The document is a provocative and explicit narrative by Hugh Mungus, detailing the life and escapades of a character known as the 'fuck junky.' It explores themes of addiction, sexuality, and societal critique through a series of surreal and graphic vignettes. The narrative challenges conventional norms and expresses a disdain for political and religious institutions, emphasizing a quest for personal freedom and hedonistic pursuits.

3. the fuck juNky dos
by
Hugh Mungus
© 2019. Hugh Mungus
Kindle Direct Publishing

5. © 2019. Hugh Mungus
Second Edition
All Rights Reserved
ISBN-13: 978-1546994909
ISBN-10: 1546994909
Kindle Direct Publishing
7290 Investment Drive, Suite B
North Charleston, SC 29418

7. You are willing to die, you coward, but not to live.
— Hermann Hesse *
* Hermann Hesse
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/383760

9. To Joyce, and everyone at Zone 37.

11. “A Harmful Truth is Better
Than a Useful Lie."
(Thomas Mann) *
MOOSE KNUCKLES
1
ZONE 37
9
BIG C AND THE DEA
19
THIS IS NOT AN ENTRANCE
29
JUDAS CRADLES AND SPANISH DONKEYS
39
FIVE POUNDS OF CONDOMS
49

12. UGLY GOALS
59
SOMETIMES THEY COME BACK
79
RIPPED OFF LIKE A MATTRESS TAG
97
OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER
111
STRIP CRICKETS
119
* Thomas Mann
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/186005

13. 1
MOOSE KNUCKLES
"I need a room. Do you have a vacancy?"
"You are a pimp?"
"Oh, no sir."
"You sell drugs?"
"No, sir."
"Wish you did. I need some coke."
"I'm a Bible salesman, sir."
"That's disgustin'!"
"Just tryin' to spread the word."
"Well, don't spread that shit around me."
"As you wish."
"Fuckin' A!"
— Pulp *
* Pulp
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5ZviJ9_2Sk

14. the fuck junky dos 2
Have you ever caused your computer to
crash, due to excessive porn viewing?
Do you know who John Holmes was?
Does "glory hole" denote an opening through
which one gets their cock sucked, as opposed
to the second furnace used in glassblowing?
If you answered "yes" to the above, this book
is for you.
Ever queried: "Why isn't there an option for
'No President' on ballots? And if a majority
chose this category, we'd literally have no
president?"
Since we keep placing politicians in control,
and things steadily become worse, have you
considered these bastards:

15. moose knuckles 3
A) are inept, or
B) don't want things to get better?
Why would you appoint senators to build
cities? What could legislators possibly know
about this subject? The specialty of a
politician is to win popular favor. Wouldn't it
make sense to hire architects, construction
experts and engineers to address this
endeavor, as opposed to politicians — who
are solely adept at swaying public opinion?
If you've ever pondered the above, this
publication is what you're seeking.
"Outside of The Bible, there is zero historical
evidence Jesus Christ ever existed." Such is
akin to asserting: "Outside of Spiderman
comics, there is zero historical evidence
Spiderman ever existed."

16. the fuck junky dos 4
Obviously, comic books are not historical
records, and neither is The Bible. In fact, we
don't even know who wrote this cult
playbook. Such stated, we do know who wrote
comic books, as the author is listed on each
publication. From this context, comics have a
more stable foundation than The Bible.
Religion offers the ultimate death insurance.
That makes priests the ultimate insurance
agents…And who the fuck doesn't love
insurance agents?!
Conveniently, this policy never has to pay
off. Like all insurance, it's a scam. You've no
way of knowing if your lifetime of servitude
will win you favor with some higher power, or
not. You've just gotta place your faith in a
group historically renowned for fucking kids.
Not only does Hugh Mungus have a dick the

17. moose knuckles 5
dimensions of a longneck beer bottle, he's
also disturbed over the fact we're all slaves.
As such, he ravenously researches, distilling
the resources he's discovered into books,
blogs and "audiochapters," freely available
to everyone.
You may find this genre unmarketable…but
that's the point. This system is more deeply
fucked than anybody receiving a fisting up to
the elbow. Why the hell would Hugh want to
be part of an order — or lack, thereof —
engineered to destroy him, and every person
on the planet?
Hence, marketing can go fuck itself with a
dick dumb enough to penetrate its diseased
dung hole! That said, Mungus is hopeful folks
will skim his scribblings, as these books
supply substantial sagacity.

18. the fuck junky dos 6
As far as money is concerned, such is no
catalyst for Hugh, since he receives 25¢ for
each tome he sells. He's thus far been
bequeathed a single paycheck for $20 from
his literary efforts of three decades.
In fact, should you be interested in free
copies of anything Mungus has published, dial
up his personal E-mail at:
longlivenuno@aol.com
From there, he'll send you gratuitous .pdfs of
all his works.
Pick a chapter, and peruse. Each segment of
this book stands alone; messy memoirs —
based on true events — driftin' outta the
dirty desert. Follow the fuck junky — a.k.a.
Hugh Mungus — in his crusade to copulate
with 5,000 females.

19. moose knuckles 7
Believe it or not, this is a work of non-
fiction…and dedicated to everybody.

21. 9
ZONE 37
You can choose to be free, but it's the
last decision you'll ever make.
— Franz Kafka *
* Franz Kafka
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/457905

22. the fuck junky dos 10
Numbers; Digits:
Notches on the bedpost. **
** The fuck junky's goal: 5,000 Numbers; Digits.

23. zone 37 11
The tourniquet tightened. The fuck junky
plunged the rusted needle into his bone-hard
shaft. Depressing the trigger, he inflated his
cock with adrenaline.
His neck split in half. His head collapsed
backward between prison shanks for shoulder
blades.
The liquid froze his arteries, awakening every
atom. For the next 12 minutes, he would live!
After that, it was a rapid return to the illusion
so many falsely believe is reality.
Snorkel Stan pulled his fingers from the dyke.
In response, the alabaster angel released
raging rapids of cum.
"Plug the hole, bro! Do it now! Plug the fuckin'
hole!" S-Squared shrieked.

24. the fuck junky dos 12
Complying, tfj slammed his rigid revolver into
the woman's holster. Her streams of luscious
liquid had little means of escape, and were
rerouted to the sides.
Onlookers witnessed a jackknifing 18-wheeler
decapitating a schoolgirl. Splashed in
succulence, they raced from the scene.
Tfj crushed cervix, as the woman screeched,
her legs held wide by twin voyeurs pumping
their penises.
"Pull out!" Stan commanded.
Our hero obeyed.
Snorkel replaced the fuck junky's flesh filling
with fingers, raking the woman's insides, as
she blew frustration in fluid form. Sex sap
spewed from her carnal cavern.

25. zone 37 13
A room of spectators shot thralldom in the
face, and left it writhing in the dust, oblivious
they'd done so, let alone were slaves.
The scenario meant everything to tfj! He'd
been listening to reality on his stereo for
decades, while other vassals tuned to
something else.
Without the Numbers, the fuck junky would
suffer withdrawals painful as a point-blank
cannon blast to the asshole. Deprived of his
fix, he'd scour tenebrous alleyways for his
next hit, clawing at any dribble of coitus for
temporary escape.
Snorkel Stan was apple pie; and our hero,
whipped cream. Stan was popcorn; while tfj,
hot, melted butter. The two were a team the
likes of Oprah and anorexia; Ellen and
sincerity; Dick Nixon and truth.

26. the fuck junky dos 14
Making it a point to excel in his oral abilities,
Snorkel was more adept at eating than a
starving lion released in a chicken coop! What
resulted was a trail of female fluid following
wherever he went.
The fuck junky had nine-plus inches of cock,
and enjoyed penetration more than Barack
Obama does lying.
Here — in Zone 37 — the tandem continually
created Digits the way belief in government
perpetually produces pain.
Sure, most had heard of Area 51, but how
many were aware of Zone 37?
Four miles from the platitudinous path of the
Strip, it was here the crazy became common.
Gangbangs — most only fantasized about —
were part of an evening's regularly scheduled

27. zone 37 15
programming. While the rest of the populace
hocked Herbalife, or insurance for one's dog,
it was here souls were sucked through penis
holes, as saliva blended with cunt chrism. In
the basement of Zone 37, butts came to be
plugged, and orgasms were served at all
hours — steaming fresh, and charred
perfectly around the edges.
Most would never know this hidden hermitage
existed, let alone venture to it. Thus, the
highlight of their Vegas trip would include
watching Barry Manilow mainline Metamucil,
rather than launching a squadron of orgasms
onto other humans.
Using Tabasco as lube is more pragmatic,
since all one need do is conduct an Internet
search to uncover their wildest fantasies
moments from Las Vegas Boulevard. No
need to navigate dead roads crowded with

28. the fuck junky dos 16
cattle carcasses, and alien landscapes devoid
of radio signals. Area 51 was north, while
Zone 37, south.
Nude and horny, tfj tasted the tongue of the
Texas Toast in the hallway. The woman
recoiled, drunkenly declaring, "Your breath
smells like cunt!"
In Zone 37, everybody's breath smells like
cunt!
It's here, you smile, recalling what caused the
pain in your neck. You couldn't have eaten
more pussy if you'd visited a cat kennel,
penniless and starving. Your tongue is so sore
from the acidity, the thought of losing one's
virginity — in prison — sounds more
appealing than swallowing. Like hips raw from
fucking, this was one of those injuries you
hungered for.

29. zone 37 17
Hustling down the halls of his mind, he heard
his own footfalls. It was that familiar sound of
stepping off the path; the deep crunch of
coarse gravel, as it ground the soles of his
worn boot heels.
It was 3 AM on a Saturday night. The fuck
junky would stay down here in Zone 37 —
amidst the bowels of a building shaped like a
cock and balls — a little longer.

