Adam and Musette dodge projectile bowling pins and leap over burning bodies, searching for a way out of the massacring circus tent. Following their noses down a smoke trail they climb to safety through an undisclosed fabric gash.
Flames reflect off the billboards; smoldering ash sizzles the ends of hair down like smoked cigarettes; itchy smoke and cremated bone scratch at Adam and Musette’s throats, causing them to hack their lungs out.
“That circus was a bad idea.” Says Adam.
“You didn’t like it at all?” Musette asks.
“No. And if we keep spending our money like this we’re not going to have enough to sustain our escape on.”
“Sure we’ll have enough…”
“We only have ten dollars left you know?”
“But we’re almost to the City of Lights! If we make it there we’ll be swimming in it. It doesn’t take much to gamble with… not much more than courage.”
“Do you hear that?” Adam asks.
“That buzzing… It’s ferociously rampant. All around…”
“You know I don’t… You can’t expect me to hear all the little things you do.”
“Sweetheart, don’t talk so nastily about yourself. You’re a genius.”
“But I’m not… I’m just a little trash muffin. You always say so. I don’t know why you love me like you do…”
“Trash muffin or not, I do love you. I Love you like that part of me that’s not within myself.”
Adam never thought he’d be the type to take a Jiggalette to the ball; but life’s just crazy like that… Never can tell what ol’ Jesus the god of god’s got in store for you. Those ragged smears of fear mongering, underlining her eyes and emphasizing her lip peaks, hold our boy like a hungry trout. Those sex advertisements, blasting hip pops, wag a lags, and reeking come-and-get-its, confine him within a heart/groin whirlpool.
The Jigalettes are a disgusting breed by all accounts and measures: They’re dumb, diseased, and disgusting: The trichotomy of D’s, spelling out a giant F upon the face of humanity. They are grimy rejects of an empty generation drained dry through over indulgence: the byproducts of couples lost to virtual living; rebels of the lives handed down to them; opposite lifestyles from their parents, but all the same fallen from the same tree … Because, while they may have escaped the boxy prison cells of love butt cigarette mustache Roosevelt game show hosts, they’re still as far from the vital fruit of evolutionary glory as ever. That channel surfer mentality keeps on cresting: dopey floaters of reality; soulless zombies; humans always in need of another fix; pleasure junkies and virus pockets – definitely not Adam’s type… God! Fate just has a way of slamming two things together and saying, “Deal with it!”
Love is an unexplainable thing.
But Musette’s not so bad…
Adam says, “I can’t believe you don’t hear that…”
“It’s probably just the reverb nation of children’s souls encircling the drain of your mind.” she replies.
And that reminds Adam of the first time they kissed.
He sits down to meditate. This bit of recollection has rekindled some of his past life prowess. He’s determined to locate the source of the buzzing.. He stretches his ear and lets the sounds swirl in his canal. He manipulates his earwax into a filter. Like a gold panner fishing for that little bit of precious something he strains, picking up a mixture of high pitched guttural clicks and nasal wheezes. It sounds like an egg frying in a stove top pan. Coming in patterns… like Morris Code, prison wall speech, or an early Ethiopian dialect. It’s definitely a language…
Though Adam has a database of languages stored within his education, this one is difficult to place. He enlarges his Merkabah chariot, transforming his aura into a blooming Descartian grid of light and power.
“That’s strange…” He says. “The sound is coming from here…”
It is a puddle of his own mucus.
“That’s disgusting…” Musette says.
“No, you don’t understand; it’s communicating.”
“What’s it saying?”
“It’s beyond my comprehension. But I think it’s important… This calls for a summoning.”
Adam once more assumes the position. By magnetizing his consciousness with the parapsychology of the dust he gathers from the deep archival pockets of his mind seminary sessions’ worth of lyrics. The graceful, swiping movements of his Lodge Master’s long, pail, bony fingers once more dance upon their cartoon diagrams. It’s all coming back to him in torrential bits and pieces. He turns to Musette:
“For my next act, I will most certainly be needing your assistance.”
