Going back to the living room, I feel a strong desire to spend the night in our bedroom, in our good old bed. But then I realize that I'm all messy, vaginal fluid covers me and I would just mess up the sheets. So I lay back to my place, to the couch. It wiggles under me like a waterbed, trying to massage me, but I'm not in the mood for any games now. When I fall asleep again, I dream about the pussy-couch. It strangles me with slimy squid like tentacles.
*
Waking up with a bad back ache. Something is pressing against my side. There's a tiny bulge in the pussy-couch. I roll over. The morning sun shines into my face. (One of the disadvantages of the living room.) I wonder about that bulge. Something must have gotten nipped under the pink skin-wrinkles. Some keys or a purse maybe. Sitting up I feel it up with my fingers. Then I push aside the labia, sneaking under the skin my mouth drops open. I find a tiny developing embryo that strangely reminds me of a featherless chicken. I begin to sweat. How will I explain this to my wife? Seemingly I knocked up our sofa.
Walking up and down in the house, I'm trying to find a solution. Maybe I should hire some workers who would carry the furniture into a hospital, and get an abortion. But I couldn't bear the shame, the look in to the doc's face; he would immediately realize I had sex with a piece furniture. He would sure send me to the nuthouse. Maybe I should try to perform the abortion myself, but the idea makes me throw up. Besides, I have always been an anti-abortionist – though I have never gotten anyone pregnant before, especially not a couch.
The best solution would be – maybe – to fish out the fetus from the couch somehow. If I could stick it up to my wife when she sleeps, she would believe it is our child. But I'm afraid it would be more than suspicious after not having much sex with her lately.
Eventually, I do nothing. And a week passes by. And I stop sleeping on the couch.
*
After who knows how many days, the door opens, and my wife steps into the house. It's like she's changed somehow, she looks all relaxed, that old light smolders in her eye. I'm standing in the living room with an embarrassed look on my face, like a young boy who's been caught doing something naughty, standing, trying to cover the bulge on the couch with my body, though I don't think my wife would notice it anyhow, it's still so little.
"We need to talk…" I stutter under my nose, but my wife gives me a flirty smile, telling me, "Later, babe, later." Then she kisses me. Passionately, like we were teenagers again. I'm sure that her mother's hand is in this. I assume she recommended this tactic to my wife, she always says that there's only one way to control a man. Well, I would be a fool to tell my wife that she was right all the time, and yes, the couch must go. That would spoil the fun for sure.
"Did you miss me, big boy?" she purrs, pushing me playfully on to the couch. The giant pussy squelches as my wife crawls on too, with only slight disgust on her face, that fades away fast. I'm sure we are going to have sex here for a purpose, so she can tell me later, that yes, she tried out the new furniture, just to please me, and nope, she didn't like it at all.
"Yeah, I really missed you." I admit, while her fingers unbutton my shirt.
"Very good!" She winks at me, and we get out of our clothes. Like wet snails stuck together, we roll on the wet pussy-couch. When I get over her, I'm hard as a rock, ready to penetrate her, but then, she hisses painfully.
"Ouch!" She moves away. "There's something under me."
The blood runs out of my face. Also, it runs out of my penis too, which starts to soften. My wife discovers the bulge under her. And before I could say anything, she begins to beat it with her fists. I can hear a quiet cracking sound, I can almost see, how the developing little bones crack into pieces under the pink skin.
"There. That's better." She says, spreading her legs. "Now come, you devil!"
I swallow and close my eye. Using every effort I get hard again. As I slide into her, and our bodies begin to wave, I burry my face to her neck, trying not to nocite the small stream of blood oozing out from the pussy-couch, soaking our dear carpet.
