Bukkakeworld Read online

  The second gong of the four-o’clock chimes. You shake your head free of the town crier’s tobacco-stinking cum insult and struggle free. Staggering back into some old lady in a plastic head scarf. She offloads a shot across your bows, which luckily misses. Already a crowd is gathering, and your first victim is stepping from the kerb.

  Looking round, he is. He’s reading a newspaper. That wasn’t part of your vision, the newspaper. Who tries to cross the road reading a newspaper? He was destined to die.

  Gong three. Only one chance left now. Or your shadow’s curtains. You strive to reach out to him, your hand pushing through a sewer’s worth of piss and cum and shit and vomit, all the bodily fluids of society like gangrene coursing up your arm. You push on through the setting concrete of Bukkakeworld’s sick atmosphere of pain and paranoia.

  Gong four. You see, out of the corner of your eye, the white transit van. The man doesn’t see it. He sees you, though, coming at him like a comedy of cum, strings of it pouring off your face and clogging up your hair. He is laughing. Laughing at you, his saviour. You grab at his sleeve in the nick of time and, despite the slimy slickness of your grip due to the lubricating layer of cum all over your hands, pull him close to you as the white transit van belches by pushing a snowdrift of cum eastwards, out of town.

  The tall, blond man shouts at you in an Eastern European accent and you think he says, “You stupid fooker, you nearly gat me killed!” He pushes you to the ground.

  Even as the rest of the vigilante public join in, kicking you in the trunk and spitting their greasy off-white venom onto you, you see that he has survived. You have saved one fifth of your shadow and you will rest tonight in the knowledge that your bruises have been for a higher purpose.

  It’s only later, drinking whiskey in a bar, blood from a loose tooth swirling into the glass in painful waves, that you wonder what the visions mean. Were you being shown a fatal accident? Or were you sent to fuck it up? Were you the incompetent saviour sent out to assassinate that tall, blond man? Were you being shown what you should have done, push him under the van?

  Are you an assassin or a saviour? You remember suddenly, at the moment you grabbed the tall, blond man’s sleeve, there on the kerb, on the street of death, you had a further vision of the remaining five, one you hadn’t yet seen. Additional information about victim #5.

  Is that how it’ll work? Will you be fed information on a need-to-know basis? Will you ever really be told what your shadow salvaging work will really amount to?

  Will you ever discover Bukkakeworld’s most terrible secret?

  Saving

  your shadow,

  part two.

  * * *

  You’re in some public rest room on the far side of town the next morning when you are awakened by the first peristaltic jolt, a smack across the psyche that gets your heartbeat sprinting and your wank-hand shaking.

  This is the location your vision tells you that the second victim will meet their maker, if you fail to hinder fate’s wicked game of random selection. Your eye’s still swollen from yesterday’s team kick-around with your skull after you saved the life of that tall blond guy. You’re still none the wiser as to why you had to take a beating to save his life.

  You are in the central of three cubicles, playing with your own fingercock, in that public rest room, sat back on the supposedly stainless steel toilet that is now more sheaves of peeled-away stain than metal.

  Your trousers are half way down your legs. Your tie is pulled open, though still looped around your neck. Your blood-stained nondescript linen shirt is opened all the way to the trousers. Your free hand is idly playing with a hairy nipple. There is an unholy rankness to the stench that lifts off the toilet. The walls are a crude chiaroscuro of filth and slander and useful phone numbers. There is this inch-deep rich-brown foamy scum all over the broken-tiled floor.

  Your cock is like a middle finger with its nail pulled off in the middle of some BDSM scenario filmed and uploaded to the internet before the ink on your useless contract had dried.

  You’re just playing with it, you know, compressing the fingernail-like root where the nail used to be, all sensitive and dire. You thought you’d investigate this delicate post-circumcision while it was still fresh, see if there was any change. Suddenly, and without warning, it happens so quickly, a long string of boiling white cum pours out of the end of the finger, as if gravity had shifted slightly. The arc of cum seems to aim itself towards your fingered nipple.

