Bukkakeworld Page 10

  You shuffle up close to Marianne, there on the park bench in this spontaneous Indian Summer. She puts an arm around you. Gravity and the frictional properties of fabric conspire to draw you onto her lap. She strokes your head as if you were Kitten reborn. Does she miss being that cute little tortoise-shell coloured thing? Is it more preferable to be something we’ve created or something society creates?

  All these stupid thoughts weigh heavily upon your consciousness today. But there’s no point. As Marianne said, there are no answers. There are only clues and theories. You rest your weary head upon her lap and bathe in the heady scent of her femininity. A wonderful dawning starts to develop in the fabric of your soul.

  This is how you hope you will finally die in Bukkakeworld.

  The missing

  truth.

  * * *

  She pushes you off her, all of a sudden. You were resting your sinus-pressure head on Marianne’s lap, hoping this could go on forever. But that’s not the way it works in Bukkakeworld, my friend. You can’t just retire to the fucking countryside and suck lemons all fucking day. Plus, you got a shadow to save.

  “Just get off of me, already.” Her spit hits the side of your face as she pushes you off the bench. You look around, but no spunk lands in your face. Just the sting of those words. How can words sting more than cooling cum?

  “Sorry, are you okay?” She reaches down to give you a hand up. “We’re like not staying in tonight. Plus, you got a shadow to save.” She smiles.

  You flinch (it’s a built-in autonomic reaction you’ve developed over time) to avoid the cum onslaught but, again, nothing comes. No off-white paste smacks you in the gaping chops. This is just not easy to adjust to.

  “Where are we going?” you ask Marianne as she drags you down the street, suddenly looking shifty and weasel-like. She does this aikido-like forward roll but doesn’t come back up onto her feet. She stays there in the gutter and you can hear her licking at something, her long thin pink weird slimy snake thing of a tongue going through the permutations, unworking barrels, unlocking the WalKar.

  The thighs of the WalKar separate with a hydraulic hiss and a grease-sealant sound like a pair of latex jeans ripping up the back, almost silent but you can hear the complex hydrocarbons unzipping at the molecular level.

  You clamber in. The WalKar wanders off. You and Marianne take your place in the jade glass double domes of the WalKar’s booblike windscreens. It’s a surprisingly smooth ride. There’s some technical reason why this is so, but we’re not going into that right now. You understand that shit’s just booooring.

  “What do you mean?” you ask Marianne as she tongues in the destination—it’s real easy to get used to the way she does that. Why is that? Why are some things easier to get used to than others? Why does the corporate brain work that way?

  Marianne looks across at you with her eyes, without moving her head. She smiles again.

  “I think you’re taking the piss, right? I think, and correct me if I’m wrong, but I lost my shadow yesterday,” you say to her as if she wasn’t there.

  “My God, you know nothing. Do I have to spell it out for you all the time?”

  Marianne says no more until you arrive at your destination, a white wood house in the country. Dozens of WalKars are crammed into the garden like sardines. Some TaxiKrabs and WalKars leave, yet others arrive soon after you’ve jumped down from the WalKar and it’s gone off to cram itself in snugly with its sardinelike parking mates in the garden.

  “What’s this?” you ask as you follow Marianne up the creaking wooden steps of the silent white wood house, onto the porch, where a white wooden swing creaks in the wind. Your heart is pulsating arhythmically. You’re wondering if you’re gonna survive this test. That’s what this is. A test.

  Marianne looks back over her shoulder as she pulls the white nylon cord at the front door. “This is the home of Jeff Pepper, most famous Glimpser in the entire universe.” She continues to look back over her shoulder at you until the door opens.

  A huge explosion of blinding cum spurts at you in a sense-shattering flash. You take it all in the face like a hero, leaning forward like a ski jumper, hoping you can stay on your feet. Not look like a total jackass. But the assault is just too fierce. You stagger back and start to fall backwards off the fucking porch. You look back and realise you’re gonna fall onto the concrete garden path.

