Bukkakeworld Page 6

  The heavy, mechanical clunking sound informs you that some serious security measure has just been defused. The door eases open an inch. You can’t even control yourself. You step out into the hallway as soon as you’ve hauled the door open. Anything to be away from the corpse of Marianne Buckman.

  Haunted by guilt, you stagger across the threshold with great relief. And the shambles of a cum-stained suit you slept in just crumbles like late-autumn leaves. You’re naked in the corridor. The door closes. A small aperture opens at the base of the door and Kitten exits, that silly little grin on its tortoise-shell countenance.

  “You think that’s funny, don’t you?” You try to talk with Kitten, but kittens can’t talk. Nor can they understand the useless ramblings of humans. Kittens are genetic oddities whose soul purpose is to empathise with their owner and allow them to become the persons they’ve always aspired to, whether they knew of this inner aspiration or not. Kitten will help it out, this dreadful thing you are to become. Kitten knows the way.

  But you’re naked as the day you were born. You suspect now this was the reason for the sinister metal sheen of Marianne’s regulation-seeming business suit. There’s something in that exit mechanism that negates normal fabrics. Why would someone have such a thing installed in their home? Curiouser and curiouser, thought you.

  Well, it’s too late to cry over spilled cum now. You pick up Kitten and clutch it to your chest. Your balls shrink and your little broken-finger personage cringes against its exposure. You’re the new you. Bukkakeworld will have to get used to you the way you are. That’s what Kitten’s thinking, but you never know, nor will you ever find out.

  Outside on the sidewalk, there’s a soft dusting of frozen cum, and cumflakes are falling dreamily from an off-white sky. It’ll be nothing more than driven-through cum-slush in the blink of a geological eyelid, but for now the carpet of cum freezes your naked feet. The cumflakes that descend from the cotton-wool sky and land on your face are salty like the sea, dissolving into the familiar drips of cum you’ve all come to know and love in this fine world.

  The first thing you think of, as you’re such a fucking scumbag who can appreciate nothing more than a cold carvery of revenge dealt out with cynical condiments, the first thought that enters your kicked-in-peach of a head is your ex-wife Brenda. But you’re such a graceless prat, you can’t even remember anything about her. Not where she moved to. You can’t even remember what colour her hair was the last time you saw her.

  You gasp for breath, but it’s no good. You’re resigned to the fact that this chilling spunk shower will be the death of you. Your feet are already turning blue. You get a frozen freeze-frame of the body in Marianne Buckman’s bed. Her body. But not her. Just the inert shell. That cancer growing in your belly. That horror that you inherited from her.

  You thrash about in the snow, like a dog rolling in shit. In your hair, your eyes, your nostrils, the pervading stench of cum.

  You are smothered in spunk yet you know you cannot move. Inch after inch builds up on your face and all the head-shaking in the world is not gonna shake it loose if it continues. But you don’t care. This is not the spunk you’ve been abused by for the last few years. You’ve no idea what the new ingredient is but it’s definitely there. Like some newly discovered E-number. A colour maybe? A consistency? A taste.

  Blurred recollections of such tainted cum stretching back to a time before you and your wife began your jaded journey into oblivion. You can’t recall the added ingredient but your entire cum-saturated body knows of it. A time has passed where once this parallel universe of cum sailed by like a dragon in flames, a slab of interstellar sickness tall as a building, black as a tar sail. This most abstract of memories shakes you to your foundation.

  You feel your lips turning blue. You lie on your back in the freezing dream of a cum-universe returned to poison your soul. You see them then, the visitors who once plagued your dreams. Let’s call them the Glimpsers. Animals from another space zoo. Imports from a different area of the galaxy.

  You have this memory—it’s as vague and ruthless as all the others you’ve ever had. In this memory, legs. Cuban heels. Many heads. You remember a city that looks like New York. You remember the buildings falling. You remember that smile. Kitten’s smile. But how can these disparate fractures ever coalesce into one final image in a resolution that will allow comprehension?