He tells her what to do. She bends to the ground, kneeling, with her palms planted in the dirt. Adam unruffles the edges of her skirt. He lifts it above her rump. The tendons in her thighs tighten as she raises her ass.
“Is this how you want me?” She asks.
The fire in Adam’s duende spot flares. Like a yoga instructor he raises her a tad higher. Her vagina breathes an exhalation into his face. It smells like a sardine cannery. There is a minefield of whiteheads, pock marks, and bruises on the landing strip, but the way that pussy glistens would make any straight man chubby.
“Now I need you to adjust your palms into prayer formation.” He says.
Musette obeys. Adam prepares himself for insertion. He bends his knees, and places his feet shoulder width apart. He unbuttons his trousers, letting them tumble around his argyle ankles. He places the palm of his hand upon the small of her back, rolling it down her spine. She slopes like a slide. He wraps his fingers through her tie dye hair and presses her cheek flat into the dirt. Looking to the stars, and crying with gusto, he shouts: “May this girl bring about the answers!”
With his left hand he crosses himself. Lightning bolts shatter thunder from behind the mountain top horizon. He grasps his cock and waggles it until it is hard.
“Alright ol’ boy, steady now; this is for all the marbles; let’s make sure we get the right hole; no trust in poops you know…”
Penetrating the labic gate, he docks his cock into her cervical slot, dribbling her juice like Majic P. Johnson with a strawberry Saturday morning sprinkler candy pop in his pocket.
“Oh God…” He says. “No premature explosions. I can hold it… I need to hold it… Repeat after me; we’re going to chant now:”
Banging brains is Darwin’s law
Fuck your heart out or burn in Hell
I’ll rub your private until its raw
I’ll rub your private, and I’ll ring your bell
Together their voices form a harmonic choir, resonating in unison. Their two bodies slide around each other like the workings of an accelerating steam engine. Precipitation dews moistly around their idyllic figures. Lightning catches their drops of sweat. Their poses are imbued into Karma Sutric illustrations. The strobe lighting flash prints their story onto a Grecian Vase. Depictions of Godhood, embracing acts of holy matrimonial martyrdom, are sold in the Parthenon at twelve pops a purchase.
Musette becomes Pegasus as Heracles grasps her by the shoulders. The veiny beast’s wings pump more rapidly; towards Zeus, alas – Hold tight reign bound rider!
Her eyes stare still the mountain range’s porcelain. The incantated words slip between air sucking gasps and pleasure seeking moans. The deeper and faster Adam pushes the shriller they get.
Wails of the Cherokee nation. Bolts crashing every which place. The desert floor shakes with thunder concussion. The time is now and the moment is midnight. The tension in Adam’s muscles causes him incapable of thought. Veins release bruises kinda hickey like around his neck.
And then he cums.
Musette’s eyes fill a sudden, lazy, milky white. She smiles a psychedelic moan. Fish bowl vision swims bubbles around tracers of bliss. She crumples to shivers.
The syllables of chanted prayer fizzle into tape recorder pixels as Adam scatters himself into a luminescent stream of sperm. His consciousness is sharpened to the microscopic degree. He dives a headfirst blaze into the realm of creation. He spasms through the insides of his little scum bucket girl. A fuck made multi-boy. The curves within are so bodacious. Large, lumpy, but not yet cancerous. He sacrifices a few of himselves for a taste of them ribeye sushis. Sashimied sperm. The little sparkle horses crash pinball scores down the salmon tunnel. He feels himself being torn apart. Infinity flashes before his eyes a thousand times in hour long spanning seconds.
“Oh God! Oh God! It’s hard to see in here! We’re being mutilated! These waters are murky for damned sure!”
Rise and fall to violin choruses raising churchfulls of symphonic journey music to the crew who continue on.
“Watch it Red Four! Oh Goddammit! No! No! No!”
Red Four explodes into a dislodged kidney stone asteroid.
“There! Look out!”
Crabs and crannies of infection pop up on the radar. Three hundred are lost to the clutches of a sprawling UTI, which sucks them up via a series of vomit colored arms. Speed on speed racer. The Kraken fades into the distance, munching on future livelihood with its whirlwind mouth of disaster teeth.
