Ouroboros

By Brewt.Blacklist

January 2018

SHE HAD had no chance any more than she had had no choice. The abbess had called for her, and she obeyed. She was ordered to go with this wealthy and respected man, and to do anything and everything he demanded of her, and she smiled and indulged him. What he wanted appalled her; her statements of this, both to the man and then again later back in the cloister, earned her copious scoldings, and fiery sermons on her duty, and angry red stripes to remind her of her laziness and vanity from everyone she ever knew around her, that she had grown up with. “Thou shalt abide and agree and defer in all things, foolish girl; bend thy pride over and yield to thy betters.” He was the first of multitudes to come to her in the dark. So many, she lost count, and eventually, she got to where she could stomach the requirements for her to spread her legs, and could commit to opening her mouth and wearing the finest appearances of gratitude as she consumed whatever foul substances came from the phalluses that were laid in on her teeth. Although, she had a worse time stoppering up the screeching and bawling from all the blows and the humiliations that rained down on her incessantly; she cooperated to the best of her ability. Her acquiescences did little to cut down on the rebukings, but, in her prayers, she could—in her forgivenesses of trespasses against her—be satisfied that she was maybe in some way pleasing to at least the ever-watchful cherubim.

At the trial, the question was raised as to whether or not her scandalous pregnancy she could no longer hide underneath her robes and cilice, could have been the result of a divine action, as there was precedent in the well-known verses read at yuletide, and there was a moment there that she felt a ray of hope. Which was immediately dashed as the man, the very first man who had taken all of her innocences, who had somehow weaseled his way into the ecclesiastical court, stood and pointed and confessed that it was he who had desecrated the girl but without fault of his own, as it was she who had led him into temptation with her beauties and seductions, and her unlimited willingnesses, and that the bastard she carried could verily be his.

A second possibility of salvation flashed when he was asked if he would proceed with honor, and take her in as his, to have and to hold. He laughed, and said not just “No,” but “Hell, no.” He was not the only man she had thrown herself at, and he was through with her: he would not accept the yoke and millstone of her unseemly burdens, as he had paid the little trollop princely sums, time and time again. Which wasn’t altogether true, as the convent had been the beneficiary of the mammons, as they always were, when he or any of his friends came stumbling around after midnight, drunk, insisting they could and indeed would pay and pay handsomely for the liberty to despoil yet another Bride of Christ.

The man was absolved with the penance of a small number of “Hail Mary’s,” which he refused, and ended up being fined a pittance. The novice begged for clemency to no avail, and was condemned as a wayward woman, indeed the very incarnation of the Whore of Babylon, which was not to be tolerated inside these consecrated walls, and she was stripped of her solemn vestments and her rosary to be admonished with the perfection of judgment, listening in tears to the priestly words of “and may God the Father Almighty bequeath a mercy that passeth understanding upon thy wretched soul that we, of this noble and venerable presbytery, do not see fit to endow upon thee nor thy prostitute’s voluptuous and sin-ridden body.”

Pity and compassion was applied for by one of the oldest and wisest vestals of the sisterhood, as she had seen all this before. She prophesied that it would be best for all concerned in deference to the sake of the child, for it would behoove the magistrates to avoid the infamy of slaying the unborn infant as contemptible Herod had once done to the Innocents of Bethlehem, and the matter was debated at length and the advice was ultimately considered as profitable. Grace was to be dispensed in the form of a delay of the purging of evil from their midst, until the baby was born. The convicted harlot would spend the last few weeks of her condition bent over in the pillories in the central square of the township, where she could keep watch on the scaffold being constructed and ruminate upon the errors of her wickednesses.

It took less than a day for her habit to turn up missing, and her shift fell away ruint a morning or two after that, for the men of the village started bringing their sons to the shackled naked girl to teach a variety of lessons. The most obvious things to learn were the wheres and with-whats and ways of intrusions into the anatomies of wenches, to the amazements of the ignorant. Which was promptly followed with the conceited demonstrations regarding the delights of curves and secret places, that, when properly stroked and teased, would wrest writhings and moans that the youngsters were told to interpret as full and comprehensive permission to do whatever pleased them. Even against the miserable creature’s actual verbalized refusals. The delicious melodies and attractive sonorities she unwillingly made bespoke of a more convincing consent to be believed in than any mere language could imply. All of which was explained as part of the inheritance for all mankind of the power that was donated to Adam over the companion created for him before they were even thrown out of the Garden. Then, too, there were the sanctions for the boys to be given the opportunity to practice the acts of husbandry upon this unworthy concubine’s flesh, one after the other, braying like animals without restraint or end or any form of relief for this damned damsel in their intercourses, even unto the abominations of sodomy—as the young lady was well-acquainted with those excesses even though it embarrassed her to be left so profoundly devastated and weak as such dirty usage so reliably left her—so that the children would be well-prepared for their wedding nights, and that they would come to know and understand and even long for the endless and profound number of variants for marital bliss that were in store for them as part of the sacrament of marriage that was their fate.

The educations would continue when the humble sister complained about the squandering of her dignity, carrying on about how she was being unjustly abused by the depraved, unwitting as she was in thereby granting the elders the freedom to demonstrate the time-honored methods of just how a man is to deal with a reluctant woman, a disobedient woman, and especially a woman who would fail to express her enthusiasm for her husband’s efforts to keep himself from violating the sixth commandment as an adulterer, if said woman would ever once to be found lacking in how she served herself up to him with abandon, to be the most willing and cheerful recipient of his lusts, to keep him safe in their home and away from the attractive lures of the coveting of wives of other men, from fornicating with strumpets, from perpetrating naughty rapine upon pure and blameless girls. The barrel of brined-soaked hazel rods—no thicker than a thumb, in accordance with the law—had to be replenished more than once a week, and, despite her cries that she would concede to whatever was demanded of her whenever the thrashing would begin yet again, the teenagers more often than not ignored her bids to perform sheer idolatry upon their budding manhoods, kissing and slathering to the point that she would gag and choke herself deeply upon them, as they had at least as much interest and yea, even more enthusiasm in pursuing these drills for her mortification and chastisement as they had for the other enlightenments and joys the slaughter-meat before them had to offer.

