God of the Game

Decided not to follow Jai-I. Figure I’d better play the sensible proprietor; what with the ‘earthquake’ that ensued. The Horny Hound is my place after all; don’t want a bunch of bitches, fanatic feminist strippers, assaulting my cock for not providing satisfactory service.

Mona the Moan, however, is a good friend of mine; a regular entertainer at my joint.

“Hi Jack,” she called out to me, sitting down in a professional manner on the cushion by my side. My friend Willy was positioned at the other end of the settee; Mona, sandwiched in between, rubbing our thighs.

“What can I do for you boys?”

Jack is my avatar in the Horny Hound. Jack O’Leery in full. He is fat, balding and ugly. More precisely, he’s insecure.

Even more so, Jack’s a loser.

Why, you ask, do I fashion such an uncool, despicable personification of being when society is hyped with trendy images and successful impressions? Hah! This is when some brainwashing and social conditioning is required. By chance, you will be reading this in 21st century Earth; a seed planted, which is this book in your hand. Hopefully it will bloom to an eternal jungle and not be choked by the cares of your world. Fragile and mortal humans are obsessed with the ‘cool.’ Proof exists in blockbuster Hollywood films, pop rock bands, the commercialization of subculture – goth, punk, etcetera – all becoming retail therapy. We’d often, (though not always), lost meaning of our expressions; blurred behind fashion statements.

Where is the soul? Where is the creature of evil? The soul is not beautiful. It can be sweet…but certainly not beautiful. It is a battlefield. Temptations are fought, morality in debate, choices are made. Jack O’Leery is my defeat in the war of the flesh. The vanquished victim unable to rise above sin, nor sinful enough to enjoy a decadent lifestyle. He is a pornographer, a voyeur. We are pornographers, voyeurs…taking pleasure in the pleasure (and plight) of others.

Jack O’Leery is my anima (not my feminine, but my irrationale; maybe my feminine too, hiding behind that disgusting mug). Perverse, and in plentiful parade of my shortcomings in a star-struck, star-studded world. Be it heaven or earth, I fall short of the mark. Though I can be hip, I need to be grotesque, to fill a void my imperfections leave.

It’s a return to vomit, our debased human nature. Mankind’s flaw. Even when I am divine, when I am god, I choose to be fat, balding and ugly. I choose to be a loser. It says something about my core, my defunct flower blossoming to the dawn of stink. It says something about my character, my soul. Jack O’Leery is my soul. He chooses to be a loser; he chooses to be a loser in the hands of Mona the Moan. He chooses to cum in the hand of Mona the Moan.

Mr. O’Leery’s collared pink-green coloured t-shirt was rolled up above his man-boobs; fly undone, and an average bird flew out. Globes of sweat sat round his nipples and upon the unsightly shadow of male cleavage, as if it were the morning dew - trickling down from a savannah chest and the armpits’ lair, down south to his gratuitous tummy; layer of blubber over blubber, a marshmallow man. His trousers was buckled too tight, for when Mona pulled off his khaki pants, the legs were skinny and bowed, malnourished. It would seem to a casual observer that the belt he girds prevents food from fattening his buttocks beneath, capturing all that lard up north in the region of his belly button above.

Jack’s best friend Willy is a naturist who wouldn’t wait to undress. Long hair in streaks of grey and an unshaven beard; overall, like a skinny nude-camp hippie. Willy’s willy was stumpy, nestled in body fur, which likened it to a woody stub of tree in a forest termites had eaten down. A pink inside smudged with circular patterns was encrusted by dark bark.

Mona the Moan was still molested by moles, and according to Willy, you could suck the birthmarks off, which tastes of toddy, fermented coconut juice, an alcoholic beverage perfect with stout. This, Jack has no yearning to discover, as he is petrified of bodily fluids (except for his own). She had both Jack’s boring and Willy’s squat organ in her hands, jerking furiously, the boys copying the jig in upward motions as though they were John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever.

Opposite, a popular politician cum highflying business leader of industry sat with his head thrown back, shirt unbuttoned, and his tie stiff around his neck. (As with all men) his penis stood out from the zipper ahead of his nuts, puffed from the slit of heart-patterned y-briefs; they peered over the underpants like nosey neighbours.

