lab – something unnaturally pale.

“Welcome to Heave” the sign read, its neon glow casting a hazy orange hew over the ground. Occasionally the full “Heaven” flickered into view. There was a podium on the left side of a large gilded arch, and a heavy, ancient book lay open on its wooden surface. A feeble, pale, old man sat at a stool behind the podium, staring at me blankly behind thick glasses.

“Step over here sir, Saint Peter is away at the moment but I know the routine. Yes – I know the routine, I do.” the small man said. He sniffled, pulled a wrinkled handkerchief out of his pocket, and blew heavily into it. “What is your name? Let me see if I can find you in this book.”

After a rather long while of rummaging, page turning, dusting, and squinting at the endless yellowed leaves of names, the man broke the silence with his shrill voice: “Here it is! Here it is! Oh wait, no…”

He re-furrowed his brow and returned his long, dripping nose to within an inch of the page – the end of his final word lingered on his lips in a scowl. The scowl slowly faded into an absent look of defeat, and for a moment I believed that my name must not be there. I waited for the trapdoor beneath me to open. I waited to be dropped into the singed arms of the desolate underworld – to be torn apart and reduced to unrecognizable, throbbing flesh.

“Forget it! Bloody book, I can’t see how Peter sits here all day without an iPad or anything, wearing these stupid clothes…” He reached down to fix the hem of his flowing robes (maybe a little bit too flowing for a man of his stature). He had gotten them inconveniently hooked to a crooked nail in the podium. Leaning too far forward, he tipped the golden halo off its slippery perch on his balding head, and it bounced lightly on the ground. “The thing never stays on,” he mumbled, bending down to pick up his halo and inevitably slamming the back of his head on the lip of the podium while straightening himself. Yelping in pain, he frantically rubbed at the growing welt and looked at me, giant tears appearing behind his thick glasses.

“Let’s get on with this.” He took his hand from his reddening skull and pulled a small device from a pocket within his robes. “New technology this is, it’ll take you anywhere you want at the snap of a finger. Quite amazing really.” He looked at it for a moment in admiration (it was smooth and round like a weathered skipping rock, its only feature was a large red button in its center). He seemed to have completely forgotten about his injury.

The man sniffled, “Anyway, our first order of business is to take you on your tour of Heaven, and I will be your guide. This might be a bit disorienting – the whole disappearing and appearing in a different place thing – so just be ready.” And with a snap of the finger, twitch of the nose, and ambiguous wave of his tiny hand, the scene vanished behind us and we were on our way through the gates of Heaven.

Max’s Story

            By the time we arrive at the Blue Water Grill I have sweated through my custom made Hugo Boss undershirt.  My hands, which are pale and soggy, are trembling uncontrollably as I clench them tightly together.  I had made reservations for an eight-thirty dinner while crouched in the corner of a bathroom stall at Pierce & Pierce a couple hours earlier.  After calling Barbounia, Francisco’s, and Le Bernadin and failing to get reservations for dinner with Evelyn, I started picking frantically at my manicured fingernails and smoothing back my already perfectly combed and treated hair.  McDermott had mentioned Blue Water Grill to me, describing it as “the epitome of classic New York culture.”  Although McDermott’s taste is questionable to say the least, I decided to test his word and call up the new place.  If it is as awful as I expect, I can let him know how utterly common it is the next time I see him. 

            Although I would never admit it to McDermott, Blue Water Grill is very impressive.  The dim lighting, smooth, crème-colored tablecloths, and soft jazz give the place an unmistakably classy, New-York mobster feel.  I feel sweat creeping under my arms and beginning to bead on my forehead.  We order from one of many hardbody waitresses with very large tits.  Most of them are blonde, and they are dressed in short skirts with revealing navy blouses that accentuate their tight bodies.  I am wearing an exquisite Armani linen suit with faint pinstripes, a crisp, white Armani shirt and a cobalt grey silk tie.  My suit stretches snugly across my chest and biceps, which are freakishly large and bulging from the two-hour upper body workout I did at Xclusive earlier today.  Evelyn is wearing a red Geoffrey Beene dress with subtle stitching embellishments down her side.  She’s been keeping herself in good shape as well – probably a result of her anorexia – one of her only redeeming qualities.   

