Bukkakeworld Page 13

  You hear Granny Pepper screaming, “Jeffrey, stop! You’re killing the girl!” But Jeffrey punches her in the stomach anyway. Marianne vomits on the floor, breakfast stringed with blood. She slumps to the floor and Jeff Pepper steps back as if he’s going to use his boot. You realise with dread that he is going to kill her. She’s no match for a man his size, a beast harbouring that amount of rage. All this must stop, now. The needless killing has to end in this town.

  You’re picking yourself up off the kitchen floor as best you can. Drops of blood seem to be coming from somewhere on you. You’re wounded, in a stupor. You grab for the kitchen table and a pot of tea rocks and spills all over the table, making a spattering sound as it skids off onto the tiled kitchen floor. How did you get on the floor? It all happened so fast.

  You’re looking around, trying to see the end of the fight—in your head you put money on Jeff Pepper NOT being assassinated by a girl with a spoon and Marianne severely punished and sent to her room for a MONTH, or killed—when you notice droplets of black rain pattering sporadically against the glass of the kitchen window.

  You don’t need to attract the others’ attention, for they see it too. The murder of Marianne Buckman is held in freeze-frame. Jeff Pepper, Marianne and Granny Pepper are frozen in the final moments of domestic confrontation, that time when it’s walk away or murder the fuck out of someone.

  Now, all the family is watching the tuneless droplets of black rain dribble down the window. You hear screaming in the streets. Marianne wriggles free and races for the door. You in hot pursuit. Unbelievably, Granny Pepper has forgotten to lock the door properly, forgetful old woman.

  You and Marianne race off into the street, where many children have gathered to laugh and dance and shriek in the falling rain that stains the clothes. No-one has ever seen such a strange phenomenon.

  Jeff Pepper approaches, Granny in tow. “Get in, kids. Everybody, return to your homes. Lock your doors... You there!” he points directly at Mercia, “Stop drinking that rain! You don’t know where it’s been.”

  “Make me,” says Mercia, again sticking her tongue all the way out and exposing the back of her throat so that the black rain spills down her gullet and bounces off her blinking face.

  The other kids copy Mercia, because she’s a fucking rabble-rousing trouble maker—even though they all know, in their heart of hearts, that this is one parental guidance they should all obey. Kids are such idiots, they’ll do anything to rebuke authority. Even Marianne, look at her, stupid little whore, gaping like a fuck doll, spattered in...

  “Black cum!” shouts one of the fisherwives, dragging her child away. She’s clearly seen something like this before. “Come on, let’s get you inside before—”

  Too late.

  An enormous explosion in the direction of the body mounds. The term ‘black cum’ circulates a fevered panic among the still-dancing inhabitants of this town. What has happened? Has some methane build-up in the body mounds finally found a spark? Have the demon spirits of those abused corpses finally risen from the pit to wreak unholy vengeance upon the body mound swimmers?

  “Get inside, kids. This is the work of the Feeders.” Jeff Pepper has you both by the scruff of the neck. “Get inside, now, before it’s too late for all of us.”

  “Feeders? You mean there’s something that feeds off Glimpser towns? Is that what this is, a Glimpser town?” you ask Daddy.

  “This is not a Glimpser town,” says Jeff. And you realise right away that the Glimpsers, as magical as they seem, are only using portals set up by an earlier, older, even more mysterious race, the Feeders. Not even this town is a Glimpser town. It’s all borrowed, stolen. Maybe that’s the only reality Glimpsers know, stolen reality.

  “Mother, back to the house,” orders Jeff with total authority.

  You’re all back at the door of the big white house, stained and streaked ink black by the now-torrential rain. All except Marianne. She has seen it. And now you see it. It wasn’t the body mounds that exploded from within. The body mounds were flattened from without by something much bigger.

  In the grey haze at the far end of town, screams and explosions. Marianne stands in yards past the garden gate, her stupid gob wide open, her eyes flickering in the black rain. She is watching the town systematically explode. Sleeping barracks for as far as the eye can see shattering into splinters and no visible cause.

  Jeff races back after her. He grabs her. She struggles free. Then you see it. A big black cum glacier. You noted prior to your descent that this looked like glacier country, right? Well, here’s the stark reality. A big black wall of cum flattening the town, dwelling by dwelling. You hear the sounds of bones crunching and the slurp of digestive juices going to work.

  “A glacier that feeds off Glimpsers?” you ask Granny.

  But Granny is having a heart attack, there on the porch. You shout out to Jeff Pepper, “Dad, Granny Pepper’s having a benny!” Where did that word come from? But it attracts Jeff’s attention. Now he’s torn between two lovers, feeling like a fool. He races back to the big white house smeared in ink and carries Granny Pepper over the threshold.

  “Come on, Marianne!” you shout, but the rumbling is too loud. You can’t even hear yourself shout. There’s just too much noise. A nearby barrack explodes and your see now that this mountain of morose cum is not going to be stopped, not until it has passed through this Glimpser town and fed on everyone.

  “Marianne!” you shriek, racing back to the big white house. Jeff Pepper locks the door behind you. In the corner, Granny Pepper is grey and limp. She’s breathed her last breath, made her last human pie, boiled her last pot of iron tea.