  But someone catches you. A really strong guy, dressed in a lime green double-breasted, bronze pinstripe.

  “Party time!” he shouts as he carries you over the threshold of the most insane party scene you’ve ever seen. Remember, you don’t get out much, so it wouldn’t take a lot to impress you, terrify you, enthral you. And this really is one hell of a private party.

  You look over your shoulder trying to find Marianne, who is still at the door, chatting with new friends. One of them hands her something. A piece of jewellery? Kisses are exchanged. Laughter. From somewhere deep in the bowels of this creaking old house, a thumping beat emanates, a percussion so deep and sonorous your whole body is pulsating along with it, thumping, jumping, stomping.

  You spin and swirl as you’re carried into the arms of others, party goers. You ride backwards over the heads of strangers, arms out, hands all beneath you like centipede feet. You feel your whole body undulating like a centipede. You feel your bones start to soften.

  You gasp for breath, but it’s no good. They have you now and they’re not going to let you go. You sinuses start to pound with the beat and your head bangs like a gong. Pressure builds in your skull and you think it’s all going to break, split, shatter. You wait for your fucking head to explode.

  But, of course, what you expect is never what transpires. Something truly worse gradually happens to every single fibre of your being.

  You start to sweat.

  But it’s not sweat that’s pouring out of you.

  It’s cum. Warm, salty cum. The exact same stuff that used to land on you, any time of the day or night. The exact same stuff that you thought would finally rise up over your nose and snuff the life from you. In fact, you’d dreamt of a cum drowning just like this for the last four years of your pathetic corporate life.

  But that life no longer exists for you. A spasm cuts through you like a big steel knife, sharp and ragged and lethal. You feel your back open like a fish’s panting gill slit. Some heavy deluge gushes out of you. You hear women’s voices. You hear men’s voices. You hear gulping, mostly. And the sounds of pre-ejaculate racing to the tips of cocks still hidden behind zippers. The panic of vaginal leakage. The cringing scandal of rectal mucous molested by a fingertip. The copper-green smell of faeces under a fingernail.

  All this comes to you, this confused sensory input, out of nowhere. You’re plundered by psychotropic penetrations. As you look down at your arms, you see the veins swelling, bulging, the skin so thin you can see the blood in your veins, filling the tubes. Only it’s not blood.

  A vein splits as you look at it, opens quickly. But you feel no pain. In fact, you can think of nothing more perfect for a human being to do. A final rush of cum escapes you and you think that tonight, when you die, as you suspect you must, this will be the purest death of any prisoner of Bukkakeworld.

  You basically ejaculate your entire being for these total strangers. You’re milked like some sacred cow. A pair of pruning shears rises up out of the human tumult and snips off one of your fingertips. The excised fingertip reminds you of squid, an off-white shell containing nothing inside but the creamy remnants of cum. The fingertip falls into the crowd below.

  You hear someone gasp, “Memory Meat!” as they fall away in a dreamy daze.

  An upside-down face you’ve not seen in years whooshes by momentarily like you didn’t even really see them, like it was all in your mind, but you did see them. That was a face you’ll never forget. The face from the fifth of your ‘save your shadow’ visions.

  He’s the bald man you’ve heard people talk about in your vision. Is t
his Jeff Pepper? You can’t place where you’ve seen him before, other than the visions. Something’s out of place.

  Is that the name of the person who made you what you are today? What was it they called you, Memory Meat? Is that really all you are?

  “Jeff Pepper!” you shout out with your rubbery mouth as more pincers, hands, scissors and teeth lift up from the crowd below to partake of your flesh. The man sees you begging for his attention. He knows you’re searching for him within the writhing anonymity of the crowd. He pulls back like a rancid foreskin, his outer countenance exposed and therefore hiding his public face from view. All that remains is the never-before-seen private Jeff, and you’ve no longer any idea what he looks like.

  More of your precious fingers are lopped off. More of your cum drips out. More of your skin opens, more cum drips. And you wonder if this is how Bukkakeworld feeds its young.