  It’s been so long since you spat any man-venom onto your own chest, you’d almost forgotten how lovely it is. Thirty million little albino tadpoles dying on your chest. Entire nations have flaked and crusted in the hair around my navel! as one of the great philosophers once put it.

  It clings there, across fingernails and nipple, such that you don’t want to move, you don’t want to spoil the moment, you don’t want to stop doing it. You start pressing on the throbbing tip of your cock again, squeezing and compressing it in the hope that another lovely dollop of yourself will spurt out all over you. You want to cover yourself in it, become your own walking bukkake.

  But that boot kicking on the door. You know it’s the second person you’re to save in this five-day working week of shadow salvage. You’ve seen the vision. You know what he looks like and what he’s going to try to do. You know what’s going to happen to you. You’ve also seen the additional information about victim #5, the bald guy.

  It was all going so well... In no time at all, your shadow would be back in your possession, released from the tyranny of these five. But then a flutter in the ether, and you’re getting mixed signals again. Before you can do anything to stem the thought, and because you’re not as thick as those freaks who had the nerve to call themselves management, you realise that you’re being used.

  This person, this second target kicking in your door. Sure, you’re protecting the gun hidden in the toilet works, strapped in there, inside a plastic sandwich bag. You’re stalling for time. Not directly preventing someone’s death, but indirectly you are. You’re stopping this man, this brick shit house from Latvia or some other Eastern Enclave, from taking the gun that’s been placed for him in the toilet’s cistern back there above your head and murdering someone in this family business.

  You’ve lived this vision before in a film from your youth. You know what’s gonna happen. The brick shit house of a Latvian, he’ll have yellow hair and his skin will be dark orange tending towards brown. He’ll kick open the door and start pummelling you to death. But you won’t die. Management will hear the ruckus and come to your aid.

  This slender slab of space/time has been pre-ordained. It’ll happen just as the Glimpsers foretold, just as your visions all morning have been confirming.

  You put your black leather brogue against the rattling door and start to shout out obscenities to your Latvian mauler. You’ve got to somehow delay him in the noisiest way, get management to come to your aid and stop the killing of the innocent life out there in the restaurant. It’s the real important part of today’s mission.

  The door buckles suddenly, the top hinge giving long before you’d imagined it would. This is the first sign that all your hopes and dreams for a workmanlike resolution to victim #2 have started to crumble. A white face, rouged because of exertion and anger, receding black hair that just stinks of grease even from here, the forehead tall and round, shining like a dolphin’s forehead. This man’s nose is barely protruding; the whole thing is just flattened to his face.

  That’s when you get the full force of it.

  A huge cubicle volume of cum drops on you from shit high, trapping you under its viscous mass. You see a Glimpser-like grin grow on the hardnut’s face. He’s in league with THEM!

  A hairy fist explodes into your restraining volume of cum like the slowest punch in the world. You try to look away. The fist slams into your jaw, just on the side, left ear booms then hisses.

  In your slowly-feinting moment, you see the hairy arm, as l
ong as two metres or more, stretching, looping and twisting like an uncoiling snake, reaching for the gun in the bag in the cistern. The cistern ruptures suddenly and the man has in his hand the gun in the bag. A black hole in the bag. Brown sewage pouring into your cubicle of cum in growing Paisley curls.

  Clearly, the gun has gone off as he tried to pry it free. The air tight packet has been compromised and salty cum has sullied the delicate inner mechanism of the gun.

  He looks at you like it’s all your fault, which maybe in a sick and sinister way it is, and points the now-useless gun in your face. All the time, you’re swallowing back mouthfuls of cum the way a foetus gulps back breaths of amniotic fluid for the first nine months of its life.

  You are gorging on spunk and you know you cannot move. Your vision starts to tunnel. He pulls back the trigger like the gun’s still going to work. Fuck, maybe it’s you who’s been set up for today’s killing. Those Glimpser bastards. It’s so strange watching the man reaching right under your nose with the sullied patent black metal of the gun from out there in the real world where he’s high and dry.