INTERLUDE 1: DOLPHINS ON FIRE
FOR SOME TIME we have to set the thorn bushes afire ourselves and shout the prophecies into the flames – poetic license– the basis of good neighborliness is not gossiping about the tenant above – not even in encomiums
we wash beached dolphins – we rouge them and spritz some perfume on their skin – if the heart would have gills it wouldn't need to surface every time for air – always the same sight: something is pushing itself out our rib cage and there's very little time to measure some date rape drug for it
continents come and go on this planet – the burning choirboys always sing different songs and we've never seen the householder – now and then he flushes the toilet among the clouds – in the afternoon we smash the shower cubicles that we always made love in – the pieces are going to fit perfectly into the cracks where the render of the sky has fallen off
according to the news a thorn bush set itself aflame in the plaza and yelled obscenities at the tomfool shoppers before it collapsed into ashes – according to the news dolphins that doused themselves with oil and jumped out to land are suicide assassins and celebs – according to the news every out of tune piano is an assassin – a badly played Beethovencauses cancer in the brain – according to the news the news is an assassin and the game who can see himself from a greater distance still played on a few square centimeters
burning buses rush on the roads with the ghosts of old prophets – they are always touring with their books written after their death – of course you'll need more to make a bestseller than dying in pain or produce the smell of roses on a bonfire – hear that? – the buriedpianos are still playing underground though their sheet music were thrown into the selective receiver and a fire prevention code was printed on them that shows how to by-pass hell in a few easy dance steps
"somehow people believe that after they die everything starts to work normally" the ghosts shake their heads "but that's not true you know – the chaos is even bigger after death – there's not even justice in the afterlife"
startling news – you can't get any better in the countryside – maybe one – that all the things that happened to you was just some kind of foreplay to reincarnate as a dead fish – maybe it isn't such a bad thing – to be a dead fish I mean – they do not complain though a lot of unfairness happens to them
we wash beached dolphins with gasoline – we rouge them and spritz some perfume on their skin then we wait maybe they are going to fuck or just do something interesting – the national geographic keeps the camera ready – a few ecofreaks are so excited that they drown themselves in the sea except the ones who complain about the water being to oily – it must have streamed down from above – what a son of a bitch householder lives overhead – at least he didn't ring the bell for the rent yet – so we smash the shower cubicles that we always made love in – the pieces are going to fit perfectly into the cracks…
of course you can't plan anything properly on this level – the pieces we made are too tiny
you can see what a little puzzle we made – if they would fit we could piece a window together at the sky – looking through it we could see the selective receiver where we can throw our hearts – then we could wallow overhead all day long – the shower foam of the clouds would settle in our pubic hairs
so here we are standing on the beach waiting for some kindof forecast – we set the oily dolphins alight and zoom into their gawping mouths trying to solve their mute words in the smell of burning meat – then someone gapes his mouth pointing at the horizon – a giant heart surfaces from the sea – it beats once – then sinks back into the depths
PORN-FUGITIVES
THE TEENAGED BOY sneaks into his room, and closes the door excitedly. From under his pillow he pulls out the porn magazine he found last week in the attic. To his surprise, when he opens it, only blank pages yawn back at him. And soon, he hear the sounds of moaning coming from under his bed. Looking down,
he discovers the tiny pornstars – miniature, naked people are having sex on the floor everywhere, in all kind of poses. The boy panics. If his parents finds out this, he's fucked. So he gets a pickle jar, and tries to collect the small muscular men and silicone breasted women. He manages to capture a few, but the others are too fast: a couple in missionary pose runs away on four legs and four hands, just like a spider – they crawl up on the wall, and disappear in a crack.
It's all just a bad dream – decides the boy, and he goes to bed. In the morning, waking up, he finds a tiny woman kneeling on his forehead, smiling for an invisible camera, while a small dude stands before her and jerks his cum onto her face. The boy sweeps them off, and jumps out of the bed. He finds that the inseparable couple still in missionary pose spun a jelly-like web made of their juices – small flies squirm in them, the couple swoops down on a shiny sperm-string, and begin to eat the insects, the filmy wings crack between their perfect, white teeth. The boy looks away with disgust, his eyes stare a woman at his night-stand: she lays on the digital alarm clock, moaning, sliding a dildo between her legs. The boy steps closer, and a word, like a heavy stone, falls out of his mouth: "Mom?"
