Cuthbert

This.

Oriphiel

The Batlord cuts off his dick so he can **** himself in the ass

The peace died quickly within the Casa Fatlord, as the earth itself seemed to spasm harder than the Batlord's legs after twelve hours of Starcraft. Gaggles of doritos were flung through the air. Back issues of Miracle Man, or whatever that ****ing series he won't shut up about is called, were flung about and violently creased. Many a Steel Reserve did fall from the chilly belly of his mini fridge, spilling out the beginnings of beautiful new stains as they rolled across the piss soaked carpet.

And then the carpet was colors, and the colors were the unfolding geometry of the intrinsic programming of the universe. And that could only mean one thing.

Frownland had arrived.

"Shabaaaaaaaaaz!" yodeled the cosmic cartwheeler, sporting infinite erections as he appeared before the Buttlord.

"Oh, **** me," muttered Charles. "Not this god damn **** again."

"He doth well to damn me, that might slay all such conceptions," answered Frownland. "But enough about funnel cakes. I came here to show you something."

Sensing that this was going to be a long night, the Burger King grabbed the emergency toast that he always kept warm in his seat cushion. Too lazy to get up and walk to the kitchen for a spread, he simply scraped his dick across the flaky bread, putting the excess butter from his latest misadventure to good use. "Alright. Let's get this **** over with. What'd you want to show me?"

Even as he asked, the answer was before him; sitting on his keyboard was a plate of golden brownies.

Frownland was already holding one up, stroking his beard with the sensual pastry. "My latest creation. Or discovery, rather. I call them Frownies."

"That's it? Are you ****ing kidding me? You came all this way, interrupted my bants, shook the **** out of my house, just for-" His mouth was stopped by a Frownie. They were all around, a temporal flood, within and without. They were everywhere, everything, all. They always had been.

He saw his mother, her eyes, the same eyes that lovingly watched him play toy genocide with his green army men as an innocent child. Those eyes, the crusty golden flakes shimmering, turning, and the hunger, oh god the hunger, and

"Pretty good, ja?" asked Frownland.

The Butterlord shrugged. "Eh. Not your best. I actually came back from this trip."

"Did you?" asked Frownland, raising an eyebrow. "Curious. Anyway, enough about my Frownies. Pray, what're you up to? I couldn't help but notice your buttery member, and likewise the kitchen knife

the kitchen knife

so bad, the burning cold, when the room started

sitting by your keyboard, right by that book of matches. Were you perhaps up to another of your silly penis experiments?"

The Catlord shuddered. The silly string shuddered. God got bored and opened a tab of porn. But you didn't, and that's what matters. "What? No. Hell no. Nothing like that. I was just... uh... trying to dig something out of my keyboard. Some **** that got stuck in there. And, you know, knives are good at... that."

With a smile and a chiding shake of the head, Frownland whistled. The worm broke through the skin of the Batporn's arm, poking out its eyeless head. With a wave of the hand, Frownland brought it into his grasp, and did lift it to his ear, whereupon the truth of the Scatlord's situation was revealed unto him.

"I understand," said Frownland without judgment. "You must be terribly lonely. But you need not turn to mutilation of the self, when mutilation of the laws of the universe would suit you just as well. Until your distinctions cease, anyway." Snapping his fingers, he created a shimmering vortex.

"Holy ****," gasped the Shatlord. "What did you do? What the **** is that thing?"

"A temporal fold." Frown stretched out a hand. "Come. Know it further, and so know thyself."

And what could Badlord do but obey? He stepped towards the hypnotic whirl, peering into the glittering dust, until at last he saw through to the other side... and the other side saw him.

Twas a rip through time and space, leading back to the same time and same space. Which is to say, not a rip at all, but a fold of the fabric, an impossible fold in the eternal instant wherein

He saw the road. One forward, the other around. If he had been wearing pants, they would have dropped. The butter sang as he greeted himself. Again and again and

Frownland could scarce keep from joining them

Every direction, from every point, the heart beat of the universe, the spurting pulse, movement, life, again and again and

Explosion, matter outward, the inception of conception

Countless universes pushing onward through the cracks

Flopping to the floor, the Faplord lit a cigarette. "Well that was ****ing amazing."

Frownland, who was the cigarette, smiled at his naivety, at the pleasures yet unknown to him. Such wonders might he show him, if only he would lose his way. Yet, there was always tomorrow.

Always.

"Yo, mom," shouted Charley. "Make me a ****ing kool-aid and a sandwich. And bring some tissues. I just busted all over the ceiling again."

From within the living room, his mother sighed. "Alright, sweetie," she answered, her weary bones aching as she stood. Yet, ere she had reached
the Finding Nemo tissue box she had bought for him, she stole a glance back at his door

And smiled

Her golden lips flaking softly in the still air

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grindy

Epic.
WSB style.

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A smell of petroleum prevails throughout.

Oriphiel

So it's been about a year since I started seriously writing, and I kinda hate to say this, but I'm pretty sure that The One Where Mondo is Inside of Frownland on page three was the first time that I ever properly spaced out dialogue in a story. Before that, because I really didn't have much experience with writing besides screwing around every now and then, I just sort of clumped everything together in mondo blocky paragraphs.