  With the rush of feet to the toilets, he knows you’ve helped to fuck up the death of his target. But at least he still thinks he has a chance of killing you. He actually thinks that gun’s gonna work. A noise behind him, but he doesn’t hear them. Slowly the gun hammer opens and the grin on his stupid fat face starts to grow wider and wider until his head is literally sliced right across the middle. The top half of his head lifts back and this inner view of his cuntly skull pit accosts your eyes.

  You’re close to death anyway. And besides, you suspect the gun ain’t gonna work. Arms start to pull him back into the restaurant. Three hands, or more, tug and struggle with his gun arm. The gun goes off. A bullet spits past your face like a burning Shinkansen, tearing a huge hole in the plastic-like volume of cum. A breathing hole forms, sending a rush of boiling air into your lungs.

  You gasp like a fool and the vaporised surge scalds your cum-smeared throat. Lucky for you that there was a wet lining to your throat and lungs. The cubicle drains of cum like someone’s pulled out the plug and you end up on your ass, on the filthy-tiled floor. Saved by cum. What a day.

  They drag the guy away. And you hear fists pounding into a face. Someone shouts in, asks if you’re alright.

  “Yeah,” you croak, your throat blistered but intact. You pull up your trousers, do up your shirt and tie like the good little corporate doggy that you still are, the suck puppy, the worthless lackey, the job’s worth.

  You smooth down your cum-soaked hair and stagger into the restaurant looking for that red-haired woman you’ve saved from summary execution. She’s nowhere to be seen. And, for what it’s worth, you’ve managed to salvage the second part of your shadow.

  Bukkakeworld protects its own. Never forget that.

  Saving

  your shadow,

  part three.

  * * *

  You thought of Kitten last night, didn’t you? You were back in your house for the first time in over a week. Some fucker had forced the door, that’s what you figured. Maybe you left the door unlocked upon leaving, you idiot.

  You don’t even have a strong memory of why you left the house in the first place, do you?. Do you remember the divorce papers being delivered? Do you remember the crumbling penis of your office block? Do you remember Marianne Buckman? And your dead ex-wife? Do you remember what you did just before you last left that house, your family home of so many barren years?

  You sat up until morning finishing off the contents of the fridge. It didn’t look like squatters had moved in but you suspected that someone had been snooping around. Maybe the Authorities, sniffing like dogs, putting their slavering snouts into crevices of your private life, scratching about under rugs.

  A haunted shroud of bukkake clothed the air, that’s why you won’t be going back in there any time soon. In fact, you slept outside, in the garden shed, with the spiders and mice and moths and badger poo. You got quite a good night’s sleep, all things taken into account.

  And it’s a good thing you did, as all today you’ve been on active surveillance. Last night’s shock therapy of visions confirmed what you already suspected, that you’d need to get hold of transport. You’d tried tonguing open a WalKar, but those bitches are so picky. It’s all a question of KeySpot and rhythm. There was no fucking way you’d get that air-tight seal to unhinge with your amateurish technique.

  You plumped for a no-less-taxing means of locomotion... the simple push iron, or bike. It’s something you’ve never even dreamed of doing, riding a bike. But Bukkakeworld bikes are no ordinary bikes. The saddle, or where the saddle normally goes, is made of living cock. It doesn’t sound like it should work, but it does.

  As the assistant in the bike shop explained, you have these special laminated cycling shorts that have this multilabial self-healing slit in them. How on earth your credit cards still work after all the subversive traces you’ve left across town only the faeries and elves know.

  Now this is the story you were sold, these were the only bikes they did these days since one of the crazier presidents laid out a nationwide decree about the liberation of the spirit whilst and via cycling. The privacy of anal rape in a public setting, was how you remember his presidential decree. It is now the law that all bikes for men, women, boys and girls of any age should be fitted with this special seat. No-one knows there is a broadcast antenna within the shaft that relays every single cyclist’s exact DNA and whereabouts to the Authorities.

