My name is Stench. My birth certificate, from what I hear, says Stanich. Not Stench. At an early age I was adopted by my father’s and my older two brothers’ motorcycle fraternity called the Troll Ops. The cops didn’t like that name because every once in a while one of them would, after much introspection, meditation, contemplation and concentration, come to the conclusion that Troll Ops wasn’t a branch of the military specializing in cyber warfare but simply “trollops,” a word for women who will fuck anything cylindrical that has circulating blood platelets in it. If you’re asking are the Troll Ops girls, no. Just very fucked up. On purpose most of the time. But not all of the time.
We live in Panamint City. We think there are 17 of us. There’s a lotta shit we didn’t pay attention to that we probably should have paid attention to. Like, how many of us there are.
Panamint City is a tale all its own. You should probly research it. Find someone who has a computer and have them look it up. Just let me say this about the place?….you’re not REALLY supposed to live there. Because it’s uninhabitable. And basically inaccessible. But…. we’re the Troll Ops. We ain’t normal.
One night in Ballarat – which is KINDA nearby – I had ridden-in from the abandoned – well, they were abandoned before WE got there – mines in P-City to get some saloon time and talk to people who weren’t Troll Ops. Because, well, Troll Ops are hard to be around 24 hours a day. Even for us. They’re hard to be around five minutes a day.
Ballarat Ratty was there and he was giving a sales pitch for his newest mind-fucking drug. We THINK he’s a genius. But it’s more likely that we are just idiots and we’re simply impressed by anybody who isn’t an idiot. Once, a while back, Ratty was gone for a while and we didn’t know where to, but he said before he was gone that he would be going and not to wait up and don’t bother looking because he said he didn’t know where he was going but he DID say he invented, not mind-altering drugs that sent you on a head trip, but body altering drugs that sent you on a whole-body trip.
We said “Oh: you mean you fucking DIE.”
He said, “No, that you actually go somewhere else.” He said you actually go INTO someone ELSE’S head.
We said whose.
He said, “It’s pretty random.”
We said, “Why would anyone do this?”
He looked at us like we were simpleminded and said, “Why would anyone NOT do this.”
Well, he had us there. Turns out Ballarat Ratty did in fact return though he never said where he went because he said we’d never believe it. My brother Arn said “Why the fuck would whether or not the person listening to your story believes your story be a reason for you not to fucking tell him the fucking story so he can find out if he believes it or not?”
Ratty said “Why the fuck don’t you stick your dick up your mother’s ass and see if she shits out another one of YOU?” Arn told him well one reason was our mother was dead. Ratty said “Where I come from that’s not a good reason to not do what I suggested.”
While we quietly wondered where Ratty might have actually come back from, another Troll Op came through the swinging saloon doors yelling at Ratty, “Hey, Rat Man, I need more of that shit you sold me last week! That was like fuckin’ goddamn Star Trek!”
“Went where no man has went before, uh?” Ratty gurgled happily through what we think is whiskers but could just as likely be a badger corpse he nail-gunned to his jaws.
I took this opportunity to steer the conversation away from Ratty’s references to sons fucking their moms and onto this new topic of wonder drugs.
The fact is none of us were, or are, actually sure Ratty is an earthling. All we know is he has access to drugs we didn’t never know even existed, forget about bein’ addicted to ’em.
I said “So what’s the deal on the invading of someone else’s skull. What’s that all about.”
“Hard to say what it’s all about. Want some?”
“Sure,” I said. Next thing I knew I was in Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez’ head.
Ratty had said earlier that you have full knowledge of whose head you’re in. It’s part of the experience.
She was standing in the middle of a playa. Shit, I thought Panamint Dry Lake was empty. Nuthin’ like this abyss. An abyss that went outward, not down.
“Welcome, citizen,” she said to me, wearing very ugly and beat-down pumps on her feet and a nice white kind of business suit but with a long straight skirt thing. Her face was strikingly handsome. “Handsome” in a woman is actually a compliment. Though they don’t think so. For some reason.
She had really big tits. But they looked like two large puddles of water that had been poured into her clothing.
“Them’s some big fuckin’ butterbags you gut there, yer Representativeness-ship.”
She responded very sternly, “Your ignorant misogynistic remarks regarding my breasts are what I expect from a white male racist – and from what I can gather from your accent and speech patterns, American – vulgar supercilious chauvinist bourgeoisie pestilent capitalist running dog.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but that don’t change them hangers into not bein’ there, all that recitation of your religion. Who DOES your tits, Nancy Pelosi’s silicone-slinger? You’re a good lookin’ woman, though. I’ll say that. You DO gut a vagina, right? You ain’t a cross-dresser? I mean some o’ you tricky guys actually look hot. So, you gotta find out up front if they have a cock between their legs before you find one between your jaws come pussy-lickin’ time and you find there ain’t no pussy there. You gut a pussy, right?”