It's really her, but she's much younger. The boy grabs up the porn magazine, searching for a date. He just realizes, it's nearly twenty years old. And the woman just looks like his mother two decades ago. His stomach clutches. Picking up a hankie, he tries to cover the tiny naked body, but his mother crawls out, smiles and winks at him, and she slides the dildo in her ass.
"Now what?" sighs the boy, but he doesn't have any time to think it over, a voice from the kitchen calls: "Breakfast is ready!"
*
He sits at the table with a confused look. His mother stands beside the gas-cooker, wearing an apron, with a big button and a sign: Want service? Just push the button. If nothing happens, serve yourself.
"Good morning, hun!" smiles the woman above the boiling oil. "What's the matter? You look worn-out. Haven't you slept well?"
The boy simply can't face her. He mutters something, while gazing at the empty white porcelain plate in front of him. Soon, a table-fork enters his field of view, with a ten inch long fried black fly at it's end. It falls into his plate. Looking at it's legs, that stand up like antennas, the boy pushes away the food, saying:
"Can I eat it later? I'm not really hungry right now," he moans. His mother doesn't answer, she just stands there and frowns. When the boy runs out of the kitchen, back to his room, she yells: "What's wrong? Are you sick?"
"I'm fine!" answers the kid, trying not to vomit while watching his tiny mother on the night stand sucking the dildo that she just pulled out of her ass.
*
The boy decides, that some way or other he gets rid of the small porn stars. He grabs a cellophane tape, an empty shoe box, then he fishes out a used hanky from under his bed, and puts it in the middle of the room as a bait. The tiny porn models crawl out from the cracks of the wall, from the corners, sniffing in the air. They gather around the hanky with a hungry look on their face, scratching down the old, dried sperm. They eat, and don't recognize, it's a trap. When all the little perfect bodied nude models are around the hanky, the boy drops the shoebox on them, capturing the little intruders.
"Gotcha!" he laughs. Lifting it up a bit and pushing his hand into the box, he grabs out a red haired girl. Putting some cellophane tape on her, he sticks her back to one of the blank pages of the magazine. Then he pulls out another model.
After a few minutes, the magazine is populated again. The kid looks away shamefacedly, seeing that in his hurry, he taped some of the models back to the page in a rather unfortunate way. The cellophane tape has covered some of their faces, these unlucky ones are drowning and squirming, then their bodies stiffen, as they die.
The only naked porn star left in the shoebox is his mother. The boy looks down at her and back to the magazine with tearful eyes.
"Why haven't you ever told me?" he asks, but the small woman doesn't pay any attention to him, she just moans as she tries to fist herself. Then the boy sighs, and closes the magazine. The models inside are whimpering, as he pushes it back to it's place – under his pillow. He'll throw it out, he decides, but first, he must take care of his mom. But what can he do with her? He can't just glue back her into the magazine. And he can't just let her free either, he would die in shame, if someone saw his mom like this. He could keep her – in an ant farm or a cage, but then he would have to face her mother's shame every day.
"Just get rid of her!" a voice tells in his head. So he picks her up, and walks out of the room.
"I'm sorry mother!" he whispers, holding her over the toilet. The lilliputian woman doesn't seem to understand what is happening to her, the waves of orgasm carry away her look, as a tiny vibrator's silent buzzing fills the bathroom. Then splash, she falls into the toilet. The vibrator discharges with micro-sparks. His little mother tries to crawl out from the porcelain-pit, but the boy pushes the flush lever, and the vortex spins and pulls her down.
CAYMAN-CRADLE
THE HUNTERS ARE dragging a behemoth dead crocodile into the village. The rope around the reptile creaks painfully. The heavy body of the animal scoops a trench in the mud. Bloody storm water swirls in it. Celebrating villagers greet the killers, throwing flower petals around them. The petals turn into butterflies and disappear in the sky.
It’s been a long time since the villagers had seen a predator this big—the children keep touching its dark, scaly skin, gazing at its sharp teeth. The whole animal is about fifteen feet long; cruelty peels out of its dead, stiff eyes like dry rust.
