59. Tapestry 13
William Borg is upset. His body parts are malfunctioning. More often than yesterday, even before the expiry date. Damned cheap ware, those mass produced electronics with zero quality control. But that’s how things are made nowadays...to crash easily. How else would corporations make money?
However, that’s not what he’s upset about. Just the other day he was at the spare parts store, purchasing a brain chip, a second-hand shop to be precise, `cos old hardware without warranty are more reliable and they last longer; and in comes this stubbly, haggard looking guy in an odorous shit-coloured trench-coat, a typical suburban middle-class kind of guy suffering from depression with a little too much to drink - a common factor these days. He whips out an Uzi, shakily demanding the proprietor for the courtesy of opening the cash register.
He’s apologizing as he takes the notes, saying he’s gotta feed the wife and four kids, that he’s been retrenched as CEO of a company, and it’s been two years now, and he’s still out of job, and he doesn’t know how he is gonna eat. Tears stream down his cheeks, but for all you know, he could be an actor telling the same sad tale at each robbery attempt to suppress guilt and justify his necessitated crime. The truth is the same everywhere.
After World War Three, countries are broke. Unlike earlier ones, there were no victors. Everyone lost. All nations had to rebuild their empires, but resources are scarce. It’s a downward spiral, global economies plunged, and commoners go on living in a state of clear and ever-present hunger - teasing Death, who is perpetually famished.
A window of opportunity, the robber was somewhat distracted by borderline compunction and the owner quickly swung a baseball bat, hitting the man square in the head, splitting his brain. The Uzi goes uncontrollably out, and the second-hand pawn dealer goes down in a red misty shower of bullets.
“What is the world coming to?” William Borg asks no one alive even as he dials the precinct to report. Chaos and anarchy sprout; families are breaking up, selling and killing each other for bread; homicides are getting more and more gruesome; jobless men feel castrated; paedophilia is on the rise; rape is showcased in open streets with strangers joining in - others walk past, and the victim is not only ravished, but robbed as well; clothing, money, fake jewellery, even filthy undergarments, gone; and the poor person staggers home barefooted, naked, blue-black and alone, as passersby stare at their own transgressions reflected on concrete pavements.
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With a backdrop of such misery, Roanna Fausi visits a broadcasted support group for raped women with tits cut off. It is believed they are all prey of the same serial predator. This rendezvous is part of her publicity campaign.
The traumatized ladies recount their tales. They’re always the same. Some mechanical device is latched onto their armpits, something with a timer and robotic spider legs. Her muffled cry in underground space goes heedless, and a saliva soaked tennis ball is stuffed in her face. A blatant alarm - old type sounding clock - the kind with a little hammer banging furiously between two silver metal bells; a poof, a bit of smoke, and a churning saw is activated on the diabolical device.
She screams, but she is not hearing herself. The noise of motor fills her ears, somewhat like a lawnmower, and arty specks of blood hit her chin. Pain mixes like ingredients of a cake with serrated flesh and burnt tissue, and her breasts scamper off on a modified spatula on spidery limbs. The boobs run down her body, ticklish where each needle-pointed leg pricks. In her mind, it’s an awry nursery rhyme gone even more terribly wrong. Blood is oozing off her chest, and she faints by an injection to her veins.
The lady awakes in white gauze and bandage, in a hospital, with red wounds seeping off the sanitized dressing to the reminiscing tune of tears and fear, recalling the nightmare on how her femininity was snatched by an arachnid machine and its sick, sadistic master.
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All the girls had one thing in common. They had big boobs sliced off. The rapist is making a statement; he’s (assuming it’s a man) got a fetish collecting souvenirs. A macabre compilation in a freezer; or perhaps he’s a gastronomic artiste, a chef cum food critique - cooking, sampling and judging those mammary by taste and texture. Or, he turns those ample fat fleshes to trinkets and other painstaking knick-knacks, a laborious toymaker and craftsman of an art foregone or avant-garde for its time.
Detective Lingam is theorizing the possibilities, the plot to this insane case; going into the mind of a compulsive, obsessive criminal loner. To repair the damage done to the reputation of the police department, he and his brother have been assigned to Roanna’s convoy by the chief in hope of bridging relations with the lady; so they’re here, reluctantly, in an impressive cathedral with TV crew fused to huge cameras, transmitting live the event. Lenses tailing, Roanna tells the women how she understands, relating the loss of her jugs. She is a good speaker, charismatic, able to stir the hearts.
