As long as you’re having fun alienating people from the cause you profess to be fighting for, that’s really the most important thing.
You enjoy reading vague generalities about your personality. You are special and unique, except in comparison to the 1/12 of the population that you are exactly alike. One time you stubbed your toe and it really hurt. You feel strongly about many of the people in your life, but sometimes get frustrated with them. Because of your positive personality traits, people have taken advantage of you. You have an anus.
If you’re a Scorpio, you’re a cunt and likely a rapist.
by Balls Malone
Hedda eased back into the Mercedes’ well-worn, custom leather front passenger seat and let the warm, night sea air bathe her through the open window. The joint she had just shared with the car’s other two occupants was sitting marvelously with the light dinner she had allowed herself. Hedda was feeling good.
She opened her eyes to take in more of the night. The sea and the beach with its boardwalk and attractions flowed by her window in a wash of light, color, and sound. It was Saturday night and the heavy traffic on the seaside drive was moving slow, with people in no hurry to get anywhere but where they were.
The car was getting old, and was not running quite as smoothly as a luxury vehicle should, but it was still a lovely accessory for the evening. It’s owner and driver was Rupert Cornelius, acclaimed glamour and fashion photographer. His girlfriend, Ariana, was seated in the back.
Hedda knew exactly why Rupert had invited her to sit in front. It did not take him much longer to get to it.
“You know what I was thinking I’d like to do? I’d really love to go dancing? Do you ladies want to go dancing?” he asked.
Hedda smiled out the window and left Ariana to answer affirmatively from the back.
“Thing is, I’m all out of blow, and dancing just isn’t the same without it. Don’t you think? Say, Hedda, you don’t know where we could score some blow, do you?” Rupert asked with all the practiced nonchalance of a total cokehead asking someone they barely know for a hookup.
Hedda had known Rupert and Ariana just a few days. He was the photographer on her latest modeling job: the biggest she had booked yet. Hedda was not sure if Ariana was actually his girlfriend, or just the model he had chosen to fuck for the duration of that shoot. Either way, he had paid Hedda next to no mind until the day before when he discovered she had cocaine.
That her cocaine was straight-up fucking right meant he was really into her from that moment on. The shoot had wrapped that afternoon and Hedda had consented to be targeted by him afterwards. He was, after all, Rupert Cornelius: glamour and fashion photographer.
The restaurant he took her and Ariana to for dinner had been nice.
“I could like a dance,” Hedda finally said. “But I have no coke now.”
She sat in silence and let that sink the mood in the car for a while before she relented and continued:
“But I can get some. My boyfriend, he gets. It’s no problem.”
Hedda ignored Rupert’s verbal massage of her over this suggestion and got her phone out to track down her boyfriend, Lance Johnson. It turned out he was not far away at all.
“Okay, we meet. He’s at Family Mart just back in road,” Hedda finally said.
“What, the Family Mart at the Old Pier? That place? Really? Uhhhh… yeah… Okay!” Rupert responded.
The convenience store they were talking about was located right down at the dodgy end of the seaside drive, before it drifted inland into skid row. The cruisers who liked to drive up and down the strip to check out the vehicles and the girls tended to use the parking lot as their turnaround. The site was also a hotly contested gang spot and a known drug corner. Shootings were common there.
Rupert pulled into the lot and parked opposite from the squad of gangbangers clustered around two lowriders and three sports bikes taking up way more parking spaces than they ought to.
Hedda tapped the screen of her phone a couple of times. “Okay. He come.”
Rupert and Ariana barely had time to panic properly before Lance emerged from the crew around the lowriders and prowled his way towards their car.
That night Lance had on his vintage early-70s Adidas tennis outfit, all white with red piping: tennis shoes, socks pulled up to just under the knee, short shorts, and really tight tee. The ensemble was rounded out with fuzzy head and wrist bands. Pristine white all. He was also wearing his mirrored Ray-Ban aviators and had blow-dried his hair into a puffy miracle.