  You race to the window in the living room to look for Marianne. And there she is, her freckled face pressed up against the glass, an ugly mask. The Feeders crushed up behind her are, like preying mantises eating moths, digesting her from the spine to the sternum. You see her little fingers dissolve as the swarming black cum strips the flesh from her bones then sucks out the marrow then digests the phalanges and cartilage.

  She’s still alive. Her jaw moving. Her lips smeared against the glass. She’s trying to tell you something. Foul place... Far place...

  “Fire place?” you scream at the noise and turn round on your heel to see a hand reaching out from the burning flames.

  “Take my hand.” That’s what you think you hear above the shuddering and wood splitting of the house—how is this old white house resisting the assault? You look back at Marianne, but she’s gone. Only black cum remains, seeping around the window frame and pouring onto the floor, moving in your direction.

  Again you hear the ‘take my hand’ instruction and you see the arm reaching out towards you from the flames. It’s no illusion. You even know whose meaty arm it is. You back away from the black wall of cum, reversing towards the fire place. The hand still out, insistent.

  The window finally shatters and the black cum rushes in, knocking you off your feet as you reach for the hand poking out of the flames.

  Jeff Pepper is in Bukkakeworld, his arm thrust into the concrete wall at the far end of a non-descript industrial unit. Black ooze starts to pour from around the edges, where his shoulder connects this world with theirs.

  He pulls with all his might.

  You pop out, covered in black cum. You’re dying. Being eaten alive. Jeff Pepper carries you out into the light and the black cum evaporates like steam; dirty, smelly, rancid steam.

  Jeff Pepper is, officially, your hero.

  Things back

  the way they

  should be.

  * * *

  The first glob of delicious spunk hits your face. Today you are fully awake. Ready to go—a sense of corporate purpose that’s been missing from your working life. The way the cum dissolves to a piquant moisturiser if left to oxidise—nothing can be better for the skin. Who would want to shower that off?

  That first teasing money-shot of the day after your lucky escape from Glimpser town is a pot
ent show opener in the gleefully sordid porn movie of the rest of your corporate life.

  It’s not even 7 a.m. and you’re already out of bed. We all know what happens at 7 a.m., don’t we? It’ll be here soon enough. Patience, dear sap.

  6:58 and 17 seconds. You hear your neighbours banging about in their rush to leave for work. Thick warm globs of spunk land on your face from above, cooling rapidly in anticipation of the best way to start the corporate day.

  In the kitchen you prepare a hearty breakfast, the most important meal of the day. You know, bukkake is how the Japanese eat all their most important noodle dishes. They are so wise, those exponents of the Shogun way. The brand new clock-radio, its digital innards primed and ready to deliver the corporate sermon: suck cock to succeed, lie back and accept the promotion, let inertia be your God.

  You draw a pair of strong backhands across your glowing, expectant face. Long strings of the gummy stuff stick to your hands and you shove the hands into your mouth like you’ve never tasted something this good in ages.

  Finally, you are showered in God’s holy ejaculate from all directions. The digital clock-radio announces a jubilant 7 a.m. and another day of corporate joy is yours to cherish. You fantasise on the number of cocks that would be needed to unleash such a torrent, thirty/forty male members all pointing at your face? You see them now, all the little vertical eyeslits gaping at you, the last strands of cum dribbling out.

  You eat your hearty breakfast with a sense of corporate pride. That’s how you accept the continuous onslaught of cum, with a smile. You feel it hitting your gums, cooling as it does, making your breakfast all the more appetising. How can one man be so lucky?

  Yesterday, you were just another dismal lackey to a non-descript boss in a grey office of cubicles and mental decay. Today, the first part of your new life begins under the ostentatious tutelage of one of this industry’s finest ambassadors.

  On the Tube, the pasty firework show continues—how the porn rainbows leap across your blinkered conscience in fluid arcs. People still reek of their own abuse, but that’s because they’re back in the world of hate, back in the world of spite, back in the world of non-achievement. You are beyond that now. Is this maybe how Marianne used to feel? Remember that first vision you had of Marianne, not a spot on her clothing?

  You turn to shout at some rudely spunking fool and he listens. He flinches as your cum lands on his face. He sits there in stunned silence, waiting for your next great proclamation, but of course you don’t bother. He’s not worth it. He’s already in awe. He’s already envious of your position in the pecking order.

  He’ll remember to keep his mouth open (he really wouldn’t want that shit up his nose, and if it gets in by cruel fate, he certainly wouldn’t wanna inhale it into a lung), poised but not gaping. It’s a heady balancing act he’ll have to master. Yes, it’s odd for the first few years, but you get hardened to it, over time.

  It becomes like your second skin, your corporate carapace. That which used to hurt and maim and degrade you is now something you are able to confidently parry or sidestep or avoid. Your feelings are tempered by this trial you’ve allowed yourself to be put through. This lesson in life will be your planet’s legacy. Remember to keep your mouth constantly gaping like a look of bland astonishment.