31. 19
BIG C AND THE DEA
[S]omebody help me! Do I have to suffer
like this, just to buy a pound of
hamburger, and a loaf of rye bread?
— Charles Bukowski *
* Charles Bukowski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLyM2Kwe9sc

32. the fuck junky dos 20
"El Loco roller coaster; Adventuredome; the
stroke of midnight!"
A phonograph perpetually skipping, his mind
played the cryptic communication without
end. It was imperative he escape this one
room cell, and arrive at the rendezvous.
Moments later, he was on the casino floor —
frightened like Mike Pence in a paradigm
where immorality is punishable by death.
The suit hidin' in the shadows was definitely
DEA. The tourist in the "Say No to Drugs"
shirt was a fuckin' ringer. Bitches had access
to unlimited cash. Couldn't they afford
decent camouflage?!
Cedric was itchin' like a hound trapped in a
flea nest. The entire casino could've been
Drug Enforcement, for all he knew! He'd been

33. big c and the dea 21
hidin' in a room for five days, and had one
shot at escaping this Charles Bronson Death
Wish.
Fuckers wanted him more than Oprah wants
endless stacks of pancakes — drainin' butter
from every pore, and piled to heaven.
Trouble was, he didn't plan on evacuatin' this
globe without bloodshed. His life was worth
more than a dribble a' chaw in the spittoon of
it all. He'd take as many of these cunts with
him as he could; meet 'em in Hell; buy 'em
drinks.
"Scotch and Clamato," Cedric called his
anathema, nearing the neon-illuminated bar.
"Well?" the plump tender — with breasts the
size of paint cans — inquired.

34. the fuck junky dos 22
"That'll do," responded Big C.
One eye on the beverage, and one on the
room — since he'd been born with the odd
ability to move left and right independently —
he noted the weak pour. But all pours were
weak in this city. Even in the high limit rooms.
Locks on everything in Tenderloin Town.
Everybody was so goddamned afraid of
everybody else. It was the sign of a sick
society, when an intoxicologist with 20 years
experience wasn't allowed to free pour.
Fuckin' three ball bullshit! Bartending was an
art, and these Vegas Van Goghs were
provided melted crayons and moldy wax
paper with which to create—!
That's when he noticed the buxom barmaid
give a quick nod to the double-breasted DEA

35. big c and the dea 23
in the shadows.
"Shit! Bitch was one, too?! Keep it together,
Ced'. Keep it fuckin' together!"
Maladroitly as a first time stick driver
traversing Filbert Street in San Francisco, he
tripped over a centenarian in a walker. The
hoary bastard's oxygen tube detached, as
Cedric tossed 53¢ on the bar, spilling his
drink on a fat guy playing video poker.
"Motherfucker—!" the corpulent clown
blurted, unsuccessfully attempting to rise
from his Hoveround, and deliver a haymaker.
Behind our hero, the antediluvian asshole
struggled to breathe, flailing futilely for his
O2 umbilical cord.
Smooth as a train filled with nitroglycerin,

36. the fuck junky dos 24
jumping the tracks, and catapulting down the
face of K2, Cedric stumbled into the sea of
slots.
Holed up in Hooters was no way for a man
who'd developed a working Dyson Sphere to
die!
The men in the campfire stiffened.
A slight wind blew from the west,
smellin' of horse shit.
Somebody coughed.
The women crouched in the wagons,
drinkin' gin, prayin' and masturbating.
— Charles Bukowski **
** Charles Bukowski
Ibid.
He saw the suit move, and realized his
suspicions had been accurate. The Brooks

37. big c and the dea 25
Brothers bitch cut a path directly for him, as
Cedric turned toward the elevators.
Still he was dryer than Ellen's cunt, at the
thought of society devoid of money. Jesus
fuck, he needed a drink! How could he be
expected to operate unless properly lubed?!
Snatching a Long Beach Iced Tea and a triple
blue curaçao off a waitresses' tray, he
quaffed the first beverage.
"Hey, those aren't yours—!" The tiny-fitted
tart yowled.
Cedric hurled the second cocktail at the
approaching suit. Lighting a blue-tip, he
tossed the match on the spook — who went
up like a helium balloon on a windy night.
Engulfed in fire, the heavyweight spiraled
into the lobby, which burst into flames.

38. the fuck junky dos 26
Gamblers flailed for their lives, as the entire
scene became Operation Crossroads 2.
Following a supernova, the Sun swallowed the
Earth, as black rain deluged the casino.
It was enough petrol to propel Cedric across
the goal line, and into the closing elevator.
Our protagonist shot to the 10th floor.
There, he'd seek refuge in his room, and do
his damnedest to escape the Sin City hotel
once again, tomorrow. Fuckers wanted the
perpetual motion machine he'd invented, and
wanted it bad! But they'd have to kill him
before he lead 'em to the cemetery plot in
the desert plot where he'd buried it!
It had been the defining event causing Cedric
to stop doing meth. As with many users, he'd
enter a program that helped him do so.

39. big c and the dea 27
Said course fed a bunch of money addicts —
obsessed with the accumulation of cash —
who wouldn't have assisted Big C, if he hadn't
paid 'em. But we'll just overlook that
astronomically more pernicious addiction,
since acquiring currency — even if it's
harmful to us all — is really smart!
Shortly thereafter, the fuck junky came
knockin' on Cedric's door, distributing copies
of The Gangbang Watchtower, and Big C
traded in one vice for another. To cite
Lysander Spooner: Vices Are Not Crimes.
Making tfj's acquaintance at a local swing
shed, Cedric began his journey into the
domain of group sex, leaving the expansive
pitch of casual drug enthusiasm behind. Gone
were his days of starvation, and synthetic
ecstasy. Ahead, awaited a treasure trove of
natural endorphins, endless serotonin

40. the fuck junky dos 28
waterfalls and dopamine gone wild!
Big C had entered the wondrous world of wife
swappin', and began beatin' away on proud
pussies up and down the Strip! It was a joyous
day, indeed!

41. 29
THIS IS NOT AN ENTRANCE
"People live on their delusions," she said.
"Why not?" I suggested. "What else is
there?"
"The end of them," she said.
— Pulp *
* Pulp
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5ZviJ9_2Sk

42. the fuck junky dos 30
The carnal cabin was aphotic. So dim, our
hero's eyes played more tricks on him than
the president does an ignorant populace. Was
what he was seeing possible?!
Had he discovered Bigfoot?!
A tenth of his existence had been spent with
his tongue up the assholes of random women.
It didn't take Euclid of Alexandria to figure
that one out. This was simple math.
Still, something was more amiss here than
Donald Trump at the Welfare Office.
Probing, or at least trying to, his appendage
was stopped at the border like an unmarked
van, with tinted windows, billowing plumes of
used weed from its interior. He could find no
entrance between the woman's bountiful
butt cheeks.

43. this is not an entrance 31
Confused, his memory banks replayed an
oldie but goodie he'd slept through the first
50 times it aired: Female Anatomy 101.
Amidst this remote cum club, he gazed at
the colossal ass spread before him. And
that's when he saw it; or rather, didn't see it.
Squarely between this woman's cheeks —
where one would assume to encounter anus
— there was only a freshly-shaven strip of
barren skin. No way out, and more
importantly, no way in.
I don't like the clean-shaven boy with
the necktie, and the good job. I like
desperate men; men with broken
teeth; and broken minds; and broken
ways. They interest me. They're full of
surprises and explosions.
I also like vile women; drunk, cursing
bitches with loose stockings and
sloppy Mascara faces.
I'm more interested in perverts, than
saints.

44. the fuck junky dos 32
I can relax with bums, because I am a
bum.
I don't like laws, morals, religions,
rules. I don't like to be shaped by
society.
— Charles Bukowski **
** Charles Bukowski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLyM2Kwe9sc
Searching for an asshole, one typically looks
toward Washington, or between a pair of
buttocks. In this instance, the former was the
sole option, as there was no ingress between
these jiggling jowls.
Like a prole gazing at truth, the fuck junky
stared, perplexed.
It was darker in the room than humanity's
future, but was it possible this chick really
had no bung?!

45. this is not an entrance 33
This whole thing was "America": You expect
there to be a "nation," but when you fly
above the planet in a jetliner, and look down,
…nothing. No borders; no signs; not a single
demarcation there's a "country."
Like "America," most probably never give it
a second thought. They just assume this
woman's anus exists, the same way they
assume the "U.S." does. But, akin to the
"United States," the asshole isn't there.
They love to be fooled. They don't know
the truth. Hell, they don't even want the
truth. It makes them unhappy.
— Charles Bukowski ***
*** Charles Bukowski
Ibid.
"America" is a marketing ploy. It isn't extant,
yet billions believe it is.

46. the fuck junky dos 34
You're ridin' with executives from IBM,
from Texaco, from—
You're ridin' with the enemy.
— Charles Bukowski ****
**** Charles Bukowski
Ibid.
"Christ impaled on a double-headed dildo!"
thought the fuck junky. "They're manglin' us
to the point we're reduced to circus freaks!"
Everywhere one looked, normally healthy
people were ridin' Hoverounds through
grocery stores — unable to walk. We were on
more drugs than lab rats at pharmaceutical
companies. Folks watched complacently, as
pieces of their bodies detached into this
deep-fat fryer of boiling butthole broth we've
been brainwashed to believe is "life."

47. this is not an entrance 35
The proletariat had been desensitized to their
plight. It was the funkiest, shit-smelling rot he
could ever envision. How could an entity feel
nothing, when it came to its own demise?
Don't you beat, clobber and maul imminent
extermination with every ad hoc broadsword
— every homemade mace?
We'd become resolved to extinguishment,
rather than at odds with it. This system had
taken the fight out of the tiger. We'd given in.
Too horny to care for the moment, tfj
dragged his nose over empty skin between
this female's flanks, where most required an
asshole.
The door to the cabin opened, and a second
sylph entered. Rooting herself in the deep
cushions of a couch the color of SweeTarts,
she was just in time for the matinee of

48. the fuck junky dos 36
madness. The only things missing were a
popcorn dispenser, some trailer about a
movie in which Ryan Reynolds finally gets
laid, and used gum on the floor.
Perhaps it was the presence of this onlooker.
Maybe it was the full Moon ducking its acne-
riddled face beneath the doorjamb.
Whatever it had been, the woman with no
asshole conjured up a war cry, drilled a
Thunder Cookie into the wall, and broke her
back in the orgasm to end all orgasms.
As the fuck junky dug in deep for the long
haul, the female voyeur watched intently,
scrubbing her clit raw.
Twenty minutes later, halftime was called.
Tfj flipped — reclining on his back, petting his
proud protrusion for the voyeur to see.