Also, this is still my favorite thing that I've ever written:

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Oriphiel

Musicbantopolis

1931

Welcome to the sweaty ******* of the universe.

The streets flow with scum and vermin, the saints of the modern age, the ones that the masses cheer for as they rob them blind and **** them raw. Their jewelry glitters on the vestiges of filth that wear them, like candy in the hands of a pedophile. The politicians. The thieves. The bootleggers. The whores.

And the memes, the backbone of a ruined society, because without such a potent anesthetic to rob them of their senses and memories, the wage slaves wouldn't be able to go on with their miserable lives of constant servitude. They would be forced to actually do something about their situation. Strike. Protest. Revolt.

But it's easier to knock yourself out until the next twelve hour shift comes around. It's easier to send your children off to the factories to get mangled so you can afford one more rare pepe. It's easier to drag yourself out to the polls every few years, and pretend that someone in the latest wave of old ****s in fancy suits actually gives a **** about anything other than ****ing you over.

Even Prohibition couldn't stop that ****. It just turned memes into a backdoor industry. An industry without any oversight, other than the whims of the string pullers.

Life like this isn't sustainable. One day, this city will inevitably break. The tides of hell will finally flood into this artificial heaven, into the movie palaces and glamorous hotels, into the mansions and dance halls. All the sins of our past will catch up to us. The liars and the murderers and the pedophiles will scream out for help as they drown in their own ****, grasping at anything that can save them.

They'll see me standing above them, and they'll claw at my shoes, begging for me to save them.

And I'll look down, and whisper

"lol"

They ordered this steak rare. They've got nobody else to blame when it comes out bloody.

My name is Rorsha... I mean, Frownland.


Friday, April 12th, 4:20 P.M.

I was ****ing my secretary on her desk when the phone rang. I'd tell you her name, but I already know that you don't give a ****. You'd rather hear about her tits, and lemme tell ya, they were like clouds with nipples. I had her gams up to my ears when that ****in' clunky old black thing with the ancient brass ear horn started blaring.

****in' typical. I kept going as I answered. It was my wife. I slowed down my pace, so's my squeeze wouldn't squeal too loudly and give me up, and shot the **** with the missus.

Yeah, I know. Self righteous bastard, ain't I, for a no good cheater? But a bastard is far from the worst thing you can be these days, I'll tell you that straight and fast. And if bein' a bastard keeps me from blowin' my brains out long enough to finally take out the Batlordaccini Family, then I'll be any sort of bastard I damn well please. The world owes me that much.

Anyway, my missus knows well and good about my mission in life, and she sends jobs my way every now and then. You know, leads. Mostly seamstress friends with daughters gettin' slapped around by their pimps, their little girl finally comin' home so bloody and beat to **** that they can't look the other way anymore. I find the pimp, I persuade him into giving up all the juice on whatever family is backin' him, and then I use that information to hit the families where it hurts.

And if he ain't bein' backed by a family, I do the world a favor and just put a ****in' bullet in his head, give his perverted little brain its last peep hole.

So she gives me just such a lead. Wolverina W. W. Pidgeonia, a friend of hers. Daughter is getting into memes. She'd hoped that it was just a phase, that her little baby would get over it, but now she's started getting into the heavy ****. We're talkin' moth memes. That ain't the kind of **** that a girl just walks away from.

And that's where I come in.

After I finished rearranging all the paperwork on my secretary's desk with her ass, I hit the streets.

129th Spam Box. That was supposed to be her fave little hangout, so that's where my search started. Ain't where it ended, though. Is it ever?

Nah, I found her in the 2018 Nominations, a ritzy little glam house hidden under an old bookstore. More of a fuckeasy than a speakeasy. Pussy was the special, the house sauce, the soup of the day.

Not exactly my first time there. Most of my investigations had a way of ending up thereabouts, or at least passing through. They were world famous for their pussy, you see; and where there's pussy, there're perverts; and where there're perverts, there's serious money to be made; and where there's money to be made, there're more troubles than a limey in Belfast. You mark me on that one.

I found the girl easy enough. Poor little china doll had a scar from her right ear to her collarbone. She could try to pass as a sleek flapper till the cows came home and sang Auld Lang Syne, but all the powder in the world wasn't gonna hide that little blemish. Probably from one of her loving customers, a real sick **** with a taste for blood. Or maybe he just tried to get her to do somethin' real naughty, and she told him to pound snow. Some guys don't like to be told no, especially when they've already paid the fare.

I didn't confront her out in the open. That ain't how you do it. I waited till she was off to the side, chatting up some greasy goomba by the lavs, before I made my move. I went in fast, pushing the guy away and telling him to get lost unless he wanted a bullet to chase down his whiskey. Then I took the gal by the arm and led her back into the shadows, flashing my gun to keep her real quiet. Seems a bit rough, I know, but believe me, **** like this never goes well with spectators. It's hard enough trying to talk sense with a meme addict without their girlfriends around to whack you with their purses. And then their pusher daddies come to check out the ruckus, and I'm up to my ears in lead.