  Think of today as a gift from an anonymous admirer.

  The place

  of deserted souls.

  * * *

  Two almost simultaneous physical states confront you. You are awake. A glob of spunk hits your face. You appear to be in between the land of the free and the land of common hatred. In effect you’re no longer of either world. This little wriggler is nothing to those who have died. You’ve tasted the soil and moved across to the other side.

  Let’s call it the Place of Deserted Souls, even though you’ve suspected for the last fifteen years of your wasted life that mankind has not, has never had, a soul. Mankind, in your eyes, is and has always been an animal who kills for his own pleasure. And that’s what you’d like to do. Kill for your own pleasure. But you’ve never had it in you.

  Even now, prone and naked on the sidewalk, some gentleman kicking you in the ribs to get your attention, you can’t muster the energy to get up and destroy his life. But inside you, the anger grows. Is that it? Is that the monstrous thing that swells your aching belly? Is that the figurization of anger you’ve been waiting for? So long abandoned by?

  You wipe your mouth with the back of a frozen hand. You feel nothing today. You’ve finally crossed over to the other side where feelings are drained and anger, though you wish it would rise up and help you annihilate this scoundrel, has been also laid to rest. You smile up at this idiot and the smile reminds you of Kitten.

  Where did Kitten go when you left the apartment of the recently departed corporate terrorist Marianne? You look back through your memory of the events as they occurred. You remember, as you stepped from Marianne’s apartment block, as your naked foot first felt the chill of the marble foyer, as the first cumflakes landed upon your face like angels, yes, you were clutching Kitten to your shuddering chest. You couldn’t breathe, such was the cold.

  A scent. A smell, more like. An ugly smell of rotting and decay that you’d first associated with the demise of Marianne. But it is here, too, your nostrils are doused in that sickly-sweet perfume. You remember the sidewalk coming at you violently, then Kitten dashing off into the snowy haze.

  You saw that first beam of light hit the centre of town. It was like a rod of lightning, thick as a tower block. Not at all destructive. Not some apocalypse from above. But filled with such glowing ill portent that your brain refused to understand what it might have meant.

  Kitten racing into the light.

  That’s the last time you saw Kitten. When it ran into that column of light. Then they descended, using the column as their guide. The chrome teardrop. It landed as light as a feather and bits of it broke off. You’d seen this before in some other place. You remembered a hillside. But the image shifted and swayed, like soap in hot water it refused to be grasped and slid about slyly all the while you were forced to watch the disembarkment of ‘things from another world’.

  The Glimpsers—you’re gonna deny it, but you’ve met them before. Or at least they have met you before. They’ve paid you visits, late at night while you tried to escape to the dark refuge of nightmare. Any atrocity was better than the vision they showed you of the final demise of Bukkakeworld. As sickened as you were by the place where you lived. That, oh, please God not that.

  The gruff stranger kicks you again and you unleash a wax dart of cum in his direction. And he shatters, not shatters, think of a pile of autumn leaves kicked open by a child’s foot, a shrill shriek of delight in mischief well executed. That’s how the cum leaves you. That’s how the cancerous knot of cum that’s been growing in you exits your belly. It makes bodies fall apart and tumble in
the air like autumn leaves.

  You look down at your groin and a deep cavernous wound is healing itself. You smell cordite. You smell Marianne. You smell Kitten. Then the wound heals and you smell nothing but your own fear spreading out below you. What have you become? What have Marianne and Kitten set in motion?

  You struggle to your feet and stagger about on the icy sidewalk. You don’t even know which way is a good way to stagger, so you end up at your ex-wife’s house. She’s not in. How did you get here? In the net-curtained bay window, there sits Kitten. How did Kitten get in there?

  You psscht psscht Kitten and it strokes its soft, furry, tortoise-shell side against the glass, a love dance, or at least some flirtatious display. How did Kitten get in there? You’d look at your watch but it’s never been your habit to carry a watch. None of the regulation adornments of marital status have ever stained your skin. Maybe that’s why she left you.