            The food is served in tiny, sectioned portions and my peppercorn roast pork with vermouth pan sauce is complemented perfectly by a neat pile of panzanella caprese and a glass of J&B on the rocks.  Evelyn’s too mellowed out on Parnate, her new anti-depressant, to do much else besides pick at the blackened whole rainbow trout and potatoes garnished with lemon sitting in front of her.  I find her selection to be quite bland, it looks like the chefs just seared a fish on both sides and slapped it — eyes, bones, guts, and all, onto a plate with potatoes — extremely uncreative on their part.

            After dinner, Evelyn and I go back to her apartment and as she changes into her nightgown and prepares for bed, I brush my teeth and wash my face — first with anti-acne scrub, then with Cor soap (with chitosan to even out skin tone) — apply lotion generously to maintain fullness and moisture, and use a smaller amount of ReVive intensite Volumizing Serum (This is one of my favorite products, its keratinocyte growth factor speeds dead skin cell turnover to eight times the normal rate, and it eliminates any miniscule lines that might otherwise remain on my face.  It is only sold at Neiman Marcus for $600 an ounce, quite the high-class product).  I finish by rinsing and gargling twice with mouthwash before changing into my set of silk pajamas by Ralph Lauren.  When I get to the bedroom, Evelyn is already hidden deep under the down covers in a drug-induced stupor, the TV buzzing on about some home improvement garden product that “eradicates unwanted weeds in just three to five hours”.  Despite the bland evening, I am still horny from an earlier viewing of one of my favorite cinematic adventures, “A Tale of Two Titties,” (a classic about the promiscuous encounters of a busty blonde hardbody with a splashing of high-quality French Revolution violence), so I roll Evelyn over and try to keep her awake.  Despite my best attempts, Evelyn remains half-conscious at best, so I spread her legs apart with my hands and press lightly upon her body to avoid crushing her beneath me.  It is slow work at first (Evelyn not contributing much, if anything, to the effort), and I find myself having difficulty staying hard even with her supple body lying out before me. 

            My mind begins to drift to the Patty Winters Show this morning.  This particular episode was about abused pets — it focused mostly on a group of a dozen or so starving dogs that were being kept in the basement of some dirty Mexican’s shack.  The dogs were found living in piles of their own feces, and the owner hadn’t even taken the time to remove the corpses of two of the older dogs that had died a couple weeks earlier.  Since Mr. Sanchez apparently didn’t feed the things either, the rotting corpses provided necessary sustenance for their canine companions, evidenced by large tears in the flesh postmortem.  The whole situation reminds me of one of my experiments from when I attended Phillips Exeter Academy.  It was early in my lower year when I stole my teacher’s adorable Pomeranian puppy and kept it in a cage in an abandoned maintenance closet, so I could feed it bits of raw dog meat (eventually large chunks, then straight filets) that I obtained from an animal pound nearby.  The dog grew strong and healthy on its high-protein diet until it tried to escape, which is when I pulled all of its legs from its body by separating them at the joints with a cafeteria knife and left its legless, stumpy body floating in the lake behind the school.

            With my penis back to its full stature, I come to a weak climax inside Evelyn and roll off her body.  I lie awake beside her for a couple hours before getting dressed and heading back to my apartment so I can re-watch “A Tale of Two Titties” and masturbate furiously for a few hours.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *

 

     The most exciting time of day for Q_P_ was coming up soon!   V_P_ Baby Face passed by the bathroom at 7:30 every morning on the way to the elevator. Pretending to mop the floor in the bathroom but really looking out for Baby Face. He was a LOOKER, hot in every sense of the word, & he needed to be my ZOMBIE. He would be my ZOMBIE & love me forever without question. Baby Face would sit with me for hours & cuddle late into the night & suck on my cock when told & bend over when told & let me caress his muscular body & suck on his cock & touch his smooth skin. Ziggy was close but he fought. V_P_ will be my ZOMBIE, I know it.