“Hey, baby! What the fuck! I didn’t expect to hear from you tonight! You’re lucky I aint gettin my dick sucked over here!” Lance said as he leaned down to peer through Hedda’s window. He grabbed the massive bulge in his short shorts and gave it a squeeze and a shake to punctuate his last point. He went on:
“But now that you’re here, I guess you’ll be able to take care of that for me. Isn’t that right, baby.”
Lance pointedly eyeballed Rupert across Hedda as he spoke. As he did, Lance put his left arm on the Mercedes’ roof and stretched low with his right hand on his hip. This gave everyone in the car a good look at his marvelously sculpted upper body. Both of Lance’s chiseled arms were covered in full sleeves of prison gang tattoos; some actively incorporating his many scars.
Rupert started to respond, but Hedda cut him off:
“We don’t want a fuck now, Lance. We want blow and then to go dance.”
“Yeah. I guess I could sort ya out. Ya got the money?” Lance asked Rupert, who enthusiastically assured Lance that he did.
“Cool. Cool. That’s cool and the gang. Yeah, I can sort ya out. No prob. I’ll join, huh?” Lance said.
“Oh, yes please, baby,” Hedda said, before Rupert could say anything to the contrary.
“Kay. Hold up. I got my bitch holding my shit down,” Lance said. He wandered back toward the lowriders and gave a shrill whistle. After exchanging some words with one of the gangbangers, he came back to the Mercedes.
Lance knocked on the back passenger window to get Rupert to unlock the door and then climbed into the back seat next to Ariana.
“Pop the trunk,” Lance said to Rupert.
“Pop the trunk, bitch! My boy is gonna put my shit in there.”
“Uhhh… I don’t know if… Okay. Alright.” Rupert popped open the trunk and one of the gangbangers ran over with a vintage Adidas nylon tennis bag. When that was shut in the trunk, the guy came around to the driver’s window and leaned down.
“Tell him what ya want,” Lance said.
“Wait, that wasn’t the stuff he just put—” Rupert started.
“No. I told ya. That shit’s mine. He’ll sort ya out. And don’t worry, the shit will be right. It aint what they usually slingin here, that’s fer fuckin sure. And he’ll be givin ye the friend price, so don’t be a bitch about it.”
Rupert handed his money over to the gangbanger who wandered off and had a youngster run the cocaine over to the car. While they were waiting, Lance turned to Ariana beside him and looked her up and down with a wide leer.
“Hi, baby!” Lance said to her.
“I’ve been called feral!” Lance said.
“What’s that mean?” Ariana asked.
“It means that I’m like a wild animal.”
“Like, on the dance floor?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah, right, the dance floor. Yeah, or in a parole hearing. Some shit like that.”
“No parole for me, right?” Lance went on. “No! They never pinned a fuckin body on me. But they still violated my ass plenty for every other fuckin thing they could. So I did the full ten years, straight up! Fuckin pigs got nothin on me now, right? No parole officer getting up in my shit. No piss tests. Just walk out the fuckin door free and clear after doing the time straight up like a fuckin man. That’s the fuckin way to do it!”
Once Rupert had the cocaine, he pulled out of the parking lot and they were back to driving the strip.
“Okay, then, dancing,” Rupert said. “Where do you want to go?”
“Nowhere south of 60th,” Lance answered. “And no metal detectors!”
They settled on a club called the Purple Onion: a nice compromise between the higher-end clubs, where Rupert would not want to be seen with Lance, and those too far down the spectrum, where a lack of metal detectors would definitely be an issue.
The Purple Onion was a just a little off the strip in a semi-industrial area. They parked in an empty lot almost across the street and spent some time getting in the right frame of mind with Rupert’s newly acquired cocaine. Of the four of them, Lance barely partook. Rupert, however, was into it enough for the both of them.
“This is,” Rupert went on excitedly between snorts, “exactly the shit I hoped you could hook up, Hedda! You are a god! And Lance! What can I say? This shit is right! Your shit is right!”
In the club, things went predictably marvelously. Much as eggs, sugar, butter, and flour can be combined to create something wonderful, so too did the four talented and beautiful people combine with the electronic music in the dark crowded club. (Of course, the drugs didn’t hurt.)