The matrons of these crossroads would bring their daughters, to see what could become of them, if they played loose and free with their virtue, but kept them there, too, so they could observe what lay in store for them with their future husbands, after they took their vows before the congregation about richer and poorer, and sickness and health, speaking in low tones about the righteous expectations to be wrought from happy wives, on earth as it is in heaven. There was feminine trembling around the plaza every day, as an echo of the severe disciplines made a-plenty in all the hovels in the evenings when the private questionings and bickerings about the impure zeals being pursued in town were put down with authority using the tools of domestication to bruise tendernesses until surrender was volunteered, not to mention all of the screaming that was so consistently wrung from the lips of the disgusting public whipping girl when her crimson bow was not otherwise occupied with the adoration and worship of the infidelic staffs and stout members of men and boys and even mongrels and goats that were brought in on whims for yet another entertainment that the comely lass could render for the jeering crowds.

The excuses to deride a woman without reprisal were taken by all—the word “cunt” was bandied about freely with mirth and sneers—and the spitting and the vehemence was without end. The prisoner was splashed and adorned and crowned with all the urine, feces, and sperm as could be produced in this God-forsaken little hamlet.

The day of the blessed event came about and would have been missed but for the midwives who would come to check on the girl, to give her her daily bread and keep tabs on her condition for the sake of the utmost interested gratifications of the deacons—onanists all—and the steeple bells were rung to summon the assemblage, for the time of punishment was at hand to be wreaked upon this wretched slave to lechery. The contractions had set in, the effects of which completely overshadowed the caning to the point that the beatings became moot.

The brothers were sent for, and the victim was released from the stocks; she collapsed and shrieked as more seminars for life were dealt to the community when labor set in for sure, and those who had not attended a birthing were instructed as to what they were seeing with whispers as everyone stood back and withdrew, keeping their comforts and eases for themselves and their families, with their arms all wrapped around each other tight as they gazed on the scene in fascination and horror. Commentaries and assurances were extended that the sounds this witch was making about her agonies and her pleas for help were without consequence as there was nothing anyone could do, and it was all simply part of the curse for women—especially her—to bear. The spirits of hallowed lasciviousnesses and smug glees filled those in attendance, all without guilt. Her knees were tied together, to forestall the inevitable until the utmost will of God could be enacted.

The friars arrived and yanked the staggering postulate up the stairs onto the platform, throwing her onto the narrow bed, face up. They lashed her arms underneath, and pulled her feet into the air and tied them to the vertical rails, forcing her head through the hole, not so that she could see and contemplate the sharp doom above her, but to attend her mouth to suckle on one executioner as her bottom was exposed to the other.

Both men—who had won this fortuity by lottery and pledges of obediences to the monastery—exposed themselves and their profane shames to the masses without humility, and double-penetrated her. They began their infernal thrustings in a desultory rhythm, to make the experience worse for their quarry. There was no reason not to. Not unlike the numerous times they had taken her before the trial was convened or even considered; they were well-practiced in this exploit, and had long ago gotten their timings and signals arranged for and understood, so that they would both attain their bellowing triumphs at the same time.

Another convulsion hit, changing up the tremorings and pressures on the men, hurrying along the process in a way that was new and unknown to them. They luxuriated and wallowed in the freshness and uniqueness of the sensation, amplified by the irrevocability of the situation. They would be the last men on earth to so enjoy this doxy—save what the gravediggers would do to what was left of her—and it burned their imaginations; they set their jaws to see to it they would perform this ritual again, and again, as long as they both should live.

When the moment of her final consummation arrived, that both men would achieve the last knowing of this worthless cow, simultaneously, the blade was released, and she was expended into, in her mouth and her ass, as the guillotine separated her head from her neck. She died as she had lived, in pain and degradation, being filled without respite with the seeds of men.

But not immediately, not instantly. The man who caught her promontory and concluded his attempts to drown her with what could come from his prick with a shout and a blasphemy, wrenched her skull off of him, lifting her up by her hair, with just enough light still in her eyes to behold the other man cutting what was left of her debased and useless carcass open, to rip out the child she bore as her corpse spasmed from the mountains of the agony he was pouring into her and overflowing her with. The vile-most criminal against decency observed the consecrated villain tossing her inferior progeny—an unfortunate and meaningless girl, newly freed from the belly of Leviathan with a vicious slap to portend all that was to come to her in her short, nasty, and brutish life—into the crowd of clamoring nuns, who would take her in and raise her, exactly as this defiled and disgraced slut had been, and everything would start all over again.

The chanting of the mob about just how much she deserved this excellent and well-founded smiting gave way to how the angels welcomed her into their arms when she had finished drooling semen and her remains ceased their amusing shakings, and she gave up the ghost, entering the gates of the kingdom to hallelujahs, that she had come to them at last. There was great rejoicing and excitement that she would pick up right where she left off, being of use and service—now to the saints—with her sufferings and travails and earnest efforts to be sweet and charming and meek and most of all, available for all possible intimacies without interruption before the eyes of the Lord, as per the mentions of the Great Tome of Mesopotamia on how the labors and chores and honors and concerns of women are but only and single-mindedly to be directed towards accomplishing the ecstasies of men. Her mother and her grandmother and her great-grandmother all the way back to Eve herself all raised their hands to smile and waive at their descendent, only to earn themselves and their newly-received kin being introduced into the brothels of Abraham’s Bosom a more prolonged and violent flogging than usual from the martinets of the mighty all-seeing seraphim, for daring to take the focus of their attentions away from the deliriums and raptures of the redeemed and the holy monks and hermits there for the instant their quiet hummings of hymns of praise and radiant greetings took, getting themselves all nailed to the seatings in the great throne room by their hands and their feet as so many of the womanly host already were, with crowns of thorns placed hard on their brows they would need to be careful about, to not pierce the brethren, as the gentlewomen lovingly glorified and revered the venerated penises and scrotums and anuses that they would kneel before and apply their affectionate tongues and pulsating lips to evermore. When the bindings were managed and realized and made permanent, the Slampigs of Paradise all applied themselves even more fervently than ever before to the laudable cravings of the monastics and the martyrs and the apostles, who were canonized with the blessings of eternally erect cocks that would fuck these bitches forever resulting in perpetual fountains of rhapsody and filth that the true anchoresses of the faith would be expected to drink deeply of, for it is holy communion to these most lowly of penitents, as it was in the beginning, and is now and ever shall be, world without end, amen.

