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    | |      c   o   m   m   u   n   i   c   a   t   i   o   n   s     | |
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    |____________________________________________________________________|

          ...presents...
                             How Are You Feeling?
                                                        by Oxycolton

           __//////\   -cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-   /\\\\\\__
                    __      Grand Imperial Dynasty      __
 Est. 1984   \\\\\\/ cDc paramedia: texXxt 414-01/26/2009 \//////   Est. 1984

  ___    _   _    ___     _   _    ___       _   _      ___    _   _      __
 |___heal_the_sick___raise_the_dead___cleanse_the_lepers___cast_out_demons__|

     "How are you feeling?"

     A stagnant smell of sulfur and rotten cucumbers swirled around my
nostrils as I slowly peek through my eyelids at the set of blistered lips
next to my face, moving, forming words that make no sense.

     "Water boat festival."

     She looked confused at my response and watched me closely as I gathered
myself and my ziplock baggie that contained my wallet, cell phone and a set
of keys that I found.

     "Water boat festival?"

     I didn't answer her.  I opened the car door and fell out onto the
ground.  I picked myself up and took in the surroundings.

     Apparently I fell asleep in an abandoned car sitting in a desert
wasteland of sorts.  I put my fingers through my hair and dug my sunglasses
out of my shirt pocket.  I adjusted my appearance in the reflection of the
windshield and noticed a young, black crusty sleeping in the front seat.

     BAM!  It all came rushing back.  Normally I don't reflect on evenings
prior when waking up in weird places with strange girls with death on their
breath.  But after noticing the young crusty, last night came rushing back in
a fury.


                                  - x X x -


     I met the black crusty at a house party in Biloxi.  Originally a rude
boy, I'm assuming, that got too caught up with speed, booze and boys his age.
He approached me, if I remember correctly, asking if I wanted a hit from his
glass pipe.

     "No thanks, not big on stimulants - unless you have some clean
syringes."

     He looked at me out the corner of his eye and reached into his pocket
and pulled out a dime of coke.

     "Ten dollars; I don't have any rigs though."  He continues to look at me
through the corner of his eye while talking straight at me.

     "I'll take two for $16."

     "$17."

     "Deal."

     I parked myself on a piss-stained couch and fingered the inside of my
boot for my syringe set.  I have a reserve of dope sitting in the chamber
waiting for bedtime, but the crusty got me on a coke trip.

     Sounds like an ideal time for a speedball.

     I asked the crusty for a sip of his Steel Reserve.  I wet my mouth and
the crusty watched as I dropped a mound of spit into my spoon.  Pouring a
quarter of the bag of coke into the watery reservoir I created, I sucked the
concoction into my syringe and looked to my hand for a useable vein.

     There she is.  I spotted the bulging vein and it looked like porn.
I stick the needle through my epidermis, piercing the outer layer of the
vein.  I got a little excited remembering I have coke in the syringe and I
pushed all the way through the other side.  Slowly I moved the needle back
into the heart of the vein and pulled the plunger back.  A beautiful red
ribbon of blood shot through the milky brown fluid in the syringe.  I pushed
off.

     "Holy shit, there she is!"

     I leaned back with the syringe still in my hand.  My toes curled up in
my boots and I grabbed the side of the couch.  I looked up at the ceiling and
my jaw dropped.  I couldn't support the weight of my head any longer.  My
neck buckled, causing my head to roll to the side.  Suddenly, I was making
eye contact with the crusty.  He looked at me with intrigue.

     "Are you ok?"

     "Kevin." I incoherently mumble.

     "Huh?"

     I tried to gather myself and sit up.  I used my shoulder blades to push
off the back of the couch.  Sitting up for a few seconds, or maybe a few
minutes, I fell over, off the couch.

     I heard a female voice yell, "Hey Roger, get that fucking junkie the
fuck out of here!"  The crusty stood over me and extended his hand.  I took
it and pulled myself up.