  Meet thy

  Maker.

  * * *

  Post coital rampage, Marianne Buckman carries what remains of you through a large brace of soundless chrome doors that open as if on a cushion of air and close just as silently. She lays you down on a curved glass bed in the middle of a large chrome room that is purest n-dimensional reflection. A nauseating place where every head movement causes the whole room to spin like a mercury nightmare.

  There’s an airless resonance to this place—a tune without an instrument—a precursor to music—vibrations without sound—air full of dread—evil pervades. The room is full of glass chairs whose sweeping curves look like they were designed in the 1960s.

  Built into these glass chairs, well extruded from the molten glass, shall we say, are tall glass dildos of all sorts of shapes and sizes. Some stubby and thick. Some twisting and elegant. Some threatening and softly spiked. There is already quite a crowd sat around on these glass chairs. You wonder if these people are only sitting on the chairs without the dildos. What sort of a board meeting is this? A sudden dread overpowers you.

  You don’t recognise anybody here, not even those of Marianne’s three friends who were handing out gifts of jewellery when you first arrived. You find Marianne. She’s easing herself down carefully onto the biggest glass dildo you think you could possibly imagine. There’s this twisted grimace on her face. Beads of sweat sprout upon her forehead. Her breath comes in chilled gasps as everyone watches. Her eyes roll into her head. She gasps again, hissing through a feral snarl. And then, amazingly, she pours herself down onto it like a caramel horror, like the glass itself is its own lubricant.

  The crowd applauds politely.

  A sudden urge to puke rushes into your throat and your cheeks flush—God knows how you don’t puke. Crawlers approach, their animation all shattered and spasmodic. They latch onto your fingers. Start to suck and slurp on them. Other Crawlers approach, their lips like latex tubes puckered out, ready to... What are they doing?

  You look down, trying to move your head as smoothly as possible so as not to set the room off again in its dizzying resettlement of chrome. The room sways greasily but you don’t have that quick urge to throw up this time. A soft slow headache passing you in the night like a planet-murdering asteroid.

  A puckered mouth pulls back and you see your fingertips have healed. A puckered mouth pulls back and you see the rips in your body are repaired. You make a fist and it’s like you were never sucked dry of all your vital fluids.

  Crawlers back away in horror-inducing fashion. There, in front of you suddenly, is Jeff Pepper. The bald man sits forward on his dildo throne, smiling. Fingers soft as silk.

  “Why the fuck is everyone smiling like idiots in this stupid white house?” you shout, suddenly enraged. A chrome sheen flickers across the faces of all present and you suddenly realise where you are. Even Marianne’s face does that little Glimpser dance. That back-stabbing bitch. How you’ll hope there’s a chance to get back at her.

  An echo of your shock and anger gives birth to a charmless ripple of laughter that gallops round the room gaining sardonic momentum—soon everyone is chortling and guffawing like proper lunatics. Glass dildos take up the flat refrain and convert it into a single tone of clearest mockery. You flinch. How can Bukkakeworld be so broken?

  The dry laughter trails off, the remnants of it tinkling spitefully in the glass dildos and the smiles of those here present. You are now angrier than you’ve been for a very long time.

  “Welcome to this annual Glimpser convention,” says the man, still perched on his throne, frowning as he talks directly to you. “Everyone who’s been invited to this weekend’s gathering was to bring a special gift with them. We can only assume that you are Marianne’s special gift. And quite a lovely gift to behold.” He looks right at you. A Glimpser shimmer scurries across his face like he might recognise you.

  Murmurs of approval all round. Lips licked. More inane smiling. Jeff Pepper can’t quite place you, but he’s run across you somewhere before. Your paths have crossed.

  “Marianne, please, my child.” He indicates she rise to her feet to take the adulation. Ripple of applause as Marianne gets to her feet.