 

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On death, and erotica

By Brewt.Blacklist

January 2016

THE PROBLEM, it seems, is with death.

When we first become self-aware, and have incorporated language so that communication and meaning can go beyond facial expressions and gestures, the possibilities of death begin to present themselves to us in ways that have definable expressions. It terrifies us, when the observation is made that someone we loved, we cared about, we liked, dies, and how that can also happen to us. No one around us has any good answers, not that satisfy the loss, the doom, the utter realization that we aren’t going to see our friend, our loved one any more, that we aren’t going to continue to enjoy their presence. Being selfish creatures, the connection is made that what happened to them, could happen to us.

Our parents, in their pities and concerns over how their beloved happy child is devastated by something we could not possibly be prepared for, tell us a story.

The motivation for the story is pure and simple and an honest attempt to offer comfort to someone who cannot possibly understand what has just happened. The story goes something like this: “They’ve gone on to a better place.”

This is the fundamental story we are told that has any real meaning for us. Whoever it is that left us, and won’t be back, have somehow had something survive from themselves that we will meet again someday, and that everything will be alright. The cleverness of this story is that it leads to the inevitable questions as to whether or not what happened to them can happen to us. The big shocker comes down from on high that yes, yes it can, and in fact will someday, but that it is alright. That whatever it was that survived from our loved one will survive in us, and we will meet them again, and we can then again be happy. The end.

The story fulfills its purpose, and it calms a despondent child. The story, though, does not end there. The child who accepts the story—which is difficult not to, considering the source—changes heaven and earth to make it fit in with everything the child sees and hears for the rest of his or her life. At least, until a better story comes along.

This is the story that is the basis of all religion, of all philosophy, of all moral code, and it leads to the corollaries that are so useful in maintaining discipline growing up, that there is another place we could go to after we die, that isn’t so happy, so pleasant. To make us less of an inconvenience to others. Eventually, there comes into play beings bigger and more powerful than everyone known or met, beings mightier than even death itself, who are in a constant fight over us and the parts of us that survive our deaths, and gods and demons end up being at war over our souls that somehow spills into our everyday lives. And so it is that the clumsy attempts of a parent to comfort a grieving child leads to immutable concepts of heaven, and hell, and judgment, and “knowing” right from wrong to the depths of our souls, where the spirits of gods and demons shout at us constantly as to what to do, what to think, what to believe, what to feel, and how our self-righteousnesses are better than someone else’s self-righteousnesses, and just who is of value and worth, with all the endless variations as to what any of those things specifically mean, with enormous heaven-and-hell complications and upshots attached to every possible answer and action.

Which is where we, as erotic writers, come in. For we, too, offer up stories, that are shamed and ridiculed as being bad or evil or worthless by various layer-upon-layer to the whole good/bad right/wrong heaven/hell schema that is a conclusion arrived at by the simplistic formula of “if this is bad, then that is bad” that builds through ridiculous ramifications, until it gets to us and what we write, and finds us wanting, as we do not fit in with the structures of worth and edifications of value.

Because we tell a story that predates the death story. We were sexual beings before we were self-aware, death-afraid creatures. We were sexualizing ourselves and those around us before we even understood there was a difference between ourselves and each other. At a time that all we could do was eat, sleep, shit, cry, and try to fuck, the first rules put down on us were not about how and when to shit, and when and where not to, even though that is much-touted as being so fundamental toward our developments. The truth is that in all societies, that pretty much takes care of itself, sooner or later, and it is only some groups that force it onto the young, earlier than they are ready for it. With consequence, of course, that is explained by various fixations and fetishes we end up having when we get older. But before then, before any of that could happen, when we would cry because we were hungry, we would get comforted and fed until we fell asleep in our parents’ happy arms on a daily basis. But when we made moves that could be construed as sexual, in trying to touch and feel genitals, to play with them, to achieve happy erections in boys over kissing and handling of ourselves and each other, and what passes for happy wetnesses in girls for the same sorts of activities, that was the first time we heard “no” that we understood as something coming about due to something we were doing from Mom and Dad, who were the biggest powers in existence, to us, until we heard the death story. They would scold us and put our hands away from ourselves or whoever got our attentions, maybe even spank us. Or maybe, we watched it happen to someone we were connecting with, with a strange mix of sadness and horror over what we were witnessing, and what it meant to us and our feelings, to see someone else punished for our affections. There is where we learned to not trust people with our emotions, where we learned not only that we were not accepted for how we felt playing with our friends, but that we should not accept others, either; this is where we learned to be embarrassed and to embarrass each other, in an effort to win the approval once again of the mighty, and, where we learned to deny and ridicule the only true weapon we have against death, where we can be involved with creating something that is part of ourselves, that will survive us.

And so our erotic stories are filled with acceptances of the sexual act, overcoming ourselves and each other, in defiance to our parents and everything they ever stood for and taught us. Which is why the truly erotic aspects of our writings come about in associating sex with pain and humiliation that we first learned was the result of such feelings, all eventually leading to an orgasm we do not understand and cannot control. Erotica is a form of time-travel. Back to the beginning.

All of which is why erotica in all its forms and the creators of such things are so reviled by the death-story-tellers, as they cannot answer the questions of death beyond what a child could understand, and how our stories fuck with their sense of happy endings in the sky in the future, and how these judges and condemners of all that disagree with them and their version of the death story cannot possibly accept the lessons we have to tell that tell us our parents were wrong about how we should play with each other, and about what we have to go through to get back to the cribs and cradles with our friends and those we love, to enjoy each other, and be happy. Hard and wet and fed and fucking and well-shit upon and pissed upon by each other, accepting everything even if it hurts, even if we hurt each other in the process, held in mighty arms until we fall asleep at last.