     "I have a place for you to crash if you want."

     I studied the crusty that the psycho bitch called "Roger." When talking
to you he never makes full eye contact.  I hate the paranoia speed creates.
Or maybe he's handicapped.  I don't know.

     "Have you seen... " I stopped mid-thought and concentrated on my pos-
ture.  If I fell over one more time I could very well get my ass kicked by
some scum-sucking OI punk.

     "Let's go." Roger continued.

     "...my keys?" I finished my thought as Roger grabbed me by the arm and
led me towards the door.  Tripping over my own feet and bumping into people I
spotted a set of keys on the windowsill by the door, snagged them and shoved
them in my pocket.  Who knows, maybe they will come in use some time.  I love
collecting other people's shit.

     "Tomorrow there is a water boat festival in the Gulf.  Ever get fucked
up at a water boat festival?" Roger seems to be trying to occupy my mind so
that perhaps I don't notice him leading me out of the party.

     Outside there are more punks.  Beer bongs, meth pipes and big boobs
catch my eye as he navigates me through the crowd.

     "Hey, Roger!  Who's your friend?"

     I looked up and saw a six foot, female OI punk standing in front of us.
My eyes shot to her mouth where she either had a gnarly hair lip or an in-
fected herpe.

     "Got.  Damn.  Crazy.  Inverted.  Paper cut." My thoughts started spill-
ing out of my mouth before I could stop them.

     Roger propped me up to introduce me to his Amazonian gutter friend.
"This is Kevin, I think.  We are heading to the Nova."

     "Nova?" I tried to keep my head up to study Roger's face and he explains
our destination.

     The giant creature before us looks like she decided something without
asking for our concurrence. 

     "Ok, let me get my shit, I'm too stoned for these tweakers."


                                  - x X x -


     After adjusting myself in the windshield I gave a wink to the sleeping
black crusty named Roger and started my trek to the water boat festival.

     The festival was gated off but the admission was free.  My first obser-
vation was the human beings occupying the event.

     Big and small.  Tall and lanky.  Hairy and... well... not so hairy.
These people appeared as modern marvels to me in my current headspace. 

     Suddenly I noticed my joints hurting.  Within a millisecond later it
felt like someone was putting a cigarette out on the bottom half of my spine.
Time to fix myself. 

     I found a row of about 25 port-o-potties in the distance.  I rushed over
to find each one had a line of at least ten people.  The smell of boat
engines filled the air.  Of all the things I've inhaled this proved to be a
bit difficult.  I placed my bandana around my face and stood in line with my
hands in my pockets.  My feet were restless, constantly shuffling them and
bending at the knees to relieve tension.

     I looked down the line.

     "What the fuck!" I let out a muffled yell from beneath the bandana.

     The guy in front of me turned around and looked me in the eyes.  At this
juncture I'm sure I was shooting laser beams.  He looked me up and down bear-
ing witness to combat shorts, boots, a cut off KMFDM shirt and the bandana
around my face.  Gigantic, bloodshot beady eyes piercing through his skull.
I mumbled something to him I didn't even understand.  He turned back around.
No one wants to stare the devil in the eyes.

     Slowly the line gets shorter and shorter.  I start to push the top of my
tongue to the back of my teeth.  My hair was standing on end.  I could feel
the timid vibes the guy in front of me acquired after taking me in.  Finally,
he is next in line.  I know he isn't going to be much for confrontation.  He
reached for the port-o-potty door as it opened and I grabbed him from the
back of his sleeveless shirt and forced him to the side.  I quickly stepped
into the piss and shit factory and slammed the door behind me.  Outside I can
hear him screaming obscenities as he pounds on the door.  It doesn't last
long.  He gives up.

     I reach into my boot and take out my syringe set.  I open the case and
bare witness to a tragic sight.  My last hit of dope.  Where the fuck is it?
I held the syringe to the light seeping in from the corner of the port-o-
potty.  Nothing but dried blood.