She said, unfazed, “Since I don’t consider you human – you being a baboon-chittering dunce – I am not going to bother responding to any of that. And if you think I am shocked, I am not. I am a representative of The People. Therefore I am more than powerful enough to whisk away and brush off any efforts by the Enemy to rattle me with vocabulary.”
“I could rattle you just by saying Trump, lady. Or Columbus. Or arithmetic. No, really, what’s with them tits. You could have those hooters cut down to where they look like Mamie Van Doren’s milk-dugs and you wouldn’t come across as a 90 year old in a Playboy cartoon squirtin’ milk sideways across the floor from steppin’ on yer own tits.”
“Why are you here,” she said.
“Well, I took some drugs and they sent me right inside your head. I would have preferred to be sent inside your pussy, or at least outside it, with nuthin’ between my face and it, cause you look borderline attractive and so that means I am curious about the part the actually matters, and that of course would be your cunt. You let guys see your cunt? Where the fuck even ARE we?” I said, inadvertently changing the subject. Which I hoped was not going to appear rude.
“We are in Ocasiopolis,” she responded. And rather pontifically, I thought.
“……So would that be in……your pussy?….” I said cautiously, after some hesitation.
She said, with no reaction, “Ocasiopolis is where I reside. It is a city, well, a community, that is the result of my own central planning–for everything.”
“But there’s nothing here,” I said in a heads-up sort of way.
“You are blinded by material indoctrination,” she said immediately, as though this was not the first time she said it. “You see only the crass accumulation of objects as virtue. I see the accumulation of virtue as virtue. Virtue is spiritual. The spiritual is supreme. There are things here you do not see. There is peace here. There is happiness. There is opportunity. There is hope.”
I now realized I was dealing with a fucking lunatic: a crazy fucking schizo if not some new category of batshit sidewalk tent dweller. With really big tits. “Is there any chance of you continuing this lecture with your tits out?” I asked, trying to get some features of interest squeezed out of this instructional.
“You are in my house,” she said calmly. A little aloof in fact. “Use some decorum or I shall kick you out.”
I started laughing. “Ha ha, you’re crazier than I thought. First of all this ain’t a house. It’s a fucking wasteland of nothing. A fucking cockroach couldn’t survive here. Your head’s emptier than an anorexiat’s dung-collector. Which would be the anorexit’s ass. Just so you know. Since I have solid doubts as to your real-world knowledge of the real world. Second, you can’t do shit about me. You can’t get rid of me anymore than you brought me here. Ratty what-the-fuck brought me here courtesy of chemistry. Can I see them tits or not.”
“You will have to dream about my breasts. You will also have to dream-up what they look like.”
“I’m doing that now. I figure they pro’bly look like, ya know, them balloons clowns use to make dogs out of? Only a lot bulgier at one end. The bottom end. WHERE…as I see from here, the tittage seems to kind of accrue and emulsify at the bottom end. Kind of like a half-filled sand bag. So how ’bout the nipples on those gourds, they on the Nice side? Or are they them godawful things with hairy-orlas, or whatever they’re called, that spread-out from the nips like two circular lava flows. You gut pink nips? I bet no, right? I bet they’re chocolate, right? And not a good shade of it. Not that there’s bad shades of chocolate. Don’t get me wrong. But there IS bad shades of nips. Oh, man. Don’t get me started!!”
“I am trying to get you OUT. Actually.” Was what she said. This took me at, sort of, as being, in a way, as kind of a shock. I wanted to see them titties. Saggy or no. And there WAS the very slight and perhaps even microscopic if not smaller possibility and perhaps problem that she did not especially like men. Which could theoretically be a problem for me, if she hated men. Because I mean, she AIN’T all that ugly. EYE’D do ‘er.
Ok, that’s a bad argument. Let me try something else: “a lot of normal men would find her very attractive and well worth a fuck even under the very fuck-restrictive edicts of marriage and/or her bein’ a Daughter of Sappho.” That’s what I’m saying. And here she is, almost at, God Help Us, President-Age-Requirement age. And she has no husband. And no boyfriend. So what’s the deal.
What’s the explanation o’ THAT?……plans for the convent? Plans for life as a mystic on the high mountain of Planet No Dong? Also from what I could see she has a nice ass. As to what that pussy – if she has one and not a dick – has danglin’ from it; ya know, meat curtains, exploded-tire debris or lab-slabs the size of bank-safe doors…what that pussy might look like could be worth an exploratory search. I mean, she could be sportin’ a righteous clam with a good lookin’ bulge on each side of it that makes ya just wanna squeeze them two hillocks together over and over for a few hours…OR she could have something between her legs that looked like the Taliban used it as a testing ground for explosives. I’m GUESSING it looked like the latter. Can’t say exactly why. Just a feelin’.