 

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Showtime

By Brewt.Blacklist

November-December 2015

Thanks to Tim Woodman—@ProVillian himself—for inspiration and support

Prologue.

THE PRESENTATION had gone as well as it could, and it was down to the decision, the moment, the pregnant pause in the meeting that hung everything in the balance. The air fell dead in the room, and the expressions around the table were dull and blank as everyone waited for someone else to say something. The first inhale happened, and everyone stopped breathing.

"I like this."

And that was all it took. The acceptance went around the room like a virus, like a ripple, and everyone was on board with the proposal, the project, and it was suddenly noisy, with thoughts and suggestions and ideas, and it all came down to the same question:

"Can you really do this?"

The Villain smiled that wry smile he would get at times like these with the signature head movement that was somewhere between a nod and a shake and said that yes, yes he could.

"You know someone—someones—who would actually do this?"

"Believe it. I got people begging me to be part of this."

"Interesting you put it that way. As always."

Laughter chortled into the waves of hummings as they bounced off the walls of the conference center.

"Alright then. Make it happen, my friend. Make us some money."

The Villain breathed a slow sigh of relief after everyone had left and savored the moment, the victory before he headed back to the office to start filling in all the blanks for the production costs, and began printing contracts, and making calls.

###

Act One, Scene One.

THE HARD part was getting all the guns. The Villain had begged, borrowed and stole every prop gun he could get his hands on. Everyone in the scene had to have one—man, woman, child—and the steadycam made its trek down the street, making it clear that everyone did.

"Cut. Would you all listen, please? I know how much fun it is to be in the background and draw your weapon, hoping someone pays attention to you, but if I haven’t told you specifically to, you have to leave them holstered. Visible, yes, but this isn’t a shot that establishes how easily they can come out. This is before any of that can happen. We just want to show how it looks for everyone to have one. Should be fucking scary enough on its own. Quickkdraw McFunnypants is not the point here. From the top, please."

The camera operator trudged back up the block, and everyone got back in position.

"Remember: it’s normal. So please. Don’t make a big deal that you have a gun. Nobody is special in this shot." The bullhorn cackled. "Everyone where they need to be? Alright. Annnd…Action."

The camera operator began her walk, rolling high-def, and The Villain followed behind. They passed the young woman with the sniper rifle slung around her back, pushing the baby carriage.

"Nope, cut. Don’t look at the camera, darling. One more time."

The day was lovely, the sun sparkled through the trees, and the extras had to work against their nature, against their own narcissisms; it was difficult to be transparent, casual, not the center of attention, let alone be simply unconcerned that everyone in the world was armed to the teeth. A plane flew overhead, and there was now suddenly extra need for foley in the budget. The camera turned, and approached the door to the restaurant. An arm reached into view, and opened the door, and the camera went inside, where it was dark.

"Beautiful. Cut. I think that’ll do. Thank you everyone. If you’re not slated to be in the next scene, please turn everything in to props."

The hustle and bustle of movie making carried on as the light got harsher and brighter outside, and the next scene was set up for in the bar.

###

Act One, Scene Two.

THE LOUNGE was packed. Various colored waters filled all the glasses, and all the men and women on set were working hard to make it look like they were having a good time in the meat market today. There would be more sound problems to fix in post, as the acoustics generally sucked. The sound guy shrugged, and the process continued.

"Action."

The camera followed the woman up to the last empty table, and circled her as she sat down. The waitress dutifully came up and took her order, sashaying her unreasonably short skirt and thigh-holster hard enough in a way that almost got the scene stopped—but not quite; the randy little bitch who didn’t get the lead still knew how to play the line between being important and not being important in a shot to her slight advantage as she disappeared into the crowd—and the woman, the starlet, The Actress once again in focus glanced around the room.

The Actor—fresh in from Broadway—was cued, and he approached the woman at the table with a mock-beer in hand. She glanced up and smiled at him, and nodded to the empty seat.

"Jesus, that’s a big one," she said, tipping her head to view the side of his leg as he sat. Glasses clanked in the background along with the cliché of low laughter.

"Do you like it?"

"Makes me wonder if you aren’t maybe over compensating for something. Do you drive a shiny red sports car, too?"

"Nah. Truck. A big one. But yeah. Rrrred." He crinkled his nose, and there was well-rehearsed pause. "Show me yours."

The Actress went coy. "Gee, mister, I don’t even know you."

"Oh, come on."

"If you insist." She opened her purse, and took her own piece out, and laid it on the table.

"Christ, that’s an antique."

"Still totally works. Can’t miss with it if I try." She leaned over the table and hoisted it up, running her fingers up and down the long narrow barrel, tipping her head toward her would-be suitor. "This is the best part right here. Imagine what that would be good for." She made a circle with her finger and thumb, and moved it around and down the gunmetal slowly, tightening her grip when her hand went the other way as she popped her hand off the end, before trying to nudge the weapon, twisting it back through the very tiny opening she symbolized that she had left in her otherwise empty hand. She wiggled slightly in her chair.

The man started heaving his chest, staring at the gun and the flirtation she was playing with. He licked his lips, and unholstered his own well-protected right, pointing it up to the ceiling. She lifted her eyes to what was in his hand; her breath caught. He bent his fingers over, still pointing the gun up, so that he was holding it upright by the grip with his fingertips. Keeping it completely vertical, he began an up and down motion with the service revolver.

"I, uh, don’t want to brag—"

"—Yes, yes you do."

He smiled, relaxed a little, and measured the tip of the barrel down toward the trigger with his other hand, spanning a length of it with his middle finger and thumb. He rolled his eyes toward hers, and waited for her to look at him before he nodded and slow-blinked.

"Oh, fuck." She straightened up and thrust her chest out toward him.