Mostly, it was Hedda and Ariana dancing either side of Lance, with Rupert watching from the shadows and taking pictures of them with his phone. Within an hour, Lance had thoroughly familiarized himself with Ariana. Once he had, Hedda took the lead on the three of them working out a rhythm together.
Watching things develop, Rupert stayed in his lane as their audience. It was all very sexy; with nothing but open road ahead that looked sure to take them somewhere very marvelous indeed.
by Balls Malone
“Eat my ass, you dirty fuckin slut! Eat it! Lick it out, you fuckin hoor!” Lance Johnson yelled as he pulled his huge cock out of Hedda’s sopping wet cunt and pounced to reverse position and squat on her face.
Lance and Hedda were finishing up another of their nooner sessions where he would fuck her hard on her sofa while watching videos of bare knuckle street bouts off his phone on her big-screen TV. Lance slid his fingers over and into her pussy while she licked his asshole. It took less than a minute of this for Lance to explosively jet semen all over her stomach, leg, the backrest of her sofa, and the big teddy bear propped by the armrest.
“Oh, baby, that was fuckin awesome!” Lance said. He dragged her up off the floor and onto the sofa.
As was usual when he fucked, Lance had left on his shoes. This time they were pristine Adidas tennis shoes, circa 1982: white with blue stripes. He now planted one of them on the coffee table and did some stretches, showing off his magnificently chiseled physique. Hedda masturbated while she watched him pose, quickly getting herself off yet again. Lance then picked up a throw pillow off the floor and used it to wipe off his cock, balls, and asshole.
“Are you two done fucking? You know what? I’m getting really sick and fucking tired of you two– Oh, what the fuck?!” yelled Hedda’s roommate as she stomped into the living room and was treated a view of Lance in all his glory.
“Well, I told ya, Trixey, you wanna join in alls ya gotta do is ask. Whatever ya want! I’ll let ya take yer pick. If yer too fuckin prissy and stuck-up to toss salad, then I’m sure Hedda would let ya work cock for her while she sorts that out herself,” Lance said with a happy smile, stroking his cock.
“Fuck you, pig! For the fucking tenth time, my name is Roxy, you asshole! And put some clothes on, you’re fucking disgusting! Oh what the fuck!” Roxy had just noticed her teddy bear, Chester, all covered in Lance’s semen.
“I knew it was some shit like that. Tinky or Twinkle, all the same kinda shit with you peelers. Yeah, sorry about yer fuckin bear, he had to take one fer the team. If you were there to block fer him, he woulda been fine. Okay, then, see ya next time, Tammy!” Lance said as Roxy snatched Chester of the Sofa and ran to her bedroom to slam her door.
“Ya wanna go get something to eat? I mean, besides my ass,” Lance asked Hedda.
“I should tell a sorry for Roxy,” Hedda said. She got up and started getting dressed. Lance intercepted her as she bent over for her panties, cupping her ass to pull her into a sloppy kiss.
“Why don’t ya let me go and talk to her, baby. I’ll be extra nice. Then we can all have a shower together and see what happens. You know how much I love watching you eat pussy, baby.”
“Is not good time for three way, baby. She is anger about bjørn,” Hedda said.
“Who? Whatever happened to that asshole, it aint got shit to do with me. Give me those,” Lance snatched Hedda’s panties out of her hand and held them up between them. He smelled them and then tried to stuff them in Hedda’s mouth.
“No! It’s her bjørn. Her Chester. You made love explosion on him.”
“What, her fuckin bear? Whatever. Stupid bitch. Fine, then, let her be a cunt about some fuckin toy. We’ll just bring someone else home and make her jealous. What are ya doin this afternoon? Let’s go down to the beach.”
“I have shoot. I tell you. You say you want to watch. Will you come?” Hedda asked, slipping free from Lance. She finished getting dressed, got a dish towel from the kitchen and wiped up the sofa in a half-assed way.
“Yeah, whatever. But I’m hungry so lets hurry up.”
“I just have shower and tell sorry to Roxy. Then we go,” Hedda said.