First order of business was the sense knocking. You know, "Your parents are worried about you, this path you're walkin' on is only gonna lead you one place, you've gotta get off the memes." That sort of ****. Whether it worked or not, I don't know, and honestly, I don't care. Maybe I should, but I don't. I've just dealt with too many ****in' meme addicts. They break your god damn heart every time. I just did the only other thing I could do; I told her that if I ever saw her ****in' around in a dive like that again, I'd spank her ass and ship her back to her parents in a crate full of spiders, after a nice long roundtrip across this our wide and wonderful world.

Second order of business was to get names. Pimps, suppliers, squeezes, dirty johns, anything, anyone.

She clammed up. Then she teared up. 'Cause she was scared. Scared that they might come after her if she talked. It's common enough. And you know how to beat it? Give 'em something else to be scared of.

So I introduced her to Vanilla. Good ole Vanilla.

Vanilla is the name of a dame I tried to help way back when, tried being the operative. I was way too late. I've kept a picture of her in my wallet ever since, the way she looked after old man Batlordaccini was through with her. To remind me of what I was fighting to stop. And also to remind the occasional slip of what was gonna happen to her if she didn't start talking.

Because Vanilla hadn't given me any names.

Vanilla had thought that she was real tough. That she could handle it.

She didn't look so tough after swanning off the top of a fifteen story building. In fact, she didn't look like much of anything.

The girl finally broke. They usually did right about then. Sometimes I wonder if it's just the picture, or if it's the honesty in my voice when I tell them that they're next on the plate. Either way, it works. And once she started going, she sang me a regular phonebook.

The first name? Fibroccio Batlordaccini, old man Chuck's own son. He had been a naughty boy lately, so naughty that not even his papa could protect him. He had disappeared two weeks ago. The coppers, the ones that weren't on the dole anyway, searched for that little needle in every ****stack they could find, including the Batlordaccini manor, but no dice.

According to Wolverina's daughter, he was holed up in a penthouse under a fake name, waiting for his daddy's legal team to get him off the hook. Stupid **** was supposed to lay low, talk to nobody, just sit tight and jerk off to some spank rags. But he got bored and called up some company. And that's when he met her. I guess she had something he had a taste for, 'cause he apparently kept calling her back every night since.

Paid pretty well, too. But he was still the very first name that she gave up. Probably because of that thin splotchy bruise he put around her neck. Boy liked to play rough.

Forty minutes later, I was at the door of his penthouse. Gloves, wire, knife. I'd even slipped on my shiny murder shoes. And I had a feeling the boy was about to get something rougher than he'd ever bargained for.

My knock opened the door; it was already loose. He called to me from the sofa, surrounded by bottles, telling me to leave the cart by the door. Stupid kid thought I was room service.

I moved in fast. By now, you're probably figuring out that that's how I like to do things, and I'll tell you right now that you're dead right. Sooner started, sooner finished. And this kid was gonna be finished real soon. But hey, according to the way his squeeze had described him, he was already pretty used to that.

Decked him, spinning his senses and knocking him down to the floor. Before he could even figure out what was happening, I sat on his back, and around his neck went the wire in a nice little loop. It's always easiest that way. If you don't believe me, try doing it standing, or from the front. Just don't blame me when you get thwacked in the chestnuts.

I didn't ask him to talk, not immediately. Guys like him, it's best to drag them to the edge first, give them a taste of death. Make them think that you don't give a **** about information. All you want is for them to die. It cuts out the middleman real nicely, scares them like you wouldn't believe.

So I choke him for awhile, and right around the time he stops struggling, I let the loop have some slack. Not much, just enough for him to breath. And he does. Oh, he gasps like Catherine the Great under a Clydesdale.

And I ask him some questions. About his family. About their business dealings. About their dirty little plans, and how I can **** them up real nicely.

He tells me everything, and I do mean everything. Hell, he talks so much and so fast that I start to wonder if I'd really even needed to choke him at all.

I get some good **** from him. Contacts. Business deals. And right when I think he's starting to run dry, right when I'm considering tightening the loop 'cause he won't stop yammering about his ****in' dry cleaner and how he's awful at getting blood out of dress shirts, as if I give a ****, he drops a bomb on me.

The old man is going to a meeting. Very illicit, very hush hush. Low security. Just him, a certain extremely paranoid memelord, and a skeleton entourage of bodyguards.

This was it. The chance I'd been waiting for. I couldn't touch old man Batlordaccini up in his ivory tower. The family manor was locked up so tight even a fly couldn't fit its dick in there without getting chafed. But down here on the streets, in some abandoned warehouse, trying to make a big deal, he was just a man, like anyone else. A man with a heart so small that I probably couldn't have even fit a single bullet in there. But damn if I wasn't gonna put that to the test.

And as for Fibroccio? Well, he had a flight to catch.

And you better believe that it made a helluva picture.

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Lucem Ferre

I read two stories and regret not wanting to read past Frown's dick mustache.

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Art Is Dead. Buy My ****.

Oriphiel

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[MERIT]

Write the one where he dies in a house fire that was started by his vape pen.