Depending on how long Ratty’s drugs lasted I guess was the only consideration as to victory or failure. If they were short-duration drugs, it would be tough. Long-duration drugs, not so tough. I would certainly be doing MY part to ensure victory. So, I decided to go the flattery route.
“Pretty shrewd, telling Jeff Bezos to go fuck himself at his idea of installing an Amazon Center in your district that would have created 20,000 jobs for the shitheads who live there who voted you into office,” was my opening ploy into diplomacy. My ol’ lady, when I had one, always said I had a gift for seduction and coy techniques for eroding the gals’ resistance to the eventual big wiener invading their crotches. I went on: “You gotta be pretty much in line for the next No-Bell prize for goddamn motherfuckin’ shrewdness, uh?”
Allay HAN dro looked at me, not saying anything, for a very long time. She was now processing several separate topics simultaneously and giving deep consideration on just which one first she should address. It was as though I could read her mind. What the fuck am I saying, I was IN her mind. Or whatever she used as a substitute. Because unless she was the only thing she ever thought about, her mind was elsewhere. Because it certainly wasn’t here. She was the only thing here. And if she had a mind with her, I wasn’t picking it up on the radar.
Finally she said “My district is poverty stricken. Prime picking for any capitalist exploiter of the worker to entice them into endless labor at slave wages.”
“Slaves don’t get wages, Einstein,” I said. “Plus if you can quit any time….then it’s not ‘endless.'” This threw her a little. I could see that.
She regained her footing. “If they’re that damned valuable then he should pay them whether or not he sets up shop there and whether he employs them or not.”
This threw ME. We were clearly evenly matched: she was as stupid as I was smart. Is that right? Did I put that right? I was becoming confused. I began to realize that Al-A-handria Ocasio-Cortez’ mind was actually draining my IQ just by me talking to it. Or her. Or wherever Ratty’s drugs had sent me. And none of this was getting me into a looksee at her pussy. Which I now considered paramount.
“Tell me about the Green New Deal,” I said quickly.
Her whole demeanor changed. She began to glow. A full length mirror appeared and she stood and looked at herself in it. She was beginning to shine with a white radiance, all angelic and etherial. While still gazing at herself she addressed – I guess me – while turning and modeling and achieving different poses and positions, all while still looking at her reflection.
“The Green New Deal is the collective unification of humanity with Gaia and Isis and Lillith and Gentle Eve, horribly seduced by the male Lucifer and his Snake of Oppression and Violation.”
I was thinking “Whoa. Holy shit.”” She was entering into a trance state. Which I hoped would cause her to increase her body temperature and maybe induce her to take off her clothes and thus allowing me to settle some questions I had regarding the appearance of her tits and ass and twat. She went on:
“The evil male exists by subduing the earth. This is the thanks the Holy Planet gets for bringing the man into existence: eradication. By eliminating the male aggressor who wars against Mother Earth all shall be green again. Green is the color that cools the sun. Man replaces green with open pit mining and clear-cutting. This heats the earth. The atmosphere bursts into flame. The ice caps turn into vapor. The land is washed away by the sea. All die. Because of the cocked monster. The Land of Women will be friendly and filled with kindness.”
“So, it’s really not about the fucking ‘temperature of the earth’ or however you people are phrasing it at the moment. It’s about hog-tying the creative genius and industry of the ambitious male inventor who basically fucks and moves-on and leaves Mom to have to gestate and incubate and care for and endure-with and when they grow up try to marry-off…..ding-a-lings like yourself. Do I have that right? It’s not really about the weather. It’s about fearing men. For some reason that only ten thousand psychiatrists and ten thousand gallons of sodium pentathol could ever unravel. Do I have that right?”
“You do not have that right,” she said calmly.
“How come there’s no green shit HERE?” I asked. “Isn’t this Green-Ground Zero for your stepping stone into Eden?”
“The earth-saving mechanisms are all in place. But somewhere there is always one defiant entity who burns a fossil fuel apparatus and undoes all our work with his smoke-monster.”
“You realize fossil fuel doesn’t really come from fossils. You realize your errors start just by naming your enemy….with the wrong name. In other words, you don’t know what you are talking about as soon as you announce what you are talking about.”