     What the fuck?

     I started going through all my pockets and my zip lock baggie that
contains my personal effects.

     Fuck.

     Suddenly, like a subliminal message, my mind flashed the young, black
gutter punk Roger's face.  Holy shit.  I used my last hit last night.  Holy
shit.

     "FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!" My voice echoes from the inside of
the john.  I don't think twice about the bystanders on the other side of the
prison walls I just created.

     I hold the syringe with my chattering teeth as I rummage through my
pockets again for the remaining cocaine I bought from Roger.

     I found the half-used bag in my sock, yelled "Yes!" and drop the syringe
to the port-o-potty floor.

     Quickly snatching the syringe off the ground, I noticed puddles of urine
and other liquids that could quite possibly be anything from spilt beer,
semen, snot or vomit.

     I imagine various germs and deadly virii, swarming, jumping from the
puddle of whatever my syringe just fell in and crawling into the needle like
lemmings.

     I think about it for half a second before I decide to quickly delete
that perverted movie from my mind and start the process of masking the sick-
ness with an intense cocaine high via intravenous injection.

     After pushing off, I fumble around for the handle that lets me out of
this nightmare disguised as a bathroom.  As dark as it was inside and as
bright as it is outside I did not squint.  I have at least a quarter gram of
cocaine running from my veins to my heart to my brain and back again.  My
eyes are open.

     I make my way around the boat festival, alert and attentive.  I have an
unbridled paranoia.  It's as if everyone knows I have an ulterior motive.
Humanity, all around me, in all its interesting, unique and sometimes gut-
wrenching glory.  The cocaine is making me very observant.  All I see are
mannerisms and hand gestures.  I do second takes on people that catch my eye,
wondering where their paradigm is, because at this very moment, I feel I
could start a fire and let the whole world burn around me.

     Introspectiveness begins to get the best of me.  Picking apart people
and concepts, I start to dissect the norms these other humans exist in and
compare them to the thought processes I possess.  There is no comparison.

     Except... except maybe.

     I spotted a family.  A man with his wife and their two children.  The
guy could very well be my age or perhaps a few years older.  His wife was
very attractive for the domestic slave I've envisioned her to be.  Before I
could analyze the scene further, my brain wrapped the wife and myself
together in cellophane, her wearing a gimp mask and a strap-on, me, an awk-
ward grin.  The vision closed when I studied their children.  Beautiful,
little children.  Young, white, clean children.

     I fixed my eyes back on the man.  He was shaking hands with people.
Person after person would walk up to him, extending their hand.  After their
salutation he would give them something that looked like a brochure.

     An overweight man walked past me eating a corn dog with one of the
brochures in his overalls.  I waited until he was a foot away and snatched it
out of his pocket.

     "Phil Thompson for City Counsel" I read.

     No shit?

     I looked at him closer, studied his movements and his reaction to
others.  He was very well composed.  He wore a button up shirt; collar open
and sleeves rolled up.  But there was something more to him.  Something about
his presence made me think twice. 

     It was his eyes.  They sat deep in his head.  Blue eyes like an Aryan
prince.  Where one would normally see the white of the eyes, you only saw a
million little red veins.

     What the fuck is with this guy?  Why is he wearing on my nerves?  Who do
I think I am to assume I'm the only one who fucked the Goddess of Discord in
a previous life, resulting in my exile, living this one without structure,
remorse, emotions or personal responsibility?

     I stared Phil in the face from about 25 yards away.  I became horrified
of his personal demons, scared to think about the skeletons in his closet.
I wonder how his immune system is, because God knows, mine is shot.  Does his
liver function without non-narcotic pharmaceuticals?  Has he ever lost any
sleep the night before getting the results of an STD test?

     Yes he has... I can feel it.