  Your first board meeting of the day, you are introduced to your new colleagues by Jeff Pepper himself. Nothing extravagant, just a ‘join with me in welcoming aboard our new employee, blah blah blah...’ The presentation for your departmental targets and budgetary restrictions goes well... The boss is very complimentary. He has a smugness across his chops you can’t remember ever being so transparent.

  As the meeting disperses and employees march to their cum-stained corporate cubicles, the boss takes you to one side. You understand what’s happening even before the first litre of spunk has cooled on your face. This is how knowledge is passed on at the corporate level. Everyone can see that you’re being given preferential treatment from the boss. You’re being made an example of, for your own corporate good.

  You gasp for breath, such is your delight at the special attention you’re receiving. Spunk spatters your teeth, wet footsteps trot down your gullet. You close your mouth momentarily and a strand of it flits across your eye. Involuntary reflex is to slam your eyelid shut, but you resist as more of the salty stew lands on your face. You know at some point in your corporate upbringing that you’re gonna have to endure a little eye bukkake. It’s just the done thing, darling.

  A glorious kaleidoscope of human potential twists and turns in your vision as Jeff Pepper dazzles you with his luxury cum. Your heart leaps into your throat and you’re now gulping tears with the man paste. Your eyes are open because you don’t want to miss a single iota of his genius. You want to bathe in his corporate benediction and be the best fucking suck ass this world has ever seen.

  You are smothered in spunk, yet you refuse to move. Has any employee ever showed such tenacity? Inch after inch builds up on your face and all the head-shaking from your colleagues who are gawping through the glass wall of Jeff Pepper’s office won’t deter you.

  You start to feel faint from standing opposite such a glowing beacon of corporate inspiration. Your brain starts to rebel, but you know you mustn’t throw up. That just wouldn’t do. Instant dismissal. You try to hold on to your balance and your life.

  You feel your lips turning blue. But you will survive. You’re resigned to survival. You realise that as much of a worthless little corporate runt as you are, Bukkakeworld needs industry servants like you. You must take it like the dog you are. You must pick yourself up off the boss’s floor and walk out of his office, head held high. As you leave the office, there’s a soft round of applause from your colleagues. Now you’re one of the boys.

  You step out of the office building at around 8:30 p.m. with your colleagues. As it’s Friday, there’s a late-night drink session planned by the boss, and in classic Japanese style, nobody leaves until the boss is under the table. That rarely happens, so you prepare yourself for a long late night.

  You eat your bukkake noodles like a good kaisha-in and you relish the salty wetness. Now you fully understand the term ‘acquired taste’. This knowledge brings a spunky burp of cheer to your face and your colleagues raise their glasses in a raucous kampai, far from the last of the night.

  You make it home after an amazing night where even the boss got up to sing in a totally out-of-tune fashion, smiling like an idiot, his cheeks flushed red from too much drink. By some amazing set of miracles you arrive at your apartment, the hail of spunk having softly dissolved somewhere between your third flaming Sambuca and that last bottle of shared warm sake.

  There’s a storm brewing, but tonight you’re back in the protection of your own home. Here in your bedroom, you lie on your cum-drenched bed. Fungal growths cause your naked cum-spattered skin to shudder as if in small local orgasms. Your mouth hangs open. You breathe through your mouth now—that’s the big lesson learned.

  For hours you bathe in the spitting and spattering of your face and chest with litre after litre of human DNA as the room spins. You look around with your clear eye and you see that once again your room is filling up with this choking paste, this seething off-white morass. You think of Marianne Buckman only briefly and shake your head at her immaturity.

  Fact: Stupid people no longer meddle in matters they’ll never understand.

  Fact: Stupid people no longer try to make changes that’ll never work.

  Fact: Universal Equilibrium—balance is restored across the corporate world.

  You come to the conclusion that you’re now immune to corporate cum. You could lie face down in it and never die, like a foetus drinking its mother’s amniotic fluid for nine months. Bukkakeworld isn’t supposed to kill humans, it’s supposed to liberate them from their worries, refresh and deliver them to their maker, sluiced free of guilt, horror and prejudice.

  And that’s how they find you, three days later, face down i
n your own fantasy.

  About the Author

  * * *

  Mike Philbin (born 1966 in St Helens, Merseyside) is an artist, editor and author residing in Oxford in the United Kingdom. He spent the late 1980s and early 1990s exhibiting his brand of psycho-realist paintings in one-man shows in St Helens, Liverpool and London.

  Philbin’s ‘genreclectic’ novel-writing career began in 1989 when Creation Books published his psycho-erotic novel Red Hedz (under the pseudonym Michael Paul Peter). Since then he has had five novels published in the independent press and has worked with many other collaboration-friendly writers.

  According to a Philbin-penned spoof science article in issue 14 of Dementia 13 Magazine, the Hertzan Chimera Unit is a fundamental particle that predicts that gravity is the driving force in the universe via something called Universal Equilibrium. Light travels backwards towards the source as U.E. fills in, and matter is the true repulsive force. For the last fifteen years since the Dementia 13 article, most of Philbin’s writing has been published as Hertzan Chimera.

  Philbin is the editor of the Chimeraworld anthology, an advocate of collaborative fiction and the death of genre.