Ahead an ultimate challenge: a half-baked abortion, reaching into the swarm with one eye blinking, swimming doggy style in crusty placenta, crackling on a dusty umbilical cord. Straggling sperm scream with their unformed mouths. The team shatters into a third of itself as the miscarriage babe feeds its pre-infant stomach.
“Kill the Cyclops!” shouts the most rational and outgoing of the sperm. Red Twelve shoves a piece of misplaced vibrator battery violently into the abomination’s eye leaving the monster sprawling around in its own liquid torment.
”Leave it! It’s as good as dead! There’s no time to spare!”
They’ve got to make it to the wonder tunnel before their lifespans suffocate. The baby throws placenta chunks at them as they escape. Red Leader is crushed. The boasts of a name not yet given him are stifled on his formless lips.
“There it is! Hold your butts boys…”
A single egg throbs.
“Is that thing inhabitable?” Asks a sperm.
“It will have to work…” Responds the new leader. “Just get in at all costs. It’s been good flying with y’all. Till next time space cowboys.”
Hope. A new hope. A bead of luminescent prayer light glows from within the shelter of the egg. Sperms frag themselves against firewalls trying to reach it. It sounds like popcorn popping in the microwave. But it ain’t nobody’s fault except society’s that the cervix is impenetrable. Blame the carelessness of water supply systems. All the tofu estrogen being pumped into your dinner time glasses… No goddamned respect for the little guy! You’ve got to commend Adam here. Really, you’ve just got to… At least he’s trying to make something of his existence. Trying harder than any of you condom wearing sissies out there… And don’t even get me started on the butt munchers… Huh? Don’t you want to win the game? Don’t you want to make a little savior all your own?
Sperm #472. A number for a name. And lucky even for that. He’s the little squirt who makes it into the egg. What a daring, courageous pilot… Got a destiny written on his forehead… No more training than the rest of ‘em. A directionless wanderer; a curve ball drunken master; a kung fu monkey – flying by wit alone, laughing all the way. Vision not quick enough to keep up with the success of life, 472 skywalks down the cervical causeway, sliding into the painful birth of development.
Camel through the gate of miraculous. Zodiacal vibratos. Xy dualities become one z as chromograms alight. A fetal thing. Intense transformation. Umbilical cord of heavenly messages chocked into the baby’s belly. Glowing beads of firefly godliness drip from the sky into the bloodstream.
Musette shoves Hostess cakes into her belly.
“The baby’s going to need everything we can give him…”
Three wisemen approach from the roadside: “We saw the star above. Do we have another special someone entering our world today?”
“Get out of here, you perverts!” Adam shouts. “And if any of you have caught a glimpse of my sweethearts hole I swear upon my newborn babe, I’ll make eunuchs out of your entire families!”
A chorus of angels rip harpsichords into the clouds as the wisemen depart, taking their expensive things with them.
“Adam it is time for you to deliver the newest testament unto the world…” Says a booming voice omnipresently.
“I am ready…”
Through the bulging pipes of Musette’s plumbing the baby begins its descent. Musette bucks, drooling with pleasurable pain, as her vagina rips and tears. “Here’s the head…” Says Adam, surgically grabbing the bulbous, slimy globe with his fingertips, tugging at the stubborn tot, trying to pop the cork from its mother’s bottlenecking pussy.
Musette sucks moans and oxygen into her vein bulging forehead. Milk specimens and life drain from her eyes and drizzle cake frosting down her prickly white legs. Her tiny rainbow toes are sprinkled with life substance. She screams blood curdling atmosphere shatter darts through proximal space. Symphonic crescendo waves soar into alto key, for all of Heaven and Earth to hear.
It’s becoming a gore show… Her eyes have gone from milk globes to blood bubbles. Her frame wilts like the upturning of a rose. It writhes into a cripple’s position.