But then, out of the blue, a sarcastic voice yells, “What do you understand? You never went through what we did.” It was one of the victims, howling. The statistics of this group never esteemed her, they were caramelized chicks more interested in fashion and beauty. But fate had dealt a hard blow. One night in the hands of a psycho converted them to Roanna’s debilitated sisters, and perhaps, Ms. Fausi’s campaign manager thought, they could play the cards that’d been dealt to their advantage and win a new demographic.
The hall was silent after that remark; then whispers started. Yes, how could Roanna Fausi understand their predicament? How could she compare cancer to their excruciating torment? So, no one, except her, knows if it was a generous expression of empathy or a calculated call of strategy, but Roanna Fausi, with all eyes shadowing, in church and on screens, eagerly anticipating her forthcoming answer, slowly, circumvents the rostrum, and drops her top.
There were gasps and cringes and cheers. Those sad skins that used to contain full boobs, now dejected and forlorn; Roanna’s suffering soul laid bare for all to stare. Eyes shut, unending tears flooding down to empty naked breasts, and one by one, the women came out, everyone weeping shamelessly. Now was the televised time for group hug therapy.
Sergeant Siva thanked god he preferred men.
---
Pomelo Anderson banged the table in anger, cracking an intricately manicured fingernail depicting rose thorn bushes. “That Roanna Fausi has gone too far. Showing off her titless chest to the entire population!?” she exclaimed with a question mark. “Who does she think she is, changing the face of desire?” Pomelo plumped a glum.
“I am the fucking face of desire! Not that incomplete bitch.” Ms. Anderson fanned her face with her hands, trying to remain cool. She downs two capsules of Xanax, and mineral water after that, and paces up and down for a plan. Her room is resplendent pink and fur, with supplements and vitamin pills spilled and flung about in a raging ecstatic parade, making her abode a colourful polka-dotted dollhouse.
Here she eats inspiration, feasts on graven ideas; but only in bits and pieces as much as her tiny brain permits. A buffet of unachievable beauty, extreme physical makeovers of a myopic utopia, to drink of a holy grail and sup on the sufferings of perfection; in this banquet of bodily insecurities, followed by mental and actual bulimia, Pomelo plots how she is going to rule the world. It has its roots in health and nutrition. It is a sublime plan.
In an antechamber Pomelo keeps her stash; all her favourite grubs gobbled behind public eye. Her one weakness is she truly loves to eat. If not for this single but momentous defect, being beautiful would be much easier. At the corner is a golden toilet bowl. She squats facing the well, as much as her customized frame allows, and the third finger, as if cursing herself, sticks in the mouth.
The stink of vomit fills the air, blending with perfumed molecules and aromatic delicacies, creating an utterly unutterable miasma. Pomelo Anderson gazes at her reflection. White bubbly grains dribble down her chin, mascara melted, her million-dollar, surgically manufactured flawless face distorted into a crying clown’s. Pomelo Anderson reaches out with trembling hands to pick an ornamented frame containing an old sepia photograph of a stranger, an obese teenage girl clutching her school books and Barbie doll.
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Nothing looks out of place in the master-bedroom except for the opened drawer. The thief had duplicated the key and removed the top item; but he will put it back. No one will suspect anything.
Usually, he wouldn’t be bothered about his father’s collection, but this month there is something he wants. Purchasing it is out of the question; he is far too young. Sure, he can go online to check, in fact he has, but he prefers to see it on print.
Wong Boom Bong has the hots for Pomelo Anderson, and his father is an avid voyeur and secret subscriber to Triple F magazine; which is no mystery to the son. Knowing she is on the cover...again, young Wong is in camouflage today. Decked in war paint, black streaks across the cheeks, and midnight overalls, he engages this covert operation, imagining himself a Counter Strike commando or something.
It is three o’clock in the afternoon, and he’d just gotten home from school. Whole time in class he’d not been able to concentrate; even the ritual beatings seemed palatable, `cos the mag arrived yesterday, preceding the torture of the poor boy as it sat unopened with the rest of the mail. Father, (the previous day), returned, and he took the inconspicuous envelope to his room before mummy came home. Behind locked doors, Wong senior defiled the marriage bed with strange women.