  God, it’s freezing. At least it keeps the cum from pouring all over your face all day, this unseasonal frost. You wonder where it could have come from. Has the death of Marianne started this cold snap? Is it the arrival of the Glimpsers? And with that thought, you see that Kitten has disappeared from the window.

  You gasp for breath in the freezing gust of air that suddenly whips up all around you. A drastic measure was needed, that’s how you explained what you do next. You’re in the kitchen of your ex-wife and her new live-in male friend. You saw it as the only way to stave off the horror of freezing to death. To break in via the back door of cheapest glass.

  But why didn’t the Glimpsers see you? That’s what they do. That’s what they’d done throughout your life. Like they were haunting you, hanging around as you tried to doze off at night, in the marital bed with the corpse of a wife beside you, the snorer.

  You were tortured by their shocking chromeness, their insane sharpness that they pressed into the gap between your upper incisors, like a spike of jagged steel. They were something else. You’d remember, going to the toilet in the middle of the night, and they’d be there, waiting for you behind every door. You can see them now, that death metal face. That curious tilt of the head.

  The pain.

  You rummage around in the well-stocked cupboards, pushing anything you can find into your throat. You don’t even chew, forget to swallow, but somehow the edible stuff makes its way down your gullet like it was always meant to be, like you were always meant to be here, alone in the kitchen of your ex-wife waiting for the terrible scene that will result from her return.

  Will she find you in the toilet with your hand trying to break your cock finger because of some inner demon you forgot to exorcise when the chance to make a clean break presented itself? Think of how your life has gone. The fucked up career, the fucked up marriage, the fucked up youth plagued by the Glimpsers, the car licking.

  Yes, you’ve forgotten all about that, haven’t you? That thing you got put away for in your youth. Thirty days hard fucking in the cock factories of the Authorities. When you would wake up in the middle of the night with some anal-stinking cock pressed into your face, you’d try to keep your mouth shut, as they all do. But, sooner or later, they all take it in the mouth. Sooner or later, we all become somebody’s nigger.

  The round, plastic clock with the roman numerals on the kitchen wall just above the fridge screams the hour and you know that any second, you’re gonna be accosted by the Authorities again and returned to gaol, where you belong. Forget your juvenile criminal record—life in adult prison is not all cocks and roses. There’s hard graft too.

  And skin to lose.

  You dash around the house suddenly in a panic. You’re not afraid of the ass-rapers in gaol. You’re not afraid of the dead things you’ll find in your food. You’re not even afraid of the visits from your long-lost parents who’ll be made aware of your arrest via the gossip rags they used to call local news centres. They’ll come to mock your ineptitude to break the chains, escape the dregs of society, make a new life for yourself and your ex-wife.

  None of that scares you... You’re just petrified that the Glimpsers will find out where you’ve stowed away. Imagine, every night they can fool around with you, take you wherever they want. You’ll be their time-fuck-pony, to do their bidding, be the slave, mentally and physically abused at their behest.

  Every night, the fog will lift and the stark, blank face will be there descending slowly from the ceiling. Why did they come back to Bukkakeworld? What do the Glimpsers want here? Why are you no longer their focus of perverse attention?

  Then the pain hits... Glimpser pain. They’re testing the psycho-dynamic waters, seeking you out with their wicked sharpness. Have you changed so radically that they, of all creatures, can no longer find you? What has Marianne done to you? Did something she do summon them from their insane world of parallel horror and insanity?

  The thing growing in your stomach, dark purpose in every nauseating cell division.

  Your ex-wife,

  it’s official.

  * * *

  Even before the first glob of spunk hits your face you see it coming, as in a slow motion nightmare of frozen expectation. The exact import of what you’re looking at doesn’t even hit you until you’re covered in cum from head to toe. You leap into the shower, thinking of the sunken eyes in the cupboard you opened. He and she, your dead ex-wife, forever together, sharing the happy moment of each other’s death.

