---Kamloops!- small town, BC (* the exclamation point added circa 2012 by the Council of Tourism in a bid to re-brand the town as a more appealing, more fun place.); the Old Courthouse: converted art gallery of refine--- The fair size crowd gathered in the Old Courthouse gallery to see the one-man avant-garde performance piece, 'I am shitting in front of you.' Milling about, chatting nervously, the crowd of mostly 40-something-aged locals: yoga teachers, coffee house patrons, DJs, and whoever else was "too good for Kamloops!," along with a pocket of age-segregated, almost comically dressed, cliched post-secondary students, and two fine art teachers from the local college, sipped red wine and ate fancy cheese from a plastic plate, courtesy of somebody else. There was an instant hush when the artist, a local, going by the name of Braggio, entered the room, wearing a long, heavy wool coat with attached Zhivago fur collar and a wispy little beret that may, or may not, have been ironic. "Friends," he said in a cultured, snobby, vaguely "mid-atlantic" and high French tone (that may or may not have been ironic), "colleagues," he carried on, and waved an open hand at the flock of students, "rivals and contemporaries," at the two college arts professors who tried their best to stand out from everyone. Braggio removed his coat to expose an otherwise nude and somewhat skinny-fat body, covered naught but by a Winnie the Pooh chest tattoo (that may or may not have been ironic) and a tight little Speedo that hugged his balls but did not conceal his muff- "I am shitting in front of you." And so he did. The artist shit his pants in front of the crowd- which stood with mouths agape as he knocked his knees and coiled his legs like two serpentine tree trunks around another, as a light amber froth bubbled like blown chocolate milk from his elastic trunks. Again, the artist stated matter-of-factually, "I am shitting in front of you." He applied more force, and, with a spattering, under-water whoopie-cushion sound like *GuGgenhEIm* shat a bubonic bubbling brown and mottled black half-gravy / half-grits type diarrhea slurry with white meat chunks and loads of what looked like unchewed wild rice, through the navy blue, skin-tight shorts all over the lacquered wood floor- then promptly walked out. Unsure of what to do, the crowd, being mostly of snobby uncultured mountain folk, who were only familiar with art thanks to a relative proximity to the cities of the coast; whose most complete collection of culture consisted of moderately priced prints from Pier 1 and coffee books from Chapters, and the odd craft they made them self; who were adamant that they were among the cultural elite of town- better than the regular folks because they routinely went to shop in Vancouver- stood for a moment, unsure... They looked back and forth at one another for pointers: the most ordinary, the common folks, looked to the art students, the students to the teachers, the teachers at each other, and, at some point, some unseen hand began to clap like a cripple lightly banging on his wheelchair for help- then all clapped, not wanting to seem square. Despite the cold, unconscious flopping of hand on hand, the stunned crowd was otherwise hushed. One of the college art professors (though from a predominately trades dominated school) saw the shocked faces of the general public... Though quite shocked himself (and a little bothered) felt himself to be above all in attendance, being of the cultural elite (he was a COLLEGE art teacher, after-all) and so whispered, however, quite loudly, to be heard: "BRILLIANT," hoping to seem as though in some way in control of the moment or an insider of the act. "Brilliant." He tried his best to sound sincere and look nonchalant. However, tellingly, he had stopped eating his cheese and routinely took bigger and bigger swigs of his wine. Some of the general public looked at him, so he maintained his faux look of cool, posturing his arms awkwardly, trying to look like a portrait of Warhol. Not wanting to be out-done by his peer, the other art professor, remiss and unsure just what to do- the stench of shit having fully engulfed the room- lit a cigarette in defiance of the no smoking rule of the gallery, trying his best to seem like a bad boy art rebel, while disguising his obvious disgust by twisting his grimace into his best Lou Reed face. He didn't blink. Nobody stuck around to discuss the piece. (But the two art professors lingered just long enough to take the wine and cheese. Later, one would try to capitalize on the controversy by creating a series of paintings by dragging his beard through a plate of paint, while the other tried to mimic the rushing away of the audience via some bizarre interpretive dance ballet. But, ultimately, both men just tried their best to forget the whole thing, because in their minds, it was the best performance they had ever seen and were immensely jealous of "the new R.Mutt" and would rather be shitting their pants in galleries, if they had the balls to do so, than relegated to teaching the sons and daughters of yuppies in their coffin-prison classrooms.)
Harpoons awoke in a strange kitchen and found himself bound and lashed down to the top of a stove. As the darkness of the party drug wore off, he was able to see farther down the dimly lit room. He saw a picture of a boy called Erik. He saw Doakes sitting in a rocking chair, petting the top half of a severed scalp, on his knees, like a cat. He saw the Flu greasing his wiener with a fistful of lipstick and then Harpoon's heart froze. "Cum for me, big boy!" the Flu rasped, his vocal cords fucked from trying to cut out his own Adam's apple; his balls injected with chlorine to rid him of his damned masculinity. "FUCK YOU DUDE" Harpoons screamed, hoping it was loud enough to alert the neighbours, who might then alert the cops. "FUCK YOU SO MUCH DUDE" he continued to cry. The picture of Erik seemed to weep a little. The Flu moved over to the stove and turned the dial, turning the burners on to '2'. "You've got about 2 minutes to cum" Flu rasped in a womanly voice, "before you BURN" he added in a deep man's voice. Flu wrapped his whole mouth over Harpoon's dick and balls and began making a gargling sound, while Doakes, roused by Harpoon's cries, put his asshole over Harpoon's captive mouth. His cries tickled Doake's rectum, making him giggle. To show his pleasure, Doakes switched masks from his usual 'Doakes face' to a more jovial 'Smiley face.' "MMMMMMMMMMm" Flu moaned, "he really likes you!" The smell of burning flesh wafted through the air. Flu sharpened a butcher's knife. "Best cum - you're starting to buurrrnnn..." Harpoon, still tied down, burning, screamed up to an uncaring God.
11 years of opiate abuse and the false high and sense of 'everything i do is so great' that accompanies it, what spurs on the fingers even after the mind has fucked off. fueled by my desire to have men cum for me.
Flu, I have been doing opiates (smoking it) and I do not get sleepy, but I do feel melty. Am I doing it wrong?