His son is angry and jealous. He doesn’t want to think of what his father is doing to Pomelo Anderson. To his mind, she is just a slave genie of his dad’s, held in a harem of varied publications, and taken out only for entertainment when the ‘master’ rubs the lamp until the wish is granted in the puffing smoke of thoughts and the destitute slime in hand.
Quite pathetic, but mostly evil; Boom Bong will free her from his father’s clutches, the boy tells himself after he’d locked the drawer and closed his parents’ room door, relishing what Ms. Anderson did with two tangerines and a fried banana.
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Someone else subscribing to Triple F is Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali, but his agenda is completely abnormal, completely alien and out of this world. Ali likes to eat. No doubt. He also likes consuming food and fruits served, or splattered, upon sapiens; especially littler sapiens (but not dwarves. He considers dwarves mutants of nature, stunted freaks to be despised as abominations to the angelic twelve-and–under whose skin he so adores and desires).
With his permanently erect dick, Ali spoon-feeds innocents. Triple F for him stimulates this unlawful fetish; not just its contents, but also the art-paper he makes kids chew and swallow.
That man is terrible, but he is not the paedophile the cops seek. Sure, all child molesters are wanted fiends, but that particular one eluding police custody is much more sinister. Underage victims he’s done with end up in coma. In this vegetative state, their eyes blink nonstop, as if downloading information, as if in forever REM sleep. Experts are baffled, but are more afraid of the bogeyman, of a dream invader.
After the War, weird shit has been happening. In fact, the War itself saw the revelation of many top secret weapons and classified projects; not just bombs and armaments, but psychic warfare, mind games and cerebral infiltration; brainpower able to launch missiles by a single thought.
The government is fearful what these children will wake up to be, scared of who’s behind the enigma. So, no one has to worry over ‘Tongkat’ Ali, he’s just a regular, plain old dirty child fucker with a green veined evergreen erection – the envy of impotent but ignorant men. The sex act itself no longer delivers satisfaction, it’d ceased to excite since he was twenty-five. He was born the year the War started. It’s hard to believe it’s coming to half a century since the sparks conflagrated that led to the devastation of the Earth. Decades the battles raged, and when it creaked out of steam like an old war machine, it was because man had burned up most of his resources without a compromise and solution in sight. An uneasy truce out of necessity was signed, but by then matters of contentions and the points of debate had escalated to an irresolvable gamut that it threatened to tear the fragile thread of society. The generation that survived paid the economic, mental and physical price. It was told that Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali’s mother gave birth to him under an umbrella of radiation, in sunlight of toxic rays, and from overexposure to chemicals and harmful waves. Birth rate was low that year; most babies didn’t make it, and Ali would have to consider himself lucky that whilst most of his peers that pulled through the hole suffered defects and damages too obvious and painful to describe, he got away merely with an extremity that tangled around the umbilical cord, and got itself, the dick, stuck to the roof of the vulva during his difficult entry into wartime life. Otherwise, baby and mummy were fine.
Now, with almost five dilapidating decades gone, it’s the comedy which accompanies intercourse that takes his thoughts off his dreaded, puffed up organ: like seeing the funny, scrunched up expressions of children munching 2-50 grams UV-finished art-card; or his own cold, sour look in the mirror, dipping hard penis into ice cream as though serving a bewildered banana split!
Muhammad ‘Tongkat’ Ali praises God for food-sex, the blessing for being able to add love to curse, gastronomy to priapism. It makes it temporarily agreeable. The man has values, lines he will not cross; though he is not happy, he keeps his fetishes funny, and shies away from violent tendencies. As long as he thinks he is not physically hurting anyone, (though the individual threshold of pain is as subjective as one’s preference for food) he believes he is saved and upholding the tenets of his faith.
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Rex the dog wakes up more alert. Fresh from a dreamless slumber. It sniffs its way home from the alleyway it last remembers. The canine feels good, stronger, no knowledge of a memory gap, no recollection of being thwacked on the head and a surgery after. For all it grasps is that it’d found an ideal spot to snooze, and it merely snoozed away. Now it’s time to go back. Master must be waiting. Rex felt hungry; it should be dinner time already.
