Posted by nigel1 on June 13, 2002 at 13:27:57:
Who's that? In the sky!
It's Herman Goering
on a morphine high!
He's dropping fecal bombs.
Death has paired him
with a Dornier
and they dance!
Sometimes Dr. Brown regretted only one thing: he did not have an upper lip shaped like a cupid's bow. What could you do but try to compensate, to create more perfect surroundings in the hope that the outer world would impress the aura of its perfection upon the inner world, of the mind? In his mind he could have a perfect upper lip. He could condition his perceptions to show him a perfectly shaped upper lip whenever he gazed into a mirror, or examined his reflection in a convenient shiny surface, as he did at that moment. He pulled more film cans from the shelves. There, in that most private and personal of rooms, deep beneath the Academy and at the heart of the labyrinth of tunnels snaking beneath the campus and slowly extending beyond the campus into the unstable soils beneath Corpus Christi itself, he felt most himself. Fuck the stupid mother fucking asshole. Yes, fuck The General. He hated the son of a bitch. He sometimes loved to roam the secret spaces beneath the Academy. He knew a lot about explosives. He could plant charges there, and there, and make the pissant "ediface" vanish in seconds. He could sure have killed a lot of candy ass fuckfaces that way. Uniformly, the Academy's students seemed to have nought but shit for brains. If God's money ever stopped flowing through his bank accounts, if anybody ever wised up or woke up and looked about and realized what a great bloody farce it all was, why, he probably would blow the whole kit and kaboodle sky high. Fuck them all, and let God sort them out. HAW! HAW! A motto he'd always lived by.
At the moment, he had himself a hard-on and he wanted to do something about it. Jacking off was always a great reliever of anxiety. Little did any of the chumps suspect, that there was no privacy anywhere on campus. No, hidden cameras and hidden microphones told all. And he, sifting through the voluminous video and audio records accumulated over the last month, had seen how it came to pass that some righteous soul had defiled the The General's statue. He loved it. And he wanted very much to see who had done it. He had always hoped someday to find some ruthless mother fucker like unto himself. Of course, he'd have to kill him, whoever it was-- those were the rules of the game. Brook no competition. Rule alone or rule not at all. But what he had seen, through the grainy nightvision enhancements that clicked into place automatically as the sun shrank away, was a bit disturbing. Little mounds of shit gradually accumulated on the bowl of that distinctive corncob pipe, like a growing mound of snow-- brown snow. No hand he could see moved it there. And the seat of The General's baggy khakis, accumulated shit like some sort of electrostatic plating process at work, except here you'd have to call it a shit-o-static electro-galvinic freaking weirdness. Not good! Not good. If there was going to be weirdness, he would by God be the author of it! But he wasn't the author of this. Not to worry. He always had a plan. In this case, and in all other cases like this, where some occult agency seemed to be at work, you would abandon the technical for the mystical. He could switch as adroitly back and forth as any old Nazi-- as well as Himmler could, or better. But not right at that moment. He needed to jack off first.
Dr. Brown had pretty good relations with the FBI and the CIA. And, having been in OSS, he had good service connections. So he never lacked for pornographic material. Now, all of these agencies kept, or had kept, private stocks of film footage, very special film footage, of events that were in their splendor beyond any mere Kodak moment. The FBI, for instance, made compilations of crime scene footage and shoot-outs (J.Edgar Hoover's explicit orders were, don't start shooting until you've got the cameras rolling). These films were used to condition agents-in-training to the culture of violence, but among the inner circles, it was pure pornography, stag films for the hard-boiled elite. Now, J. Edgar tended to get off on visions of male mobsters riddled with .45 caliber slugs fired from Thompson sub-machine guns. He especially liked it when they were neatly dressed in fashionable suits, silk ties and hombergs. It was said that he loved the way the clothing rumpled around the dead bodies, and the manner in which blood stained various fabrics. He would always examine the scenes closely, very closely, searching for the victim's cigar butts. He liked a man with a cigar. He liked it better when a cigar chewing tough guy in a suit bought it-- bloodily. Dr. Brown figured it might be something like a suppressed anal expulsive streak in the Boss G-Man, since Dr. Brown had studied psychology extensively, among other things. But gabardine and brain tissue were not Dr. Brown's things. He respected The Man, of course, sensing evil-- not on a par with his own, but you had to give him his due. Probably took himself too seriously though. More to Dr. Brown's liking was the big SLA shootout. That footage was so HOT, had such top priority, that even before the barrels of the Stoner rifles had begun to cool, it had to be rushed to an FBI lab and developed.
That was a prize, and he had a personal copy somewhere in his collection. That's what he was down there looking for. For one thing, they were all lesbians in there! Except for that one nigger, but fortunately he never showed his face. But that Patricia Solitzyk, or however you spelled her name, had come storming out, guns blazing, and the cameraman had had the good sense to put on the zoom lens, just in time to catch the action as the agent's slugs ripped through her body and sent her down, twitching and jerking like a spastic on a shot of meth. But it was lead, not meth, doing that to her. In slow motion it was enough to make a man moan. Moooooan!
Ahhhh! But agents of the FBI, OSS, CIA, were not ordinary men! They were among the most highly sexed men in the United States not involved in organized crime-- although one could argue the point of whether they were involved in "organized crime". Dr. Brown was a realist and didn't care where the coin fell. Fuck it. Real men loved violence! It was the fucking testosterone, man! THE most dangerous drug on the planet and God help the stupid mother fuckers who didn't get the picture. Yes! All these guys tended to have truly massive prostates, though they were not at all diseased, but functioning at a screaming balls to the wall pitch. But in all of human history it was probably Herman Goering who hefted the biggest prostate of them all. An autopsy disclosed a prostate the size of a watermelon! Minds boggled, trying to imagine the world view of such a man. No wonder he'd been a warrior! Stories that had filtered out of the intelligence net during WWII might well have been true, though they seemed fantastic at the time, too far out even to be used as propaganda. It was said that he flew JU-87's on doses of morphine that would have laid out a sperm whale. It was said that he strapped Aryan maidens to 500 lb bombs, that he jacked off in the pilot's seat, yodeling Wagnerian battle cries as the maidens fell to their deaths, that he personally required at least fifty women a day and and five-hundred rounds of ammo. It all made sense. It was possible that Attila the Hun had been as virile, but it would surely have been a near thing.
And all of these were good thoughts to think as the screen flickered with light, and the endless loop began. A deep sigh escaped Dr. Brown. He was naked and sweating and already bouncing up and down in the tiny theater's lone seat-- a theater of the mind it almost was, in its intimacy-- the body on the screen (a LESBIAN body!!) torn to pieces again, almost literally dissolving, again and again, in a mist of blood and bone, in a hail of slugs, slugs fired from dozens of Stoner Riot Guns, guns capable of punching fist-sized holes through bricks, armor plate, engine blocks, and pretty girls. Ahhhhhh!