49. this is not an entrance 37
"Holy Jesus!" the watching woman wailed.
Shocked, she buried the accelerator on her
clit. "I did not expect that! You're so skinny.
Where the hell'd you get something that
big?!"
At this point, the porn's title scrolled into
frame, and some alcoholic, ex preacher —
who'd lost faith in his god — pounded away
on an out-of-tune organ, off camera.
The scenario left our hero saddened for his
species. Not much didn't, these days.

51. 39
JUDAS CRADLES AND SPANISH DONKEYS
So that's what they wanted: lies.
Beautiful lies. That's what they needed.
People were fools.
— Henry Chinaski *
* Henry Chinaski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaPJfN-buKg

52. the fuck junky dos 40
The Super Bowl:
Reduced to fundamentals, this event is no
more than grown men chasing pigskin
around a field. Let that settle in for a bit.
Grown men chasing pigskin around a field.
As a species, we believe we're analytically
advanced. Yet, year after year, people invest
innumerable hours watching "their team"
attempt to become the best at this callow
endeavor. What would we have accomplished
if all that energy we waste getting to, and
watching, the Super Bowl had been used for
something beneficial to humanity?
Would our children still suffer from cancer?
Would Alzheimer's and autism be forgotten
terms, only found in forgotten dictionaries?

53. judas cradles and spa nish donkeys 41
Would we have mastered clean, safe energy;
perhaps traveled to other planets…outside
this Solar System?
The dissonance of the table saw incised the
desert. Sparks showered from a corrugated
tool shed. Tendrils of electricity clawed the
heavens.
The alloy hut was seconds from launching
into the magnetosphere. Orange and blue
blazed from every uneven connection
comprising the domicile.
Inside, a driven madman was producing! A
faucet broke beneath the donut of hair left
encircling the base of his scalp, as sweat
drained out the pores of his Naugahyde head.
Slicing electrified air, he brought a five pound
hammer down in swooping arcs. The

54. the fuck junky dos 42
cacophony of metal meeting metal turned
the night into a frenzied calliope, smashed
out by demons.
"The insurance company will pay, Marilyn,"
the 73 year old housewife croaked, crumbs
from a flaky biscuit breaking apart like Queen
after Freddie Mercury died. The particles fell
upon deflated tits, wrangled beneath a name
brand blouse less original than a karaoke
song.
"Let's hope so," responded an equally drab
woman sipping tea, also garbed in uninspired
clothing. She readjusted, and a homemade
vibrator — constructed from an electric
toothbrush, and a baby doll's arm — tickled
her cervix.
Women attend board meetings — pretending
to be concerned about profit margins — with

55. judas cradles and spa nish donkeys 43
cellophane-wrapped pickles up their cunts.
CEOs give TED Talks, while sounding rods
pierce their penis holes beneath their slacks.
People remotely electrocute genitals, all over
the globe, at every hour of the day.
We remain within the illusion; doing things in
which we have no interest, all the while
fantasizing about our true desires. Women
want oiled action figures stuck up their
assholes — orgasmic juices draining over
these puny, plastic, pretend people — not
some dull discourse about derivatives.
As folks stuff their cocks inside egg salad
sandwiches on lunch breaks, and fuck
cleaved crown melons, we pretend we're
civilized. This, even though we perpetrate
genocide on our own kind, and go to bed
blissfully ignorant, wondering who will win
some stupid cup named after a guy called

56. the fuck junky dos 44
Stanley.
Cracks in the fallacy spill from my ball point
pen, as I produce these words among the
bowels of my enslavement. I scribble in a
frenzy to create, inside "employee"
bathrooms, on hold with some scumfuck
wanting money, etc.
It was the same for the inventor inside the
storage shed. Each day he would listen to his
wife drone on about nothing at fucking all.
Each evening, he would steal away to his
laboratory, and conceive!
Waving through the front room window, he
watched the ball and chain depart for who the
fuck cared?! As soon as the social security
check on wheels disappeared over the
horizon, it was fuckin' on!

57. judas cradles and spa nish donkeys 45
Activating his cell, he typed the sentence
"She's gone," into a text block, and hit send.
"How long?" came the remote reply.
"Four hours," he responded.
"We're on our way."
Dimming the lights in the room — where his
wife had entertained minutes prior — he
flipped a coffee table upright. Extending the
telescoping legs, he angled them apart, and
the four appendages locked in place.
Somehow, some way, the originally boring
piece of Ikea bullshit had — in two quick
moves — become a St. Andrew's cross.
From there, the man lighted upon each
mundane furnishing. With economy of effort,

58. the fuck junky dos 46
every piece converted rapidly into various
dungeon implements — all by design.
A recliner spun inside-out to become a
Smotherbox. When turned over, the couch
was a bondage bed. A harmless chair
transformed into an Inversion Table. An
empty display case metamorphosed into a
Rack; and an ottoman, a Berkley Horse. An
innocent exercise bike broke down into an
Intruder MK II fuck machine, complete with a
nine inch neon dildo.
In five minutes, a front room that could've
graced the cover of Particle Board
Publication, was now a medieval torture
dungeon. The man's craftsmanship was
sinpirational! It had taken him a year to
complete.
As the black Corvette nestled into the

59. judas cradles and spa nish donkeys 47
driveway, his labor of lust was about to pay
off.
Three horny housewives — of various shape
and size — emerged from the vehicle, garbed
in schoolgirl outfits, and carrying duffel bags.
A familiar ping, followed by the text "We're
here," and the man gazed out the window to
the walkway. Shedding his prosaic attire —
again in one swift motion — he revealed a
snug, latex bodysuit beneath. Pressing a
button atop a bookshelf, the wall opened up,
revealing a comprehensive display of
drilldos, floggers, rope and whips.
He was no longer Norm L. — 78 year old
retired postal slave. For the next four hours,
he was Stone Mason: Master Dom, armed
for action.

60. the fuck junky dos 48
The doorbell rang.

61. 49
FIVE POUNDS OF CONDOMS
We live in an age which is so possessed
by demons, that soon we shall only be
able to do goodness and justice in the
deepest secrecy, as if it were a crime.
— Franz Kafka *
* Franz Kafka
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/1399539

62. the fuck junky dos 50
Like whether Michelle Obama's penis is
circumcised, it's random rumination you
entertain, waiting for a traffic light to turn
green. It isn't regular reflection.
Such stated, what would five pounds of
condoms — in their wrappers — look like?
I knew, because I'd held this treasure trove
before. It took a year to amass, visiting a
swing club where cumbrellas were dispensed
for free.
To those not mainlining sex, it may seem
trivial. However, when blowin' through more
rubber than a dragster at top speed, five
pounds of condoms make Oak Island look like
a CrackerJack prize.
We're talkin' $2,000 of pelvic ponchos, since
that's what five pounds of gonad girdles

63. five pounds of condoms 51
retail for. Such equates to 50 trips to a
discounted swing club. This adds up to at
least 100 new Numbers.
How many of these entries would fill up a
book with the gory gristle fuck junkies
devour, while shoving rusted vibrators up
their greedy gashes? How many of these
notches on the cum-crusted bedpost would
result in the best memories of a slave's
existence?
Alan Alda would suck his own cock, on live
television, before those questions were
sufficiently answered.
For now, I concentrated on burying 10 extra
large freezer bags of condoms in the desert.
Scrawling a treasure map on a Red Rooster
matchbook, I planned to unearth this stash
before hackin' up highway on the next leg of

64. the fuck junky dos 52
my adventure.
How far would five pounds of condoms take
me? Maybe that should be my goal: to burn
through 10,000 rubbers.
Consider the life of a condom:
Bark is removed from rubber trees, which
causes latex — a natural resource — to flow
into collection vessels. This rubber is
harvested, and shipped to processing plants.
Here, said product is enhanced to make it
durable, as well as tensile.
Custom glass molds are dipped into this
augmented liquid, from which each condom
is created. The molds are then removed, and
the beef bags are bathed in emulsion, so they
feel smooth.

65. five pounds of condoms 53
At this point, these dick duvets are tested by
an alloy cock, before they're lubed and
packaged in assembly line fashion.
Shipping trucks then deliver these babies to
retail stores, where cum-covetous cam girls,
CPAs, and Sunday School teachers purchase
them, so they can fuck losers like me.
The inspirational poster — on the wall behind
the therapist's head — hollered: "Live as if
this was your last day!" Above the platitude
was a photo of a gym rat diving off a cliff,
into pristine waters of some tropical Eden.
I stared at the horse shit, which actually
smelled like colt keister. What the scumfucks
who created this marketing campaign don't
tell you is: The ocean in the pic hasn't only
been decimated by nuclear tests, it's teeming
with sharks. After the douche bag diver

66. the fuck junky dos 54
comes up short — shredded on jagged rocks
— the killing machines with fins devour him,
while he's still cognizant.
"You might want to do yourself a favor, and
follow that advice," the counselor suggested.
"What?" I articulated brilliantly.
"The poster you've been staring at for the
past five minutes."
"You mean,…jump off a cliff?!"
"No," the sex addiction therapist responded.
"Live every day as if it was your last."
I sat back. "So this is how you'd spend it?" I
queried.
"Spend what?" the drug pusher replied.

