Posted by NL on September 05, 2008 at 12:14:02:
The Civil War-- Part 4
Mortimor Chitpaste groaned. It seemed suddenly that a man's strong and groping hands had suddenly clamped upon his guts. And his head filled briefly with alien thoughts, thoughts of a "Miss Soup", who seemed to have an amazingly pretty little butt, so round and yet so petite! But Mortimor knew no Miss Soup, pretty butt or not, and eschewed all thoughts of a carnal nature. "God hep me!" he cried, doubling over in pain as the cruel invisible hands of what must surely be his Lord fumbled along and among the coils of his very intestines, clenching, and squeezing. The squeezing was the worst, for his underpants filled with reeking stools, all unbidden, foul stuff that drove him from his study and into his bathroom, there to shed garbardines and tweeds and wooly muffins, all ruined, and seat himself upon the throne of rapture. Later, when the clamping subsided, he might allow himself a cigar, but not before.
He had made great progress in his studies of the Civil War. He knew about all the wonderful battles and he knew many things that were entirely unknown to others. He knew how the great white masters had used their nubile black slave girls in strange rituals of sex and death, and knew how the girl's great boobs danced and the blood spurt and flowed and how the master's great cock came and came again, splattering boobs, butts, bellies, all well-bloodied. They died, then. But for a long time the fucking went on, until the bodies, in that southern summer heat swelled so and ripened so that there was no recourse for the white master, ultimately, than to have the victim buried. But he would kill again. It seemed to Mortimor that that must have been the true cause of the Civil War, that ecstasy of sexual murder, indulged in so freely, that certain moralists of the North, those yankees, and damn them, too, disdained. And so they had to fight a war over it.
In happier days Mortimor had offered up his sufferings, all the pangs suffered in long and tedious study, to the Higher Being. If your tooth pains you, offer it up! If your butt pains you, offer it up! Like a procession of turds on paper plates, he lifted one suffering after another, up high, to win a reward of-- he knew not what. But surely it would be good. Surely, it would be good as a bosky babe freshly killed with limbs akimbo and mighty boobs flopping, legs spread and ready for a fuck! Let the Civil War begin!
Mortimor staggered out of the bathroom and back into his bedroom where his manuscript, its many pages, spread upon the floor. He was naked, for he could not bear to put his soiled clothing on again. He wished, sometimes, for more clothing. Who the fuck WAS Miss Soup anyway? He seemed to have a strong desire, leaping higher and higher, like one of those old funeral pyres, to strangle Miss Soup and fuck her corpse. Well, yes, that would be not much worse than the Civil War, and had he not made a great study of that war? He had documented innumerable bloodlettings, in barns, behind barns, in thickets and clumps of gorse and in river gorges. These were all places where a woman might be taken and killed and fucked, in wartime. He was weak, but he staggered to a wall and consulted a calendar. No, no war going on at the moment, at least not where he lived. He, Mortimor, if he had not been immersed in the Civil War, would have enjoyed being a sniper in Bosnia, perhaps, shooting busty women between the tits with a Dragunov. Surprise! Splat. He'd rub his penis with his thumbs and watch and watch and look out through the sniper scope with a definite hunger. War was so glorious! Take the Civil War, for instance! He'd made a definite study!
I would gnaw upon a bean, he thought, but for the pain. So odd, to have two manly hands clamped still upon his bowel. Everything that had been there was squeezed out, so, no shame! But it still hurt. And he offered his sufferings to the Mighty One, another turd on another little paper plate, or, no, a turd wrapped within a blanket of tissue paper and put to bed in a paper boat, with a wonderful little red plastic fork, or a white or a blue plastic fork and a red and white and blue napkin to catch the drippings. But he really preferred blue and gray. And black and white. And black and blood red, as the slave girls learned, when he unleashed his considerable appetites in the secret place in the woods, where he took them. But this was war, and acts of war, he felt, transcended the merely carnal. One thing to bonk some strange gal on the head and take her home and strangle her and fuck her corpse, but quite another to wear a uniform and line up a bunch of naked women and shoot them full of holes and see them tumble into ditches and then maybe later sneak back and fuck one or two. And of all wars, what could be more enobling than a Civil War?
He could see Miss Soup. He could also see an
inflatable doll that did not resemble Miss Soup at all, and the doll
was dead! It had been strangled and it exploded! What a horrible thing!
Mortimor felt that such things could easily happen in a time of war and
he vowed then and there that if the mightly pangs in his gut ever
subsided, he would rush right out and buy an inflatable doll. Why had
he not thought of that before? It was so logical! It was so neat! It
would be a fearful thing if it exploded, but was that not the sort of
risk a man would take in a time of war? He thought he could spend
several minutes a day with the doll and then come back to his studies
of the Civil War quite refreshed and feeling very chipper. A space for
a carnal thought might well exist, if one were to inhabit an inflatable
doll, one of those love dolls and sex doll toys that people were always
selling. He'd seen a few in the grocery store but he'd been afraid to
go in. Not any more! Not after such pain and the glory of having what
must surely be Divine Hands laid upon his bowels, pulling him and
guiding him. He must follow those tugs! He must not resist. At the
moment it seemed that those groping hands were yanking his intestines
in a particular direction, and that was toward his lone window, the
lone window in his loft apartment. I am being guided, he thought, to a
glorious destiny. I shall follow. He followed the persistent pull right
out the window. He only fell from the second story, a distance of about
twelve or fifteen feet, but he landed on his head and died instantly.
At that moment the Civil War ended, at least for him, but, oddly, the
hands continued for a time to grope among his entrails. They seemed to
be seeking something... something else, perhaps.