     Then, like a cosmic shift of alternative realities discovered, he looks
over at me.  A 40 degree head spin with no hesitation; his eyes looked right
into mine.  We shared a stare for a single second.  It was an intervention of
my mind's personal vice, thinking it is the only one that gets fucked over by
its owner.  I felt as if he uploaded all his internal animosity for a system
failed, right into my spinal cord.

     Then, the sickness returned.  Stronger then ever.

     I started to curse myself as I stormed back to the port-o-potties.
Without waiting in line, I walked up to and through the first door that
opened.  My last dime of cocaine.  This one has to count.

     I made a pact with myself.  This hit will be used as fuel, fuel to get
the correct molecules into my brain's receptors.  I need any opiate in
existence.  I don't give a fuck if it's cough syrup with Codeine; I need my
medicine.  Even if I have to rob a Walgreen's at dirty syringe point, I will
get my fix.  I have to.  I have about an hour to make this right.

     Cocaine does funny things to the brain, however.  I started making
excuses to myself to stick around a bit and get all Chatty Cathy with people.
IVing a gram of cocaine can really knock your priorities out of order.

     I made my way to a fence where people were leaning, watching the boats
do whatever the boats were doing.  Achieving weird looks and double takes,
I was evidently scaring people with my cocaine-riddled dialogue.  I looked
for better entertainment.

     Suddenly, I spotted a relatively-attractive post-punk goth or post-goth
punk (I couldn't tell which) a few feet down the fence.  I have formulated a
wonderful theory that these types of people are generally afflicted with one
or more "socially crippling diseases," thus having one or more anti-psychotic
medications LEGALLY prescribed to them.

     My walk over to her was casual, but with the cocaine in my system, my
intro to our conversation was hectic.

     "Hey what's up?  How's it going?  eEjoying the boats?  No shit.  They're
fucking up my sinuses.  Hey you're pretty hot, do you have an eating dis-
order?  I'm tested and clean...."

     I was able to get that out in two seconds without her being able to
respond.  She gave a valid chuckle.

     "What are you on?"

     Without answering her, I asked if she likes to "hang out."

     "What do you mean, 'Hang out'?"

     "Do you like to get fucked up?"

     This time she decided to replace the valid chuckle with an annoying one
and said "Yes."

     "How do you party?" she asked.

     "Harder than you," I replied.

     "Do you like Vicodin?"

     Opiates.  The sound of modems and fax lines kick in my pattern recog-
nition software as zeros and ones zig-zag across my vision.

     "I would love some!" I automatically replied.

     "Well I only have three, but my friend has more if you want to come with
me to get some."

     I followed her out of the fenced-off boat festival.  As we walked
through the field of parked cars, I put my arm around her shoulder in an act
of dominance and playfully stuck my hand in her purse, hinting to give me the
Vicoden.

     "Oh, I forgot!" She started going through her purse and gave me a pill
bottle with the label peeled off.

     I opened the bottle and viewed the pills.  Nice.  10/325.  Whoever gave
her these has a nice connection.  I threw them in my mouth and started chew-
ing them up with my front teeth.

     "Can I give you something for these?" I grabbed my penis as I asked in
the slyest way possible, being as jacked as I was on coke. 

     She looked at me weird and said "No need."

     We were standing between a BMW and a moped as she searched her purse for
her keys.  I looked in the window and wondered how rich her parents were,
buying this car for their pill-popping daughter.  I started fantasizing about
what kind of narcotics her parents had in their medicine cabinet when she
said "Hop on."

     I turned around and she was sitting on the moped.  My heart sank a
little as I crawled onto the back.

     "A fucking moped," I mumbled under my breath.

     "It's not just a moped.  It's a Vespa!"

     "What the fuck?" I tried to mumble even more under my breath as she
started her mechanized scooter.


                                  - x X x -


     Racing down the highway, I felt every bump in the road.  Every jerk or
turn of the Italian scooter sent a shockwave from my spine to my brain.
Every time I snorted my snot back into my sinuses, I had to choke back from
vomiting.  The sickness was creeping hard, making me fully aware of what time
it was.