She had a quick shower and changed into some yoga gear before going to talk to her roommate. The two had danced together at a higher-end strip club for a few months before Hedda’s modeling took off. The apartment had been Roxy’s, but she needed a roommate to help cover rent, since most of her money was going to pay for graduate school. Hedda had been paying more than her share of the utilities for a while now and it was getting a little tense between them.
Hedda ignored Lance jerking off to a video of her blowing him in a toilet stall and knocked softly on Roxy’s door. There was no answer, but Hedda let herself in anyway. Roxy was sitting on the floor hugging Chester, with a bunch of used wet-wipes next to her.
“I am sorry for Chester? Is he clean?” Hedda asked Roxy, taking a seat next to her.
“It’s not about the fucking bear. That motherfucker is an animal, Hedda. You have to break up with him! I can’t believe the way you let him talk to you!”
“Is just fucking talk. Is hot.”
“It’s abusive and demeaning. I think maybe you don’t understand just what it is he’s saying,” Roxy said.
“I am Norwegian, not stupid. You think I am some a kind of a fucking Swede?”
“I know you’re not stupid, Hedda… or Swedish. It’s just I think he’s taking advantage of you. He’s fucking dangerous! I mean, he’s covered in prison gang tattoos, and Dave said some of them are really hardcore. Like, you can’t get them unless you…”
“I don’t want to accuse him of anything, but some of that ink you can’t get unless you’ve killed someone on the inside. You need to be careful.”
“Oh, yes, the killings in the prison. He tell me about all it. He likes the knives fight. Don’t worry, he’s very good. He always wins!” Hedda said proudly.
“What?” asked Hedda.
“You know? He’s told you he’s killed people and you stay with him? I don’t even know what to say.”
“I don’t need what you say. I like real man. He is my viking war man! If you want to go a three way sometime, we can. He says your pussy looks really fresh.”
“No. I… No. I need to think, Hedda. I think I need to ask you to move out. I can’t have this anymore,” Roxy said.
“Okay then. I go. Just pay me money you owe and I go. About two-thousand now, yes? You pay and I go. I’m a sorry for Chester love explosion. He is a good bjørn.”
Hedda left Roxy with her sulking and went to get Lance moving. If they did not hurry they would not have time to rerlax over lunch before he took her to her photo shoot, and she did not want that.
I think people invent conspiracy theories for the same reasons that others cling to religion; they are just coming at it from an slightly different position.
The religious believe there’s this big Daddy in the sky who has everything under control; there is a plan and we all have our part to play. Comforting, so long as you’re one of those lucky people for whom God’s plan isn’t getting raped to death over the course of a decade from childhood.
The conspiracy theorist has at least taken it down a notch. They look at the world and say: “Wow, this is really fucked up.” While they don’t cut and run with the old, “God works in mysterious ways,” they still require the comforting illusion that someone, somewhere, is in control of all this. There is still an order and a plan.
The Charlie Manson gods of the big religions love you and have a plan; just relax, everything will be fine. Daddy has the wheel. The Illuminati and the Masons don’t love you, but just relax; there’s nothing you can do about their plans, and at least someone is in control of this mess.
The truth is, there is no order and there is no grand scheme. There are simply basic human impulses and frailties being played out millions of times over. Sure, patterns emerge, because patterns always do; and our minds are programmed to detect them. Those in power are simply focused on keeping power and keeping score against each other.
There is no one at the wheel, and we are all collectively choosing extinction for the sake of our creature comforts.
Like bacteria in a petri dish. Gobbling up the food. Expanding consumption. Spreading. And now, at the cusp of poisoning ourselves with our own waste.
As natural as can be. Just more organisms, doing as organisms do.
No God. No plan. Just nature.
There is a lady in the place when I stop in near closing time.
She has red leather pants and a bad attitude. Which one led to the other, I wonder? There’s no way they’re not connected. A chicken and the egg scenario I’m determined to get to the bottom of.
Leather pants. Man. What could be going on in a person’s life where they think that’s some kind of solution?
She’s hostile. Surly. Mean. Just my type.
She knows it now too. Can smell it on me. Watched me metamorphose into a moth to be drawn to her flame. Now she’s engaged. Wants the power I offer her. Wants the chance to wound again.