"Wanna get out of here?"

"God, yes. I thought you’d never ask."

The couple stood and put their weapons away, and made for the door.

"Cut! Beautiful. That’s a wrap for today, people, thank you."

The crowd of actors and crew started hooting and hollering. All the weapons in the room got drawn, aimed at whoever was nearby, and everyone made explosive gun noises with their mouths. Giggling and sniggering danced around, and the bristling set in as to where all the real booze was.

###

The Screening.

THE VILLAIN was nervous; the big day had come. He had thrown everything he had at this one, and had cut and reshot and re-edited the bejesus out of his budgets until even he was satisfied. The backers started arriving, and were delighted to meet the principal actors. They were very complimentary, especially of the woman, about how big a fan they all were of all her work. She smiled and tittered and thanked everyone for coming. At the nod of command from the host, and without further ado, she introduced The Villain and his latest effort. The room filled with shrugs and smirks through the mercifully short first act. Which, of course, was not what they had put so much money up for, even if they did acknowledge its necessity for the setup for the sake of art and literary merit and all that rot.

No, the real expense of the production saddled on up to cuddle with the director, as the Name Actress was about to earn all the money they paid to get her after the next cut.

The Second Act began in an apartment, with the couple stumbling through the door, desperately kissing at each other, clawing at each other’s clothes until they were in the middle of the living room, out of breath, standing, waiting for the other to make the first move.

The man drew first, aiming the gun directly to the middle of her chest. "Take off your fucking clothes."

She glanced over toward the coffee table by the couch, where her purse had fallen.

"Don’t even think about it, whore."

She looked at him, dead-square in the eye with a vile hunger, and began unbuttoning her blouse. Her fingers threw the cloth away from her, little by little as she quivered and rocked her torso side to side, breathing a sharp exhale through her nose with each button she undid. "You, too, outlaw."

"Not yet," he sneered.

She whipped her blouse back off her shoulders, and settled her arms down to her side, letting it slide and fall off her slowly as she continued her slow rocking, her breathing running jagged. She let him look a good long time.

"Keep going, sllllammmpig." The last half of the insult exploded from his mouth, falling dead in the room. The actress absorbed all the disgust, all the filth that went with it like a sponge, and relished what it did to her core.

Her face went flat, her eyelids drooped as she reached up to the middle of her back and undid her bra. It practically burst open from behind, and she hunched her shoulders forward to slow its way off her. She opened her mouth to breath deeper and faster as she let the cups fall forward into her hand, as she pulled her arms away from herself, revealing her breasts slowly, before she tossed it off to the side, not even looking toward where it landed, staying riveted on him.

"Ffffuck," he wheezed out, practically drooling at her for a moment before he screwed up his demand. "Are you rrrresting?" He thrust his chin and his lips forward.

She exhaled once, and slid her hands up to the front of her jeans, undoing the buttons on the front of it. She shimmied her hips from side to side, letting her pants fall down to the floor.

"Leave the shoes on."

"Like those?" She smirked as she bent over to wrestle her ankles out of the trousers before she stood back up, erect and straight, her hands ramrodded down at her side, with her head tipped down so her chin was practically on her chest, rolling her eyes up with all the smoke she could throw, thrusting her breasts up high and proud toward the man with the gun.

He appraised her body and approved of how her jostling made her boobs wiggle. "Show me." He made a circling motion with the nozzle toward the one piece of clothing she had left on, that did little if anything to cover her wax job.

Her eyelids fluttered as she slid her thumbs into the straps of her thong, and she bent back over, pushing it down to her feet, lifting a knee.

"Leave them there, around your ankles. I like that."

"Oh, you bad boy; hobbling me." She licked her lips.

"Shut up." He stepped around her, trailing his open hand over her stomach and around to her back, down toward her buttocks as he passed her on his way to the sofa. He plopped down, sure to keep his weapon directed toward her. "Now impress me."

"Mmmmm." She looked over her shoulder as she turned toward him, lowering herself to her knees slowly, gracefully, in one smooth motion, spreading her thighs so he could see between them before bending over then arching her back to make a show of her cleavage towards the floor, before she began to crawl across the room towards him, breathing slow and deep in time to how she rocked, making a seduction of her approach. When she reached him, she climbed up his calves, running her hands up and down his thighs, keeping her eyes on his face, accessing, planning, reacting to what he wanted.

"Use your teeth."

She inhaled long and hard. "Wicked man." She bent over his crotch, and put her face down into his lap, and began using her mouth to open his belt. She had trouble with the tops of his too-tight pants, and had to resort to looking back up to him, pleading that he allow her to succeed in what he asked of her by any means necessary.

He moved the pistol toward her face, and nudged her to open her mouth. She quivered, but complied, and he inched the barrel into her lips as she fought with his pants. For the first time, she looked worried, and she moved her hands faster, to get him exposed, to free him, so she could direct her mouth away from the gun.

"I shot a cunt last week, for doing this so god damn badly."

She shuddered, and wrapped her fingers around his cock, directing it up into the air between them, stretching him out, holding him, pulling gently up and stopping until his asshole contracted enough to pull the tip she so delicately held out of her fingers, getting her to do it again, and again, making him hard, easing her way back from the threat, lowering herself, widening her mouth, licking the barrel so he could see what she could be doing for him directly, instead of through the substitute he had aimed through her throat. She managed to pull herself off the weapon, and, keeping her mouth open wide, she finished closing the space between her mouth and his sex, and heaved her chest, pressing her breasts into his thighs.

As soon as her mouth made contact with him, he slumped back into the cushions. He absorbed her heat, her wetness, and his eyes rolled back into his head as she engulfed his cock into her mouth, taking him all the way in all at once, compressing his dick against the roof of her mouth.

"God, fuck, yeah," he rasped out.

She sucked him in, and drew him out, stretching his erection out further, bobbing her head up and down in his crotch several times, making murmuring sounds as she blew him as though her life depended on it. She pulled back, and let him fall out of her mouth, making a smacking sound. His dick smacked against his stomach.