Then something strange happens: the faint belly of the animal unexpectedly heaves and bloats. A hole appears in it. The bloody tip of a knife sticks out from the wound and begins to broaden the crack. The children hide behind their mothers’ backs, and the dark hunters point their sharp lances towards the crocodile.
The Alligatorhunter crawls out from the reptile’s body and stares at the natives with crazy, distant eyes. He shakes himself like a wet dog, and pieces of insides and drops of blood fly over. He raises his glittering knife and starts yelling—the exultant shout gives the tribe a jump—and in the distance, monkeys fall from the trees and leeches puke blood back into their victims.
“You fools!” The white hunter laughs. His face boils like the tainted river. “This beast is all mine! So you think you killed it? Oh, you’re wrong! I crawled into the ugly animal three days ago, and since then, I’ve been constantly destroying it from the inside! What’s more, I finally found its soul, and now it’s all mine! Come on, take it from me! Take it, if you dare!”
The Alligatorhunter jumps to the ground. The villagers stare at him with frightened eyes. Even the most muscular hunters are afraid of this man, because they have heard so many rumors about him. It is said that the mosquito-disease lurks inside this white devil’s veins. It is well known that some mosquitoes suck the dreams out from the skulls of people at night, puking back dark insect-thoughts instead. The natives have seen many people go crazy with this illness over the years. The afflicted would wake up in the morning, just like nothing had happened. Later, they would begin to buzz, simulating the sound of the mosquitoes, and in the end, the mad bastards would sharpen a lance and stab everyone in sight. This jungle has many nasty surprises: trees with piranha leaves, killer tendrils and predator orchids, which diffuse the smell of wet genitals to allure young lovers and gnaw off the flesh from their bones. And of course, there were the shape-shifter plants which can turn into attractive women and hunt men. There’s a horrible report about a native man, who lived years with a shape-shifter woman without knowing what she was. You should have seen that female! She even birthed the poor guy’s children. But everything ended when the mother began to slowly eat her babies. You see, when she was breastfeeding them, her nipples turned into sharp prickles which sent thorns into the children’s palates. From outside, she looked like a normal mother feeding her infants, but in fact, she sucked the bloo
d out of her kids, who became more and more sleepy.
So the green stomach of the jungle consumes the humans—mostly the white visitors—very fast. But the Alligatorhunter survived somehow over the years. He was an albino ghost, a bad spirit; a dead woman whispers in his head without intermission. It was his bride, who was eaten by a crocodile many years ago.
“Here you go, dogs!” The Alligatorhunter laughs, pointing at the carcass with his dirty finger. “You can have what it has left! Bzzz!”
Then he hops away and disappears behind the trees, squishing and killing tiny lizards with his heavy boots, sucking the colors out from the chameleons sitting on the branches. The animals became transparent and fell down to the ground.
The villagers spit towards the white man, and then they look at the crocodile. It’s almost empty. It seems like the bastard has eaten all of its insides. The smell is unbearable. But of course, this made their job easier. The natives didn’t wish to eat the animal. They wanted to offer up a sacrifice for the River God, and an eviscerated crocodile is just what they needed. So the villagers bring a crying Negro baby, holding it up high, while some women try to quiet down his screaming, whining mother.
The ritual is lead by a snake-masked man. To his command, the villagers lay the kicking baby into the disemboweled reptile. Then women arrive with needles made of bones and yarn made of hair, and they begin to stitch the giant wound shut.
Soon, the crocodile—with the living infant in its womb—is thrown into the river. The snake-masked wizard kneels in the slop, chanting, asking the River God to bless their hunts in the future. Hunters run in the forests, feeling the Braille of wounds—touching the bloody cracks of the animals and reading out words from them. Young children sit around them and listen to what the carcasses say. They always tell stories about the life of the animal or tales about the dangers in the forest, like the predator wind which chases the living beings through the jungle. It can tear down the flesh from their bones and blow away the small flame of the soul.
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