  Marianne is smiling. Nothing new there—all Glimpsers seem afflicted with that Cheshire cat grimace—or is there? There’s an edge to her smile no one seems to have picked up on. Biting her lip in a most mischievous way, she takes out a solid gold tuning fork and strikes it against her knee. We all know no sound will resonate until Marianne puts the tuning fork’s pointed end against a sounding box. But what will she use?

  Faces of confusion and wonder as Marianne stands there, the tuning fork soundlessly in her hand. If you look real close you can see that both prongs of the tuning fork are blurred, showing that they’re vibrating very fast. She moves, as if she’s about to genuflect.

  Jeff Pepper, for that is the name of the King of the Glimpsers, remember, shoots up off his chair, revealing a shit-smeared dildo shaped like the horn of narwhal with the girth of an elephant trunk spiralling to a rounded end. Yes, just like an infected cock tip.

  Marianne falls to one knee and plants the still-vibrating solid gold tuning fork on the ever-warping chrome floor. A deafening cum-quake booms through the room.

  You sort of wish all your corporate meetings ended in such a spectacular way. The overpaid, underwhelming board members trying to extricate themselves from their slippery-dildo chairs so that the vibrational force coursing through this great chrome board room wouldn’t explode the dildos they were impaled upon, so that their Glimpser bodies wouldn’t shatter into a million sperm cells stolen from children’s wet dreams for all those years.

  It seems ironic now but you don’t even see it until it’s happened. Chrome, or whatever it is the Glimpsers are made of, is pure cum compressed into a living material. You realise that the meeting room is like a big bukkake bowl full of all the corporate greed and infighting and bitchiness that sustains the ready throughput of employees in such autonomous global conglomerates. What do they call it? Mounting The Corporate Ladder? That’s just a euphemism for fucking your colleague in the ass for an undeserved end-of-year payout or a recommendation for a role you’re ill-suited to, an off-the-record leg-up from the boss.

  Jeff Pepper is nowhere to be seen as the board room fills with cum. The board members (fellow Glimpsers to the bitter end) resonate to their constitutional sperm cells. It’s like a big hand is swirling round the big cum bowl and you and Marianne are the only real people in it. You go under a couple of times, swirling about in the maelstrom, upside down, inside out. Remember, you’re not yet up to one hundred percent strength.

  You gasp for breath, but it’s no good trying to breathe. You take a mouthful of cum into your mouth and you can only wait so long, agonise for so many reflective moments, before you’re gulping down the sour taste and all the horrors and terrors and visions of a childhood haunted by Glimpsers comes rushing back to you. Drowning you in the torrent of filth.

  You look away. You look away from that thing you used to be, that Glimpser plaything. You turn your back on it
all. You no longer exist. You have been eradicated.

  But denial’s not your only mode of escape. Marianne is with you, and boy is that girl a good swimmer. Her body is like an eel undulating through the off-white morass. You get a vision. A vision of a building falling, your last corporate home. You get a vision of a cum tsunami swelling past your place of work. Are these two visions somehow connected?

  The board room doors burst off and cubic hectares of cum gush out into the rest of the house, smashing open all the doors and pouring out into the street, where garden fences are toppled, trees are uprooted and WalKars flounder around in the wash, clumsy on their metal Cuban heels.

  You and Marianne, the pair of you, inseparable to the end, come to rest in the bottom of the no-longer-chrome bowl. You see it is a glass bowl. You can see through to the cellar below where all the corporate plans and patents and blueprints are soaked in cum. Unreadable from this point onwards.

  Already those hallowed pages, the leaves of Jeff Pepper’s success tree, are fusing like the super glued pages of porno magazines, the ink eaten alive by the livid action of the cum tsunami. No more will the Glimpsers be able to swan about as if they own this planet.

  This time they’ll have to work hard, really earn their crust.

  Time to

  assassinate

  Jeff Pepper.

  * * *

  It’s later and Marianne is carrying you through the de-chromified central hallway of the great white house of Jeff Pepper. The front door is hanging off its hinges and the birds are out in full song, clearly disturbed by the sudden cum tsunami that blasted through their territory. One day, for sure, the birds will get us back.