Willy was suckling the moles on Mona’s armpit. She turned to stare at Jack, mimicking a charade with her facial muscles, gazes which contrived how much she adored his cock.

“Yeah…” Jack groaned; dilated pupils locked on her tits.

“Yer so strong, Mr. O’Leery…so powerful.”

“Yeah…make me feel like a man,” he huffed, “make me feel like a man, you bitch.” He caught her eye, before the gravitational attraction of those melons pulled his concentration back to their ripened state. Mona’s breasts were cluttered with brown and purplish polka dots, so Jack had difficulty determining nipple from moles. Regardless, he ogled on, relishing the visual distortion, which was welcomed like the challenge of an engrossing Sudoku puzzle.

A sharp gurgling commotion cut the din of an already orgasmic den. Jack glared ahead; Willy was aroused from his slurping. The politician was dying. Choking, he ebbed by asphyxiation. Fanny Wong, the Oriental gal who was pampering him, yanked his cornflower blue tie tight. She held it there, muscles aching, face grimacing. With her left hand, she amplified the violence committed on the monument, which was standing erect from his groin. Her movements were a blur even with a high-speed motion capture camera. Fanny Wong couldn’t stop now, not when he is about to peak, not when he paid such an obscene amount of money to be extinguished by such a manner. She was exhausted, like running the last mile of a marathon. Perspiring, teeth gritting, energy sapping away, the veins on her neck were obvious. The man met her gaze, his bloodshot whites seemed ready to pounce from sockets, and his being vibrated vehemently as if a giant vibrator was stuck up his ass.

And it gushed, rivers of semen soooo much; so much more than Fanny, Mona, Jack and Willy had ever seen before. It shot high, smacking square on Fanny’s face, dribbling like drool from her startled mouth to the velvet blue, black lace Cowgirl-Western bordello corset she donned; similar to an intoxicated goddess throwing-up in a luxurious ancient orgy. She tugged with her right with all her might, cutting oxygen off his lungs completely. Total annihilation. Mr. Politician Businessman’s windpipe whistled, wheezing a chorus of tweets. His legs lurched forward, and it appeared to Jack that he was doing the breaststroke, kicking like a frog in a pond. His left Armani shoe shook off his sole, and the gaudy green socks gave the impression of an elf, Santa’s helper, or a Leprechaun, punished by a cosplaying 19th century Asian dominatrix of the Great American Wild West.

Like a night train, slowly his combustions grinded to a halt. But not before an adrenalin finale; like the last few notes of a rock concert - stage lights coordinating precisely with the syncopated metal drums and distorted guitars, crowd roaring in frenzy, and the artiste taking her final, curtain-closing gesture of a bow.

He is in handjob heaven. Fanny collapsed upon his lifeless limbs; drained of vigour, she felt like dying herself. In fact she seemed dead. Still, silent, and except for the thin membranous breathing misting out of her nostrils, you would have mistaken her for a corpse.

Instead of inviting solace, whether out of reverence or shock, the demise of the VIP hailed thunderous claps and catcalls. The Horny Hound was overridden by a gang of ‘chimpanzees’ witnessing the bludgeoning of their own. An outcry, but behind bars; able to protest, voices heard, but nothing could be done. The animal testing continues; meat for cosmetic companies. Secretly excited however; thrilled to death.

And soon we were copying. The lines between jeering and cheering were blurred, sport in a Roman coliseum, the feeding of Christians to lions, an entire arena applauding in accord. It became mere noise. One by one, men expired by the hands of their courtesans, concurrently giving the ladies a ‘French manicure,’ animated art on the space of fingernails. First it was Willy, then Jack, followed by paying patrons; in the frame of seconds, both tongue and penis lolled limp. All ejaculated and strangulated; friends, foes and strangers garrotted in a united bond.

The women were now the monkeys, a family of screaming baboons with milky bananas and nooses in grip. Sharp, white gleaming teeth, extra-glossy lipstick, and a slut’s gaudy makeup; feminist harlots exercise supremacy over a dumb male species.