“You are an idiot. Of course, they come from fossils. Long ago the dinosaurs died and sank into the earth and turned into petroleum. As did the trees. And the bugs. And the birds. And the fish. They all sank into the earth. And turned into coal and oil. Which when burned they do something that builds a greenhouse that becomes all hot and humid and kills all the things in the greenhouse with heat and humidity and forces them to gasp in reverse and fling oxygen spittal filth into the air that is another poison gas that kills the plants and animals and heats the sun since oxygen burns which burns the earth and then destroys the forest and the bamboo and kills all the pandas. I like candy. I have a dolly. Do you like cartoons?”
I realized I was dealing with an idiot child who never advanced emotionally and intellectually past the age of five. And who had big tits. Sagging monsters that might have weighed five pounds apiece. Like what supermarket bags of sugar used to weigh.
“Can I see your tits?” I said.
“No,” she said
I said, “Do you know what diaphanous means?”
“Daffy Duck’s sister?….. Diaffynous Duck?”
“No. It means transparent. See-through. Like what your dress isn’t. Do you think you could kind of correct that? You now have this radiant white garment on, but I can’t see through it. And after all, M’lady, wouldn’t see-through dresses be more appropriate for, ya know, earth-nurturing forest entities from on-high like yourself?”
“You are the man-abomination,” she said with no anger and no wrath, like it was just information, apparent to all. “You shall not lust in private with your hand, shooting your sperm into a sock thanks to the memory of my body. For you shall not have the memory of my body. For I am denying you that visual treasure.”
“Well, you’re wrong there, Sparky, I’ll be concocting tits for you out of my own imagination that will LIKELY be better than yours, but I have to admit, from what I CAN see, my cock’s inspired enough to squirt sperm WITHOUT any actual blueprints of your nudity. You ARE a good-lookin’ woman. I will say that. I don’t suppose you let dicks into that oral cavity of yours?……..I mean, if you suck my dick, I don’t suppose I really need to see your tits, ass, and twat.”
“That ain’t never going to happen, to put it in language that you probably use,” she said snarkily.
“How about a hand job then?”
“No.”
“Ya know, it’s a good thing you went into advanced theoretical atmospheric dynamics and not into whoring. You’d be in the poorhouse by now you went into whoring.”
“Increased global temperature is a threat to our sacred democracy. We must remain vigilant and guard against those who do not share our sacred democracy or who seek to undermine our sacred democracy with their sacred democracy destroyers. Destroying sacred democracy of any kind is immoral and racist and supremacist and an insult to our concernings for the compassion and the fairness of our sacred oaths of pious declarations of law and order both to ourselves and to our progeny and to our offsprings of decency and dignity to our ethnic diversities and common ground for uniting in harmony and growth and with no sufferance of pain and no diminishence of spirit and hope. That is my wish for you all.”
I didn’t really know what to say. I thanked Her Majesty and as a gesture of goodwill I thrust my crotch out at her and bent back a bit and hung my tongue out and made a rapid and exaggerated masturbating gesture in front of my clothed cock and balls with my fist, which always gets ’em, and with the same fist, but now opened, I bid farewell to Two Tits and was gone. I don’t think she waved back.
Next thing I knew I was waking up on the floor of the Ballarat Saloon, something that happened often. Everyone was off somewhere else in the place, doin’ whatever people do when ignoring someone on the floor of a saloon.
I got to my hands and knees and then worked my way up to my feet and headed for the exit.
Ratty intercepted me and braced me upright by both shoulders and said in earnest and with a happy face, “How’d shit go? Who’d ya see??”
“Ratty?…” I said with genuine sincerity, “I saw what happens when the intelligence and alertness of a lichen colony is turned into a human being.”
“You saw Ocasio??” he said with exploding enthusiam. “You see her tits?”
I looked right at ‘im. “I sure did, ol’ buddy,” I said convincingly.
Ratty took out his dick and started jacking it off. “Just HEARIN’ about it is fillin’ my dick! I KNEW I shoulda taken that hit.”
Ratty?…” I said while he was squirtin’ jizz onto the floor and muttering frustration, “believe me, your hand knows more about what to do with your dick than she would’ve.” There was now human, or maybe not human, jizz all over the floor where I had been laying. It’s a good thing I got up.
He put his dick away and sighed, “I knew I mixed them two hits up. I gave you the one I wanted. You never know where you’re gonna get sent but sometimes, me bein’ the inventor, I get hunches. You got the one I had a hunch would take me to Ocasio. I guess I was too drunk to notice. I shoulda been the one took your dose.”
I thought about this. Then I said, “So….who did you get?”
“Lori Lightfoot, Mayor of Chicago.”
I called over to the barkeep.
“Barkeep?…..an unopened bottle of Patron for this man! Put it on my tab!”
end