Adam ignores the baby. He grabs Musette’s coke scarred mouth and kisses it hard. The two lovers lock eyes. “I never meant for any of this to happen…”
He damns his curiosity; he damns the world. Injustice of life; injustice of reality. Today is the deepest moment of sleep, the space of slumber wherein nightmares slip in freely. Tomorrow… The golden tomorrow… Tomorrow would have been a beautiful day for raising a family. Two lovers growing sagacious together in decently long life. Musette could have evolved from princess to queen format. She could have grown stale, like middle aged women do. She could have become that dusty old coin slipping between the cracks in the cushions. A lifetime of continuous free fucking. Adam would have released fleet after fleet of space ship pilots into that coin slot, dropping jackpot after jackpot into her graying urethra.
Damn you Musette… How could she have let Adam do this to her? Tomorrow he would have kept her safe. He could have cleaned her up and given her a few more wits in her head. He could have made a good and proper woman out of her. Turned her into some sort of moley cheeked Madonna. He wouldn’t have minded a few protruding hairs. Melanoma pock mark scabwork of a face – that’s just how bad girls gone righteous turn out. He wouldn’t have minded a fallacy part splitting a receding hair line in two. He could have dealt with the mascara Sunday masturbations serving penance to weight gained in cheek fat bible storage tooth rot containers. If only God would have given him a chance to smack her over the face with a bible… Hail Mary beads ticking down the seconds towards the apocalypse. Upside down crosses spinning circles above a head bleating in the closet. A pure woman, beaming in the natural light of Christ Mohamed. Wedding bells ringing to the tune of a J.P. Morgan death rattle. Unholy matrimony in the air of diamond rings glistening their edges up into stained glass mirrors. A honey moon ticket being spent promoting a wondrously purified vagina’s plundering. The bed sheets of a heart grown only much fonder through abstinence.
But who’s he kidding? This is the way it must be: quick and tragic. Adam faces the facts and says, “Goodnight my sweetheart. Close your eyes now. And may the next time they open be Heaven’s splendors revealed.”
Two pennies he dost place upon her still fluttering eyelashes. A cry attracts his attention. It’s that baby, squirming in the dirt… “You little ragamuffin…” He says, picking up the child from its slimy blood pool. “Must have just plopped out without my noticing…”
He polishes the child’s forehead, scanning for signs of comprehension in its eyes. Where is that purpose shining back?
“He is still too weak… This calls for reinforcements. Here comes the cavalry my child…”
Adam bows his head, crosses his heart, hopes to die, and unzips his fly. He lowers the baby hip level. One good thrust and the cum crusty penis penetrates the Messiah’s navel. Surprised eyes gape in the motion of a silent scream. Adam’s chants rant like methamphetamine monk madness. Back and forth baby stomach makes for an interesting masturbation tool… And pop goes the weasel. The baby’s aura ignites. All the remaining blood and placenta pieces blast from his skin.
Minimal tufts of hair atop the skull stand erect. It’s like liquid fire swaying Mount Sinai to sleep. The baby dons a full lotus. Krishna’s mental chariot carries him to the comprehension of a plucked Arjuna string, and he says, “Father ask me anything so that I may answer.”
“Tell me,” Adam says “through your close connection to the all that is, what is being said through this language which is unrecognizable to all which men are.”
“Tis’ the language of apocalypse we hear around us today, saying, ‘Abandon all hope for there is no mercy spared. Run child, but escape not the universe. Your fate is written and so shall it be fulfilled. Know that God has no mercy upon your soul. You are cursed to die. Pray if you choose, but your prayers have already been heard. Thou art’ God’s ultimate sadness. And through you shall come the end of man and life.’”
“Thank you my child.” Adam says. “That is all exactly as I feared.”
Adam picks up a rock. He drops it atop the child’s head like the death of a grapefruit. A chunk sprinkles onto the boot cut jibe of Adam’s step. “Poor Musette. How could I have let this happen to you?”
The tears rise. The sun rolls. Mother and child mix blood together.
“Oh Holy Night… Oh Damnable Day. Why for all the stars in the sky do you continue on like this? Even when you know it is killing me?”
Hosanna in Hand