He jerked, and startled, and flopped around on the couch. "What the fu—"

"—I killed a motherfucker last week for failing to make me cum." Her shoulder yanked up; the barrel of her own gun was completely buried in the man’s asshole. "Consider that your warning, you son of a bitch." She heaved her chest, and panted. His jaw fell, and he leaned forward, keeping his own gun at her neck.

"Fucking slut."

"Pansy-ass bastard."

He continued his forward motion, pushing her down toward the floor. Somewhere in there, she wrenched her gun out of his ass, getting him to lurch, and she pulled it up to the side of his head, under his jaw the same way his gun was directed towards her. They laid out flat, with him on top, jostling his cock in toward her pussy. She spread her legs and rolled her hips and had to reach in between them to get him where they both wanted him to be, to be inside her.

She wiggled and relaxed as he slid in; they both kept their eyes directed at each other, intently, both of them showing their teeth—his upper teeth, her lower teeth—as he fucked her, and she fucked him back. Both of their breathing cycles serrated, and the intensity of the intercourse mounted as he lunged into her harder and faster.

Their abandon was rampant—no stunt cock, no stunt pussy: this was the real deal, no question, actual penetration, insertion, thrusting, god, fucking, they were hate-fucking each other’s brains out—and the aggression and the lust was thick, and they fucked, and they threatened, and they swore, and they fucked more insistently, getting wilder as the fucking continued, on, and on, and fucking on, fucking, fucking, fucking, grunting, moaning, fucking. As he was about to orgasm, he cocked his gun. She responded in kind, becoming noisier, calling on him to fuck her harder, daring him to fucking fuck her like he fucking meant it, telling him to do it, come on, just fucking do it, lolling her head around, committing, ready, this was going to be it, nothing else was going to matter.

His cock pulled back, and out of her, and he came. Like a race horse. As he splashed her pussy with semen, she came, too. Came like she meant it.

The scene faded to black, and the end note flickered across the screen: "Another Villainy Production." A gunshot was heard.

###

Aftermath.

THE SCREENING room, filled with actors and backers and production people, exploded with applause as the lights came up. The Villain smiled, and put his hand to his chest, and took a small bow. "I hope it served."

The Principal Backer stood with a big grin on his face, the kind he got when he foresaw the bright and shiny future of money pouring in from these things, as he had so very often been rewarded with such splendors by his faith in the director, and reached his arm out. "Outstanding."

The men shook hands, and the crowd broke into buzzings of excitement, congratulations, and laughter. Milling about happened, drinks were refreshed, and The Actor and The Actress were clamored around, besieged with questions.

"Was it scary?"

"How many takes did you have to do?"

"I can’t believe you actually did this; will there be a followup?"

"Can I have your autograph?"

"How do you stay in such good shape?"

"I must extend my kudos," the Principal Backer said, "to your props people. Those mockups were quite convincing."

The Actress tipped her head into a blank look, and smiled wryly toward The Villain. "Mockup?"

"The gun."

"You mean this?" The Actress reached under the table, and pulled out the weapon she had used in the film. She checked the clip, and cocked it.

The Principal Backer laughed. "Yes. An excellent piece."

The Actress’s usual easy and engaging smile morphed into mockery. She whirled the antique around, and fired it. The bullet flew from the end of the barrel, striking the Principal Backer’s wife in the chest, bursting blood onto her cocktail dress. The victim fell back directly, flat, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, crashing into the coffee table, shattering glasses, splaying out on it, dead on impact.

The Actor pulled his own gun out from the couch cushions, and fired it into the crowd as well, wounding the camera operator.

"Everybody!" The Villain shouted, jumping up on coffee table, kicking the dead woman off. "Now do what we say!"

The room went still, and the whispering died out, and the attention settled down and focused entirely on the man who was apparently in charge.

"Take your fucking clothes off. Every last one of you. Right god damn now." The menace was thick.

Another shot rang out from The Actress, and another backer fell down, writhing and groaning, and everybody immediately went to work.

"All of it. Every stitch."

A couple of the men —extras that managed to finagle their way into the screening—refused, rearing fists back, and The Actor dispatched them. Compliance became the word of the day. Various women were crying, and everyone was quaking, trying to hide their shames with their hands.

"W-why would you do this?" one woman—The Waitress—tried to ask. She didn’t get to finish her last sentence on earth before she, too, took her place among the fallen. The Actress blew smoke off the end of her barrel.

"A fair question. You all thought it would be entertaining—or maybe even arousing—to see a famous couple fuck each other at gunpoint? Well, now you get to find out what it’s like for yourselves. You will all fuck each other, right here, right now. Every man in every woman, every man in every man, every woman in every woman. The first time you fail to get off, will be your last. Start fucking, start sucking, start fisting, start licking, start getting your hands and your cocks and your tongues into each other. Nnnow." The scowl meant business.

Another shot rang out, and another man slumped to the floor. Cries to The Lord began to bubble through the home theatre, as the people left at the screening began to turn towards each other, in fear, in trembling, tentatively reaching out for each other, touching each other—lightly at first, then more and more aggressively—shuddering, with faces crumpling everywhere as they all began molesting each other.

"This guy ain’t coming on to the guy next to him," The Actor said, reloading. "Think he’s afraid of being called a fag, afraid of sucking a little cock?"

"Ask him," The Villain said, crossing his arms.

"Hey, dipshits. Why aren’t you two sucking each other off? Are you prepared to die for your precious sexual orientation?"

"No, wait, please, I’ve never done this!"

"Your point? Show us. Right fucking now."

"Oh, god." The man fell down, crashing onto his knees, and opened his mouth.

The Actor came around to the other man, thrusting his gun up to his chin. "Stick it in. Put your god damn cock in this asshole’s fucking mouth." He cocked the gun. "Unless you’re ready to meet your maker right god damn now."

"Oh shit. Oh shit. Oh shit." The man on the floor waited, and nodded, palpitating, and the man under threat moved forward, his lips trembling as his penis, limp and useless, got enveloped by an unwilling mouth.