67. five pounds of condoms 55
"This," addressing the banal office. "This is
how you'd spend your last day? Shackled in
this prison, doing something you'd never do if
there was no money in it, advising me —
someone you don't care about—"
"Well, I—" slamming into an iceberg, the
quack attempted to right the Titanic.
"In the year and a half I've been in Vegas,
I've hooked-up with 618 women. I blow Greg
Louganis there," motioning to the diver in the
photo, "outta the fuckin' water!"
The prescription pimp shifted, his tits lacking
sensation, due to his Dom having tightened
his nipple clamps to excess.
"In fact, I'm such an overachiever, my face
should be plastered on that poster, instead of
Michael fuckin' Phelps'—"

68. the fuck junky dos 56
"Easy—"
"Easy is your wife, in a locker room filled with
sweaty horse jockeys, you squalid whore!"
Like, "No, Mom and Dad, I refuse to go to
school anymore," it's what I should've said.
Instead, I blurted out something about Tom
Brokaw surviving on bat guano and his own
sperm, while on an especially cruel, overseas
assignment.
Honestly, though, why wasn't my face on
inspirational posters everywhere? When it
came to fucking women, I was a distant third
behind breast and cervical cancer!
Here's Chris Burrous — proud propagandeer,
and KTLA News Anchor — overdosin' on
Walter White's finest, shoved up his ass, no
less, while fuckin' some dude. Ignorant proles,
comforted by Burrous "firm foundation,"

69. five pounds of condoms 57
while he's holdin' G-Caps in a sleazy motel
room, takin' it up the shitter, and spewin'
chunks in an S&M mask. **
** KTLA Anchor Chris Burrous Died After He
Inserted Crystal Meth Into His Anus
https://www.inquisitr.com/5311647/ktla-anchor-chris-burrous-
died-after-he-inserted-crystal-meth-into-his-anus/
That last hour of his wasted existence was
fuckin' awesome! It was the only reality he
gagged down, as he sang Christmas carols,
wore neckties, and pretended to be some
creepy ideal he wasn't. That last 60 minutes
is the only interesting act he'd performed!
It's the only reality he exhibited.
All the while, his wife and kid remain
clueless, probably atop a time bomb, weakly
disguised as a mortgage. They're gorgin' on
the lies; salutin' flags that mean nothing,
regurgitating brainwashing about a marketing

70. the fuck junky dos 58
ploy this round of criminals calls "America."
People everywhere, indulging their desires in
secret, because society is so hellbent on
believin' the calumny.
In the decades this "therapist" — a shadow-
run shankman — spent serving the
corporatocracy, I pondered how many
condoms I'd used. While mainlining estrogen,
so he could lactate, and dispensing the milk
with cookies at company Christmas parties, I
was blazin' through 50 rubbers a week.
Let's see: Ten thousand, divided by 50.
That's 200 weeks, or roughly four years.
Condoms typically have a five year expiration
date. I had work to do.

71. 59
UGLY GOALS
"[America] is a fair and just society."
"Just so much for the few," said Jimmy.
— Ham on Rye: A Novel *
* Ham on Rye: A Novel
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaPJfN-buKg

72. the fuck junky dos 60
The Death Dog of Defeat gnashed concertina
wire teeth an inch from my frightened face.
Six goddamned hours! That's how long I'd
been on premises, battlin' for bliss. That's
also the exact amount of time I'd come up
emptier than an bulimic's stomach.
The trenches had been more brutal this night
than a Dr. Mengele house call.
Another potential Number wandered my way.
Edging toward the overhead lamp, I made
certain my carnal calling card was fully
illuminated. It was darker down here in Zone
37 than government's plans for humanity.
Stroking the length of the fairway, I gripped
the bulbous base, displaying the entire shaft.
"Good God!" the woman exclaimed, walking

73. ugly goals 61
by, affixing her glasses for a better look. She
stopped, craning her neck to within inches of
my hose.
"C'mon, lady. C'mon!" I silently instructed.
"Just touch the damn thing! A few strokes is
all that's required, and you can rest easy,
knowing you've made the list.
It was the goddamned list! More coveted than
a Powerball jackpot, proclaiming you've been
added to it was an accolade any woman
would place at the top of her resume—
And then,...blackness.
I awoke to the sound of an engine screaming.
Before me was a concrete wall, replete with
yellow custard stucco, visible from a driver's
seat.

74. the fuck junky dos 62
I was in a car? By the looks of it, my car.
Was I naked? Gazing between my legs, I was
still semi-erect — loose slacks covering my
significant swelling. Atop my jutting joystick
was a half-eaten burrito, and a shredded Del
Taco wrapper.
My weighty wang felt as though it had been
used recently — still sore, in response to a
good, solid fuck.
A pair of black beans in tomato soup returned
my stare in the rearview mirror. Those eyes
— my eyes — were more exhausted than the
phrase: "If elected, I promise to…"
And still, there was that arrestive discord; a
nearby engine whining to the point of
snapping. Where the fuck was that coming
from—?!

75. ugly goals 63
My right foot felt heavier than the truth bomb
dropped amid a sleeping populace.
Rubbernecking my big, black boot, I realized I
was granulating the accelerator into the
floorboards. Had the vehicle dropped into
"drive," I would've been through the wall
before me, and into the living room of a
neighbor's ramshackle apartment.
Too lazy to leave the couch, you're
sluggishly jacking-off, using the contents of
spent Kleenexes as lube. Riding the crest
from one channel to the next, you attempt to
determine if the cast of The Real would be
able to deep throat pony prick, or if the lineup
on The Talk could bring home a Blue Ribbon.
The next minute, I'm in your living room,
beside you on your shabby sofa…still in my
car!

76. the fuck junky dos 64
Aware disaster had me in its crosshairs, I
eased my foot off the gas, gulping lungfuls of
air.
Last I recalled, I was orchestrating a handjob
for myself. The next, I'd fallen asleep in a
Delta Co. — Del Taco — drive-thru lane.
After that, came the stucco wall, the revving
engine, and wrapped refrieds an inch from
my cock.
I'd been tradin' body blows with this system
— racin' from enslavement to the swing club,
and back again, on sleep measured in
minutes, as opposed to hours. Bartering
slumber for just one more fuck fix, I was
comin' up shorter than a midget in a locker
room full of NBA starters.
I'd go to almost any length for the Numbers.

77. ugly goals 65
In Vegas — where the soul was an
endangered species — battalions of the
morbidly obtuse were all too happy to watch
a person disco for their dinner. Here, good
people were used up and discarded like clean
toilet paper in a laxative testing facility.
I'd been branded a steady extra; which meant I
was perpetually on call. Receiving an urgent
communique from my slave masters, after I'd
just entered REM, had become more common
than fear of being unable to pay rent—
And then,…another bout with blackness.
It wasn't an innocuous statement like, "Each
year, I dress my cat up as a Turkish war
refugee, and fuck it, in celebration of Henry
Ford's triumphs over his inner demons." No,
this declaration had teeth, as did the woman
on the other side of the glory hole.

78. the fuck junky dos 66
"Ugh! Your cock tastes disgusting!" Not a
fan of strained pea-flavored lube, the gal
across the wall spit my member out, but only
after administering a healthy handjob for six
minutes. Even though I'd been rejected like
tofu at a pig roast, it'd been enough to put
her on my list.
From there, I bounded to the bed beside me,
where I suited up behind a pair of lubed
haunches, rapacious for rod. "Fuck me!" the
woman demanded. "Fuck me hard!"
Dunking my dipstick in 30 weight, I plunged
deeply, upon command.
"Agghhh!!!" the siren screeched. "Too deep!
Too deep!!!" She collapsed to the bed.
Of course this caught the attention of yet
another husband who'd gormandized too

79. ugly goals 67
much interoffice porn. "Why don't ya' come
over here and—"
"Jesus, honey! No way!" objected his wife.
"C'mon, Dot. The boy doesn't have to put the
whole thing in, do ya', son?"
"No," I replied. "It's always ladies' choice."
"See?" the man played politician, promising
the opposite of what he wanted. It was a
package without an address; a letter with no
postage. The amorphous hubby never
planned to deliver. "The kid'll only put it in ya'
part way." He motioned me over, as his
spouse fidgeted on arthritic knees, offering
up her bald breach.
I looked down at the vein-infested victual
doubling as my cock. The thing was three

80. the fuck junky dos 68
times the size of the grinning, avaricious
hubby's dick. Of course this was gonna go all
the way up his unsuspecting wife. If this dude
wanted anything less than nine inches of
concentrated cartilage in his cohort's
cavern, he would've fucked her, himself.
And so, we took the first few inches more
slowly than the outside lane at the
nonagenarian Olympics. Once dubious
adaptation commenced, the "brave"
bridegroom gave me the signal to ease the
remainder of the rolliche up the ramp.
By inch six, we were already receiving more
feedback than Jimmy Hendrix's amps.
By inch seven, a formerly textbook doggy
style had morphed into an offshoot in which
the woman was supine against the mattress
— stomach buried into the bedding.

81. ugly goals 69
Eight inches in, and she was callin' it off
faster than government did an official
investigation of 9/11.
At that point, hubby pushed on my back,
ensuring the remaining one and a half inches
found its way into his companion's cave, as
she screamed out, "Enough! I'm done!" and
crawled from the bed to the exit.
Aware there was still one more woman in the
room with whom I'd yet to play, I reclined,
ratcheting up the ramrod.
"Holy Christ!" the intended target took
notice of my contribution to the party. "That
looks so out of place on such a skinny
body—!"
"Wanna touch it?" I was more bound than an
ancient mummy; more determined than the

82. the fuck junky dos 70
Pope in a preschool changing room.
"I'll do more than just touch it," the self-
lubing sprite sprinted for the finish line,
jammin' her jaws on my joust.
Thirty seconds from the pier, an onlooker
chimed in like a broken church bell. "This guy
gets more ass than a—"
"Lemme guess," I thought. "Toilet seat?"
"—toilet seat!"
Of course, nobody else in the room had heard
that one before. As such, the place blew up
like the Trinity device in '45.
"Bet you didn't expect to be so popular here,
did ya', son?"

83. ugly goals 71
"Hell, I thought this was a church, and just
wandered in for a little Bible study."
"A church?!?" The woman orally soothing my
frustrated spirit released my cock, piercing
me with a gaze the likes of a scalding hot
poker through balsa wood. "That's it for you,
honey! We don't mention that word here!"
continued the drunken damsel, as she
stormed out of the room.
Within minutes, I'd managed to fuck two new
women, and receive blowjobs from two more.
When said and done, I was rejected by all.
They're called dirty goals, and in hockey
nomenclature they denote the puck crossing
the line any way possible. It doesn't matter if
the goalie inadvertently knocks the thing in
himself, or it ricochets off three defenders,
never touched by the offensive team.