     Mopping the floor & he walks in through the front door. No eye contact, EYE CONTACT gives Q_P_ away! As usual, Baby Face walks forward strongly, his crisp suit flowing around him. Trying to suppress erection, but V_P_ Baby Face is too perfect a specimen. My penis is too hard to hide beneath my janitor’s clothing. Tonight is the night for action! My van parked outside, bottle of chloroform, rope, knife, and map drawn out for the way to the apartment. It had to be the right dose. Too much and he dies, too little and Baby Face might overpower Q_P_ because of his manliness. THE PLAN begins, MY zombie will be tall & muscular & obedient. We will be together, me & ZOMBIE V_P_. 

 

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *

           

            When I get into the office the next morning, I walk briskly to the elevator to avoid the stare of the new janitor.  He is obviously a faggot, and even though he tries to hide his eyes beneath his beaten up trucker hat and maintenance scrubs, I can feel his gaze checking out my chiseled biceps and pecs, and my muscular ass from behind.  His stare makes me squirm, and as I prod the elevator button with my lightly bronzed index finger, I can feel sweat begin to tickle the back of my neck.  I just hope the faggot janitor doesn’t somehow know about the collection of tongues I have hidden in my briefcase.  I recently acquired a fresh tongue to add to the collection – it is by far the best of all the specimens.  I severed it using a paring knife, which was much cleaner and more tasteful than hacking it off with the meat cleaver.  The meat cleaver only allows for the removal of the tip of the tongue, whereas the paring knife can be wedged deep into the mouth, resulting in a much longer chunk for my collecting pleasure.  Today I plan on taking a cab from my apartment to pick up some girls to contribute to my collection.  This time I will be smart enough to hold the heads up when I cut the tongues out so they don’t drown in their own blood when I fuck them in the mouth. 

            After saying goodbye to my assistant, Jean, and making sure to lock up my briefcase, I go back downstairs and pass the faggot janitor again on the way out of P&P. I’m suddenly hit with a realization that chills me to the bone: I forgot to return my copy of “A Tale of Two Titties” to the video store.  The thought freezes me halfway down an alley on the way to my apartment and I find myself unable to move forward.  I am in desperate need of some drugs.  I frantically search my tailored suit’s many pockets and find a few Halicon, which I immediately swallow.  My heart continues racing, I can’t calm down.  When I finally regain control of myself I scream at the hobo in the alley to get me some cocaine, some heroine, some J&B, anything, but he doesn’t acknowledge my requests and continues to sit in his garbage dump being worthless and smelly.  As I walk by him and turn the corner, I am taken aback at how utterly sweet-smelling he is.  His stench is overpowering my senses, and as I get closer to him the smell seems to change from sweet to rotten, like the smell exuded from the fingers stuffed with deviled egg that I’ve been keeping in my pantry for the past few days.  I feel my knees and legs getting weaker as the smell overtakes my other senses, and it quickly consumes me altogether.

 

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *

 

            “V_P_ will be obedient and he will be my zombie.”  As the fuzziness clears from my vision, I see that I am tied to a chair with my hands behind my back in a dingy, cramped basement.  The only lights come from two lamps: one positioned beside me in the middle of the room, the second in the corner overlooking a desk.  A dirty sponge that tastes of blood and mold had been crammed forcefully into my mouth, keeping me from making any noise and making my breathing heavy and labored.  I’m also completely naked, my toned abs and cut chest gleam in the light of the surgeon’s lamp above me.  On my other side there is a small table with a scalpel and ice pick placed neatly on a paper towel.  A hunched-over figure is working fervidly at the desk near the corner of the room, scribbling away at a piece of paper.  The figure is talking to itself — “He will be my ZOMBIE, & he will cuddle when told & bend over when told or he will be punished.”           Although I am still a little cloudy, I work out that my hands are tied (the knot is clever but tied weakly), and my forearms and fingers are strong enough to loosen the knot and begin unraveling the rope around my wrists.  If only I could have some J&B to sharpen my wits.  My right hand came free of the knot after a few tense moments, and from there it was easy to unravel my left so I could hold the rope loosely in my hands behind me.