     The unsteady rocking of the scooter and the feeling of my penis rubbing
up against the girl's ass gave me a hard-on.  I tried to position myself on
the scooter to where I would not only fall off the back, but also casually
rub my newly-erect penis against her tail bone.

     An interesting chemistry lesson about using opiates: it is very
difficult for a male to ejaculate.  I speculate it is two parts mental, one
part physical.  Just as you don't care about your problems, anxieties or
worries on heroin, you also don't care so much for physical interaction.
At least not me.  I am sure most people will agree, after pushing off a solid
hit, it's best to revel in your euphoria and numbness.  Having some psycho,
coked-out whore trying to fuck your high up by pinching your nipples or
sticking her tongue in your ear can cause a bitchslap reaction.

     Every time the sickness approaches, as weird as it sounds, my dick gets
hard.  The lack of masturbation while constantly fucked on heroin leads to
nocturnal emissions when opiate levels are low.  I can recall, one time sick
in San Francisco, I saw a homeless tranny sleeping in a doorway.  Her skirt
was hiked up enough that the tip of the penis was resting on the cold con-
crete.  I scratched my nuts looking at her and came.

     I began to wonder if I should perhaps work a sex angle before ingesting
more Vicodin.  Recalling the last time I had sex was difficult.  The last six
months has been all-heroin,  all the time.  My habit has surly peaked.

     My mind started to race as my teeth chattered and my legs became more
and more restless.  I moved my hand from her waist to her inner thigh.
Positioning my thumb and index finger directly on her crotch, I gave a push.
She looked half way back while keeping her eyes on the road and said, "There
will be plenty of that later."

     "Want to stop for a minute?" I pushed again looking for clit through her
jeans.  Sometimes I ponder if I am more sexual deviant then junkie.

     "You know, I am afraid you might not be able to handle me." I could hear
her laugh with the wind blowing past my ears.

     Normally I would take offence.  But right now if someone looked at my
dick funny it would shoot a wad.  The sheer mention of hand-to-cock, mouth-to
cock or ten more minutes on the back of this moped would send a load through
my shaft.

     "Not unless you have some kind of a rectal fixation; a sexual pre-
requisite from receiving ass-to-mouth from your uncle.  In that case, maybe I
wouldn't be able to." I play the psycho card as a comeback as we pulled into
the back of a gas station.  She got off her moped and looked at me.

     "What did you say?"

     "I said perhaps you are right.  If I don't have the correct genetic
characteristics, pleasing incestual fetishists can be difficult." I remained
seated on the back of the moped waiting for her response.

     She looked at me as I repositioned myself to hide both my erection and
dope sickness.

     "It wasn't my uncle; but to me, blood is no thicker then water."

     She walked around the corner of the building and told me to hurry up.

     Not knowing my comment triggered some past sexual regression, I removed
my sunglasses and surveyed the scenery.

     What is it with Mississippi and its barren wastelands?  Similar to where
I woke up this morning, this place looks just as desolate.  The ground was a
combination of dirt and weeds mixed with small rocks and sand.  I hopped off
the moped and followed the girl around to the front of the gas station.

     Holding back my shivers and rubbing my cock through my jeans, I walked
into the station.  The girl was talking to an overweight goth chick who was
manning the cash register.  A burly biker type bumped into me as he exited
the store, tapping a pack of cigarettes against his palm.  I leaned against
the counter by the girl and wiped my nose with my wrist.

     "So you wanna buy some Vicoden?" the heavyset cashier asked.

     "No, I'm just here for the gotdamn scenery," I replied, staring at her
hugely fat tits.

     "Well, your arms are all torn up; would you rather get some tar?"

     I almost fell over.  I spun around and leaned against the counter
grabbing my erect boner and leaned over and almost vomited from excitement.