84. the fuck junky dos 72
The puck squirts free from the pack, and you
do everything within your power — aside
from transformin' a guy into worm food — to
ensure it sneaks behind the netminder.
Enrique was sobbing, as I approached.
"Crying? In a swing club?!" I'm guessin' those
aren't tears of joy?"
"No," responded the broken man, wiping
smeared snot from his quivering, upper lip.
"It was horrible. Fuckin' horrible!"
"How bad can things be?" I queried. "This is a
fuck facility."
"I'll never come back here!"
"That bad—?!"

85. ugly goals 73
"I couldn't get it up! Alright?! Are you happy,
now?!? I couldn't get it up!" The defeated
newcomer broke down like a 100 year old
car, with no oil.
Glancing around, I wondered if this was a
joke. "And…?" I questioned.
"Huh?" The harrowed hombre gazed through
a waterfall of tears.
"Well,…what happened after that? Did your
cock explode, or something?"
"What?" The onslaught temporarily
subsiding, Enrique stared at me more lucidly.
"Well, you're obviously distressed, so I just
assumed something horrible happened—"
"Something horrible did happen! My dick

86. the fuck junky dos 74
wouldn't work…!" He awaited a response, to
which I had none.
"I— I'm still waiting for the horrible part—"
"Goddamnit it, my cock wouldn't work, man!"
"Okay. I get that, but when does the horrible
shit start?"
"Well, that's it!…The whole room was
watching. She gave me a blowjob, and I
couldn't get it up, so some other girl came in,
and started giving me a blowjob, too, and—"
"Whoa. Whoa! Hang on, Fuck Master 3000.
You had two chicks suckin' your dick?"
The defeated dude thought about it for a
moment. "Y— Yeah—"

87. ugly goals 75
"Fuck, man! At the same time?!"
"Well, yeah—"
"That's two new Numbers right there! Maybe
you should be writin' books, instead of me!"
"Huh?" Enrique stared, obfuscated.
"Two words: Ty Cobb."
More confused than George Bush, when
asked to describe the difference between
mass murder and government policy, the
diminutive dude stared back.
"Ty Cobb has the highest batting average in
Major League history—"
"What the hell does that have to do with my
cock?!" Scratching tiled floor, he was a

88. the fuck junky dos 76
frenzied fucker, out of his mind. "I gotta
score some cheap Viagra, when my next
welfare check comes in—"
"Three sixty-six. Remember that number:
366—"
"You're crazy! What the fuck are you talkin'
about?!"
"That was Cobb's lifetime batting average.
That means he got a hit a little over three
times, every 10, he strode up to the plate…
And he was the best ever!"
A brief pause, and then a moment of clarity.
"Dude, two chicks sucked your cock tonight,
simul-fuckin'-taneously! You added two new
Numbers to the list, right there! This is cause
for celebration, not despondency!"

89. ugly goals 77
Through the haze of mourning, the desperate
man began to look at things logically.
Again, they're referred to as ugly goals. Less
attractive than jury duty, as long as you keep
pushin' that puck into the net, the Numbers
— like a self-hydrating squirter — keep
cummin'!

91. 79
SOMETIMES THEY COME BACK
And there were arguments. There would
always be arguments, even with a
mannequin.
She wasn't talkative, but he was sure she
told him once, "You're the greatest lover
of them all." […]
Yes, there were advantages. She wasn't
like all the other women he had known.
She didn't want to make love at
inconvenient moments. He could choose
the time.
And she didn't have periods; and he
went down on her. He cut some of the
hair from her head, and pasted it
between her thighs.
The affair was sexual to begin with, but
gradually he was falling in love with her.
— South of No North: Stories of the
Buried Life *
* South of No North: Stories of the Buried Life
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLyM2Kwe9sc

92. the fuck junky dos 80
If I had known the horror we were
facing, I would have taken Sally and
Scott in my arms, like my parents took
me, and run from this town forever.
— Sometimes They Come Back **
** Sometimes They Come Back
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WOgamt9SxwM
"Repeater?" the voice shattered the still.
"Fuck!" tfj spun inside the pinched perimeter
of the glory hole booth.
A click. A sputter, and the enduring flame of
an oxidized Zippo illuminated the old man's
face.
"Christ with a molten arrow up his ass, I
thought I was alone in here," the fuck junky
responded. Aware of the senior's presence,
he now detected the aroma of baked garlic

93. someti mes they come back 81
bulbs and grape-flavored Swisher Sweets.
"Got another one, huh?" basement balls
queried.
" 'Another one' what?!" our hero inquired,
doing his best to distance himself from the
spiderwebbed horse leather beside him, that
was doubling as a face.
"A Repeater, son. A fuckin' Repeater!"
"Lay off the Viagra, and keep it down, old
man!" the fuck junky sternly upbraided, while
simultaneously tempering the volume of his
own voice. "She's right outside."
Frightened for the sake of the Numbers, he
kept his ear against the wall, listening
intently, as the Repeater lurked in the
hallway, searching for his cock. Lost amongst

94. the fuck junky dos 82
the libertine labyrinth, from time-to-time
she'd get closer — so close the fuck junky
could hear her wet womb sloshing around, as
she stumbled by in a drunken haze.
"Hugh? Hugh?!" she bellowed.
Shards of broken glass for fingernails, she
clawed the dust-dry plywood comprising the
booth. The fuck junky's blood iced over like a
river in the arctic, during winter.
The scene was a sexual nightmare he'd
unleashed upon himself. After all, if he hadn't
been so dedicated to the Numbers, he'd be
out there fucking right now, as opposed to
hiding inside this confessional booth for
perverts. He only had himself to blame. He'd
created a fucking monster, so to speak.
That said, his goal had kept him on track while

95. someti mes they come back 83
others fell off the train, lost beneath the rails
— finding girlfriends, getting married, and
further conforming to this system.
"Been watchin' ya' the entire night. You ain't
me, but you're pretty good," the old man
asserted.
"Huh?"
"If I've been countin' correctly, that makes
three for the evenin'."
Tfj pulled back even further, in order to get a
better look at this prune smuggler. The guy
might as well have been Bernie Sanders.
What the hell was he jawin' about?
"I know. Folks would willfully look at a pile a'
live, skinned puppies before they took a
gander at me, but you ain't no James Garner,

96. the fuck junky dos 84
douche nuts!"
"Easy, pops."
" 'Sides, most of 'em ain't got one a' these
danglin' in their meat locker." Poppa Prune
released eight inches of coiled cottonmouth
from his britches, proving his point.
"Here?!" our protagonist noted the
claustrophobic confines around them.
"Now?!?"
Returning his ample appendage to his slacks,
the knuckle wagon navigator rejoined, "Just
needed ya' to know we're brothers, and I
understand what you're goin' through."
Tfj sized up the geriatric gigolo. "You're a
Numbers Guy, too?!"

97. someti mes they come back 85
"Been so for better part of a century," the
man responded. "You're doin' good work out
there, by the way," the Monopoly Mascot
predicated.
"Well— Well, thanks," our hero smiled.
"No problem, son. Always nice to make the
acquaintance of a fellow Digits Dude...There
are so few of us around, these days."
"I thought I was alone for years."
"Well, ya' ain't. We don't have the numbers
the church does, but that shit's a bigger load
than a Peter North cumshot, anyway."
"Hugh? Hugh?!" the inebriated Repeater
again passed by, raking her stiletto heels
over the tiled floor.

98. the fuck junky dos 86
"So, back to your dilemma," the liam
continued. "Ever try one a' these?" Boney
fingers produced what appeared to be an
ordinary condom still in its wrapper.
"Maybe you haven't been watching closely
enough, but I refuse to dip without swim
trunks—"
"Oh, this ain't no regular condom, son. These
babies are silver-tipped—"
"What?!"
"Forged up a demon's cunt in Armenia. You
can only find 'em underground. They're
illegal in certain countries. Fuck a Repeater
with one a' these bastards, and it's the same
as shootin' a werewolf with a silver bullet—"
"Huh?!"

99. sometimes they come back 87
"Won't kill 'em, but they'll leave ya' alone
forever."
"You gotta be kiddin' me!"
"Sure as pussy pulls ya' in like the center of a
black hole. You have to be eight inches or
more, but once that silver tip hits cervix, you
might as well be drivin' a stake through a
vampire's heart."
The banana burka gleamed in the illumination
of the dancing flame from the lighter.
"May I—?" The fuck junky motioned to the
bone bag.
" 'Course, son," the generous geriatric
reached into his pocket, producing six,
perfectly-pristine carbon copies of what he
referred to as Repeater Repellant. "They're

100. the fuck junky dos 88
all yours," he proclaimed.
With that, the flame extinguished, and the
man vanished.
Shocked, the fuck junky retracted the curtain
on the glory hole booth, allowing light to fill
the concupiscent cabin. He was alone…save
for half a dozen silver-tipped condoms, still in
their wrappers, awaiting his cock.
"You know how you were sayin' that
history repeats itself? Well, I've been
thinkin' a lot about that. And that
really bothers me."
"Why's that?"
"I dunno. Does it have to be the same
story repeated over again? I mean,
can't we change anything?"
— Sometimes They Come Back ***
*** Sometimes They Come Back
Ibid.

101. sometimes they come back 89
"Fuck me!" screamed the nude BBW, with tits
bigger than Montel Williams' fan base in the
'90s. "Fuck me! Fuck me!! Fuck me!!!"
It was a babe bellow he'd normally answer
with more relish than 10,000 franks featurin'
all the fixins. That said, the fuck junky was
strokin' The Back Nine inside Number 4,477,
and the woman shrieking beside the bed was
Number 4,023.
In addition, 4,448 awaited 10 feet away, legs
spread like greed across a landscape built
upon the monetary system.
Repeaters: They're inevitable, if you're
gonna become a Numbers Guy. You don't
frequent the same swing clubs, on multiple
occasions, and not expect to see some of the
same women.