Halfway home, a high pitched pierce was activated. The dog doesn’t realize the sound is triggered from within its brain. It halts, ears perked, stance erect; Rex squints about, detecting the source, and suddenly a flash of lightning on four legs prances across; blue fires flickered behind, the smell of gas emerging from stove.
Rex takes chase; its legs seem tougher after the rest. The Rottweiler can run fast, close on the trail of the sapphire flame, going in and out of motorcars, passing shops; for a while a hot dog stall got its attention, but it was so close to the accelerating flare. Rex never knew such focus; all it cared was to catch the strange phenomenon. But the blazing azure cloud was getting quicker, weaving across traffic; Rex, hot behind. It turned a sharp left. Rex followed, and vanished into a dimensional portal.
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An old lady pushing a pram was burnt to crisp. Blackened in the form of solid ash, but yet, her bent and gnarly frame was retained. Good thing there was the absence of a baby, for she carted only her entire worldly possessions. A tramp. Other street dwellers warming by a barrel said a fiery blue dog jumped out of nowhere and ate her. A muscular dog; it was as if the creature consumed her soul, and all that was left was the charred husk.
They added, it was better this way, she was never happy, a bitter, grumpy granny negative of existence. On and on, mumbling she used to be rich once, wore pearl necklaces round her neck, took golden showers from jewel studded faucets. She’d go, “yes, liquid gold, have you heard? I used to bathe in it. Tastes like champagne, only warm.” No one mourned her death. Everybody preferred her dead.
Master Wan visited the scene. Instinctive clues he only spotted, no one else sensed. Something ominous was spinning in the air, giving his bones the chill. For once, he seemed to have lost his composure. Hands holding a cane shivered, but only so slightly that none noticed. Master Wan has work to do. Armageddon is nigh, and he must ensure he is the Christ.
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If the end of the world is coming for everybody, new life awaits Divalicious. Unconscious on the hospital bed, the transvestite, ex-coffee-shop worker hears visions. In them, he is taken to another realm, and a voice tells him to prepare the way. The being belonging to that voice was just a fuzzy blur outline, and a vocal effect was on, which made the speech sound disembodied and floating on air in an ambit of light.
When he awoke, courtesy of Roanna Fausi, his male organs were gone! In place was a polished new vagina any girl would be proud to own.
Unfortunately, you can’t say the same for the rest of his body.
Ecstatic, Divalicious understood the meaning of the dreams. Roanna is mankind’s redeemer, and he, (or rather now, she,) is to be the herald, preparing the hearts of men with a sultry songbird’s tonal quality, plus, a Vegas showgirl’s pole-dancing sensuality.
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The truth and nothing but the truth; Brit Patt is still a virgin. Twenty-nine-years-old to zero, that’s the score. Only a few naughty girls have seen him in the nude, and that was back then, when he was but a pimple wrecked teenager. He was a scrawny thirteen when a fifteen-year-old babe flashed her bra braided boobs and promised him more if he were to parade in the buff.
Young and eager, Brit Patt obeyed. She laughed, and did nothing else but threw his clothes out of the window. Then she called her friends in. They all laughed some more. Poor Patt, in tears, was forced to masturbate in front of their taunts; and finally, they simply exited whilst he came.
He sobbed and cursed himself; he should have controlled lust and adhered to the Ten Commandments. From then on, guilty Brit could only fantasize clothed chicks. He was always the only one naked.
It’s not that he’s gay, he shoots up to sexy females, but softens in fear at the sight of an un-garmented lady of pornographic materials. Sick, even to the point of vomiting; and this was damn worrying; but at least, aged sixteen, he found a nice, willing and aggressive girlfriend. He was metamorphosing, turning into the handsome man destiny ascribes. Teenage darlings were after him, and the horny lucky girl, one night, got the satisfaction of exchanging virginity. At last, Brit Patt thought, normal college life was before him.
However, honestly, he felt queasy when he saw her pussy (which was quite large, loose and flappy), and his languid cock would not rise no matter how much she cajoled. Instead, in the end, unable to sustain the upheaval of acidic juices digesting dinner in his belly, he barfs out when she suggested he orally stimulate the clitoris. The vulvarian odour was the last straw.