     "Are you fucking serious?" I asked in a standing fetal position, my back
to both the girls.

     "Yeh, the spicks I buy the Norcos from sell black too."

     Holy shit.  Fuck.  Gotdamn.

     "How much do you want?" she asked.

     "Attila the Hun," I said, pulling out a hundred-dollar bill.

     "Cool, one free for me!" she said, explaining every hundred dollars
spent gets her a free dime.

     "How much longer 'til they get here?" I asked, my voice getting weak and
my bowels moving like running water in my intestines.

     "I will call them now."

     I asked where the restrooms were and she pointed out the door.  She gave
me a hubcap with a key attached to it.  I ran for the door clutching my sto-
mach, moving pigeontoed to avoid a spillage of shit from my anus.

     I stepped out the door and looked around.  About twenty yards away there
was an outhouse of sorts.  I ran to it, fumbling the key into the lock and
opening the door.

     The inside of the bathroom was rancid.  Two stalls and a urinal.  There
was a shelf where an old issue of _Details_ magazine and a can of air fresh-
ener sat.  I bolted for one of the stalls, ripped my combat shorts to the
ground as shit started pouring out of my ass before I could sit down.

     I cleaned my back side and inner thighs of feces and rushed back to the
gas station.  I grabbed the handle but before opening the door I saw through
the glass two guys holding a knife to a Mexican that looked no more then six-
teen years old.  The girls were both behind the counter holding each other.

     Holy fuck.  He's getting robbed.  No fucking way.

     I didn't know whether to run or what.  I looked around nervously and
choked down my vomit.  That fucking kid's dope is my lifeline.  I fumbled in
my pocket and reached my hand into the zip lock baggie.  I clenched the keys
previously procured at the punk party the night before.  I took a deep
breath.

     I positioned the longest key through my fingers so that, whomever I hit,
it would hopefully pierce their skin.  I took another deep breath and charged
through the door.

     The guy with the knife turned around; before he could do anything I
stuck the key in his eye socket.  The Mexican then took a knife from his back
pocket and stabbed the other guy in the stomach.

     "HOLY SHIT!" I screamed and vomited all over the guy holding his eyeball
into his head.  The Mexican then stabbed him in the arm and kicked him to the
ground.

     "What the fuck?!" the girls both screamed from behind the counter.

     My vomiting turned to dry heaves as all the contents of my stomach
demanded to exit at once.

     I fell to the ground holding my stomach, trying to stop vomiting.  The
Mexican started violently kicking the two would-be thieves in the face,
splattering blood everywhere.

     I heard the commotion stop and I opened my eyes.  The Mexican was
standing over the two unconscious thugs.

     Finished, the Mexican stepped over me and started heading for the door.

     "Hey!  Wait!  What about the dope?" I wheezed in a weak voice.

     The Mexican stood over me and looked me in the eye.  He put his hand to
his mouth and about 20 balloons fell out.  He reached his hand in my pocket
and left them there.

     The heavy-set girl ran to the phone and dialed 911.  She told us to
leave so we wouldn't have to explain anything.  I pointed at the camera and
she said there was no tape in it.  The water boat festival girl and I rushed
out of the store.  She started for her moped and I told her to wait.

     "What?!  Lets get the fuck out of here."

     "I need to fix, go back and get the key, please!"

     "Fucking hell?" She said and ran back inside.

     She didn't put up much of a debate; she apparently wanted to get high as
well.  She came rushing out and we both ran for the bathroom.

     Inside the bathroom we both went to the back stall.  I started prepping
my dope as she took a square of tinfoil out of her back pocket.

     "You smoke this shit?" I asked.

     "Yes, I'm not a junkie."

     "What a fucking waste." I shook my head as the muddy water in my spoon
started to boil.

     As soon as I got off, I leaned back on the toilet and looked at the
girl.

     "Feeling better?" she asked.

     "Fuck you," is all I could murmur as my eyes started rolling in the back
of my head.