102. the fuck junky dos 90
So, the question arises as to how to deal with
them, when they return for rounds two,
three, four, etc.
The answer is: Any way you can!
Scenarios vary. Thus, your response to them
will have to, as well.
One reaction is as follows:
Once they're on the list, the next time they
want to hook-up, give 'em bad sex, so they
don't contact you again. This will enable you
to attain your goal, so you can safely
progress to the next Number.
Here, though, you'll run the risk of them
informing their female friends you're a lousy
lay. As a result, these additional avenues of
pleasure may close to you.

103. sometimes they come back 91
Hence, should you decide to take the "crappy
coitus" course, be extra nice to the women
with whom you use it. That way, they'll more
than likely not lambaste you to their
pulchritudinous pals, and you'll have the
chance to hook-up with those Numbers, also.
[They're] stuck in that mid-realm.
That dimension between here and
one's final destination. Sometimes,
son, they're in our hearts. Sometimes
they're in our thoughts. But, if they're
unhappy enough — if somethin's left
unsettled — sometimes they come
back.
— Sometimes They Come Back ****
**** Sometimes They Come Back
Ibid.
Another modality is to pretend you had
previous plans. This works, when
circumventing a woman over the phone, or
online. The method in question isn't viable,

104. the fuck junky dos 92
though, should you be dealing with a lusty
lass face-to-face. Telling a nude, horny
housewife — who's dripping from the crotch,
in person — you can't play with her because
you're waiting for a different woman to show,
doesn't tend to go over well.
Excusing yourself to hit the head, and
disappearing into the labyrinth of the swing
club, can work. Everybody needs to go to the
bathroom, so it seems a legitimate excuse.
You can feign you were detained on your way
back, and ended up enmeshed in an orgy.
Again, different situations require different
responses. As a result, it's auspicious to have
a few standard antiphons to apply, when
confronted with a Repeater.
"We're gonna go through the tunnel?"
"Sure. It's faster."

105. sometimes they come back 93
"No, Wayne! Don't! Don't!" […]
"Run, Jimmy! Run!" […] "Get help!"
— Sometimes They Come Back *****
***** Sometimes They Come Back
Ibid.
She was, and probably still is, a more mature
maiden. Betrothed for decades, her hubby
had lost interest in opening her floodgates,
and allowing her torrent of woman warmth to
deluge his dong. As a result, he'd bequeathed
her a bus pass to ride whichever line
happened through her horny heart.
Tfj had uncorked her copious cache of chick
champagne in the past. As such, she now hit
a local swing shack — once a week — simply
to chase the dong dragon, and depart quickly
thereafter for the facade of domestic bliss.

106. the fuck junky dos 94
Because this horny hussy came more quickly
than the onset of winter in Siberia, each
Friday, our hero would set up shop in a public
room for all interested onlookers. As this
eager entrance cried with each orgasm, her
debauched display made the fuck junky
appear proficient at providing pleasure. In
truth, tfj knew more about the fringes of this
Universe — absolutely nothing — than he did
the facilitation of the female orgasm.
To women watching, though, he actually
appeared adroit at fucking. In addition,
playing in the open with this particular
Repeater provided him the opportunity to
wield the wang in front of an audience. As a
result, he'd been approached, as the mirthful
matinee was concluding, with offers from
others to fuck their girlfriends and wives.
Because this veteran on the resume came

107. sometimes they come back 95
often, and tired early, the fuck junky took her
to term, with intent of appealing to others.
He wouldn't have traversed this route, had
the chick required extensive hours of effort.
Such would have resulted in frustration,
should he find himself atop a Repeater, when
numerous newbies entered, seeking schlong.
Like walking up an escalator that's going
down, fucking the same woman over and
over will get you nowhere in the Numbers
game. Such stated, if the gal in question has
female friends interested in humping, this is a
route that can prove propitious.
Receiving recommendations from a trusted
source can mean one day you're fuckin' a
casino cashier; the next, you're humpin' her
coworkers, her sister and her neighbor.
Some rules tfj likes to lust by are:

108. the fuck junky dos 96
A) don't stay with one woman too long, and
B) don't stay with one woman too long.
Like bowels, you've gotta move! If you don't,
you might as well get married. If you choose
to remain stagnant, you should just settle for
a "conventional" existence. Succumb to a
"career" that doesn't exist, and place your
faith in a government that's nuked the shit
outta you.
Again, fuck this system! It constantly fucks
you. Rage against this bitch, until you get
what you want…and then rage some more.

109. 97
RIPPED OFF LIKE A MATTRESS TAG
Reality is that which, when you stop
believing in it, doesn't go away.
— Philip K. Dick *
* Philip K. Dick
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/77878

110. the fuck junky dos 98
He'd fucked so much, he'd worn a hole in his
fuck boots. Yes, these were his "fuck boots,"
as he referred to them.
He only donned the footwear in question at
swing clubs, threesomes, foursomes,
moresomes, orgies, house parties, glory
holes and porn theaters. Whatever mileage
these bastards exhibited was attributable to
his attempts to grip tile, or moldy motel room
rug, while thrusting hysterically.
The fact these fuckers were six months old,
and their treads worn smoother than polished
gems, screamed out the business end of a
megaphone!
Guys like the fuck junky weren't supposed to
get laid, let alone laid like celebrities, kings
and porn stars. Yet, here he was — in a
medieval torture dungeon — atop the tenth

111. ripped off like a mattress tag 99
woman for the evening, grindin' out the
frustration of bein' a slave.
All over Sin City, the ignorant were
firebombing their livers, pleading with equally
inebriated, female patrons to simply provide
a phone number. Ten digits: It was the same
amount of pussies he'd perforated on this
brisk, autumn eve.
The system had been C4 on a timer he'd
tiptoed away from decades ago. During that
interim, he hadn't attempted to wrangle a
single filly in a bar. Why would he?
What drunken dipshit — droppin' pick-up
lines, like V2 rockets on Britain — ever took
10 women home in a night, and fucked 'em?!
It hadn't happened; not in the entire history
of humanity aboard Spaceship Earth. Like
Donald Trump pondering, "Should I pursue a

112. the fuck junky dos 100
lucrative 'career' as a Wendy's drive-thru
cashier?" it never occurred.
We're talkin' millennia of bellicosity and
bloodshed; countless bullshit religions that
raged and were forgotten; empire, after
empire, after empire. Yet, never — during
any of it — did some drunk dude in a bar bring
10 women home, in one evening, and hump
'em all.
Strange shit happened throughout that
history, too! An entire populace had been
imprisoned, and not even known it! Billions
of people believed in cartoon characters as
deities, without a shred of proof these "gods"
existed! A complete species forfeited its
autonomy to a handful of crusty fucks who
couldn't spell the word "soul," let alone find
one among themselves.

113. ripped off like a mattress tag 101
We weren't talkin' a miracle here, just simple
odds, yet it eluded the greatest CEOs on
Earth; the most proficient "financial gurus."
Based upon the fact no drunk guy ever
brought home 10 women from a pub, in one
night, and fucked 'em, why would anybody
believe such would become a trend?
Since innumerable swingers had humped 10
women in an evening, didn't it seem anyone
desirous of fucking people like multi-level
marketing, should become a swinger?
Of course! But we're not dealin' this deck in
a logical paradigm. We're tossin' our chips in
a pot where people maniacally scramble to
collect worthless pieces of paper; i.e. cash.
We're lettin' it ride on cagey "commanders"
— a group who've nuked us, as well as
themselves, into a post-apocalypse. We're
hopin' against hope a bunch of "gods" — for

114. the fuck junky dos 102
which there's never been a single sign of
existence — are gonna save us.
Amidst it all, the fuck junky emerged from
the jangling shackles. Behind him, sparks flew
from somebody's nuclear-tipped, double-
headed, gas-powered ass widener.
Beneath a hot desert Moon, tfj stumbled
through dust to the outdoor fire pit. By
adding 10 new Numbers to the list —
accomplishing far more than any lunatic
president with their useless decrees — he'd
done himself a tremendous service. Now it
was time to reflect.
His efforts had been painstaking. One might
erringly assume the night's tally was nothing
more than a joyous jaunt from one pussy to
the next. They'd be more off than Hillary
Clinton's panties, when faced with the

115. ripped off like a mattress tag 103
proposition of unlimited power. A velvet
portrait of Nancy Pelosi taking black cock will
hang in the Oval Office, before puttin' up 10
Digits was an easy affair.
Less than a flyweight, our hero had heroically
battled 250 pound men, in his quest to jockey
for position around three open gangbangs.
He'd dropped his pants twice, dissolutely
displaying dong for a triumvirate of tarts
sizing up suitors. For an hour and a half, he'd
reclined nude, producing a continual hard-on,
showing off for prospective patrons.
In between, he'd been tasked with conjuring
up clever comebacks, and jocular opening
lines, light-headed from perpetually
producing a 9 1/2 inch erection.
None of this broached the dozen denials he'd
endured — enough rejection to cause one to

116. the fuck junky dos 104
swan dive into Caesar's pool…from the top
of the Stratosphere.
It'd been worth it, though, when he limped to
the crackling blaze, planted his absent ass in
a rusted lawn chair, and reflected on his
victories across the bawdy battlefield. Ten
women in six hours; an accomplishment pick-
up artists couldn't comprehend, as they
wielded witty wands in pursuit of fake phone
numbers—
"Holy fuck!" tfj's mind raced, dipping his
hand into his pocket — which was more
empty than political promises. His car keys!
They were more conspicuously absent than
morality at the White House.
"Fuck! Fuck!! Fuck!!!" he waxed
grandiloquently.

117. ripped off like a mattress tag 105
"Don't panic, man. Don't fuckin' panic!" he
self-admonished. "No keys, no problem.
They're probably on the front seat of your
car," he told himself.
"Take a few breaths. Stand up. Head out to
the parking lot, and—"
The plan sounded solid as a mountain. Only
problem is all mountains are comprised of
atoms. Atoms are composed of almost
completely empty space. Hence, every
mountain is anything but solid!
When the fuck junky wandered out to the
parking lot, he discovered that mountain. Not
only were his keys not in his car, but his car
wasn't there. In the spot where it had been,
there was now an empty space — like
peoples' heads, post a belief in authority.