Scared shitless, and nauseous of that long slit of flesh gasping, as if it were the mouth of a live fish caught in net, he fucked her with puke instead. She was disgusted; they broke up. But this embarrassing episode was not to be concluded. On an uncanny level of perversion, Brit Patt found fulfilment retching upon the ex. Soon the fantasies descended into morbid planes. Celebrities, centrefolds, porn stars, certain teachers and schoolgirls were prisoners tortured and humiliated in this dungeon.
But week after week sermons dug deep, convicting him of sin; moreover Brit knew he would never ever carry out his desires in the flesh; he never had the guts. Goodness, even now he dared not reveal his dick to the fairer sex; though, clad in swimming trunks, he basked in their unrestrained admiration.
He confessed. The priest said, “God created sperms for procreation, not as a final rite of self-satisfaction.” But the man in black frocks comprehends. He is human after all, battling his own afflictions; but perhaps Brit Patt could tone it down? Stick to CFNM, not agonizing women. Father advised, “Each time you ejaculate, work doubly hard at your studies and your career. Penance, stay on top.”
All those hours in the gym, sweating on the treadmill, swimming laps, pumping iron, staying tone and lean; couple a Greek statue physique with intelligence and wit, charm; practising that million dollar smile in front of the mirror just to earn the title of most desirable male on the planet; this discipline, this suffering, watching what he eats...all penance; nothing more than mere penance.
Adhering to the voice of a spiritual leader, he never really wanted to be a demagogue. When sin abounds, grace abounds much more, and now, entering his third decade, Brit Patt feels it is time to fulfil his true destiny. He is ready. Ready for celibacy, ready to train as a priest and call home a monastery.
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Kunty Kaur is another person considering a change in occupation. After being impaled by a stone dick, one would have sympathy. Prostitution is a dangerous profession, and furthermore, Kunty’s cunt had been deformed by that granite spike. Disfigured, slashed across when the paramedics pulled it out; no customer would want, now.
Too gory and ugly, even she can’t bear to bring the mirror down there. Looking at its jowly labial reflection was good luck once, a blessed omen to attract guys; now she can’t bear the thought; and it still hurts with blood on the fingers whenever she touched. When Kunty Kaur did finally conjure the guts, she fainted on sight. The whole thing was just one gigantic mess akin to minced meat squeezed out of a grinder.
The private part had been turned inside out, and what were once vaginal walls was now shredded wet flesh, dangling, similar to mushy molluscs’ tentacles.
The doctor said she had to live with this forever. But her pain is more than physical. She is considering this switch in vocation not entirely because the tool of her trade is destroyed. In fact, she can always invent a novel and kinky selling point, a niche to cater for a certain fandom. In this evil and perverse generation, Kunty Kaur can attain depraved clients with deranged minds just to jerk off at the view of her mutant oyster. She can actually charge more for this privileged offer, and do so much less by just sitting, legs spread, behind a window with a roller shutter. The screen cranks open for a minute after tokens are inserted, and the dude has got to like combust within sixty seconds of psychopathic pleasure or put more coins in to continue. God only knows what sick thing they fantasize about at the sight of her tattered vagina.
“Heh, perhaps I can join a touring freak-circus. See the world,” Kunty shrugged, “I always wanted to travel.”
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The Rottweiler happily licked Manny Masculine all over. In turn, Manny Masculine happily licked his girlfriend all over. He is overjoyed Rex had returned, but more so because he’d won Mr. Dwarf for the eighth straight time: the record to end all records. As promised, to celebrate, Manny’s tongue is in his girlfriend’s fanny; she is moaning maniacally...
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...Madam Medusa is moaning maniacally. At her illustrious cunt is a small man. He is safe from being turned to stone. At only four-feet, her boyfriend cannot look her in the eye. At most, he perceives her nose and chin, which appear as twin precipices from his abysmal location; and what lies beyond the rock facades are just dark shifting clouds with many red glowing lights in a multitude of hissing thunders.
Manny Masculine is ideal for Madam Medusa. Standing up, he is the height of her navel. On tiptoe, his outstretched tongue can barely reach her fanged nipples. By squatting a little, he provides unsurpassed gratification.