"You better fucking cum from this, you hear? Make our new little homosexual here gag." The Actor backed away, and turned his attentions around the room. The men were left to pleasure each other, as such as they could, as terrified of failing as they were of succeeding.

The cast and crew and executives were working on the demands, committed now, and The Villain, The Actress and The Actor leaned up against the wall, and watched, and approved, clinking their glasses. The trio pointed and elaborated on how fucking good one couple seemed to be doing, getting along—famously, at that—really going at it, getting into it, how maybe they’ll get a part in the sequel, look at ‘em go, and they all three laughed and drank, and pointed out how another couple might need more encouragement, more direction, more…motivation. Which was provided. Efforts were redoubled in the remainder after the guns got reloaded.

But overall, the sobbings and whimperings slowly melded into sounds of passion, as hips were being thrust, profanity was being gasped out, and heads were being thrown back from more than one kind of desperation.

The Villain turned and raised his chin with a leer and a squint, making a small head movement that was somewhere between a nod and a shake. He took a long slow breath, his gaze boring through the souls he looked directly into. His nose crinkled. "Any day now, assholes, any day now."

Fade to black, and the words "Another Villainy Production" crossed the screen. There were gunshots and screams in the dark.

###

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The Parable of Rahab

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On guns.

Oh, dear, god, yes, thank you, bless you, you are the miracle, I owe you my life all the time, I will do what you want when you want now and forever always, I will willingly give you my body, my time, my money, my home, I am your slave, I will offer you my family, my entire life is yours, it is in your hand, and every second you don't pull the trigger is another precious moment I owe you, thank you, thank you, thank you for sparing my life, please, I will do anything for you, anything at all.

This is what the gun offers to the person who holds the gun. Anyone and everyone in their sight owes this litany to the gun holder, all the time, whether it is listened to or asked for or not, and there are those who say they are immune to it, and that may very well be true at the point in time any of the rest of us think to ask, and we can laugh and have a beer and laugh at those who think the gun holder is a threat to those they love and care about. No, not them. Not the type. And we laugh. Perhaps uneasily, but we laugh; not a lot of choice there: they have a gun.

But the litany of the gun is incessant; the gun's very existence, it's only real purpose, is to force the litany from the person looking up from their knees into the barrel. The whole kill and injure things it can do take a back seat to what it is most often used for: to threaten. It isn't about safety or protection or having a tool. It is a device primarily designed to hand the wielder the ability and the power to be a threat. To be the threat. When the gun fires, it ceases to be a threat, it becomes something that kills or maims; it wreaks loss onto someone who couldn't offer enough. Even if they're shooting at the gun holder. But that's a different situation from what is happening more and more in America these days. No, guns are being fired upon people who are unarmed, who are no real threat to the person with the gun. Something unspeakable has happened to get them to kill for reasons we think we can not possibly understand.

I think, in at least some of the cases, we can. Because all of us have bad things happen to us, and mercifully, for the most part, they aren't bad enough to drive us to kill. That doesn't mean we are immune from that kind of bad; we've just been lucky. And when things start to fall apart for the gun holder's life, whether it be a job problem, or a relationship problem, an argument with someone, something we never find out about, the song gets louder. It never stops. It can't. When enough things fall away, when things get to be so bad that the people end up killing lose their reasons for going on, for living, for caring, the song bellows. The acts of people who are surprise murderers are a surprise to them, too. Murderers who survive murder-suicides tell this often. They couldn't see it coming and when it got there, they couldn't stop it. Law enforcement, the people who have to deal with the aftermath of what guns can do altogether too often all assure us: every last one of us are entirely capable of killing, under the right (or rather, incredibly wrong) circumstances.

This temptation, this call to power, is very strong. My faith in the idea that people will always be able to resist this siren call has left this year. Too many people are dying by a gun; it is such an easy way to kill.

It is too easy. Killing should be hard. Without a gun, for the majority of people, it is. Oh, sure, we can argue that anything can be a weapon and that won't stop someone who is really determined, and no, the unavailability of ease won't stop someone who is hellbent for leather to kill. But if it is more trouble than it is worth, if it takes too long, the opportunity for the madness that we in our modern society don't seem to be able to spot ahead of time begins to increasingly pass as time slips by. Guns account for more murder weapons used than all other weapons combined in America. No justification logic about the number of guns that aren't used for murder countermands this. They make it too easy. Period. There are too many owned by people who shouldn't have them, who have no real reason to own one beyond their pride, their desire for power over others.

The Bushmen, the most primitive society on earth, who use a fairly deadly poison on their hunting arrows, go very far out of their way to take the weapons out of the hands of anyone who is having any kind of altercation for any reason over anything. Remarkably, it is the women who take the weapons from the men. The poison is slow acting, and almost always fatal, and is excruciating to suffer through. The Bushmen community is small, close-knit, and everyone is considered important, and even though fights and disputes happen, no one is worth risking losing and there is no question or argument about the removal from the scene the almost-always-fatal weapons. The Bushmen are actually happier than most of the rest of us, despite what we would call astonishing poverty. They have to hunt to eat and dig in the ground to drink. But still, they laugh a lot; they like each other, and manage to get along better than most of do in our more "advanced" cultures.

This is not happening in America. We're too busy, too rushed, have too many of our own problems to be concerned with anyone else. There are so many of us, too many for us to expend our energies toward, and eventually, people come to be considered expendable, not worth our time, we can do without people who don't agree with us, they are exhausting, don't bother us, that's too hard, and if it that means some have to go so far to stay out of our way as to have have to die, that's okay, we can find a way to distract ourselves from that idea and we do. We're all going to die anyway. No reason to really care about people we don't care about.

We've lost something in there.

In America, the stance of gun ownership has become more like a cult, a religion, and the phrase "I'll give you my gun when you pry it from my cold, dead hands" is a mantra that is a misquote of Charlton Heston when he was the head of the NRA, a group that doesn't even qualify as a non-profit organization, a group that primarily concerns itself with extending weapons sales for weapons manufacturers. Their most recent response to a national atrocity came down to "more guns"; even they acknowledged that. It was a sales pitch.