118. the fuck junky dos 106
The family roadster veered off the
interstate, flipping numerous times before
crunching to a halt, upside down. Baseball
mitts, deodorant and Sunday School dresses
were jettisoned into the desert air; strewn
about the asphalt.
And then came the blood.
Tfj saw the languid limbs — an arm here; a leg
there — protruding from the overturned
vehicle, but did he really see them?! It was —
along with the empty void of a parking space
where his car had been — the kind of thing he
couldn't believe he was viewing.
It's akin to voting. People know their own
government has nuked the fuck out of them
on well over 1,000 occasions. They're quite
aware these nightmarish detonations have
been tenuously disguised as "tests." Yet,

119. ripped off like a mattress tag 107
these same folks scramble to the ballot
booths, thereby supporting the very system
perpetrating genocide on them.
Although government steals from people
every paycheck, every dollar, every cent,
the populace elects government into power.
As tfj watches them do so, he can't believe
what he's seeing.
Hegemony manufactures lethally deleterious
drugs, and deems them "legal." This same
bureaucracy not only addicts the populace
to, but slaughters them with these narcotics.
The fuck junky looks on, incredulous, as the
proletariat continues casting votes, and
thereby supporting government.
Similar to his vanished vehicle, tfj couldn't
believe what he was gazing upon. It
registered with his brain, but only in that

120. the fuck junky dos 108
nebulous region — perhaps The Twilight Zone
— where things may or may not be. It was a
foggy realm of ambiguity.
Were his eyes receiving this information
correctly? Was his brain validly interpreting
the input?
Since one's ocular receptors are fallible, he
found himself in this surreal state.
Could he simply be so exhausted — having
fucked for days, and sleeping only long
enough for traffic lights he stopped at to
remain red — he was hallucinating?
Did he just forget where he parked?! Perhaps
the fuck junky's powers of recollection were
teetering on life support, and he was
envisioning some other spot at which he'd
stored his car weeks ago.

121. ripped off like a mattress tag 109
When all other vehicles had departed the
parking lot for the evening, it was apparent
tfj had been ripped off like a mattress tag.
The platitudinous smoke having cleared, his
car had been purloined. He'd been in Vegas
no more than a month, and the jalopy that
had transported him to multitudinous one
night stands, orgies, gangbangs and swing
clubs, was gone.
He pieced together the events that led up to
this predicament:
For the past five hours, he'd been nude,
thrusting zealously atop close to a dozen
dirty damsels. All the while, his pants had
remained balled-up — like an angry fist
fighting totalitarianism — in a corner of the
swing club.
It was tough enough for tfj to fuck halfway

122. the fuck junky dos 110
decently. Doing so with his pants on only
added to the arduous dilemma. Hence, he'd
remove his knickerbockers when copulating.
"Welcome to fabulous Las Vegas, son!" Here
three weeks, and tfj already had his lone
mode of transportation stolen.
That said, such would be the catalyst for
ingenuity. Although his reaction was ex post
facto, the fuck junky would no longer keep his
keys in his pants, when humping. Rather, he
devised a double sock system that provided
pockets for those almost completely nude.
By wearing two pair of knee-length socks on
each foot, he was able to create a natural
pouch between the pairs. It was here he
would store his keys, condoms, lube and cell
phone, while wandering naked through swing
clubs across the planet.

123. 111
OLD ENOUGH TO KNOW BETTER
Tolerance becomes a crime when
applied to evil.
— Thomas Mann *
* Thomas Mann
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/406195

124. the fuck junky dos 112
Face-fucking the 83 year old — atop the
ruined mattress at the desert swing club —
the fuck junky realized something. Receiving
head from an octogenarian feels exactly the
same as having one's cock sucked by a
woman in her 20s. Akin to Oprah and evil,
there's no difference.
Many cringe at the former, while overtly
embracing the latter. Such stems from
brainwashing. This system indoctrinates us
to believe the young are desirous, and the
elderly are not.
Most fear societal rejection, and thus
circumvent the older woman, while pursuing
the youthful, even though being sucked by
one feels no different than by the other.
Enter a pitch black room, and face-fuck a
group of 83 year olds commingled with 23

125. old enough to know better 113
year olds. You wouldn't be able to discern
who is who.
A Numbers Guy realizes all Numbers are
equal. As a result, he's gonna go for one as
readily as he goes for the other, since they
both equate to the same thing.
Numbers Guys couldn't care less about this
system. They don't give a fuck whether
Justin Bieber is blowing neighborhood dogs,
or Michelle Obama has immortalized her cock
in multi-colored Play Doh. The insipid nature
of what this system serves up bores Digits
Dudes.
Hence, when the opportunity to face-fuck an
83 year old, and hump her 74 year old friend
— on the same box spring — presented itself,
tfj actively pursued it. If he hadn't — like
those succumbing to this system — the fuck

126. the fuck junky dos 114
junky wouldn't have had this book-worthy tale
to tell.
Clad in nothing but boots, and four pairs of
socks, he tripped on yet another "jellyfish."
At this particular sex shed, that was the
favored colloquialism for used condoms.
Amidst the threadbare confines of the tiny
room, the floor was alive with 'em — oily and
aggressive.
With each methodical thrust, he committed
the moment to memory, as his bulbous head,
and a couple inches of veiny shaft, vanished
down the great grandmother's gullet.
Well-worn women are fascinating; that
baseball mitt you discover hidden amidst a
corner of the garage, where nobody's been
for years. Each wrinkle tells a different,
captivating story.

127. old enough to know better 115
"This nick in the leather came from the catch
I made, leaping over the left field wall, to win
game four of the pennant."
"This toe of the crow's foot appeared after I
raced from a fireball of Agent Orange,
realizing I was no more than cannon fodder."
"I got this scar over my right eye when I fell,
after fucking ox penis, in order to keep from
freezing on Everest."
Tfj shifted, nearly toppling over, as he
stepped on a bloom of "jellyfish" squirting
their contents beneath the weight of his
boot.
I pulled her up, and kissed that thin
little old lady's mouth. It was soft and
open; she was ready. […]
I kissed her again, ramming my
cigarette-sick tongue down her
throat. I came up for air.

128. the fuck junky dos 116
I opened her robe, and there were her
breasts. […] I reached down with my
mouth and got one. It stretched and
sagged, like a balloon half filled with
stale air. I […] sucked at the nipple, as
she took the prong in her hand and
arched her back.
We fell backwards like that on the
cheap bed, with our robes on; I took
her there.
— Charles Bukowski **
** Charles Bukowski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hLyM2Kwe9sc
The supermodels you hunger to fuck today
will be older 50 years from now. Even though
they're the same person, there's no way
you'd touch 'em in five decades. You make
less sense than downing a bottle of NyQuil
before hittin' the highway.
Than again, you believe what you've been
experiencing on this planet is real, don't you?
Even though everything around you wails of

129. old enough to know better 117
illusion!
People pretending they own things, when
none of us take it with us, after we're
exterminated. Folks faking smiles, so
whomever they're dealing with will hand
them useless pieces of paper called cash.
Proles lying at "job" interviews, swearing
they're thrilled at the prospect of harassing
people, they've never met, on the telephone.
Everybody had to conform; find the
mold to fit into — doctor, lawyer,
soldier, it didn't matter what it was.
Once in the mold, you had to push
forward. […]
Either you managed to do somethin', or
you starved in the streets.
— Henry Chinaski ***
** Henry Chinaski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaPJfN-buKg

130. the fuck junky dos 118
All the while, we're supposed to believe
there's some semblance of reality within this
obvious hallucination?! We're so afraid to
stand up and scream what we're all feeling:
"This is fuckin' bullshit!"

131. 119
STRIP CRICKETS
And sometimes even in sleep you
couldn't rest. Last dream I had I was
layin' under this elephant. I couldn't
move, and it was releasin' one of the
biggest turds you ever saw. It was about
to drop, and then my cat Hamburger
walked across the top of my head, and I
awakened.
You tell that dream to a shrink, and he'll
make somethin' awful out of it. Because
you're payin' him excessively, he's gonna
make sure to make you feel bad. He'll
tell you that the turd is a penis, and that
you're either frightened of it, or that you
want it. Some kind of crap like that.
What he really means is that he is
frightened, or wants the penis. It's only a
dream about a big elephant turd. Nothin'
more. Sometimes things are just what
they seem to be, and that's all there is to
it. The best interpreter of the dream is
the dreamer. Keep your money in your
pocket […].
— Charles Bukowski *
* Charles Bukowski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5ZviJ9_2Sk

132. the fuck junky dos 120
"And the award for 'Most Prolific Male
Swinger' goes to…!"
The tension is so thin, it's anorexic. Onstage,
monumental statues of gleaming cocks reach
toward a ceiling higher than Timothy Leary.
The female MC — clad in a dress made of
used condoms — clutches a horse dick,
centered between a pair of balls, each the
size of a fully-grown human brain. The trophy
— drenched in gold — glistens with lube.
Panning over the audience, the camera
reveals an empty auditorium, save for a
coked-out, toothless Matt Lauer forcing feral
Chihuahuas to autofellate themselves.
As gala an extravaganza as: One Night Only:
Live Inside This Barn: It's Joe Piscopo!

133. strip c ric kets 121
The host — a silicone blob hangin' from her
gown, and lit Cowboy Killer danglin' from her
lips — opens a cum-stained envelope,
producing a used dick turban. Devoid of
emotion, she discards the spent cock cork,
and removes a few squares of toilet paper.
Sifting through the mess, she reads what's
written on the fibrous scraps.
The camera cuts to a now-full crowd, replete
with A-List celebrities Jonathan Frakes and
Efrem Zimbalist Jr.'s cryogenically-
preserved penis. Both resemble a gray,
shriveled Cheese Puff.
The stress is so thick, you can cut it with a
cotton ball.
"Th— the...fuck junky?!" the dispassionate
woman butchers our hero's name with far
less zeal than Dahmer did his victims.