     In my brain, the heroin molecules started having sex with my receptors.
Hot, vengeful, forceful sex.

     I stood up and stared at the girl.

     "What?" she said nervously.

     I grabbed her by the neck and forced my tongue into her mouth.

     "Ouch!  Fuck!" She pushed me away.

     I reached for the back of her neck and forced her to her knees.
I pulled the back of her hair and had her stare me in the eyes.  I didn't say
anything.  She looked at me hesitantly, then started to unbutton my shorts.

     My half-erect cock spilled out and she gently placed her lips on it.
I grabbed her hair harder.

     "Don't tease me," I said sternly.

     She started sucking, first at a moderate pace then more rapidly.  As I
gained a full erection, I shoved my cock as far down her throat as I could.
She used one hand to cover her mouth from gagging and with the other she
pushed herself away from my raging penis.

     Gathering herself, she tugged my shorts to my ankles and started to
devour me.  Forcing my cock to the back her throat, she sucked it feverishly.
The head of my penis stretched the inside of her cheeks where I felt mounds
and craters.  I start to picture a mouthful of sores and blisters and decide
to swap one hole for the next.

     She massages her neck and spits on my cock.  She stood up and started
kissing me.  Spinning her around, I push her up against the moldy, tiled wall
and force her shorts off her ass.  Sliding her thong to the side, I kneeled
down and spat on her asshole.  I rubbed the tip of my penis against her anus,
lubing my cock, then slammed it into her vag.

     Vag, sweet vag.  My, has it been a long time.  If it wasn't for my
recent fix, I would have shot it right then and there.  I forced my cock in
and out, pushing her face against the wall and biting on her neck.

     "You fucking slut!" I yelled in her ear.

     "Fuck you faggot, is that all you got?" she laughed.

     I slid my dick out of her slimy pussy and forced her to her knees again,
this time to swallow her vaginal secretions.  I jammed her head so hard
against my cock, I felt like I could feel the back of her skull.  The force
caused her to bite down on my dick.

     "That's what I'm talking about!" I moaned.

     I grabbed her by the side of the head and forced her to the ground.
Squatting over her ass, I started fucking her in the butthole.  She was
lying flat on the ground.  I began rubbing her face against the filthy floor.
She was grinning and moaning in ecstasy as I pumped my prick in and out of
her ass.

     The hit I took was strong enough to make the sickness go away, but not
so enough to stop the sticky load that was about to explode out of my nuts.

     I waved my arm in the air over my head.  "GOTDAMNHEREITCOMESHOE!" I
yelled.

     I pumped half my man-butter in her ass, pulled out, turned her over and
squeezed the rest on her chin.  She took her index and middle fingers and
rubbed my seed all over her face and slid her fingers into her mouth.  She
looked up at me.

     "Don't look me in the eyes!" I said.  She moved her vision to my
throbbing cock.

     "Catch." I leaned over and spit in her mouth.  "You're fucking gross,"
I added as I lifted my shorts to my waist.

     "Not a bad fuck for a junkie," she said, positioning herself to sit up.

     I put my boot on her forehead and pushed her back down.

     "Sit; don't leave this restroom until I do." I moved away and pointed my
index finger at her. "Don't you fucking move." I slowly moved backwards
towards the door, reaching for the door handle from behind my back.  She
stared at me timidly, still whipping semen from her face.


                                  - x X x -


     Stepping outside, I squinted from the bright sun.  I pulled my fingers
through my hair and slid my sunglasses on.  I could hear cop sirens in the
distance.

     I made my way to the street and started walking away from the gas
station.  Away from the sirens.  Away from girl I just desecrated.  Away from
the chaos I just created.

     I stuck my hand in my pocket and played with the balloons.  I smiled to
myself and stuck my thumb up for the next passing car.


Kevin Ellis
(c) 2009 All Rights Reserved
DSSKCORP/cDc-NSF/Mindvox


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