            The figure finishes its work and finally turns.  A prematurely aging man is revealed – probably in his mid to late thirties, slightly overweight, and balding.  He walks forward, bringing himself through the darkness between us and into the light of my lamp, and speaks in a strangely muffled, deliberate manner: “If you cooperate you won’t need to be harmed. Just sit still and everything will be fine.  You will be my ZOMBIE soon, just be obedient and it will be fine.” 

            He enters the full light of the lamp, revealing none other than the fucking janitor faggot that stares at me everyday at P&P.  I could see him taking pleasure from seeing my sculpted body displayed in front of him.  I pretend to be in a daze but keep my body tense, ready to spring at the slightest movement.  He takes another step forward and reaches for the ice pick, but before he can close his hands on it I pounce.  I bring the rope from behind my back and wrap it snugly around his neck, pulling hard to cut off circulation.  Despite his meager build he puts up a viscous fight, clawing and biting at my arms until he loses consciousness.

            When my former captor finally awakens, I have already finished tying him (much more tightly and with a better knot) flat on the table with his arms spread out beside him.  His hands hang off either edge and are stretching toward the ground because of the rope holding them together on the underside of the table.  Holding the scalpel in one hand and the ice pick in the other, I give him a few small cuts on his thighs to make sure he is completely conscious before I go to work.  With the scalpel I make two elongated slits on each side of his mouth, twisting his face into a cruel smile and making blood flood into his open throat.  Once the blade makes the initial incision it slides easily through his rubbery cheeks.  It’s easy – like cutting a jellyfish, or a microwaved brain – like biting off a finger – or so I’ve heard.  I’ve never tried eating fingers, but they say it’s as easy to bite one off as it is to bite a carrot, but we can’t because our minds won’t let us.  However, I have found that the best experience for toe crunching is at the least expected moment.  Imagine Kendra’s surprise when one minute I’m sucking on her toes while she’s whining with pleasure – her legs on my shoulders and her tits flopping around wildly – and the next I’m chomping through tendon and bone, munching and smacking and grinning with blood dribbling running down my chin.  The confusion, the shock, the horror! 

            I realize that I’m getting hard and return my attention to the pervert in front of me.  He gurgles and spits up some blood, twitching and moaning in pain.  I eagerly take the ends of the rope that are tied tightly around his wrists and pull downward as hard as I can until each wrist snaps backward, the white bone protruding from the flesh and glistening in ivory glory.  Doing my best to hold myself back, I take the scalpel and start cutting long, spiral slices along his shins that cause his legs to jump and strain against the ropes, which hold strong and rub deep burns into his ankles.  At this point I lose it.  After trying to cut him in half with the scalpel and breaking the tip of the blade somewhere around his liver, I take the ice pick, and poising myself above him in dramatic fashion I spit at him, “I’ve seen you looking at me you fucking faggot.  This will keep your sick eyes off me for good.” 

            I miss the first couple times with my downward strikes, hitting the resilient brow bone above his eyes and allowing him a few extra moments of torturous life.  With flaps of flesh hanging from his mutilated brow and globs of spit-infused blood leaking out of the sides of his mouth, he says with much difficulty, “You waaaant Q_P_ fu-fu-fooor your ZOMBIE?”  For a moment he relaxes, and his body stops struggling and shaking.  The ice pick, well aimed this time, plunges deep into his right eye, tearing apart the iris and sending a stream of goop squirting out of the socket.  He stops twitching and the room is filled with the unmistakable stench of human feces – he smells like a goddamn hobo.

            I stop and walk away from the table, looking back at the motionless body before me, the icepick protruding awkwardly from a mushy pile of blood and mangled eyelid. Whatever he was blabbing about didn’t make any sense.  Why would someone want to become a lobotomized zombie?  Zombies have no motives, no influences, they are mindless machines.  They are meaningless — no values, no worth, no status of importance.  Not only can they not act for themselves, they can’t follow any designated direction in life.  I am gripped once again by internal panic, the zombie represents an emptiness that I can not quite grasp — not solely an emptiness of mind, but an emptiness of meaning.  That makes killing one meaningless as well – there’s nothing there to tear apart – no “soul” to debase, no life to destroy.  They follow nothingness, an existence in a hollow shell that is useless to themselves and others. They are the ultimate degenerates of society.