  You turn on the shower and soak in the soapy effect of the shower gel. She’s really thought of everything. What was her name? Your ex-wife, come on, what was her name? Surely you remember that? Are you actually dead?

  Corpses don’t stand in showers rubbing alcoholic embrocation into the sudded groins. Why is everyone dying near you? You some sort of psycho? What are you doing in the shower when any moment the Glimpsers could find you?

  But what would they find? A man who no longer resembles the DNA they made their familiar for so long? A man who can take anything Bukkakeworld can throw at him from any direction and still bounce back. Not exactly triumphant, but nonetheless, still standing, still showering, still loving his own fist nice and soapy like you’d forgotten to do for oh so long with that bitch.

  The next minute, wet footprints lead back to the shower you’re sharing with that sunken corpse of your dead wife. You try to dry hump her. You pour hair conditioner into her wasted holes, facial and genital. But nothing seems to get you off like the memory of Marianne Buckman.

  You even think about bringing her dead husband into the bath, ankle deep in the off-green froth of a broken bile duct or liver poisoning. You don’t even think about why they’re dead or how they died. No wounds are examined, other than those of a sexual nature that God in his infinite wisdom carved for your amusement. But it’s not amusing.

  It’s not the moral question. Who needs morals when any minute the Glimpsers could arrive to rewrite your very genetic foundation, that chemical framework upon which your entire personality is sewn? But who remains the same, either psychologically or physically, through their brief stint at the wicket of life? Shot in the intense slo-mo of 20-20 hindsight, a man’s life looks like a strip show of layers and razors and buckets of ejaculate.

  That’s how you try to rationalise this first insight—that you never existed in this form before. That all you’ve become is nothing more than a collection of damp circumstances brought together by a sick and twisted accident thirty-five years before. You think of your mum, that woman you lost so long back. Don’t think of the foster homes filled with sexual molesters, anal abusers, rapists, bullies, starvers, card fillers, ASBO writers, tell-tales and just plain old nasty fuckers who should never have been allowed to look after defenceless little kids.

  You finish off your shower and leave the two lovebirds where they are, in situ, welded together under the dripping shower head... a scene that should contain such erotic promise bastardised to nothing but a charnel house of unhappy circumstance. You take out a brand new white towel and rub dry your thinn
ing hair.

  You look like the last man to walk out of Auschwitz alive. Barely forty kilogrammes. Ribs showing. Gums pulled back from yellow teeth. Eyes like piss holes in snow. And you shudder to think you’ll soon be returning to that snow-covered landscape of cum. Why is this all happening? What have you done to deserve such a life?

  You reach for the door handle. The brass door handle that will take you back into the corridor. Turning back to look one more time on your dead ex-wife and her live-in lover. You see their rictus faces pulled into grim masks. Glimpser masks.

  They’re nearby.

  You freeze, your hand on the brass doorknob. Unable to apply pressure to the handle. On the other side of the door you sense the Glimpsers, their cold, chrome faces pressed against the thin wood of the door. Listening, waiting for you to exit. For only by passing through the space of their imprisonment will you travel to their world. You dare not open the door. You’re trapped here in this steamed-up place.

  Kitten at the window. Meowing like a starved waif. Tail alive with agitation. Always your saviour, Kitten. What is its part in this farcical misadventure?

  But you’re braver than that. As skinny and weak and shivering as you are, you’re braver than the man who pulls off the lime-green sink unit and uses it to smash his way through the bathroom window, descending from the lethal-edged hole into freedom. Plus, it’s better not to trust Kitten. Despite all you think it’s done for you, there’s something real spooky about a cute little tyke who knows more about the brutality of the human world than you do.

  The time has come to face these Glimpsers. Once and for all, as an adult. Show them who you are and why you have survived their inquisitive attention over the years. There must have been a reason. You are here for this sole purpose. That has to be it.

  The static races up your arm as you reach once again for that brass door handle. You sense, on the other side of the door, aliens from some insane dimension tense and prepare themselves to meet you, their Nemesis. You feel a face pull away from the foreign side of the connected universe on the other side of this door.