  But that’s unimportant, too. The important thing is, you have your means of transport and you have your purpose, your third target. He’s known as the guy in green.

  That’s all you know about him: he’s a guy wearing green. He’s a cyclist just like you are now, a rider of bikes. And you’ve been watching him all morning, moving from location to location, except you’ve been looking through his eyes, looking down on the green sleeves of his silk jersey and the green knees of his laminated riding shorts. Maybe he’s a delivery boy of some sort; he certainly knows how to ride that bike. There’s no way you’d be able to keep up with him, such a cycling novice as you are.

  Good job that you’ve also been spying into his mind a limited amount. Good job you know that he’s supposed to be close to where you’re headed by mid-afternoon. Good job that you’re on a stupid mission to retrieve the final three parts of your shadow. Are you going to do it? Are you going to go along with the Glimpsers’ quest? Salvage all five parts of your shadow and suffer no ill feeling towards your tormentors?

  Or do you plan to subvert their scheme and do a little ass-fuckery of your own?

  You see the religious meeting place in your mind as clear as a church bell, or the call to prayers. It’s a mosque to the east of the city. A part of town you’ve never been in before. How secluded was your life before this story began? You seem to have never been in any of the locations on these quests. What is it like being such a corporate suck up as you? Now you’re getting out more. Now you’re living.

  A glob of spunk comes at you from way down the street and you almost fall from your bike trying to avoid it. A horn honks a gruesome sluice of cum across your bike and it sticks like tar. You pull your brakes and laugh out loud. This is what they call fun.

  You laugh, and as you laugh, there’s an explosion somewhere down the street. You turn around—the Glimpsers. Up to no good. Should you follow them? Or should you remain ‘on mission’ and get your shadow back? In your mind you know that the man in green is real close to the meeting place. In your memory stolen from his mind, you know he holds the key to the third part of your shadow, your liberation from Bukkakeworld.

  But do you even want to leave this hellish place yet? This has not been resolved to anyone’s satisfaction. Maybe they knew. Maybe the Glimpsers knew that you’d be too tempted to hunt them down. Maybe their promise was a hollow or shallow one, and they knew, always knew, you’d break round about the third day, and to hell w
ith your fucking shadow.

  What is a shadow but a stain upon the world, a darkening of the weave, dampness where dry survival should prance and scream and rejoice? In your mind’s eye view of the man in green, a package exchanges hands. You know deep down in your heart that this package is the key to your sanity in this insane world.

  So, why are you peddling like a panting grandad, trying to keep up with the gangling towerblock steps of these chrome creatures of your distant past? The past is one’s undoing. Let it go. One’s funeral exists in the past, waiting to swallow one up, waiting to seal one in, to bury you. That’s what this is, your wake.

  A tear comes into your eye to wash the encrusted cum off your cheek. You’re in tears as you cycle and the tears stream back, back into the past where your true self flagellates and cuts and suffers. You’re drowning in your own tears, going under, being snuffed out, as you peddle and pant and try to keep to the side of the road.

  There’s a generous saddle bag on your new bike. A bag just big enough to fit a laptop in it, so that you can be at the beck and call of your corporate masters at all times. That generous noose around your neck would normally contain not only your laptop, but also your Blackberry and your numerous mobile devices to facilitate your availability to your superiors.

  You gasp for breath. Spunk spatters your teeth. A spiteful strand of it flits across your eye. You’re gonna have to open up that eye to the reality refracting property of human stain, the ghost of your shadow haunting every revolution of your foot on the pedal.

  The remainder of this pursuit of the Glimpsers is awash with mish-mashed colour schemes and stampeding entrances and exits. You don’t even have any idea of how long you follow these spectres around town on your brand new town bike. You’re lost in the pursuit of your past. No one else exists.