That line about hands is filled with arrogance and pride and has become core to current extreme gun advocates. The understanding of that phrase is actually a reversal from what it actually says: people who shout it seem to understand it more along the lines of anyone who attempts to take the gun will be killed for trying it. Which means that the gun owner is unwilling to relinquish the power the gun offers them under any circumstances. They aren't willing to die for their gun, they're willing to kill for it. If power corrupts, this is the absolute corruption of absolute power. It is a life and death matter, not one of safety or security or rights or preserving any notion from a couple centuries ago about the idea that the government could not afford a standing army and they were going to count on the citizenry to preserve the nation. The power the gun offers has become more important to the gun holder than anyone he or she loves; god save those fools for attempting to take this kind of power from the gun holder. Good thing ignorant fools are expendable and replaceable, no matter who they are: crazy-ass liberals, strangers, friends, family, if necessary.

Gun owners have reiterated to me, over and over, every time they chant the line, that they are willing to kill to keep the power. Then they try to laugh and say let's have a beer, come on, don't be an asshole, there's no way I'll ever kill anyone, ha ha, I'm not a threat, I'm not in the demographic of killers, you should be thankful people like me are keeping you and your rights protected, god you are so stupid for not seeing it my way because I am not giving up my gun, not for anything, and don't bring it up again, it's god damn unpatriotic. Especially not for you, no matter what, no matter what kind of threat you feel from it, asshole. Go away.

So, if the guns are so important, so safe, so sane, I would wonder why it is that gun owners don't open carry into their jobs, on review days, when they know they are going to get a bad review. How many bosses would feel safe reprimanding an employee who has a gun on their hip? The very presence of the gun would demand the litany from the boss. Seems just wearing a gun would get one promoted with good raises all the time, and won't we all get along better? Does carrying the gun into church make the other worshippers safer? How about to restaurants? Movie theaters? If the gun is nothing more than a tool, and a symbol of freedom and democracy and the American way/dream/whatever, then everyone who doesn't have a gun should feel perfectly safe with the responsible gun owner, the private citizen, who is only showing off their power to all because they have it under perfect complete benevolent control all the time, right?

When I see a private citizen open carrying, I not feel any sense of safe. The person with the gun is, regardless of their real disposition, making it clear that they are going to get their way no matter what, and they always appear to be incredibly pissed off, even if they are smiling and laughing. The gun is an angry thing. The concealed weapon carriers are no better or different, they are just harder to spot. They still always appear to be deeply suspicious of all the unarmed people around them, and not seeing the weapon does not make me feel any safer.

Gun owners can, at times, be extraordinarily arrogant and hypocritical: this power cannot tempt me, I am above it. Only bad people are the problem. Only people who are foolishly terrified that I would ever under any circumstances ever misuse the power ever, I mean, my god, you are all such fools who even think about wanting to take this glorious secret power away from me, you, all of you are the problem. I couldn't possibly be the problem. I am so strong, so above you all, you need never worry about me. I'm not the type. Now change the subject.

Every murderer has, at some time or another, with, I believe, very, very few exceptions, has uttered this assurance to themselves, to assure themselves and those around them that they are, don't worry, immune to the litany of the gun. And they can't see when they are mirroring the litany: you owe me everything because I have spared your miserable life again, today even, and whatever you do, don't piss me off. I have a gun. Too late.

Weapons do not make peace. Trust makes peace. And trust isn't earned, it's given. Guns are an attempt to take trust, by force, no matter what. And all they offer is the opportunity for the target to give absolutely everything to the wielder and that will eventually not be enough, and the peace the gun holder feels, the joy of getting everything from someone is false, a lie. As soon as the gun gets put down, everything that was gained with it will fall away. Then what? Pick it back up, idiot.

The primitives have it right. There is a time and a place to have a weapon, and there is a time to have it taken away. The problems with the killings has not been with the gun, nor have they been that an individual had a problem they couldn't get through. The problem is that when the crisis arose, they were alone with a banshee that screamed a solution that would re-empower them, save them, and by god they would not give it up because that was all they had left.

Guns are dangerous. Those who own them are not safer with them, they are putting themselves at risk with them, the risk that they would at some point not be able to resist what they offer. And while that sounds extreme, far reaching, and an outrageous exaggeration, no, you don't get it, you don't understand, asshole, god, you are so stupid, it's not that simple, there have been altogether too many instances of those who could not do so to write this idea off as ridiculous. The solutions of throw those hopeless people away cannot work; sooner or later, our strength fails us all. Because that is the core to all the spectacular uses we've been suffering through. It is a failure of philosophy, of resolve, of our ability to resist a temptation we have thrown ourselves in front of.

Murderers and criminals do not take lives because they are happy. Only the incredibly psychopathic and sociopathically insane do that. Looking for the signs of those sick people in those around us will not often enough thwart what has been happening. The madness that has been overwhelming us is not in there. We're looking for the wrong problems.

The problem is that we are alone at the wrong times. Alone with monsters. Monsters that make outrageous promises, that won't shut up.

Have your guns. Use them for good. There is no question, shooting a weapon is fun. But when the time comes you have to have them taken away from you, give them to the person who loves you. If you don't have such a person, if you do not have such people, you should not have a weapon that demands you demand the litany from everyone you know. You're not safe. If you proudly proclaim Mr. Heston's propogandized slogan, you are already under the spell. If you can't hand your gun to someone who loves you, someone who's afraid of what you might, at an impossible moment, do with it, then you are at risk of killing them. And if you can't see that, they are as good as dead already.

There's some laughter that has to happen, laughter without any kind of threat anywhere near it. There isn't any kind of one-button solution. We need to be involved enough with each other to see something might happen, and we need to trust each other enough to give up our defenses, our offensive systems. Because that is the choice: we either have to love and care for and trust each other enough to lower our barriers and believe we will be alright, or we have to kill each other. There is no other choice; guns afford us no other option, and they have such an easy one they want to tell us about.

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