134. the fuck junky dos 122
Drenched in sweat, tfj bolts upright, atop a
bed. Gasping for breath, he acclimates to his
fallout shelter apartment. The thought of an
insane society actually recognizing his
accomplishments makes him shudder. That
would mean he, himself, was insane.
Perhaps if you know you are insane then
you are not insane. Or you are becoming
sane, finally.
— Philip K. Dick **
** Philip K. Dick
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/484931
Opposing this system was an attribute he
coveted. Although it filled his path with
barbed tape and land mines, if he hoped to
foment a paradigm shift, he would constantly
be at odds with this order — or lack, thereof.
I wasn't goin' anywhere, and neither was

135. strip crickets 123
the rest of the world. We were all just
hangin' around, waitin' to die, and
meanwhile doin' little things to fill the
space.
Some of us weren't even doin' little
things; we were vegetables.
— Charles Bukowski ***
*** Charles Bukowski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5ZviJ9_2Sk
All around him, desires and dreams had been
forfeited. Had people actually hungered to be
bank tellers and insurance salesmen, since
they were children, or was lust for the banal
instilled within them?
Most kids don't even know what bank tellers
and insurance salesmen are. Most bank
tellers and insurance salesmen don't know
what they are.
"Mailman, you got any mail for me?"

136. the fuck junky dos 124
And you felt like screaming, "Lady, how
the hell do I know who you are,...or I
am, or anybody is?"
— Post Office: A Novel ****
**** Post Office: A Novel
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KkC7b7MW-f8
If you ask a kid what he wants to be when he
grows up, you'd be shocked like R.P.
McMurphy — in One Flew Over the Cuckoo's
Nest — if the little prick said, "A CPA."
Kids naturally want to have adventures, and
explore. Steadily, those inchoate catalysts
are extirpated from the child's makeup, and
replaced with the desires of what this system
demands people crave; i.e. slavery. This lack
of order requires an ignorant populace,
ravenous for incarceration.
What were doctors, lawyers, scientists?

137. strip crickets 125
They were just men who allowed
themselves to be deprived of their
freedom to think and act as individuals.
— Henry Chinaski *****
***** Henry Chinaski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MaPJfN-buKg
If the slaves hunger for slavery, they'll
enslave themselves.
But how could one get an entire populace to
voraciously pursue its own subjugation?
Simple. Brainwash the proletariat to believe
in authority. Once this is accomplished, have
authority inform the public — over and over
— that slavery is actually work. Eventually,
the term "slavery" is replaced by "work," and
work viewed as necessary. Anybody who
doesn't work will be labelled lazy, and
ostracized by the larger group.

138. the fuck junky dos 126
And the old men sometimes get quite
violent about what some of the young
guys are doin'. "Hell, I worked hard all
my life!"
They think it's a virtue, but it only proves
a man's a damned fool.
"These people want everything for
nothing, sitting around, wrecking their
bodies with dope, hoping to live off the
fat of the land." […]
He's only jealous because he's been
tricked; fucked out of his good years.
He'd really like to have a ball too, if he
could do it over, but he can't. So now he
wants them to suffer like he did.
— The Big Pot Game ******
****** The Big Pot Game
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qu7ugAIK08Y
This modality is taught to the children. Soon,
everybody is indoctrinated to believe what
would be viewed as bondage — in a logical
society — is actually work; imperative to the
well-being of all.

139. strip crickets 127
Even though slavery is defined as: "severe
toil; drudgery," ******* and that's how almost
everyone describes their "job," we pretend
work and slavery aren't synonymous.
******* definition of the word "slavery"
https://www.dictionary.com/browse/slavery
We choose to overlook the fact a primary
synonym of the word "slavery" is the term
"labor." º
º synonyms of the word "slavery"
https://www.thesaurus.com/browse/slavery
"Labor board," "labor negotiations," "labor
union," "Labor fuckin' Day!" Akin to Oprah's
fat ass, and deplorable greed, it's right there
for us to see! Slavery and labor are
synonymous; just as labor and work are
synonyms. Hence, work and slavery mean the

140. the fuck junky dos 128
same thing.
The fuck junky had known this for decades,
and thus worked as little as possible. He
stopped pursuing a "career" before he
began.
Don't bend; don't water it down; don't
try to make it logical; don't edit your
own soul according to the fashion.
Rather, follow your most intense
obsessions mercilessly.
— Franz Kafka ºº
ºº Franz Kafka
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/395137
Fortuitously, tfj never lost that inherent drive
for adventure. It's an attribute he cherishes.
He still views the environment through the
eyes of an inquisitive child.
When you combine that with an adult desire

141. strip crickets 129
for sex, amazing exploits — book-worthy, in
nature — occur.
Imagine the wondrous dreams and fantastic
inventions never made reality, because those
who conceptualized them couldn't survive
the monetary system. Ratiocinate about the
marvelous minds that were snuffed out,
simply because they couldn't exist, due to
the cutthroat nature of money.
How many of those brains would've helped
humanity advance exponentially?
Killing off brilliant people, because they can't
save themselves from impoverishment, isn't
smart. How does that aid our species?
It doesn't. Since the preponderance of our
kind is obsessed with collecting cash, as
opposed to addressing the necessities of our

142. the fuck junky dos 130
continued survival, as a race, engaging in
such insanity places us in grave peril.
Of course there were a lot of good
people sleepin' on the streets. They
weren't fools; they just didn't fit into the
needed machinery of the moment. […] It
was a grim setup, and if you found
yourself sleepin' in your own bed at
night, that alone was a precious victory
over the forces. […]
All in all, it was a fairly horrible world,
and I felt sad often for most of the
people in it.
— Charles Bukowski ººº
ººº Charles Bukowski
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f5ZviJ9_2Sk
It's what was on his mind, when tfj donned
Hoffman Lenses, and emerged from his
stained sty. Ambling toward the Strip, the
colossal fusion reactor blasted his retinas. A
homeless woman fried an egg on the
sidewalk. Everywhere he looked he saw the

143. strip crickets 131
lies.
Through the sunglasses: "Achieve total
success!" transformed into: "Conform, and
be a productive debt slave!"
"Different. Daring. Diverse," became:
"Ordinary. Cowardly. Similar," when viewed
with the shades.
He averted his eyes from the advertisements
— no easy task in Sin City.
It's when he turned the corner off Harmon
that he saw 'em!
The biggest goddamned insects ever! The
enormous bastards had to rock the scales at
200 pounds! And here they were, in the left
ventricle of Las Vegas Boulevard.

144. the fuck junky dos 132
"Doesn't anybody else see these gargantuan
behemoths?!" the fuck junky pondered. "How
can they miss 'em?!?" his testosterone-
surging mind frenetically struggled.
Dredged from the shit-caked sewers, Strip
Crickets had infested the street. And in front
of him was the largest of 'em all! A hundred
pounds bigger than the others, this monster
stared him down with unctuous eyes rolled in
defecated fried fat and poultry skin.
Tfj couldn't avoid the hulking horror, unless
he simply stopped walking. On either side,
twin tourists — each immense, themselves —
boxed the fuck junky in.
He wasn't about to turn back. He was on his
way to a gangbang featuring a chick who was
missing a foot! When would he get another
opportunity like that?! And so, without

145. strip crickets 133
faltering, he continued forward.
But it was okay, right? Strip Crickets —
although humongous — were harmless. They
belched a fuckload of noise, slapping their
crisp hooker cards against calloused pinchers
— made so by endless hours of masturbation
to soap operas. That said, when was the last
time he'd read a newspaper article about
these mutants eating a sleeping homeless
guy's face, on Las Vegas Boulevard?
He hadn't, but that was because he left
mainstream media in the dust decades ago.
Still, he'd never uncovered a hooker carcass
on the Strip, legs devoured by these
monstrous arachnids.
One would surmise if this was a persistent
problem, steps would've been taken to

146. the fuck junky dos 134
exterminate these creatures from the
thoroughfare. Yet, such was obviously not
the case. The taloned nightmares lumbered
from Excalibur to Circus Circus, flipping their
greasy cards. After nightfall, sparks flew
from the sources of the sound—
And that's when it happened! Just as he
thought he'd safely circumvented the giant
gargoyle, the beast's back bristled with
electricity. Slicing the air around tfj, it lashed
out with one of its Ginsu-sharp manus.
Our hero lunged to the left, protecting his
hands as best he could. That was their thing.
For some reason, these crusty cockroaches
went straight for the palms.
The fuck junky knew he was too late. As
gigantic as this seething monster was, it
seemed equally quick. Reeking of detritus and

147. strip crickets 135
agave fermentation, the oily hive insect
mashed its hemoglobin-stained teeth.
What resulted was a straight-edged
laceration across tfj's Kobe beef skin.
Our hero felt the blood gush, as he stared in
horror at his hand. Within the pink meat of his
palm, a calling card — the signature of the
Strip Cricket.
Applying a tourniquet with his fingers, he
squeezed his wrist, in hopes he wouldn't
bleed out. "Am I gonna be the first casualty
of these things?!" the fuck junky's mind
skittered across greased ice.
Horrified, he gazed up at the huge hellion.
The brute grinned in Kafkaesque fashion — a
combination of Naked Lunch and The

148. the fuck junky dos 136
Metamorphosis—
But as quickly as the phantasm manifested, it
was gone. Vanished was the Strip Cricket,
along with the blood. All that was left was the
hooker card in tfj's soft palm.
Staring at the vestige of the hallucination, he
realized something was amiss here, as well. It
took a moment, before he comprehended
what it was:
"She'll be at your door in 30 minutes or less!
Reasonable rates!" the card announced.
The featured female in the advertisement
was not only drop-dead gorgeous, but one he
had fucked the evening prior — for free — in
Zone 37.

149. strip crickets 137
Strip Crickets:
The annoying folk on Las Vegas Boulevard
that hand out cards for strippers/escorts,
etc. They flick the cards, making a clicking
noise, kinda' like crickets chirping. ºººº
ºººº definition of the term "Strip Cricket"
https://urbanthesaurus.org/synonyms/strip%20crickets

150. the fuck junky dos 138
If the literature we are reading does not
wake us, why then do we read it? A
literary work must be an ice-axe to
break the sea frozen inside us.
— Franz Kafka ººººº
ººººº Franz Kafka
https://www.azquotes.com/quote/1122716