She smiles at me. Oh man, am I ever in deep shit now.
At least I’m gonna find out if the bad attitude is something that will peel off of her along with those pants.
A warm, funky mess waiting to be discovered.
by Balls Malone
“Oh, baby! You know what I love about you, baby? I love the way you suck my cock. I love that almost as much as I love your cunt. And you know how much I love your cunt,” said Lance Johnson, his voice heavy with lust.
“I don’t… No, put him away. It’s taxi!” said Hedda. She was from Norway and still a little shaky with the English. However, she was not wrong: they were indeed in the back of a taxi.
“I can’t, baby! Look what yer doin to me here,” Lance said proudly, as he finished pulling his huge erection out of his Adidas short shorts.
Lance and Hedda had been together for a heady two days. They had met in a night club, when she had all but thrown herself at him. He was tall, handsome, marvelously muscled, and had what she thought was a wonderfully ironic sense of fashion; with his pristine ensemble of vintage Adidas tennis wear. Lance’s seemingly inexhaustible supply of cocaine and ecstasy had not hurt either. He had been well worth blowing in the men’s room. They partied all night and all day and finished things late on their second night at his apartment with the kind of marathon fucking that only Viagra and a strict cardio regimen can provide.
Hedda had awoken that morning with a hangover and a heart full of dirty regret. She could not face putting her clothes back on after showering, so Lance loaned her a retro Adidas outfit of her very own. It seemed he took vintage Adidas very seriously, because he did not have any clothes besides vintage Adidas. He promised to drop her back at her apartment after they had breakfast and he ran an errand. She packed her own clothes in an Adidas shopping bag and they headed out together in their matching outfits, like some kind of nightmarish Adidas commercial.
They shared a special morning together. Lance had started the day by convincing Hedda to blow him in the shower, and he followed that with continued aplomb. He tried to get her to blow him in the booth at Denny’s, and, now, was trying to get her to blow him in the back of the taxi.
The taxi driver watching them in the rear-view mirror was working for her a little, so she almost let herself be won over by Lance’s wooing. After all, he was awfully good looking, and the best coke hook up she had found since moving there. But she wasn’t quite feeling it, and did not want to seem cheap, so she declined his offer yet again. When it became obvious that she was not going to blow him, the taxi driver started shouting for Lance to put his cock away. Lance shouted back some stuff about the reasons why certain kinds of people wind up with an ice pick in their skull. Hedda could not quite follow it, but she did ponder how funny it was that Lance’s full sleeves of prison gang tattoos had seemed so sexy-dangerous to her before, whereas now they just seemed dangerous.
Travel really is the best education.
They finally got out of the taxi at the beach and Lance and the driver exchanged a few more words before Lance threw some money at his face. The taxi peeled out of there, and Lance led Hedda down to the bike path on the beach. Rollerbladers and joggers were enjoying the beautiful day, going to and fro with that glazed enthusiasm so many of them have. Lance waited until there was a break in this sexy traffic, and he quickly reached in his vintage Adidas gym bag to transfer a Glock 19 to the front of his shorts.
“Don’t worry about that motherfucker, baby. He aint shit, and those cats he was talkin don’t got no juice this side of 60th,” Lance said, giving Hedda a sweet peck on the cheek.
They went down to a part of muscle beach where a bunch of guys even bigger than Lance, with very similar tattoos, were working out. She was gratified at all the attention they gave her. Lance had her “hold down his gat” for him and worked out for her. The hard weight of the pistol wrapped in a towel reminded her of the feel of his cock through his shorts. She moistened as she squeezed it tight, watching Lance blast through reps with sweat glistening on his chiseled physique.
Once Lance was all done, he stepped aside with a gargantuan freak show to exchange some boxes and vials for a wad of cash. Then they were on their way.
“Don’t worry, baby. I don’t use that shit. My game is one hundred percent natural. No shrinkin balls here babe! But those freaks pay, man. That shit pays!”
Lance hailed another taxi and Hedda’s heart was thumping as he helped her into it. She knew without a doubt that she was going to invite him up to her place. As far as the ride there went, she would just have to see how the taxi driver struck her.