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Fear and Loathing
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive-name: fear+loathing
Fear and loathing in my pants..
It was a day much like any other.. Fuck, it was a day of slow,
seething boredom. The obtuse quality of sameness; it gyrates
crazily in one's soul like a schizophrenic dancer. The
somnambulistic anthem of humanity's quotidian downfall. The relief,
it comes as pain, and excruciating pleasure so quick as to be
infinitesimal. The fear that the pleasure will never end transforms
pain into something greater, something that reaches out and slaps
the sameness in the face with a big wet cock.
Yes, the sex. The organ grinding wail of a million bleeding monkeys.
The clutching of rag doll approximation of love, and the sound of
tearing cloth.
When she walked in on my day, the city burned with napalm sex. The
pleasure was already over by the time I saw her eyes. It had flown
onto a telephone wire and strangled on the sound of a thousand empty
voices, proclaiming their existence with inane fucking promises.
Eyes are mirrors, not windows. Eyes are meant to be torn asunder,
squamous with blood and pain, and thrown to the floor while the
naked brain is revealed to the light of day.
She could have used some makeup. Her face was an impressionist's
rendering of Hiroshima, rife with decaying culture. Enigmatic
would be a nice word to use, but the word was purely and lividly,
"uncouth."
Nothing moved or worked right on her, she was a fugue among waltzes,
and her apathy was written in letters of sweat and acne on her face.
The sex that day, was in the air, thick with exudations of human
fear, reeking with the feces of souls lost in an age of rape. The
jubilant wail of triumph never came that day, it never would.
There was a transaction. It was apparent, naked, cold, unmystery
that fought with the need for life, however momentary, and life won.
We went to a hot room a cockroach's run across, and bargained
clumsily with our lust for the better part of an hour.
Throughout the night she was rhythm's antithesis. She clutched and
wailed and bumped like moaning barges of garbage on some stinking
river. She needed pain tonight to pay for her life. With what
would the payment be made? More of life, and death. Life
everlasting was dripping from her sex, pungent with entropy's
metaphysical funk. Though I was naked and bleeding, she assaulted
me again and again, her nails ripping skin from my head, my brain
twisting inside, hoping for death and freedom. Her breasts pummeled
me with womanhood's giving evil. Every moment was anger captured in
flesh; mammalian rituals of dissolution.
When at last the moment of penultimate pain came, I forgot her. I
forgot her eyes on the floor, staring at me. I forgot the clamor of
my brain talking, constantly driving me into my inner world of filth
and blasphemy, my inner temple of biblical figures caked in
excrement and dried blood.
I forgot her name.. And she was gone. The sameness closed about me
with a thunderous stillness, like a shadow of the angel of death.
And nothing, nothing was different.
I slept.
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