| \
                                   |  \
                                   | | \
                            __     | |\ \             __
      _____________       _/_/     | | \ \          _/_/     _____________
     |  ___________     _/_/       | |  \ \       _/_/       ___________  |
     | |              _/_/_____    | |   > >    _/_/_____               | |
     | |             /________/    | |  / /    /________/               | |
     | |                           | | / /                              | |
     | |                           | |/ /                               | |
     | |                           | | /                                | |
     | |                           |  /                                 | |
     | |                           |_/                                  | |
     | |                                                                | |
     | |      c   o   m   m   u   n   i   c   a   t   i   o   n   s     | |
     | |________________________________________________________________| |

  ...presents...           Last of the Expressionists
                                                         by Haywire

             __///////\ -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc- /\\\\\\\__
               \\\\\\\/  Everything You Need Since 1986  \///////
  ___    _   _    ___     _   _    ___       _   _      ___    _   _      ___

     Tom slouched further into his chair.  The day seemed to be dragging on
even longer than usual, as the biology teacher yakked on and on about clams and
clam food, mitochondria, and food chains.

     The Friday was like any other.

     In fact, this Friday was no different than the seeming eternity of school
days that Tom had already slouched through.  Each and every day spent staring
at the clock, as if the force of his will could speed time itself.  He shifted
and realized that it was doing no good to depress himself.

     Talk of ribosomes and nuclei buzzed in the background as the high school
student turned his pencil once again to the paper on his desk.  He continued
his drawing.

     He liked to draw.  It was his favorite method of wasting time.  It would
look as though he was intent on his work, like all the other good little
zombies, when in fact he was drawing nudes, cars, or dead cops.

     Today, it was a nude.  The biology teacher, to be exact.

     His biology teacher was quite beautiful.  Tom's sixteen-year-old hormones
fueled his already impressive imagination and equally impressive drawing
ability.  Despite his fantasies, he still hated his teacher.  Tom's hate was
immense, and encompassed almost everything he could think of.  But today, it
was focused on his biology teacher.

     The pencilled teacher on the paper became endowed with the tattered
remains of skimpy clothing.  A ripped blouse, shredded panties, and a cruelly
slashed bra were among the recognizable bits left hanging from the naked

     Biology Teacher started to scribble notes on the board, and yapped
on about the clam's specialized anterior muscles.

     The pencil sketch developed binding manacles and chains.

     Tom turned the page sideways.  The somewhat languishing pose that the
teacher held was drastically different at this new angle.  He worked now on
securing the chains to pencilled stone walls, trapping her in a submissive,
twisted position on the cold stone of a dungeon.

     Tom shifted uncomfortably.  The power he held over her image, as always,
was giving him a powerful hard-on.

     The zombies around him opened their textbooks with a rustle to a page
supplied by the droning background voice.  Tom didn't pay any attention.

     A large reptilian figure was sketched into existence behind the pencilled
teacher, a handful of her blonde hair viciously clenched in his clawed fist,
and his other hand pushing on her back.  Minute scales were added to the
lizardman's body.  The brutal rape scene coalesced faster by the second.

     Tom smirked to himself.  "Now THAT's biology," he whispered.  The girl in
the desk next to him looked over, and he gave her his best fuck-off-and-die
look.  Her eyes widened slightly, as though he had spat a curse, and she turned
back to her book.

     He turned back to his work.  Sweat was added to the figures' bodies. 
Small wounds and blood appeared on the teacher's flesh.  He added tears and
a black eye as an afterthought.  A long black tongue curled from the
lizardman's open mouth, his eyes fixed on the meat impaled on his penis.  Tom
erased slightly, and drew the muscles in more taut than before.  The lizardman
was now not only fucking the hell out of his battered and bound biology
teacher, but was holding and riding her as though his life depended on it.

     The bored teen sketched in another lizardman crouched down beside the
first, his mouth open in a grotesque parody of the biology teacher's agonized
expression.  Tom drew a monstrous erection on the crouched lizardman, just for
a frame of reference, in case there was any doubt as to what the teacher was
going through.

     Tom had read the _Hustler_s and _Playboy_s like everyone else, but knew
better than to believe the letters and stories about women fainting in pleasure
from a 12-inch hot beef injection.  Tom may have been inexperienced, but he
wasn't stupid.  Women didn't take that and ENJOY it.  His knowledge of such
things came from the university library a short ways from his house.  The
knowledge of what women LOOKED like came from the magazines.

     Moving his pencil over the page, he deepened the shadows in the perverse
scene until the image was suitably darkened.  He sat back and admired his work.
Damn, he had done a good job.  Too bad it was all on a shitty piece of workbook
paper.  His hard-on was straining by now, and Tom doubted that enough blood was
left in his body to keep all of his limbs from going to sleep.

     The bell finally rang.  The zombies packed up their books, and started to
file out of the classroom.  Tom folded up his notebook, the chains on his
jacket ringing quietly as he did so, and moved to leave the room.

     "Just a minute there, Mr. Polnuck."

     Tom stopped just short of the door, and turned to face his teacher in the
now-empty classroom.  "Tom, you didn't hear me tell everyone to turn in their
work."  It wasn't a question.


     The teacher sighed.  She had no idea how Tom regarded her.

     "Tommy, did you in fact do any work at all?" she asked.

     Tom hated that name, but allowed himself a cosmetic smile.

     "Yes, I did."

     "Did you now?"  Her expression brightened as only a first-year teacher's
can.  She was making progress!  She had gotten through to a problem kid in a
class that had twice this year driven her to tears.

     Tom didn't say anything.

     "Well, hand it in.  What did you think of the project?" she beamed.

     Tom was smiling fully now.  "Well, it was stimulating.  There was just so
much to say and write on the subject, but I managed to fit it all on one page,"
he replied in his best preppie vocabulary.  He pulled out the paper.

     "Well, I'm anxious to see it!  I'm sure you did an excellent job."  She
outstretched her hand.

     Tom tossed the paper past her waiting hand, where it landed face-up
on her desk.  He didn't see her expression as he walked out the door and said
over his shoulder, "Thanks... I'm kinda proud of it myself.  See you on

     As he made his way down the empty stairs on that Friday afternoon,
Tom truly, honestly smiled for the first time in weeks.
     .-.                             _   _                             .-.
    /   \           .-.             ((___))             .-.           /   \
   /     \         /   \       .-.  [ x x ]  .-.       /   \         /     \
 -/-------\-------/-----\-----/---\--\   /--/---\-----/-----\-------/-------\-
 /         \     /       \   /     `-(' ')-'     \   /       \     /         \
  WORLDWIDE \   /         `-'         (U)         `-'         \   / WORLDWIDE
             `-'                     .ooM                      `-'     _
      Oooo                                                            / )   __
 /)(\ (   \ Copyright (c)1996 Haywire and cDc communications.        / ( /\
 \__/  )  / All rights reserved.  Award-winning CULT OF THE DEAD COW \   ) \)(/
       (_/     is published by cDc communications, P.O. Box 53011,    oooO  _
  oooO         Lubbock, TX, 79453, US of A.  Edited by Swamp Ratte'.  __   ( \
 /   ) /)(\                                                          /  \  )  \
 \  (  \__/        Save yourself!  Go outside!  Do something!        \)(/ (   /
  \_)                      "THE COW WALKS AMONGST US"                     Oooo